CHAPTER VIII.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 reachedon 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 circulatethe 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 perversetheir 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 themost 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 stricttruth, 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 inthe 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 tothe 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 gooddeal 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, inso 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 defector 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 momentin 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 thanventuring 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 todine 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.”
“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 todine 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 narrowmeans 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 andplace 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, Imade 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 himcock 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?’