ON THE HIGH SEAS.
A Difficulty with the Officers of the Ship—A Parting Scene—Danger on
the Atlantic—A Parallel Drawn—Liberty Enlightening the World—Life
on the Ocean Wave—Friends for the Journey—The Ship a Little World—A
Clown and his Partner—Birds of a Feather—Whales—Brain Food—Storm
at Sea—A Frightened Preacher—Storm Rages—A Sea of Glory—Richard
Himself Again—Land in Sight—Scene Described—Historic Castle—Voyage
Ended—Two Irishmen.
STEPPING on board the steamship State of Indiana, I say to the purser:
“Sir, I am from the West; I want elbow-room. Can’t you take away
these partitions and turn several of these compartments into one?” He
replies: “You are _now_ from the West, but you will soon be _from_ this
ship, unless you keep quiet.” From this remark I see at once that the
fellow is a crank, and I will either let him have his own way or give
him a whipping. I choose the former; so we shake hands over the bloody
chasm—or, I should say, over the briny deep.
I can never forget the scene that takes place at the wharf. The hour
for departure has arrived. Hundreds of people have gathered around the
vessel. As the last bell rings, there is hurrying to and fro. Friend
leaving friend; husband kissing wife; fathers and daughters, mothers
and sons, mingling their tears together, as parents and children take
their last fond embrace of each other. Ah! There are streaming eyes and
heavy hearts. As the vessel moves off, one sees the throwing of kisses,
the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. But we are gone. Tear-bedimmed
eyes can no longer behold the forms of loved ones. I dare say that many
of these partings will be renewed no more on this earth.
One hazards very little in committing himself to the winds and
waves of the Atlantic when he is on a goodly vessel, wisely planned
and skillfully put together; when the sea-captain is faithful and
experienced, and understands the workings of the mariner’s compass and
the position of the polar star. But my very soul is stirred within me
when I think of the thousands and tens of thousands who are sailing on
life’s dark and tempestuous ocean without a chart or compass; without
a rudder to steer or a hand to direct them; without the light from the
Star of Bethlehem to guide them over the trackless waters to the Haven
of Rest. They came from nowhere! They see nothing ahead of them save
the rock-bound coast of eternity, beset with false lights which are
luring them on to the breakers of death and the whirlpool of despair.
From the bottom of my heart do I thank God for the “Old Ship of Zion,”
planned by Divine Wisdom, freighted with immortal souls, guided by the
Star of Hope, commanded by Jesus Christ, bound for the Port of Glory!
As we leave New York, the Bartholdi Statue on Bedloe’s Island is one
of the last things we behold. This statue has been justly called “the
wonder of the century,” and one feels a national pride in the thought
that this statue, rising three hundred feet in the air, her right hand
lifting her torch on high—that this statue, the wonder of the age,
is a fit emblem of the country to which it belongs—_it is Liberty
enlightening the world_!
I can not pause here to speak of the deep, strange and strong impulses
that stir one’s soul as he sees his native land fade from view. I must,
instead, proceed to tell the reader something about
“A Life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave
And the winds their revels keep.”
The first few days, if the sea is calm and quiet, and so it is with us,
are spent in forming new acquaintances. No one wants an introduction
to any one. Everybody is supposed to know everybody else. A hearty
hand-shake, a friendly look of the eye, and you are friends for the
journey. And I dare say that many who here meet will be firm friends
for the journey of life. The company on board the ship is a little
world within itself, representing almost every phase of human life,
from the lowest to the highest. Here a statesman, there a philosopher;
here a musician, there an artist. We have one wonderful fellow on
board, who is here, there, and everywhere. He is anything, everything
and nothing. He evidently has more life in his heels than brains in
his head, and more folly on his tongue than reverence in his heart—a
pretended musician, who has decidedly a better voice for eating soup
than for singing songs. And it comes to pass that a certain small boy
follows the example of this clown, and the two together make things
lively and thoroughly uncomfortable for the rest of the party.
Naturally enough, after these acquaintances are formed, birds of a
feather flock together. The Rev. Dr. Malcom MacVicar, Chancellor
of the MacMaster University of Toronto, and his highly cultivated
lady, are among our fellow-passengers. I first met the Doctor some
years ago, when in Canada. He is an author of considerable note. For
twenty-five years previous to his going to Canada, he was probably the
most conspicuous figure in the educational circles of New York State.
The University over which he is now called to preside is a Baptist
institution with a million dollars endowment. Although raised to high
position and crowned with honors, Doctor MacVicar is as humble and
unassuming as though he were in the lowliest walks of life. Prof.
Honey, of Yale University, places his wife under my care. Mrs. Honey is
a lady of lovely character and superior attainments. Those whom I have
mentioned, together with two physicians from Indiana, and Rev. Mr.
Smith from Canada, form a little party somewhat to ourselves, though we
try not to appear clannish.
The passengers are occasionally attracted by whales, and are much
interested in watching them. Frequently two or three may be seen
following the vessel for miles and miles at a time, to get such food as
may be thrown overboard. Then they strike out ahead of us, or to one
side, chasing each other through the water. These monsters of the deep
remind me of a former class-mate, who was noted more for genial nature
than for strong intellect. One day, while the class in chemistry were
reciting, he said:
“Professor, I understand that fish is good brain-food. Is it true?”
The teacher replied: “Yes, I am disposed to think there is some truth
in the statement.”
“I am glad to know that, Professor, I am going to try it. How much do
you think I ought to eat?”
“Well, Sir,” responded the sarcastic professor, “I should recommend at
least half a dozen whales.”
I am sure, however, that when I last saw the student in question he had
not begun the eating of fish.
The fourth day is stormy and the sea rough. The women and children
are sick, very sick. The men are thoroughly prepared to sympathize
with them. They all lose their sea-legs. The vessel is turned into a
hospital. It is really amusing to hear the different expressions from
these afflicted sons of Adam.
One fellow, amid his heaving and straining, says: “I am not ‘zac’-ly
sea-sick, but my stomach hurts me mightily.”
Another, in like condition, says: “If they would stop the ship only
five minutes I would be all right.”
In the midst of the severest agony, an old gentleman ejaculates
something like this: “I left my children and loved ones at home, and I
expect to return in four months; but I would stay in Europe four years,
if I knew there would be a railroad built across in that time.”
I did not hear this myself, but it is said of one clergyman on board
that amid the fierceness of the storm he became exceedingly uneasy.
Wringing his hands, and approaching the chief officer, he exclaimed:
“O Captain, Captain, is there any danger of d-e-a-t-h?” The captain
replied: “Would that I could give you some encouragement; but, my
Reverend Sir, in five minutes we shall all be in Heaven.” At this, the
distressed preacher clasped his hands and cried aloud, “God forbid!” A
United States Minister on board said that any one who would cross the
ocean for pleasure, would go to hell for amusement.
For five days the sea rages, and the vessel rolls and labors and
groans. Looking out over the waters, I see ten thousand hills and
mountains, each crowned with white surf, which in the distance looks
like melting snow. Between these mountains there are deep gorges and
broad valleys. A moment later the mountains and valleys exchange
places. Now on the crest of a wave, the vessel is borne high in the
air, and now she drops into a yawning gulf below, coming down first on
one side then on the other. Now and then she pitches head-foremost,
reeling and staggering like a drunken man.
But, as usual, calm and quiet follow the storm. The sea is now as
placid as a lake. The sun is going down, apparently to bathe himself in
a sea of glory. In a few minutes the gleaming stars will look down to
see their bright faces reflected in the water. The sick are restored to
health, the staggering walk is gone, and “Richard is himself again.”
We were in sight of land almost the whole of yesterday. About twilight
last evening, we viewed the western coast of “bonnie Scotland.” I arose
at an early hour this morning, to find our stately craft smoothly
gliding on the placid waters of the river Clyde. It is a picture worthy
of the artist’s brush—a scene well calculated to inspire every emotion
of the poet’s soul.
On the north side of the majestic river, there is a sodded plain,
broad and unbroken, gradually rising from the water’s edge. As we view
this wooded landscape o’er, we see, here and there, farmhouses, which
are as picturesque and beautiful as they are quaint and old, with
the smoke from their ivy-covered chimneys coiling up and ascending on
high like incense from the altar of burnt offering. Turning our eyes
southward, we behold, hard by the stream, a long chain of towering
mountains, whose gently sloping sides are carpeted with green grass,
and girt around with budding trees. The heavy rain-drops on the grass
and leaves are sparkling in the light of the new-risen sun. The
mountains are echoing the merry tune which comes from the whistling
plowman on the opposite shore. Now, between these two prospects, on
the broad and unruffled bosom of this flowing river, our heavily-laden
vessel, as though she were weary because of her long journey, moves
slowly, gracefully, noiselessly, with the stars and the stripes proudly
streaming from her mast-head. Indeed so motionless and queenly is our
goodly vessel in her onward course, that she is apparently standing
still while the mountains and plains are passing in review before her.
A little farther up the stream, we see Dumbarton Castle standing in the
river. This historic rock measures a mile in circumference, and rises
three hundred feet above the water. This castle was at one time the
prison of Sir William Wallace, and afterwards the stronghold of Robert
Bruce. From here on to Glasgow the Clyde is lined on both sides with
iron-foundries and ship-building yards.
The voyage ends at Glasgow. The passengers are glad once more to
press _terra firma_ under their feet. I would write something about
Glasgow, but I am like the more hopeful one of two Irishmen who went to
America. Landing in New York, they started up town. They had gone only
a few paces, when one of them saw a ten dollar gold piece lying on the
sidewalk, and stooped to pick it up. The other said: “Oh, don’t bother
to get that little coin; we will foind plenty of pieces larger than
that.”