“And like an unsubstantial vision faded,Left not a wreck behind.”
“And like an unsubstantial vision faded,Left not a wreck behind.”
“And like an unsubstantial vision faded,Left not a wreck behind.”
“And like an unsubstantial vision faded,
Left not a wreck behind.”
We felt as much disappointed as a confident lovergetting a blank refusal. How singular it is that the enamored youth always ascribes the first negative to female delicacy, and the second to the hostility of some one of her friends. He still believes she loves him, and would say so if her heart could only speak out. Perhaps this amiable weakness has been placed in our nature to relieve disappointment, and suppress an indignant tone from wounded pride.
Friday, Nov. 28.This morning our vanished clouds reappeared on the eastern horizon, and as they lifted, a strong wind streamed down from that quarter, and we were able to lay our course. We shook the only reef out of our topsails, and at seven bells set our top-gallant-sails. The sky had that light haze upon it peculiar to the tropics. The sun melts through it, instead of throwing its full burning beams. The appearance of the atmosphere resembles in some respects that of the Indian summer in other climes, but it is more humid and softer. In the afternoon the wind became so stiff that our ship fairly staggered under it. Her lee guns knocked the caps from the waves. We now took in our top-gallant-sails. At sunset we took a reef in our topsails and courses, but still plunged ahead sufficiently fast.
Our frigate returned from her last cruise with a brilliant reputation for speed,—a reputation whichshe has not sustained thus far with us. Some ascribe this loss of character to a foul bottom; but the three thousand miles which we have run, must have pretty well scoured her copper. Others ascribe it to her lying so deep; but this difficulty every day is removing in the consumption of provisions and water. We shall soon be able to settle the truth or fallacy of this supposition. The truth is, a ship often loses her sailing and recovers it again without any satisfactory reason. The United States, one of the best sailors in the service, once lost her reputation entirely, but recovered it again; and our frigate will, I doubt not, regain her laurels. Our commodore and captain are studying her points as anxiously as a gentleman of the turf those of a race-horse that has had the misfortune to be beaten once.
Saturday, Nov.29th. Our east wind still holds steady and strong; we are running nine and ten knots on our course. This has put us all in fine spirits, notwithstanding the wet condition of our frigate. Only give a sailor a good ten-knot breeze on his course, and he wont complain, if he wades in water to the chin. Some of us had a fine shower-bath to-day. We were reading on the half deck between the weather guns, when we shipped a tremendous sea through the ports, which half buried us in its surge. Our chairs slipped up, and we were tumblingabout like porpoises. One of the crew, at least, laughed in his sleeve.
This reminds me of an occurrence on board the Vincennes. We had been in a gale for two days, which at last broke suddenly, leaving a high sea. Governor V. S., of Santa Cruz, whom we were taking out as passenger, when the gale had broken, sent an invitation to the wardroom officers to come to the cabin and take a glass of whisky-punch with him. Total abstinence not being at that time the order of the day, we all went up. The governor stated that he had one bottle of very old Irish whisky with him, which would make a capital punch. Tumblers were ordered; the hot water, whisky, and sugar, in due proportions, mixed and stirred. Now, said the governor, please take your glasses, gentlemen, and I will propose one sentiment; each lifted his glass, when a tremendous sea struck us under the counter, and pitched us all in a mass together on the floor. Whisky, glasses, and sentiment all came down in one crash. The first thing I heard was the exclamatory inquiry of the governor,—“Captain Shubrick, are we still afloat?”
Sunday, Nov.30th. We were apprehensive that our sabbath worship would be broken in upon, by a dash of rain from some of the clouds that were driving over our ship. But only a few drops fell.Sailors have but very little respect for fair-weather Christians. They believe the course to heaven lies through a stormy sea, and that a man to get there must battle with hostile elements. They like plain, direct preaching, full of heart and strength. They cannot tolerate a display of literature, or metaphysical acumen, in a sermon. They know they are wicked and unfit for heaven, and they wish to be told so. The man who should tell them otherwise would at once forfeit their confidence.
A gentleman of the Universalist persuasion was once appointed a chaplain in the navy, and reported for duty on board one of our ships fitting for sea. His creed soon became known to the sailors, and was freely discussed in their messes. “If we are all so good that we are going to heaven,” said an old tar, “what is the use in overhauling one’s sins? it only gives a man a bloody sight of trouble for nothing.” “If we are all on the right tack,” said another, “and must bring up at the right port, what is the use in preaching and praying about it?” “If we trust this doctrine, and it don’t turn out true, there’ll be hell to pay,” exclaimed a third. These sentiments were shared in by the whole crew, and soon became known to the newly-appointed chaplain. He resigned his commission, and showed a considerateness in doing it which entitles him to respect. Sailors, ignorant and wicked as they are, can never be madeto believe that the good and bad bring up at last in the same port.
Monday, Dec. 1.Our fine east wind, which has been shoving us on at the rate of two hundred and thirty miles a day, was crossed this afternoon by a squall from the south, and knocked under. We watched its overthrow with grief, and expected for some time that it would rally and overpower its antagonist. But victory remained with the foe, and we were driven from our course. In the mean time, a tropical shower, falling without premonition, has drenched all on duty to the skin.
These reverses fall hardest upon thegentlemenamong the crew. We have one, an Englishman by birth, who was living a few months since at the Astor-House, drinking the choicest wines the hotel could furnish, and promenading Broadway in white-kid gloves, with gold-headed cane and quizzing-glass. But suddenly, from some freak of nature, he threw himself into our ship as a common sailor. He is about twenty years of age, full six feet high, and extremely well proportioned. He has a small foot and hand, an open cheerful countenance, large floating eye, and hair that falls in showering ringlets. He is willing and prompt in the performance of every duty. But what a transition! The Astor-House for a wet rolling deck, its beds of down for a hammock, its richviands and desserts for salt junk and hard tack. The last London cut in coat, pants, and beaver, for a blue roundabout, ducks, and tarpaulin, and a gold-headed cane for a tarred rope! And yet he is cheerful, and seemingly ambitious of excelling as a sailor. How nature accommodates herself to circumstances!
Tuesday, Dec. 2.Poor Lynch, one of our crew, from the state of Maine, died last evening, and we have to-day, as the sun was setting, committed his remains to the deep. He has left a pious mother, of whom he often spoke to me in his last sickness. She seemed to be the strongest tie that fastened him to earth. Her early lessons of piety awoke with singular power as his end approached. They crowded thick and fast upon his heart; he clung to them as something that could stay him, something that could lift him above present suffering and future apprehension. He died under the light of these sentiments, and in an humble hope of the happiness which they promise to the pure and meek.
At the call, “All hands to bury the dead!” the officers and crew took their stations. The body, wound in its hammock, and preceded by the chaplain, was brought up the fore hatch and round the capstan to the waist, the band playing the “dead-march,” and the marine guard presenting arms. The service was read, and the hollow sound of the hammockeddead descending through the sea, told that another of our crew had left us for ever. This is the third that we have lost within less than thirty days. The death of a man in a crowded town is little felt, but in a ship’s crew it leaves a vacuum which all observe. Still, these bereavements are so blended with the vicissitudes of a sea-life, that they fail to make a permanent impression; they are felt deeply for the moment and then glide away.
“As from the wing the sky no scar retains,The parted wave no furrow from the keel,So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”
“As from the wing the sky no scar retains,The parted wave no furrow from the keel,So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”
“As from the wing the sky no scar retains,The parted wave no furrow from the keel,So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”
“As from the wing the sky no scar retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”
Wednesday, Dec. 3.Our trade-wind has left us utterly. We have had a regular Irishman’s hurricane—up and down. The rain fell in a perfect avalanche; with all the scuppers open, the water became, in a few minutes, almost knee deep on the spar-deck. The rolling of the ship threw it over the combings of the hatches, and down it came upon the gun-deck, and then took another leap below, flooding the wardroom, steerage, and berth-deck. With the hatches covered, and the external air excluded, the heat below soon became intolerable. Our choice lay between being roasted or drenched. Most of us preferred the latter, and emerged into the drifting sea above.
In the midst of these troubles, our cook came aftand informed our caterer that the water came in such floods into the galley, that he could not keep fire enough alive to light his pipe by. This was good news for our last pig, who looked out from his gratings as one that has another day to live. I always pity the last tenant of the coop and sty. He looks so lonely, so disconsolate in the midst of that voiceless solitude, which the untimely death of his companions has spread around him, that I could never have the heart to kill him. It seems like extinguishing the last of a race. Indeed, I would never take the life of any thing, unless it was in the way in which the Irishman thought his squirrel might have been killed. Two of them were gunning, and had treed a large squirrel upon a very high limb. One of them, a little more experienced at the business, lifted and fired his old Queen’s-arm; down came the squirrel with a bone-breaking crash; when the other exclaimed, “An’ faith, you might as well have spared your pooder, the fall itself would ha’ kilt him.”
Thursday, Dec. 4.We caught, two days since, a stormy petrel. As the bird was brought on board, the old sailors around shook their heads with ominous looks of dissatisfaction. “We’ll have a blow for that,” said an old salt; and sure enough, before the wings of the petrel were dry a storm set in. “We’llhave no more fair weather,” said another, “till that petrel is put back into the sea.” “I knew a ship,” exclaimed a third, “that had a forty days’ gale for having killed a petrel; and if that bird dies on board, we’ll escape a wreck by the skin of our teeth, or we’ll rot down in a dead calm.” Our storm continued without any token of abatement, and last evening the ominous bird was returned in safety to its element. The clouds soon swept past, the sun emerged into a bright sapphire sky, and a leading wind from the southeast sprung up.
How far the return of the petrel to the sea influenced this auspicious change in the elements, I leave to the decision of those who have more or less philosophy than myself. I must confess I was glad to see the petrel go back. There is a sacredness attached to this bird that should exempt it from violence. It is supposed to be the form in which the spirit of some one, who has been sepulchred in the sea, still floats in troubled light, and that when its penance is passed, it will be translated to some higher form which the gale and the breaker can never reach. This may all be superstition, but it is a glimmering of the great truth of man’s immortality. He who believes that man can survive death in the shape of a bird, is more than half way to the belief that he can survive in the form of an angel.
It is a tranquil eve; our ship is gliding quietly on;my thoughts, unoccupied here, run warmly back to those left behind—to the loved and lost
CATHARA.The evening star sleeps in the moon’s pale rim,And slumber rocks the weary world to rest;Nor wakes a sound except the vesper hymnOf pines, that murmur on the mountain’s crest;And now, at this lone hour, fond thoughts of theeMelt o’er my heart as music on the sea.But thou hast gone, hast winged thy silent flightO’er Death’s dim waters to the spirit-land;Thy faith discerned its hills of purple lightEre yet thy footstep left our mortal strand;As closed the shadows on thy farewell track,A whisper of thy bliss came floating back.It came too soft and low for Echo’s breath,And died, with tender transport in its tone;But ere it ceased, it reached the ear of Death,And shook the sable monarch on his throne;He knew the omen, which that whisper gave,Would burst one day in thunder from the grave.
CATHARA.The evening star sleeps in the moon’s pale rim,And slumber rocks the weary world to rest;Nor wakes a sound except the vesper hymnOf pines, that murmur on the mountain’s crest;And now, at this lone hour, fond thoughts of theeMelt o’er my heart as music on the sea.But thou hast gone, hast winged thy silent flightO’er Death’s dim waters to the spirit-land;Thy faith discerned its hills of purple lightEre yet thy footstep left our mortal strand;As closed the shadows on thy farewell track,A whisper of thy bliss came floating back.It came too soft and low for Echo’s breath,And died, with tender transport in its tone;But ere it ceased, it reached the ear of Death,And shook the sable monarch on his throne;He knew the omen, which that whisper gave,Would burst one day in thunder from the grave.
CATHARA.
CATHARA.
The evening star sleeps in the moon’s pale rim,And slumber rocks the weary world to rest;Nor wakes a sound except the vesper hymnOf pines, that murmur on the mountain’s crest;And now, at this lone hour, fond thoughts of theeMelt o’er my heart as music on the sea.
The evening star sleeps in the moon’s pale rim,
And slumber rocks the weary world to rest;
Nor wakes a sound except the vesper hymn
Of pines, that murmur on the mountain’s crest;
And now, at this lone hour, fond thoughts of thee
Melt o’er my heart as music on the sea.
But thou hast gone, hast winged thy silent flightO’er Death’s dim waters to the spirit-land;Thy faith discerned its hills of purple lightEre yet thy footstep left our mortal strand;As closed the shadows on thy farewell track,A whisper of thy bliss came floating back.
But thou hast gone, hast winged thy silent flight
O’er Death’s dim waters to the spirit-land;
Thy faith discerned its hills of purple light
Ere yet thy footstep left our mortal strand;
As closed the shadows on thy farewell track,
A whisper of thy bliss came floating back.
It came too soft and low for Echo’s breath,And died, with tender transport in its tone;But ere it ceased, it reached the ear of Death,And shook the sable monarch on his throne;He knew the omen, which that whisper gave,Would burst one day in thunder from the grave.
It came too soft and low for Echo’s breath,
And died, with tender transport in its tone;
But ere it ceased, it reached the ear of Death,
And shook the sable monarch on his throne;
He knew the omen, which that whisper gave,
Would burst one day in thunder from the grave.
Friday, Dec. 5.We are to-day in lat. 3° 23′N., long. 28° 20′W.We have a steady but light breeze from the southeast, and are heading south by southwest, with half a point westerly variation. We shall cross the line if this wind holds, and there is now little prospect of change, at 30°. This is three or four degrees further west than most ships bound toRio de Janeiro venture to cross it at. Still, unless we encounter westerly currents on the other side of the line, we expect to be able to double Cape San Roque, and proceed directly to our port. Should we be disappointed, we shall be obliged to make a long tack to the northeast, which may keep us many days longer at sea. But we are going to make the experiment, and must bide the consequences. Nothing can be less certain than a ship’s progress. Even those winds deemed regular and almost infallible by mariners, seem now and then infected with the last degree of fickleness and perversity.
We have now been thirty-six days at sea without an isle or promontory to break the dim horizon, or relieve the vast rolling waste of waters. Harmony and good feeling prevail among the officers. There has not been the slightest clash of feeling between our Captain and those who carry on duty under him. And yet the most energetic forms of discipline have been maintained. The crew are cheerful and active. Punishments have been very rare. The cats have been used but once since we weighed anchor. Efficiency has been secured by a thorough attention to details on the part of Mr. Livingston, our first lieutenant, and the watch officers.
Saturday, Dec. 6.We are now within one degree of the equator. But the wind having hauledround one point east of south, we have been obliged to go upon our starboard tack to avoid crossing it too far to the west. We shall probably have made sufficient easting by to-morrow noon to make a dash over it. Then for a new hemisphere and new constellations. But we have a splendid moon to-night, directly in the centre of the great dome of heaven. Our masts cast no shadow. This position gives the moon a much greater apparent distance than it has when near the horizon. It now seems as some heaven-born sphere, that, having in vain tried to win you from the cares of earth, has gone back with melancholy countenance to its choiring sisterhood on high.
“There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’st,But in his motion, like an angel, sings,Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim.”
“There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’st,But in his motion, like an angel, sings,Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim.”
“There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’st,But in his motion, like an angel, sings,Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim.”
“There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’st,
But in his motion, like an angel, sings,
Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim.”
We had a visit, a few evenings since, from a whale. We were lying in a dead calm, when this monster saluted us like a locomotive blowing off steam. The column of brine which he threw up with his great forcing-pump, fell in a sparkling shower. Man constructs his fountain with great cost and pains, and when all is done, it can play only in that one place: but the whale moves about, throwing up his brilliant cascade at will in every zone. The springs may fail, the streams forsake their channels, but this showeringcolumn still soars from a source exhaustless as the mighty deep. Give me the whale and ocean for a fountain, and you may do what you please with your drizzling pipes and frog-ponds.
Sunday, Dec.7th. At eleven o’clock, the tolling of the ship’s bell announced the hour of worship. The officers took their accustomed station on the starboard quarter; the marines on the poop-deck; the crew on the larboard quarter, stretching back to the waist and circling the main-mast to the opposite side; the band and singers between the after-hatches; Mr. Ten Eyche and Mr. Turrel, with their families, forming a group between the officers and marines. The commodore, being informed by the captain that the crew were assembled for worship, appeared and took his station on the left of the officers. The chaplain then took his station at the capstan, which was covered with a large flag, when the band played the impressive air to the words, “O come and let us worship.”
We sung the missionary hymn—“From Greenland’s icy mountain”—a hymn for which sailors have the greatest partiality. The splendid imagery of this hymn, and the rich melody of the music, always take hold of the sailor. It has something of the same effect on him, which the impassioned eloquence of Peter the Hermit must have had, whenhe poured the population of Europe, in tumultuous crusades, on the bosom of Asia. If sailors could win their way to heaven with weapons of war, there is no act of hardship or daring from which they would shrink. But when you throw them back upon their own hearts, and confine them to the enemy found there, they are too apt to make a truce; still, so far are they from being unsusceptible of religious impression, that could I at all times select my auditory and place of worship, I would take a ship of the line with her thousand sailors on her spar-deck: and, if I failed of making an impression there, I should despair of making it anywhere.
Monday, Dec.8th. The watch in the main-top discovered this morning, at break of day, a sail just peering up over the swelling sweep of the sea. She was hull down; indeed, the little canvas that loomed to the eye might easily have been mistaken for one of those small sheets of vapor which seem blent with the spray of a wave. But sail after sail emerged into vision till her hull broke with its dark mass the bright line of the horizon. She came down to us before the wind, with her royals and studding-sails set, and with the American ensign flying from her mizen-peak.
She proved to be the whale-ship Jason, of New London; twelve days from St. Helena; boundhome. She had been out on her whaling expedition seventeen months, and had secured in that time twenty-eight thousand gallons of oil, and forty-six thousand pounds of whalebone. The second mate, a noble tough tar, who came on board, told us that his portion of the spoil would be eight hundred dollars. He wanted some powder and shot to keep off the Mexicans. We told him there was no war with Mexico; still he should be welcome to some ammunition, certainly enough to fire a salute as he wound into the harbor of New London.
All pens were now put in motion to dispatch letters home. Go where you would, fore or aft, nothing was to be heard but the scratch of these pens. What surprised me most was the number of sailors who were driving the quill. How they can carry paper in their clothes-bags unrumpled, where every thing else is mussed up, is more than I can explain. But of all beings the sailor is most fertile in expedients. He stows away every thing in his clothes-bag, from a mirror to a marlin-spike, from a cable to a cambric needle, and has plenty of room remaining.
The captain of the Jason kindly offered to take any officer to the United States whom the commander-in-chief might wish to dispatch. Our commodore fixed on Mr. Morris, his secretary, who was very desirous of going; and having given him an outfit, in the shape of provisions and funds, equal to all emergencies,instructed him to get the President’s message, the proceedings of Congress, all the news of the day, with letters for the officers of the ship, take the first packet to Chagres, cross over to Panama, and join him at the nearest point practicable. The letters now being bagged, a boat was called away, Mr. Morris took leave of us, and was soon on the deck of the Jason. The sturdy whaler squared round before the wind, we filled away, and when the sun went down were once more alone on the ocean.
Each seemed lost in thoughts of the surprise and pleasure which the letters he had thus unexpectedly been able to send back would awaken. One of our best young sailors told me his mother would weep for joy over his letter, and sleep for a month with it under her pillow. No eloquence that ever flowed from human lips affected me half so much as the simple remark of this dutiful sailor. There was a tenderness, a truthfulness, a moral beauty in it, which made me forget the rough exterior of the being from whom it came. He seemed as a brother whom I could take to my heart, and whose hard lot I could most cheerfully share. That man who can forget his mother, who can forget the sorrows and solicitudes which she has endured for him, and the lessons of piety which she instilled into his young mind, has sundered the last tie that binds him to virtue and a reasonable hope of heaven.
Tuesday, Dec. 9.Our painters commenced to-day painting our gun-carriages black. They had a coat of white paint when we left port, but it soon became dingy and defaced by the rough-and-tumble of sea usage. Black paint can easily be restored; a few coats of varnish will make it shine like a Congo under his native sun. The objects to be aimed at in the use of paint on board a man-of-war are neatness, preservation, economy in money and time. There is nothing fantastic, but all is substantial and enduring. It is in harmony with the solid oak out of which the storm-defying fabric is itself constructed.
I have been attached to ships where the belaying-pins, the midship-stanchions, and even crowbars, were bright work. The amount of labor bestowed upon them during a three years’ cruise, might, if properly directed, have almost constructed another ship equal to that of which these are mere blacksmith appendages. Were sailors merely unthinking machines, it might do to keep them employed on such work; but as it is, the idea will often force itself upon them that their labor is a frivolous waste of time. This renders them impatient and remiss, and this impatience and remissness soon extends to their other duties. Keep sailors employed, but let them feel that their employment is working out some adequate ends. No man will continue to roll an empty wheelbarrow, however liberally paid for his services.
Wednesday, Dec. 10.This morning, with our royals set to a steady southeaster, we dashed across the equator at longitude thirty. That great circle, cutting the continents, mountains, oceans, and islands of the globe asunder, now threw its steep plane between us and the thousand objects to which memory clings with affection and pride. The sunset clouds on which we had gazed, the towering crags where morn first broke, and the brilliant constellations which faith had peopled with the spirits of the pure and meek, all went down in dying pomp over the dim horizon. What now to us Niagara’s thunder, or the rush of the Alpine avalanche! Even the polar star, that has poured its steady light for ages on the ruins of pyramids, the wrecks of temples, and the graves of empires, has left its watch-tower in darkness,—all are lost in the shoreless ocean of night.
Old Neptune formerly saluted every ship that crossed the line. He appeared in the shape of some tall sturdy tar, in ox-hide mail, with a long beard of yarn falling far below his chin, and locks of the same flowing in drenched ringlets down his shoulders. His trident was a huge harpoon, his pipe the coiled hose of the fire-engine; thus accoutred, he hailed the ship over her bows, and mounting a gun-carriage, was drawn aft to the quarter-deck. Here he summoned the green horns to his presence, and after lathering them from a tub of grease and tar, shavedthem with a ship’s scraper. Having thus introduced the novice into his service, he returned in triumph to his watery realm. This ceremony was found such an infraction of discipline, that it has been discontinued on board our national ships. Our sailors were allowed to splice the main-brace as a substitute.
Thursday, Dec. 11.A delicate question of discipline occurred to-day. The master’s mate of the gun-deck, finding the captain of the main-top behind the rest in lashing and stowing his hammock, ordered him to clean the bell,—a menial service, and intended as a punishment. The captain of the main-top, knowing the order to be illegal and derogatory to his position, declined compliance. He was reported to the officer of the deck and confined. All this had taken place without the knowledge of the first lieutenant or the commander. When known to them, the facts were promptly inquired into. I felt some interest in seeing how Captain Du Pont would dispose of the question.
The illegality of an order, though it may mitigate the offence, cannot for a moment justify disobedience. Such a doctrine would make every man a judge in his own case, and overthrow discipline. He must obey the order, and seek redress at its proper source. The offender saw his error, as exhibited to him by Captain Du Pont, and said he should submitto any punishment which the government of the ship required. That was enough; he was one of our best men, this his first offence, and Captain Du Pont very properly at once restored him to duty. Now what would have been the moral effect of inflicting chastisement on that man, as some, in a spirit of haste, might have done. It might have broken his ambition. It would certainly have reduced him to a lash-level with the hardened culprit. It would have relieved punishment of some portion of the shame which attaches to it. The bad always exult when they see any portion of their disgrace transferred to the good; therefore never punish a good faithful sailor for the first offence into which he may be betrayed, if there is any way of getting round it. Let his virtues
“Plead for him like angels, trumpet-tongued.”
“Plead for him like angels, trumpet-tongued.”
“Plead for him like angels, trumpet-tongued.”
“Plead for him like angels, trumpet-tongued.”
Friday, Dec. 12.We have had, for three days, the regular trade-wind from the southeast, and have been running under royals and studding-sails, from seven to ten knots the hour. The thermometer has ranged at 75, the air has been balmy, and the sky free of clouds. What a contrast to the weather of the line,—where a cloud gathered before you could turn your eye, and where showers fell like water from some vast reservoir, with the bottom suddenly knocked out!
A flying-fish, hard pressed by a dolphin, took refugeon the deck of our ship. He might as well have remained in the sea, for he was instantly secured by one of our sailors, and presented by him to a lady passenger, who, with too little feeling, fried and ate him. It is true he had the satisfaction of being eaten by a lady, which was perhaps preferable to being swallowed by a dolphin. How many frantic lovers there are who would like to be eaten up by their mistress! Besides, it is in much better taste to dispose of one’s self in this way, than making a plunge into the sea to feed a hungry shark. Still, for one, I should not like to see a woman coming at me with a frying-pan.
Our batteries, in their black paint, look solid and uncompromising. Their threatening strength reminds one of the terrific lines of Campbell, in the Battle of the Baltic:—
“When each gun,From its adamantine lips,Spread a death-shade round the shipsLike the hurricane’s eclipseOf the sun.”
“When each gun,From its adamantine lips,Spread a death-shade round the shipsLike the hurricane’s eclipseOf the sun.”
“When each gun,From its adamantine lips,Spread a death-shade round the shipsLike the hurricane’s eclipseOf the sun.”
“When each gun,
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane’s eclipse
Of the sun.”
Saturday, Dec. 13.A booby was seen last evening, at sunset, circling around our masts. He was looking where he should light when it should become sufficiently dark. He lives on what he can find in the sea, but prefers a spar to a wave on which to roost. He has sense enough to know that whenasleep, the fish may avenge upon him some of the wrongs which he inflicts. But he is, after all, a very stupid fellow. He secures his prey often at the expense of his life, and that, too, when there is no necessity for it. If a little billow casts a dead fish on a rock, he poises over it for a moment to be sure of his mark, and then plunging down, head first, dashes his own brains out; very much like a politician who rushes so hard upon an office that he destroys himself in its attainment. The senate is, in this case, the rock on which his little craft splits.
We are now approaching the region of dolphins, porpoises, sharks, and small whales. Our sailors are rigging their hooks and harpoons. It will be difficult for any thing that comes near us to escape their glittering steel. Their hostility falls mostly on the shark. They regard him as a graver robber. He can expect no mercy. The loudest note of exultation I ever heard on board a man-of-war, was when one of these fellows was brought on board. “There,” said a rough salt, “you have been prowling about here to get a nab at us, and have got nabbed yourself—you old blood-sucker!” There are three beings that can expect no mercy in misfortune,—a rat, a tyrant, and a shark. Of the three I would soonest spare the rat; I always associated something respectable with his long tail. But let that pass.
Sunday, Dec. 14.We have had the awning spread, and have held divine service. All joined in, and sung Old Hundred to the hymn commencing with the lines—
“God of the seas, thine awful voiceBids all the rolling waves rejoice.”
“God of the seas, thine awful voiceBids all the rolling waves rejoice.”
“God of the seas, thine awful voiceBids all the rolling waves rejoice.”
“God of the seas, thine awful voice
Bids all the rolling waves rejoice.”
The impressiveness of a service at sea is owing, in part, to the isolation of those on board. There is nothing around to distract the attention, or win a diverted thought. Around rolls or rests the melancholy main—above stretches the blue heaven, and over all reigns that Supreme Intelligence, at whose fiat resplendent worlds rolled from chaotic night. All is vast and awful, like that state of being into which we are ushered at death. It is this that makes the sailor religious, and inspires him with respect for all the great truths which throw their light through the night of the grave.
The errors and vices of the sailor seldom result from skepticism. I never met with one who denied or doubted the existence of a God, the wickedness of the human heart, or the realities of a future state. They attach a much higher offence to a disrespect to the Bible, than the use of profane language. They seem to think a man’s impulses may be wrong, while in the main he is good. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. They have a law in their memberswarring against the law of their mind, and bringing them into captivity to Satan; and yet they are free to denounce that captivity, and brand it as the source of all their degredation and misery. Their loathing spirits, touched with a diviner life, often exclaim, “Who shall deliver us from this body of sin and death?”
Monday, Dec. 15.We were to-day, at 12 o’clock, in lat. 15° 46′S., long. 36° 58′W.We have run within the last five days a thousand miles, and are now within six hundred and sixty miles of Rio. Three or four days more, and we shall probably be at rest in one of the most magnificent bays in the world. Our ship is in prime condition for displaying her symmetry and strength. She is indebted for this to the experience and activity of our captain and first lieutenant. They are thorough in the details of ship duty, and are sustained by efficient officers. To keep a man-of-war trig, taxes the profoundest patience and energy. It requires an eye that sees every thing, and a fidelity that neglects nothing.
I saw this morning, at daybreak, an old tar standing alone on the forecastle. His stalwart form rose in bold relief on the brightening sky. His dark locks flowed out from under his tarpaulin upon the wind. His large deep eye was fastened on the sun as it came whirling up in splendor out of the sea. Hislarge sinewy arms were extended, as if to welcome some being that inspired reverence and love; when Milton’s sublime apostrophe to light rolled in solemn emphasis from his lips:—
“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven, first bornOr of the eternal co-eternal beam!May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,And never but in unapproached light,Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,Bright affluence of bright essence increate.”
“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven, first bornOr of the eternal co-eternal beam!May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,And never but in unapproached light,Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,Bright affluence of bright essence increate.”
“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven, first bornOr of the eternal co-eternal beam!May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,And never but in unapproached light,Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,Bright affluence of bright essence increate.”
“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven, first born
Or of the eternal co-eternal beam!
May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light,
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,
Bright affluence of bright essence increate.”
Tuesday, Dec. 16.This is beautiful sailing; a soft, balmy atmosphere, a smooth sea, and a breeze that carries us seven and eight knots the hour. We have not taken in our studding-sails for several days; while our royals seemed to have entered into an agreement with our broad pennant to stand or come down together. The day is not darkened by clouds, and the night is filled with the soft light of the moon. The stars come out from the blue vault of heaven, and blaze with a distinctness and force that makes each one seem some central source of exhaustless and unquenchable splendor. Of this high host Jupiter leads the way; to him the eye of the sailor turns as that of the Moslem to the crescent that glows on the minaret of his prophet.
An officer to-day, after reprimanding a sailor for some alleged neglect of duty, told him to go forward;that he was such a perfect nondescript that he did not know what to do with him. So forward Jack went, muttering to himselfnondescript—what does that mean? “Here, Wilkins,” said he, “can you tell me what nondescript means? the officer of the deck called me a nondescript, and I want to know what it means—something bad, I suppose, for he was mighty angry.” “No,” said Wilkins, “I don’t know what it means; call Tim Shades, he can tell you.” Now this latter person was a sort of ship’s dictionary, and though perhaps as ignorant as any on board, had a meaning for every thing, and a reason for it besides. So Tim Shades came. “What does nondescript mean?” inquired the aggrieved sailor. Our lexicographer seemed at first a little puzzled; but soon settling his features into oracular solemnity, replied:—“Nondescript means one who gets into heaven without being regularly entered on the books.” “Is that all it means?” ejaculated the offended sailor; “well, well, I shall be glad to get there any way, poor sinner as I am.” Were there more of the spirit of this sailor among sectarians, there would be less altercation about the right road, and quite as much speed.
Wednesday, Dec. 17.Another hundred miles of the distance that separated us from Rio has been left behind. Four hundred miles more remain to be traversed. The breeze is extremely light, directlyaft, and our studding-sails on both sides, below and aloft, are out. We are under a cloud of canvas, which hangs over our frigate like the brooding wings of the cherubim over the sanctuary of the ark. But here I fear the parallel must stop. We have the sacred tables, it is true, and the commandments inscribed on them, but where is the soul-absorbing reverence they should inspire?
All hands are at work getting our ship ready for port. She is being scoured from stem to stern, outside and in. Every soil on her paint is obliged to yield to soap and clean water; and every weather-stain on her rigging is removed. She will look neat as a bride approaching the nuptial altar. What is there more beautiful on earth than a young and guileless being thus timidly intrusting her destiny to the hands of another,—leaving her home, her father, mother, brothers and sisters, for a hearth which another love has lighted, and where other hopes are to bud and bloom? He who can betray the confidence thus reposed in him, and break the heart that has treasured its last trust in his, is callous alike to crime and shame. But this is digression.
Thursday, Dec. 18.As we were exercising to-day at general quarters, our ears were startled by the cry, “Man overboard!” The life-buoy was instantly cut away, the ship hove-to, and a boat lowered.The missing sailor had fallen from the steps of the lee gangway, and was discovered before he had passed the ship’s counter, but immediately disappeared. He was known to be a good swimmer; the cause of his sudden disappearance is left to conjecture. His head may possibly have struck the ship’s side with sufficient force to have stunned him, or he may have fallen a prey to an enormous shark that has been hanging around our ship all the morning. A protracted and most diligent search was made, but not a trace of him could be found. The boat was at last recalled, and our ship filled away.
The deceased was one of the most intractable and dangerous men we had on board. He had knocked down one of the crew in the dark, and stamped on the face of another at night, with the apparent intention of inflicting a mortal wound. No punishments, no counsels had the slightest effect upon him. Captain Du Pont had tried his utmost to reform him. He seemed proof both to the language of kindness and rebuke. When it was known among the crew that he was the one that was lost, not a sentiment of sorrow or regret was evinced. But on the contrary, the crew seemed as if relieved of a calamity by a mysterious Providence. This death carries one moral lesson with obvious effect to all, and that is, to have the sympathy and regret of others in death, we must command their friendship and respect inlife. No eloquence can proclaim this truth with half the effect that this death has done. But the appearance of one at the bar of God so utterly unprepared for his last account, is a thought inexpressibly awful, and should strike the deepest alarm into a guilty breast.
Friday, Dec. 19.We were to-day, at 12 o’clock, in lat. 21° 36′S., long. 38° 55′W., 200 miles from Cape Frio, and 260 from Rio. The breeze which for several days past has often died into a calm, has freshened to-day, and is carrying us along with studding-sails below and aloft, some six and seven knots. We may perhaps get in on Sunday evening, but not before. We have seen nothing of the strong westerly winds which prevail in the North Atlantic during the winter months, and very little of the northeast monsoons found to the south of the equator. These winds, like broken-down politicians, have blown themselves out.
A large ship, which, if our glasses speak truly, is armed, and bears a broad pennant, is in sight. All hands have been called to quarters, the breeching of the guns cast loose, the match-buckets stationed, cutlasses and pistols belted, the magazines opened, and every thing ready for an engagement. Our commodore will never be taken by surprise. His ship is ready at any moment for action. To this subjecthe gives his personal attention. Every division of the guns is exercised under his immediate supervision. His presence, and the interest he takes in the exercise, encourages and animates the men. He has an enthusiasm himself which he infuses into others.
“Our bosoms we’ll bear to the glorious strife,And our oath is recorded on high,To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,Or crushed in its ruins to die.”
“Our bosoms we’ll bear to the glorious strife,And our oath is recorded on high,To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,Or crushed in its ruins to die.”
“Our bosoms we’ll bear to the glorious strife,And our oath is recorded on high,To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,Or crushed in its ruins to die.”
“Our bosoms we’ll bear to the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,
To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crushed in its ruins to die.”
Saturday, Dec. 20.“Land ho!” This cry from the man in the fore-top sent an exulting thrill this morning through our whole ship. We have been on the ocean fifty-two days, and not an island or even desolate rock have we seen. Our eyes have rested only on the sky and melancholy main. But now a towering headland welcomes us to a new clime and the wonders of a new shore. Mr. Morgan, our master, calculated that we should discover land this morning at half past eleven, on our starboard bow. Within ten minutes of the time, and bearing precisely as he had calculated, Cape Frio was announced by the man in the fore-top. This, after an absence from land of more than seven weeks, and the sailing of more than six thousand miles, speaks well for our chronometers, and the scientific accuracy of our sailing-master.
We have been running, for several hours past, twelve knots, with the wind on our quarter. We shot past a Brazilian brig on the same course, as if she had been at anchor. The line of coast is now but a few miles distant, and heaves its soaring peaks into the sky. The sun is setting in splendor. As the night deepens apace, sheets of moonlight descend through the rifts of the floating darkness above, while a long train of phosphoric light flashes behind our keel. The storm on the lofty coast becomes still more grand and awful. Every mountain-peak becomes a blazing fortress, and shakes with the heavy thunder. The very sea trembles under this artillery of the sky.
“And this is in the night:—most glorious night!Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me beA sharer in your fierce and far delight,—A portion of the tempest and of thee!How the lit wave shines a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again ’tis black,—and now, the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”
“And this is in the night:—most glorious night!Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me beA sharer in your fierce and far delight,—A portion of the tempest and of thee!How the lit wave shines a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again ’tis black,—and now, the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”
“And this is in the night:—most glorious night!Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me beA sharer in your fierce and far delight,—A portion of the tempest and of thee!How the lit wave shines a phosphoric sea,And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!And now again ’tis black,—and now, the gleeOf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”
“And this is in the night:—most glorious night!
Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be
A sharer in your fierce and far delight,—
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit wave shines a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again ’tis black,—and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth,
As if they did rejoice o’er a young earthquake’s birth.”