LETTER IV.
Still at Portsmouth, and the Ulysses not yet come round from the Thames!
Some troops were embarked on the 27th inst. from this place. The weather was rough and unfavorable. Such indeed has it, constantly, been, since our arrival—always stormy, and, at times, tempestuous. From this state of the weather we have had the opportunity of seeing this great maritime port to much advantage; a degree of grandeur being added to the scenery, which, in a more tranquil season, would not have existed. The general movement and activity have been, necessarily, increased; we have heard the deep roaring of the billows, and have listened to the howling of the wind, and the beating of the storm among the shipping; the troubled waves have dashed, in heavy seas, upon the land, or broken with violence, against the rampart-walls; boats and ships have been set adrift, others have been forced from their anchors and cast on shore; and that degree of the grand and terrific, necessary to the sublime, has strongly prevailed.
You expected probably, that my next letter would be addressed to you from Cork, and will be surprised to find that I am yet remaining here; but this is among the numberless uncertainties of my present calling.
On the 29th instant it blew a perfect hurricane; like what we read of as, sometimes, happening in other regions, but unlike all that we are accustomed to witness in England.
The houses were shaken, to a dangerous degree, by the excessive force of the tempest. The loud ocean rolled, and broke, in tremendous mountains, on the shore. Many of the ships were driven from their anchors; some were dismasted; others cast away; and boats, set loose by the storm, were swallowed up by the troubled waters, and afterwards returned, by the expelling throes of the sea, upon dry land.
The hollow sound of the wind, and the heavy beatings of the hail and rain, through the thick forest of shipping lying in the harbour, together with the frightful dashings of the sea, and the violent motion of the vessels, upon its restless surface, all combined to render the scene greatly awful; but too high a degree of the terrific was intermixed with it, for the spectator to regard its grandeur and sublimity in quiet contemplation. To convey any just idea of it would require the pen of a Milton, or a Shakespeare.
Great and general alarm prevailed, especially among the lower orders of people; in whose minds a fearful association was excited, which carried them, infinitely, beyond the probable injuries to be expected. They ran into the remotest corners of their houses, fearing that some dreadful visitation of the Almighty was upon them, and that He, in his wrath, was about to punish their sins, by the destruction of the town, and its wicked inhabitants. Nothing was heard but the howlings of the tempest. In all other respects a dreary stillness reigned. No living thing was seen upon the streets; and all around seemed hushed in the silent pause of consternation.
When the violence of the storm had a little abated, and the rays of light began to issue through the broken clouds, the trembling multitude ventured forth, and, assembling in groups at the door-ways, relieved their apprehensions by relating them to each other, in the restored comfort of mutual intercourse. At this moment I could not but remark the striking effect of the social principle, that great and leading feature of our nature. If these people had remained alone, shut up in their hiding-places, their sense of alarm would have probably continued much longer; but they derived manifest relief from communicating with each other; and the very act of relating their fears insensibly dispelled them.
The injuries done were less than might have been expected. Some of the ships and boats necessarily suffered; a few houses were unroofed; and, amidst the devastation, the windmill, at Gosport, was blown to the ground. It was, at first, said that many lives were lost; but, happily, we do not find this report confirmed.