UNDER THE LEE OF THE LONG-BOAT, REDBURN AND HARRY HOLD CONFIDENTIAL
COMMUNION
A sweet thing is a song; and though the Hebrew captives hung their
harps on the willows, that they could not sing the melodies of
Palestine before the haughty beards of the Babylonians; yet, to
themselves, those melodies of other times and a distant land were as
sweet as the June dew on Hermon.
And poor Harry was as the Hebrews. He, too, had been carried away
captive, though his chief captor and foe was himself; and he, too, many
a night, was called upon to sing for those who through the day had
insulted and derided him.
His voice was just the voice to proceed from a small, silken person
like his; it was gentle and liquid, and meandered and tinkled through
the words of a song, like a musical brook that winds and wantons by
pied and pansied margins.
“_I_ can’t sing to-night”—sadly said Harry to the Dutchman, who with
his watchmates requested him to while away the middle watch with his
melody—“I can’t sing to-night. But, Wellingborough,” he whispered,—and
I stooped my ear,— “come _you_ with me under the lee of the long-boat,
and there I’ll hum you an air.”
It was _The Banks of the Blue Moselle._
Poor, poor Harry! and a thousand times friendless and forlorn! To be
singing that thing, which was only meant to be warbled by falling
fountains in gardens, or in elegant alcoves in drawing-rooms,—to be
singing it _here—here,_ as I live, under the tarry lee of our
long-boat.
But he sang, and sang, as I watched the waves, and peopled them all
with sprites, and cried _“chassez!” “hands across!”_ to the
multitudinous quadrilles, all danced on the moonlit, musical floor.
But though it went so hard with my friend to sing his songs to this
ruffian crew, whom he hated, even in his dreams, till the foam flew
from his mouth while he slept; yet at last I prevailed upon him to
master his feelings, and make them subservient to his interests. For so
delighted, even with the rudest minstrelsy, are sailors, that I well
knew Harry possessed a spell over them, which, for the time at least,
they could not resist; and it might induce them to treat with more
deference the being who was capable of yielding them such delight.
Carlo’s organ they did not so much care for; but the voice of my Bury
blade was an accordion in their ears.
So one night, on the windlass, he sat and sang; and from the ribald
jests so common to sailors, the men slid into silence at every verse.
Hushed, and more hushed they grew, till at last Harry sat among them
like Orpheus among the charmed leopards and tigers. Harmless now the
fangs with which they were wont to tear my zebra, and backward curled
in velvet paws; and fixed their once glaring eyes in fascinated and
fascinating brilliancy. Ay, still and hissingly all, for a time, they
relinquished their prey.
Now, during the voyage, the treatment of the crew threw Harry more and
more upon myself for companionship; and few can keep constant company
with another, without revealing some, at least, of their secrets; for
all of us yearn for sympathy, even if we do not for love; and to be
intellectually alone is a thing only tolerable to genius, whose
cherisher and inspirer is solitude.
But though my friend became more communicative concerning his past
career than ever he had been before, yet he did not make plain many
things in his hitherto but partly divulged history, which I was very
curious to know; and especially he never made the remotest allusion to
aught connected with our trip to London; while the oath of secrecy by
which he had bound me held my curiosity on that point a captive.
However, as it was, Harry made many very interesting disclosures; and
if he did not gratify me more in that respect, he atoned for it in a
measure, by dwelling upon the future, and the prospects, such as they
were, which the future held out to him.
He confessed that he had no money but a few shillings left from the
expenses of our return from London; that only by selling some more of
his clothing, could he pay for his first week’s board in New York; and
that he was altogether without any regular profession or business, upon
which, by his own exertions, he could securely rely for support. And
yet, he told me that he was determined never again to return to
England; and that somewhere in America he must work out his temporal
felicity.
“I have forgotten England,” he said, “and never more mean to think of
it; so tell me, Wellingborough, what am I to do in America?”
It was a puzzling question, and full of grief to me, who, young though
I was, had been well rubbed, curried, and ground down to fine powder in
the hopper of an evil fortune, and who therefore could sympathize with
one in similar circumstances. For though we may look grave and behave
kindly and considerately to a friend in calamity; yet, if we have never
actually experienced something like the woe that weighs him down, we
can not with the best grace proffer our sympathy. And perhaps there is
no true sympathy but between equals; and it may be, that we should
distrust that man’s sincerity, who stoops to condole with us.
So Harry and I, two friendless wanderers, beguiled many a long watch by
talking over our common affairs. But inefficient, as a benefactor, as I
certainly was; still, being an American, and returning to my home; even
as he was a stranger, and hurrying from his; therefore, I stood toward
him in the attitude of the prospective doer of the honors of my
country; I accounted him the nation’s guest. Hence, I esteemed it more
befitting, that I should rather talk with him, than he with me: that
_his_ prospects and plans should engage our attention, in preference to
my own.
Now, seeing that Harry was so brave a songster, and could sing such
bewitching airs: I suggested whether his musical talents could not be
turned to account. The thought struck him most favorably—“Gad, my boy,
you have hit it, you have,” and then he went on to mention, that in
some places in England, it was customary for two or three young men of
highly respectable families, of undoubted antiquity, but unfortunately
in lamentably decayed circumstances, and thread-bare coats—it was
customary for two or three young gentlemen, so situated, to obtain
their livelihood by their voices: coining their silvery songs into
silvery shillings.
They wandered from door to door, and rang the bell—Are _the ladies and
gentlemen in?_ Seeing them at least gentlemanly looking, if not
sumptuously appareled, the servant generally admitted them at once; and
when the people entered to greet them, their spokesman would rise with
a gentle bow, and a smile, and say, _We come, ladies and gentlemen, to
sing you a song: we are singers, at your service._ And so, without
waiting reply, forth they burst into song; and having most mellifluous
voices, enchanted and transported all auditors; so much so, that at the
conclusion of the entertainment, they very seldom failed to be well
recompensed, and departed with an invitation to return again, and make
the occupants of that dwelling once more delighted and happy.
“Could not something of this kind now, be done in New York?” said
Harry, “or are there no parlors with ladies in them, there?” he
anxiously added.
Again I assured him, as I had often done before, that New York was a
civilized and enlightened town; with a large population, fine streets,
fine houses, nay, plenty of omnibuses; and that for the most part, he
would almost think himself in England; so similar to England, in
essentials, was this outlandish America that haunted him.
I could not but be struck—and had I not been, from my birth, as it
were, a cosmopolite—I had been amazed at his skepticism with regard to
the civilization of my native land. A greater patriot than myself might
have resented his insinuations. He seemed to think that we Yankees
lived in wigwams, and wore bear-skins. After all, Harry was a spice of
a Cockney, and had shut up his Christendom in London.
Having then assured him, that I could see no reason, why he should not
play the troubadour in New York, as well as elsewhere; he suddenly
popped upon me the question, whether I would not join him in the
enterprise; as it would be quite out of the question to go alone on
such a business.
Said I, “My dear Bury, I have no more voice for a ditty, than a dumb
man has for an oration. Sing? Such Macadamized lungs have I, that I
think myself well off, that I can talk; let alone nightingaling.”
So that plan was quashed; and by-and-by Harry began to give up the idea
of singing himself into a livelihood.
“No, I won’t sing for my mutton,” said he—“what would Lady Georgiana
say?”
“If I could see her ladyship once, I might tell you, Harry,” returned
I, who did not exactly doubt him, but felt ill at ease for my bosom
friend’s conscience, when he alluded to his various noble and right
honorable friends and relations.
“But surely, Bury, my friend, you must write a clerkly hand, among your
other accomplishments; and _that_ at least, will be sure to help you.”
“I _do_ write a hand,” he gladly rejoined—“there, look at the
implement!—do you not think, that such a hand as _that_ might dot an
_i,_ or cross a _t,_ with a touching grace and tenderness?”
Indeed, but it did betoken a most excellent penmanship. It was small;
and the fingers were long and thin; the knuckles softly rounded; the
nails hemispherical at the base; and the smooth palm furnishing few
characters for an Egyptian fortune-teller to read. It was not as the
sturdy farmer’s hand of Cincinnatus, who followed the plough and guided
the state; but it was as the perfumed hand of Petronius Arbiter, that
elegant young buck of a Roman, who once cut great Seneca dead in the
forum.
His hand alone, would have entitled my Bury blade to the suffrages of
that Eastern potentate, who complimented Lord Byron upon his feline
fingers, declaring that they furnished indubitable evidence of his
noble birth. And so it did: for Lord Byron was as all the rest of
us—the son of a _man._ And so are the dainty-handed, and wee-footed
half-cast paupers in Lima; who, if their hands and feet were entitled
to consideration, would constitute the oligarchy of all Peru.
Folly and foolishness! to think that a gentleman is known by his
finger-nails, like Nebuchadnezzar, when his grew long in the pasture:
or that the badge of nobility is to be found in the smallness of the
foot, when even a fish has no foot at all!
Dandies! amputate yourselves, if you will; but know, and be assured,
oh, democrats, that, like a pyramid, a great man stands on a broad
base. It is only the brittle porcelain pagoda, that tottles on a toe.
But though Harry’s hand was lady-like looking, and had once been white
as the queen’s cambric handkerchief, and free from a stain as the
reputation of Diana; yet, his late pulling and hauling of halyards and
clew-lines, and his occasional dabbling in tar-pots and slush-shoes,
had somewhat subtracted from its original daintiness.
Often he ruefully eyed it.
Oh! hand! thought Harry, ah, hand! what have you come to? Is it seemly,
that you should be polluted with pitch, when you once handed countesses
to their coaches? Is _this_ the hand I kissed to the divine Georgiana?
with which I pledged Lady Blessington, and ratified my bond to Lord
Lovely? _This_ the hand that Georgiana clasped to her bosom, when she
vowed she was mine?—Out of sight, recreant and apostate!—deep
down—disappear in this foul monkey-jacket pocket where I thrust you!
After many long conversations, it was at last pretty well decided, that
upon our arrival at New York, some means should be taken among my few
friends there, to get Harry a place in a mercantile house, where he
might flourish his pen, and gently exercise his delicate digits, by
traversing some soft foolscap; in the same way that slim, pallid ladies
are gently drawn through a park for an airing.