Chesapeake Bay. Hampton Roads. Old Point. Rip Raps. The Capes.
_Tuesday, May 26, 1835._ Hurrah! there she goes! Free and fast,—free
and fast! Hurrah! Here am I on the green waters of the Chesapeake,—my
craft a little clipper, my companion one of the best fellows in
creation; and his sister, a bright-eyed French girl, whose spirits
seem to rise with every knot our tight little vessel makes upon the
dancing waves. Did you ever see a Baltimore clipper under full way?
Then you have seen a fair sight. I never saw any craft get over the
waves so fast. Her peculiar build, and her yet more peculiar rig fit
her for this, and she takes the wind out of any thing and every thing
she essays to compete with. We have left a steamboat behind since we
left Baltimore. We are just now entering Hampton Roads, and here we
are to anchor. “Old Point Comfort,” is the name given to a
fortification on our right, which, in the dense mirk of the night
looks like any thing but the abode of comfort. We are riding at anchor
upon the surging waves, and beneath dark and heavy clouds piled one
above another in voluminous masses, from which the lightning is
playing incessantly. It is a most grand and yet most fearful scene. I
stand, with Mariette, my little French companion, and, as if
spellbound, look into the depths of cloudland, watching for every
opening of those yawning chasms disclosed by the perpetual play of the
lightning, regardless of the warning of the captains, (for we “serve
two masters”) who are foreboding a fearful night. Excitement! what are
we not willing to sacrifice for it,—a new scene, something strange,—a
fresh feeling! Here are we, tempests threatening us from every point,
the wind veering incessantly from every quarter of the heavens, and
the chances that we shall be driven ashore increasing with the lapse
of every moment, and yet all is so new, and so exciting, that we are
really rather amused than fearful. But then, capitaine, if you
_insist_ upon it, why, I suppose we must e'en go below!
_28th._ Just returned from a visit to what one of the men who
accompanied us called “the last post office I ever _did_ see, any
how!” It is located in the centre of the grand fort, planned by the
most celebrated engineer of his own and Napoleon's time, General
Bernard. They mount three hundred guns, and the work, I understand is,
or is to be the finest piece of military architecture in the United
States. But it was too dark while we were there to observe any thing
minutely. We are now approaching blue water very fast. The Rip Raps or
Fort Calhoun on our left, will soon be lost to our view. This
fortification is only a few feet above the water as yet, nor will it
be finished for some years. I do not know who was the projector of it,
but presume from the name it bears that it was originally projected by
that celebrated South Carolinian statesman, while he was minister of
the war department. It is to be built on a similar plan to that of
Cherbourg in France, by filling large boats or rafts with stone, and
sinking them. This mass is then covered with loose stone, over all
which a composition or cement is poured, acting as a binder. This work
is about gun distance from Old Point Comfort, and the two, by a cross
fire, form a most admirable barrier to James River, thus protecting
the ports of Richmond and Norfolk completely. I do not see that
Baltimore is by any means adequately guarded, its only protection
being a small fort a dozen miles below the town, which might be very
easily evaded by a skilful foe.
_29th._ Only think of a stager of my standing and experience being
sea-sick! I am ashamed of myself, after defying Old Nep. in his very
lair, in two or three regular marches across his domains, to be here,
turning pale in the face from encountering the Capes of Virginia. But
so it is, and as that droll Yankee Liston whom I saw in Boston, but
whose name I forget,[1] was wont to say, “it can't be any _'tisser_.”
[Footnote 1: My friend means Finn.]
_June 4._ After all, this sea life is an intolerably monotonous and
stupid way of getting along in the world. I would rather be a dormouse
or a hedgehog; indeed I might as well be either,—for my only life now
is lying in the sun all day, eating if my qualms will allow me, and
drinking whether they will allow me or no,—merely _pour passer le
temps_: sleeping from seven o'clock, P.M. until seven o'clock, A.M.
besides taking a nap in {555} the morning, and a siesta to boot. I
have seen the flying fish, the whale, and the Portuguese man of war,
which Mariette says is “sans doute le Nautile,”—and now I close my log
till I shall see a dolphin. “This do I swear, and now let's have a
song!” as the renowned Artaxomines saith.