MAST-HEADING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
On the 8th of January, 1804, we sailed from Halifax, and, after a
long and tedious passage, arrived at Bermuda. The transition from the
intense frost of a Nova Scotian winter, during which the mercury was
generally below zero, to a temperature of 70° or 80°, was exceedingly
agreeable to those who had constitutions to stand the sudden rise of
more than half a hundred degrees of the thermometer. After a few days’
stay at Bermuda, we set off for the United States, where we were again
frozen, almost as much as we had been at Halifax. The first land we
made was that of Virginia; but owing to calms, and light foul winds,
we failed in getting to Norfolk in the Chesapeak, and therefore bore
up for New York, which we reached on the 19th of February, and there
anchored about seven miles from that beautiful city.
It was not thought right to let any of us young folks visit the
shore alone; but I was fortunate in being invited to accompany one
of the officers. To the friendship of this most excellent person, at
the periods of most need, I feel so much more indebted than I can
venture to express without indelicacy, that I shall say nothing of
the gratitude I have so long borne him in return. Perhaps, indeed,
the best, as being the most practical, repayment we can ever make
for such attentions is, to turn them over, again and again, to some
other person similarly circumstanced with ourselves at those early
periods. This would be acting in the spirit with which Dr. Franklin
tells us he used to lend money, as he never gave it away without
requiring from the person receiving such assistance, a promise to repay
the loan, not to himself, but to transfer it, when times improved,
to some one else in distress, who would enter into the same sort of
engagement to circulate the charity. On this principle, I have several
times, in the course of my professional life, rather surprised young
middies by giving them exactly such a lift as I myself received at
New York—shewing them strange places, and introducing them to the
inhabitants, in the way my kind friend adopted towards me. These boys
may perhaps have fancied it was owing to their own uncommon merit
that they were so noticed; while all the time I may have merely been
relieving my own conscience, and paying off, by indirect instalments,
a portion of that debt of gratitude which, in spite of these
disbursements, I find only increases in proportion as my knowledge of
the world gives me the means of appreciating its value.
That it is the time and manner of doing a kindness which constitute its
chief merit, as a matter of feeling at least, is quite true; and the
grand secret of this delicate art appears to consist in obliging people
just at the moments, and, as nearly as possible, in the particular way,
in which they themselves wish the favour to be done. However perverse
their tastes may be, and often, perhaps, because they are perverse,
people do not like even to have favours thrust upon them. But it was my
good fortune on this, and many other occasions in life, early and late,
to fall in with friends who always contrived to nick the right moments
to a hair’s-breadth. Accordingly, one morning, I received an invitation
to accompany my generous friend, one of the lieutenants, to New York,
and I felt, as he spoke, a bound of joy, the bare recollection of which
makes my pulse beat ten strokes per minute quicker, at the distance of
a good quarter of a century!
It would not be fair to the subject, nor indeed quite so to myself, to
transcribe from a very boyish journal an account of this visit to New
York. The inadequate expression of that period, compared with the vivid
recollection of what I then felt, shews, well enough, the want of power
which belongs to inexperience. Very fortunately, however, the faculty
of enjoying is sooner acquired than the difficult art of describing.
Yet even this useful and apparently simple science of making the most
of all that turns up, requires a longer apprenticeship of good fortune
than most people are aware of.
In the midst of snow and wind, we made out a very comfortless passage
to New York; and, after some trouble in hunting for lodgings, we were
well pleased to find ourselves snugly stowed away in a capital boarding
house in Greenwich Street. We there found a large party at tea before
a blazing wood fire, which was instantly piled with fresh logs for the
strangers, and the best seats relinquished for them, according to the
invariable practice of that hospitable country.
If our hostess be still alive, I hope she will not repent of having
bestowed her obliging attentions on one who, so many years afterwards,
made himself, he fears, less popular in her land, than he could wish
to be amongst a people to whom he owes so much, and for whom he
really feels so much kindness. He still anxiously hopes, however,
they will believe him when he declares, that, having said in his
recent publication no more than what he conceived was due to strict
truth, and to the integrity of history, as far as his observations and
opinions went, he still feels, as he always has, and ever must continue
to feel towards America, the heartiest good-will.
The Americans are perpetually repeating, that the foundation-stone of
their liberty is fixed on the doctrine, that every man is free to form
his own opinions, and to promulgate them in candour and in moderation.
Is it meant that a foreigner is excluded from these privileges? If
not, may I ask, in what respect have I passed these limitations? The
Americans have surely no fair right to be offended because my views
differ from theirs; and yet, I am told, I have been rudely enough
handled by the press of that country. If my motives are distrusted,
I can only say I am sorely belied; if I am mistaken, regret at my
political blindness were surely more dignified than anger on the part
of those with whom I differ; and if it shall chance that I am in the
right, the best confirmation of the correctness of my views, in the
opinion of indifferent persons, will perhaps be found in the soreness
of those who wince when the truth is spoken.
Yet, after all, few things would give me more real pleasure than to
know that my friends across the water would consent to take me at my
word; and, considering what I have said about them as so much public
matter—which it truly is—agree to reckon me in my absence, as they
always did when I was amongst them—and I am sure they would count me
if I went back again—as a private friend. I differed with them in
politics, and I differ with them now as much as ever; but I sincerely
wish them happiness individually; and as a nation, I shall rejoice
if they prosper. As the Persians write, “What can I say more?” And I
only hope these few words may help to make my peace with people who
justly pride themselves on bearing no malice. As for myself, I have
no peace to make; for I have studiously avoided reading any of the
American criticisms on my book, in order that the kindly feelings I
have ever entertained towards that country should not be ruffled. By
this abstinence, I may have lost some information, and perhaps missed
many opportunities of correcting erroneous impressions. But I set so
much store by the pleasing recollection of the journey itself, and of
the hospitality with which my family were every where received, that,
whether it be right, or whether it be wrong, I cannot bring myself
to read any thing which might disturb these agreeable associations.
So let us part in peace! or rather, let us meet again in cordial
communication; and if this little work shall find its way across the
Atlantic, I hope it will be read there without reference to any thing
that has passed between us; or, at all events, with reference only to
those parts of our former intercourse which are satisfactory to all
parties.
After leaving the American coast, we stood once more across the gulf
stream for Bermuda. Here I find the first trace of a regular journal,
containing a few of those characteristic touches which, when we are
sure of their being actually made on the spot, however carelessly,
carry with them an easy, familiar kind of interest, that rarely
belongs to the efforts of memory alone. It is, indeed, very curious
how much the smallest memorandums sometimes serve to lighten up
apparently forgotten trains of thought, and to bring vividly before the
imagination scenes long past, and to recall turns of expression, and
even the very look with which these expressions were uttered, though
every circumstance connected with them may have slept in the mind for a
long course of years.
It is, I believe, one of the numerous theories on the mysterious
subject of dreams, that they are merely trains of recollections,
touched in some way we know not of, and influenced by various causes
over which we have no sort of control; and that, although they are very
strangely jumbled and combined, they always relate, so exclusively,
either to past events, or to past thoughts, that no ideas strictly new
ever enter our minds in sleep.
Be this true or false, I find that, on reading over the scanty notes
above alluded to, written at Bermuda more than six-and-twenty years
ago, I am made conscious of a feeling a good deal akin to that which
belongs to dreaming. Many objects long forgotten, are brought back
to my thoughts with perfect distinctness; and these, again, suggest
others, more or less distinctly, of which I possess no written record.
At times a whole crowd of these recollections stand forward, almost
as palpably as if they had occurred yesterday. I hear the well-known
voices of my old messmates—see their long-forgotten faces—and can mark,
in my memory’s eye, their very gait, and many minute and peculiar
habits. In the next minute, however, all this is so much clouded over,
that by no effort of the imagination, assisted even by the journal,
can I bring back the picture as it stood before me only a moment
before. It sometimes also happens in this curious retrospect, that a
strange confusion of dates and circumstances takes place, with a vague
remembrance of hopes, and fears, and wishes, painful anticipations,
and bitter passing thoughts, all long since gone. But these day dreams
of the past sometimes come rushing back on the fancy, all at once, in
so confused a manner, that they look exceedingly like what is often
experienced in sleep. Is there, in fact, any other difference, except
that, in the case of slumber, we have no control over this intellectual
experiment, and, in the other, we have the power of varying it at
pleasure? When awake we can steer the mental vessel with more or less
precision—when asleep our rudder is carried away, and we must drift
about at the capricious bidding of our senses, over a confused sea of
recollections.
It may be asked, what is the use of working out these speculations?
To which I would answer, that it may often be highly useful, in the
practice of life, for people to trace their thoughts back, in order to
see what have been the causes, as well as the effects, of their former
resolutions. It is not only interesting, but may be very important, to
observe how far determinations of a virtuous nature had an effectual
influence in fortifying us against the soft insinuations, or the rude
assaults of temptation; or how materially any original defect or
subsequent omission in such resolutions may have brought us under the
cutting lash of self-reproach.
It would probably be very difficult, if not impossible, for any person
to lay open his own case so completely to the view of others, that the
rest of the world should be enabled to profit, as he himself, if he
chooses, may do, by his past experience in these delicate matters. I
shall hardly attempt such a task, however; but shall content myself
with saying, that, on now looking back to those days, I can, in many
instances, lay my hand upon the very hour, the very incident, and the
very thought and feeling, which have given a decided direction to many
very material actions of the intervening period. In some cases, the
grievous anguish of remorse has engraved the lesson so deeply on the
memory, that it shews like an open wound still. In others, it has left
only a cicatrice, to mark where there has been suffering. But even
these, like the analogous case of bodily injuries, are liable to give
their twitches as the seasons vary.
It is far pleasanter, however, and a still more profitable habit, I am
quite sure, to store up agreeable images of the past, with a view to
present and future improvement, as well as enjoyment, than to harass
the thoughts too much by the contemplation of opportunities lost, or of
faculties neglected or misused. Of this cheerful kind of retrospect,
every person of right thoughts must have an abundant store. For, let
the croakers say what they please, ‘this brave world’ is exceedingly
fertile in sources of pleasure to those whose principles are sound, and
who, at all times and seasons, are under the wholesome consciousness,
that while, without higher aid, they can essentially do nothing, there
will certainly be no such assistance lent them, unless they themselves,
to use a nautical phrase, ‘bend their backs like seamen to the oar,’
and leave nothing untried to double the Cape of their own life and
fortunes. It is in this vigorous and sustained exertion that most
persons fail—this ‘attention suivie,’ as the French call it, which, as
it implies the absence of self-distrust, gives, generally, the surest
earnest of success.
It has sometimes struck me as not a little curious, that, while we have
such unbounded faith in the constancy of the moon’s motions, and rest
with such confidence on the accuracy of our charts and books, as to
sail our ships, in the darkest nights, over seas we have never before
traversed; yet that, in the moral navigation of our lives, we should
hesitate in following principles infinitely more important, and in
which we ought to have a faith at least as undoubting. The old analogy,
indeed, between the storms of the ocean, and those of our existence,
holds good throughout this comparison; for the half-instructed
navigator, who knows not how to rely on his chart and compass, or who
has formed no solid faith in the correctness of the guides to whom he
ought to trust his ship, has no more chance of making a good passage
across the wide seas, than he whose petty faith is bounded by his own
narrow views and powers, is likely to be successful in the great voyage
of life.
There is a term in use at sea called ‘backing and filling,’ which
consists at one moment in bracing the yards so that the wind shall
catch the sails in reverse, and, by bringing them against the masts,
drive the ship stern-foremost; and then, after she has gone far enough
in that direction, in bracing up the yards so that the sails may be
filled, and the ship again gather headway. This manœuvre is practised
in rivers when the wind is foul, but the tide favourable, and the width
of the stream too small to admit of working the vessel regularly, by
making tacks across. From thus alternately approaching to the bank
and receding from it, an appearance of indecision, or rather of an
unwillingness to come too near the ground, is produced, and thence the
term is used to express, figuratively, that method of speaking where
reluctance is shewn to come too near the abrupt points of the subject,
which yet must be approached if any good is to be done. I confess,
accordingly, that, just now, I have been ‘backing and filling’ with
my topic, and have preferred this indirect method of suggesting to my
young friends the fitting motives to action, rather than venturing to
lecture them in formal terms. The paths to honour, indeed, every man
must trace out for himself; but the discovery will certainly be all the
easier if he knows the direction in which they lie.
The following brief specimen of a midshipman’s journal will shew,
as well as a whole volume could do, the sort of stuff of which such
documents are made. The great fault, indeed, of almost all journals
consists in their being left, like Chinese paintings, without shading
or relief, and in being drawn with such a barbarous perspective, that
every thing appears to lie in one plane, in the front of the picture.
“_Bermuda, Sunday, April 22._
“Wind south. Last night I had the first watch. Turned out this morning
at seven bells. Breakfasted on a roll and some jelly. Wind blowing
pretty hard at south. Struck lower yards and top-gallant masts. After
breakfast read one or two tales of the Genii. Dressed for muster, and
at six bells beat to divisions. I asked leave to go on shore to dine
with Capt. O’Hara, but was refused. So I dined upon the Old thing—salt
junk and dough. The captain landed in the pinnace. Employed myself
most of the afternoon in reading Plutarch’s Lives. Had coffee at four
o’clock. Blowing harder than ever, and raining very much. Read the
Bible till six; then went on deck. At nine went to bed. Turned out at
four in the morning.
“Monday, 23d April.—Made the signal for sailing. At noon, the same old
dinner—salt horse! The two pilots, Jacob and Jamie, came on board.
Employed getting in the Admiral’s stock.”
These two names, Jacob and Jamie, will recall to people who knew
Bermuda in those days many an association connected with that
interesting island. They were two negroes, pilots to the men-of-war,
who, in turn, took the ships out and in. Their wives, no less black
and polished than themselves, were the chief laundresses of our fleet;
while at their cedar-built houses on shore, we often procured such
indifferent meals as the narrow means of the place allowed. I only
remember that our dinner, nine times in ten, consisted of ham and eggs.
I forget whether or not these men were slaves; I think not: they were,
at all events, extremely good-natured fellows, and always very kind and
obliging to the midshipmen, particularly to those who busied themselves
in making collections of shells and corallines, the staple curiosities
of the spot.
It is needless to quote any more from the exact words of this
matter-of-fact journal. I find it recorded, however, that next morning
a boat came to us from the Boston, a frigate lying near the Leander.
The captain of that ship was then, and is now, one of my kindest and
steadiest friends. And right well, indeed, did he know how to confer
a favour at the fitting season. The boat contained one of the most
acceptable presents, I will answer for it, that ever was made to
mortal—it was truly manna to starved people—being no less than a famous
fat goose, a huge leg of pork, and a bag of potatoes!
Such a present at any other time and place would have been ludicrous;
but at Bermuda, where we had been starving and growling for many months
without a fresh meal—it was to us hungry, salt-fed boys, the ‘summum
bonum’ of human happiness.
Next day, after breakfast, the barge was sent with one of the
lieutenants for the Admiral, who came on board at eleven o’clock. But
while his excellency was entering the ship on one side, I quitted my
appointed station on the other, and, without leave, slipped out of one
of the main-deck ports into the pilot-boat, to secure some conch shells
and corals I had bespoken, and wished to carry from Bermuda to my
friends at Halifax. Having made my purchases, in the utmost haste and
trepidation, I was retreating again to my post, when, as my ill stars
would have it, the first lieutenant looked over the gangway. He saw at
a glance what I was about; and, calling me up, sent me as a punishment
to the mast head for being off deck when the Admiral was coming on
board. As I had succeeded in getting hold of my shells, however, and
some lumps of coral, I made myself as comfortable as possible in my
elevated position; and upon the whole rather enjoyed it, as a piece of
fun.
We then hove up the anchor, and as we made sail through the passage,
I could not only distinguish, from the mast head, the beautifully
coloured reefs under water, but trace with perfect ease all the
different channels between them, through which we had to thread our
winding, and apparently dangerous, course. As the ship passed, the fort
saluted the flag with twelve guns, which were returned with a like
number; after which we shaped our course for Norfolk, in Virginia.
So far all was well. I sat enjoying the view, in one of the finest days
that ever was seen. But it almost makes me hungry now, at this distance
of time, to tell what followed.
From the main-top-mast cross-trees, on which I was perched for my
misdeeds, I had the cruel mortification of seeing my own beautiful
roast goose pass along the main-deck, on its way to the cock-pit. As
the scamp of a servant boy who carried the dish came abreast of the
gangway, I saw him cock his eye aloft as if to see how I relished
the prospect. No hawk, or eagle, or vulture, ever gazed from the sky
more wistfully upon its prey beneath, than I did upon the banquet I
was doomed never to taste. What was still more provoking, each of my
messmates, as he ran down the quarter-deck ladder, on being summoned to
dinner, looked up at me and grinned; and one malicious dog patted his
fat paunch—as much as to say, ‘What a glorious feast we are to have!
Should not you like a bit?’