About forty days after leaving Gottenburg we reached the Grand Bank of Newfoundland, and crossed it in latitude of forty-four degrees. We fell in with many fishing vessels riding at anchor in thirty fathoms of water, the hardy crews of which, rigged out in their "boots and barvels," were busily engaged in their useful but arduous occupation. When on the centre of the bank, the fog which had previously obscured objects at a distance, was suddenly swept away, and we counted from the deck seventy-four schooners at anchor, besides several which were under sail.
The Bank of Newfoundland is of enormous extent, reaching some two hundred and fifty miles into the Atlantic, from the southern part of Newfoundland and islands in that vicinity. Its southern extremity is in about forty-two degrees of latitude, and fifty degrees west longitude from Greenwich. The depth of water varies from twenty-five to fifty fathoms. The Bank is in the direct track of vessels bound to and from Europe, and many sad disasters have occurred to the fishermen, while lying at anchor in rough weather in a dense fog. In some instances they have been run down, crushed to fragments, by large ships under full sail, and every one of the crew has perished.
The fish on this Bank are chiefly cod, and have been taken in incredible numbers by the crews of vessels built and fitted out for this purpose, for more than two hundred years; and in times past this fishery has proved a certain source of income, and sometimes of wealth, to bold and enterprising men. But for a number of years this business has not been so profitable as formerly, and not so many vessels have been employed. It has been intimated by evil-disposed persons that the capital stock of the Bank is getting reduced, and that it will ere long fail to make discounts or pay dividends. But such rumors are the offspring of calumny; the Bank is undoubtedly sound, has a solid bottom, and its treasures and resources are inexhaustible.
The fishermen of the Grand Bank, in "days lang syne," belonged chiefly to Marblehead and Cape Ann. They were a bold, hardy, sinewy set of men, inured to fatigue and reckless of danger, cheerful in their dispositions, impatient under restraint, fond of what they considered good living, ready with a joke or yarn on all occasions, and not a little inclined to superstition. Indeed the fishing vessels on the Bank, if we are to credit the tales told years ago, were often favored by the presence of death warnings, mysterious noises, ghosts, and apparitions. Sounds were heard and sights seen on board fishing vessels on the Bank, which filled the stoutest hearts with fear and wonder, and would even astonish the most inveterate spiritualist of the present day.
On shore the fishermen were a jolly set of fellows, social in their dispositions, not given to vicious indulgences, but somewhat careless of their earnings, regarding their resources as inexhaustible as "the fish in the sea." They married early, made kind and affectionate husbands, and were, in almost every case, blessed with a numerous offspring; indeed, Marblehead fishermen of sixty years of age would remind a person of the Bible patriarchs for the number of their descendants. Their wives, fresh, blooming, spirited, and good-humored, were grandmothers at six and thirty, great grandmothers at fifty-four, and great great grandmothers at the age of seventy-four!
The fishermen were patriotic, too. They were dear lovers of their country and its institutions, and prided themselves on their attachment to democracy. In the war of the revolution the citizens of Marblehead and Gloucester, and Cape Cod, no longer able to pursue their accustomed vocations, joined the armies which fought for freedom, and rendered important services on the land as well as on the ocean. In the latest, and, we trust, THE LAST, war with Great Britain, they came forward almost to a man, to assist in manning our frigates and privateers; and no class of men rendered better services, or could be more confidently relied on when deeds of daring were to be performed, than the whole-hearted and hard-handed fishermen of Massachusetts Bay.
As a nursery for seamen for our merchant ships in time of peace, the fishing business has proved of immense advantage to the country, and that policy may justly be regarded as suicidal on the part of the national government which would throw barriers in the way of its success.
To those who are familiar with the extent and geographical position of the Grand Bank of Newfoundland, it may seem surprising, perhaps incredible, that fishing vessels have been known to seek for it, day after day, in vain. Yet that such occurrences have taken place in "olden times" is an established fact. But to the honor of our fishermen it may be said that such blunders in plain navigation have been exceedingly rare, and as much owing to a free circulation of the fiery liquid, which addles men's brains, as to sheer ignorance.
Many years ago a schooner sailed from Gloucester bound to the Grand Bank, in charge of a thick dunderhead of a skipper, and a crew of about equal mental calibre. In putting up the stores the grog was not forgotten. Indeed it was regarded as a necessary on shipboard, as a shrewd counsellor in difficulty and danger, a friendly consoler when borne down by misfortune, and a cheerful companion in prosperity, which could not be too often embraced.
The schooner met with head winds before she reached the meridian of Cape Sable, and was beating about for several days between Cape Sable and St. George's Bank. At length the wind hauled to the southward, and the skipper put the schooner's head to the north-east, and let her run, making a fair wind of it. On the following day, towards night, he got soundings in twenty fathoms. "Hallo!" shouted the skipper, "what a lucky fellow I am; I have hit the broadest and shoalest part of the Bank the first time of trying! I verily believe I could hit a nun buoy if it was anchored in any part of the ocean. But never mind, boys, let us freshen the nip; we'll stand well on to the Bank, then let go the kellock, and haul up the cod!"
He stood on for a couple of hours, when greatly to his mortification and amazement, he found his schooner floundering and thumping on a sand bank. She soon knocked a hole in her bottom, and the crew with great difficulty made their escape to land, which was not far off. Even then the skipper was disposed to believe ha had found an island on the Bank which had never before been discovered; and it was hard work to convince him that he was cast away on the Isle of Sable!
Another case is said to have occurred of clumsy navigation on the part of one of our Marblehead skippers. The tale is traditionary, but no less authentic on that account.
The fishing schooner Codhook was ready for a trip to the Grand Bank for a cargo of the deposits, when the skipper, a faithful, skilful, hardy old fisherman, as is the case with most of this valuable class of men, was taken sick, and compelled reluctantly to relinquish the voyage. It became necessary to find a skipper, and as it was a busy season, it was not an easy matter to procure the right kind of a man. After a time, however, it was concluded that nothing better could be done than to appoint old Jonas Hardhead skipper for this single trip.
Jonas, or "Uncle Jonas," as he was familiarly called, had been to sea during the greater part of his life, but for the last few years had been engaged occasionally in the fishing business; and when he could be kept sober he was a valuable fisherman, for few could endure more hardship, or haul up the cod faster than Uncle Jonas. He also boasted of his skill in navigation, and according to his own story could handle a quadrant or even a sextant as adroitly as a marlinspike. It was finally settled that he should act as skipper on this voyage, provided he would promise to keep sober. Jonas gave the pledge with alacrity, although his feelings seemed hurt that his sobriety was doubted; he even declared that he was never otherwise than sober in his life; and was forthwith inducted into office.
In order to aid him in keeping his promise to the owners, Uncle Jonas took with him on board some ten or a dozen bottles of "old Jamaica," a beverage which he dearly loved; and although he seldom got absolutely drunk when on shore, it was rarely the case that he went to bed sober. He had no doubt of his qualifications to perform well his duty as skipper, and was determined to have a jovial time at all events.
He had a quadrant and a Bowditch's Navigator, as well as a chart of the Atlantic Ocean and of the American coast. But all this machinery was of little use to Uncle Jonas. Indeed he secretly despised book-learning, regarding it as a humbug, and relied upon his experience and judgment in navigating his vessel. He was aware that by steering a course east, or east half south, and running in that direction for several days, he would strike the broadside of the Grand Bank, which he expected to know by the color of the water, the soundings, the many birds, and the fishing vessels at anchor. He also supposed that when he returned with a glorious fare, a westerly course would fetch some part of the coast, when he should certainly fall in with vessels, and easily ascertain the where-away of Boston Bay, with all of which coast he was familiar.
The schooner Codhook left the wharf with a roaring north-wester, and in order to secure a lucky cruise Uncle Jonas treated himself and his companions, a jolly set of fellows also, with a stiff glass of grog. He afterwards drank to a fair wind, to a continuance of the breeze, and repeated this operation so often, that what little knowledge and judgment he could boast of when he left the wharf, insensibly oozed away; and for nearly a week his mental faculties were a great deal below par. In the meantime the wind blew a fresh breeze from the westward without intermission, and the old schooner rolled and wallowed along with nearly all sail set, at a tremendous rate, and actually crossed the Bank on the fifth day after leaving port. But the weather was foggy, and the eyes of the skipper were dim. No change was observed in the water, no birds or fishing vessels were seen.
Onward the schooner went, with all sail spread to the wind, like a new Flying Dutchman, until the seventh day after leaving port, when the wind began to abate a little and haul to the southward. The horizon was now clear, and Uncle Jonas began to look out for vessels, and expressed a decided opinion that he was nearly up with the Bank. The sun went down and no fishing vessels were seen under sail or at anchor. He was confident they would be visible on the following day, and in order that his vision might be clearer, he swallowed a strong potation before he turned in.
On the next morning not a vessel of any description was in sight, and the skipper, confident that the Bank could not be far off, concluded to sound. The deep-sea lead was thrown, but he got no bottom with ninety fathoms of line. "Wheugh!" exclaimed Uncle Jonas, "what has become of the Bank?"
The wind now blew merrily from the south-west, and merrily sailed the schooner; Uncle Jonas keeping a sharp look-out for fishing vessels, and sounding every six hours. Ten days passed away, and he began to be alarmed, and expressed fears that the Bank had failed, refused payments, sunk, or cleared out! He continued, however, to consult his Jamaica friend, and sought its advice and assistance in his perplexity. It is singular that in times of difficulty and danger, when a clear head is particularly necessary, men who have charge of property, and the lives of their fellow-men, are prone to consult the rum bottle, which always produces an effect precisely the reverse of what is desired.
At length, on the twelfth day of the passage, Uncle Jonas, whose patience was nearly exhausted, saw a large number of gannets and gulls; the water was remarkably chilly, and seemed to have a tinge of green. "Aha," said the skipper, "I have got you at last." But he could not see any fishing vessels, or obtain bottom with ninety fathoms of line.
On the following morning, however, much to his gratification, he obtained soundings in sixty fathoms of water. "There," exclaimed the skipper triumphantly to his men, "you more than insinuated that I was no navigator, but I have carried the ship straight to the Grand Bank in fine style. We will stand on until we get thirty fathoms of water, and then go to work like men."
His companions acknowledged their error, asked pardon for doubting his infallibility, and promised never again to question his ability to navigate a vessel to any part of the globe.
But, much to the surprise and disappointment of Uncle Jonas, the water did not shoal, but rather deepened as he kept along to the eastward. He again became bewildered, and could hardly help admitting that there might be some mistake in the matter, as he never found such deep water on the Bank before. He repeatedly swept the horizon with his glass, hoping to conjure up some vessel, and procure definite information in regard to his whereabouts. In the afternoon he saw a ship approaching from the eastward, and his heart was gladdened at the sight. He hauled the schooner on a wind, hoisted his colors, and prepared to speak the ship. She proved to be the packet ship James Monroe, Captain Wilkinson, bound from Liverpool to New York. Uncle Jonas eagerly inquired of the captain of the ship if he had fallen in with any fishing vessels on his passage.
"Ay, ay," was the reply; "I saw a number of them in the Irish Channel."
"Irish Channel!" echoed the skipper, with a howl of agony. "Why, where are we, my good fellow; do tell us where we are."
"We are about thirty-five miles south-south-east of Cape Clear, and on the Nymph Bank!"
Uncle Jonas dashed his trumpet to the deck, and sprang perpendicularly four feet by actual measurement so true, it is, that astonishment prompts a man instinctively to extraordinary gymnastic exercises!
The skipper was in an awkward dilemma. He had gone across the Atlantic, with a fair and fresh breeze, safely and expeditiously enough; but he cherished strong doubts whether his skill in navigation would suffice to carry him back. He explained the case candidly to Captain Wilkinson, who, after a hearty laugh at the expense of Uncle Jonas, consented to furnish him with a navigator. He accordingly put a young man on board the schooner who was a proficient in the art of navigation an art with which the commander of a vessel on the ocean should be somewhat familiar.
As a preliminary step, the new captain caused the remainder of the "Jamaica" to be thrown overboard, and every thing else which was akin to it. Uncle Jonas begged hard to retain it as a solace under trouble; but he was overruled by the new navigator, and also the crew, all of whom felt mortified at the result of the trip thus far, and overboard it went. The head of the schooner was got round to the westward, her sails were trimmed to the breeze, and the schooner jogged along quietly in the wake of the ship until the latter was out of sight.
In due time, that is, in about thirty-five days after having spoken the ship James Monroe, for the wind was westerly nearly the whole time, the schooner Codhook reached the Grand Bank. Neither the navigator nor the crew would consent to remain there any great length of time indeed, for various reasons, all were anxious to return to Marblehead. In about a fortnight afterwards they reached the port from which they started, after an absence of about two months, having had a glorious cruise, but bringing home a slender fare.
Uncle Jonas was laughed at until the day of his death; but he always warded off the ridicule by declaring that no fishing schooner had ever before reached Cape Clear from Massachusetts Bay in fourteen days from leaving port!
We crossed the Grand Bank in the brig Joseph, and proceeded on our way towards Cape Cod. But meeting with south-west winds after passing the Isle of Sable, we were forced to the northward on the coast of Nova Scotia. Here we were enveloped in fogs of a density which seemed appalling. Unable to obtain a meridian observation of the sun, and swept about by unknown currents, we were uncertain of our latitude, and more than once came near wrecking the brig on that dangerous iron-bound shore.
After beating to windward a few days, the wind hauled us to the southward and eastward, the fog towards noon, to a very considerable extent, dispersed, and Captain Allen obtained a meridian altitude of the sun, the horizon being as he erroneously thought, well defined. Having thus determined the latitude to his satisfaction, he ordered the brig to be steered about west-south-west, which, he supposed, would carry us round Cape Sable, clear of all danger.
This cape is well known as the southern extremity of Nova Scotia, a dangerous point, on which, notwithstanding the lighthouse on its extremity, many vessels have been wrecked, and a countless number of lives have been lost. The fog again gathered around the brig soon after the sun had passed the meridian, and became so dense that for several hour it was impossible to perceive any object, even at the distance of twenty yards from the vessel. But Captain Allen, confident in the correctness of his latitude by observation, manifested no anxiety, and kept the brig on her course, without ordering any particular lookout, which, indeed, would hardly have been of use, or using the lead.
There was a steady breeze, and the brig was going through the water at the rate of six or seven knots, when, just as the shades of evening began to fall, the thick curtain, which had hitherto surrounded us on every side, was suddenly lifted. The fog vanished as if at the will of an enchanter; and, to the consternation of Captain Allen and every person on board, we discovered craggy ledges of rock rising out of the water directly ahead and on either side, and not a quarter of a mile off!
We were running directly on Cape Sable. It was a narrow escape. The brig was immediately put round on the other tack, and we clawed off from the land with all possible speed, shuddering at the idea of the dangers which in the fog-darkness had surrounded us, and truly grateful for our preservation.
The fogs on our coast are a great impediment in the way of navigation. They screen from view the lighthouses in the night, and the headlands in the daytime, and are often the cause of perplexity and dismay even to the most skilful navigator, and have led to the destruction of thousands of vessels. The philosopher, who, stimulated by the spirit which led Professor Espy to attempt to control the storms, change the density of the atmosphere, and produce rain in times of drought, should succeed in placing in the hands of the navigator the means of dispelling fogs at will when navigating a dangerous coast, would indeed be a benefactor to sailors, and deserve the richest tribute of gratitude.
As we approached the shores of Massachusetts, having been six weeks at sea, every person on board was anxious to obtain a sight of land once more, notwithstanding our vessel was stanch and strong and our provisions and water abundant. There is always a pleasant excitement among a ship's company at the prospect of soon terminating a voyage. We drew towards Cape Cod, and one night when the soundings indicated that we were not far from the shore, a good look-out was kept from the topsail yard for the light; but no light was visible through the night. Soon after daybreak, the LIGHTHOUSE, right ahead, was plainly seen from the deck with the naked eye, being not more than five or six miles off. Whether the light had been allowed to expire through inattention on the part of an unfaithful keeper, or a thick haze had collected over the land and veiled it from the view of vessels in the offing, as was suggested by some good-natured individuals, was never known.
All was now bustle and excitement. The land was in sight; the "highlands of Cape Cod" were plainly visible; the wind was north-east, and every thing indicated that we should be safely anchored in Boston harbor, or hauled snugly in, alongside the wharf, before another night.
It is pleasant to witness the exuberance of spirits on such an occasion. Orders were promptly obeyed; every man moved as if he had been suddenly endued with a double portion of strength and activity; smiles lighted up every countenance; the joke and the laugh went round, and even Cato, the philosophic African, as he stood near his camboose and gazed earnestly on the barren sands, clapped his hands with glee, exhibited a store of ivory which would have excited the admiration of an elephant. Even the old brig seemed to participate in the joyousness that pervaded the ship's company, and glided along smoothly and rapidly, gracefully and merrily, as if conscious that a quiet haven and a snug resting place were at hand.
Passing Race Point we soon came in sight of the "south shore" of Massachusetts By, the land hallowed by the trials and sufferings of the Pilgrims. We passed near Cohasset Rocks, dangers, which, it is well known, have caused the destruction of many a noble ship and in full view of Boston lighthouse we received a pilot on board.
Pilots should be a happy as well as a useful class of men. When a ship arrives at the entrance of a harbor, after a long passage, the sight of a pilot carries joy to every heart. He appears truly in the guise of "a guide, philosopher, and friend," is warmly welcomed, and treated with kindness and hospitality. The news is eagerly demanded, friends are inquired for, and the words which fall from his lips are attentively listened to, carefully noted, and prized as highly as the sayings of the Delphic oracles.
The dome of the State House was soon distinctly seen; a conspicuous object, which seems to rest lightly upon the countless edifices, a mural crown upon a kingly city. We thridded the narrows, and off Long Island Head Captain Allen suddenly recollected he had a prisoner under his charge. Petersen had been released from durance in the morning as usual, and light-hearted and joyous, had toiled with the crew, apparently sympathizing in their feelings. Speaking English fluently, and well acquainted with the harbor, for he had sailed a voyage out of Boston, it would have been easy for him to slip quietly over the bow and swim to the shore, where, it is possible, he might have escaped the fearful punishment that awaited him for his crimes. But he made no effort to escape, and was now conducted below by the mate, handcuffed, and confined to his quarters in the half-deck.
We had no sooner anchored off Long Wharf than Captain Allen went ashore, and in about an hour the United States Marshal, accompanied by a posse with handcuffs and shackles, came on board and demanded the prisoner. Petersen was brought on deck and delivered into his hands. But his countenance had undergone an appalling change within a few hours. He seemed suddenly to have realized the horrors of his situation. His features were pale, and his eye seemed glazed with fear as he looked upon the officers of justice, and, trembling in every limb, was assisted into the boat. A sense of his guilt, and the terrible consequences, now seemed to weigh upon his spirits. The penalty exacted by the laws for the crimes of piracy and murder stared him in the face.
We arrived in Boston on the 24th of October, 1817, having been fifty-four days on our passage from Gottenburg. I had not accumulated treasures during my wanderings, but I had improved my constitution, acquired a habit of resignation and cheerfulness which bade defiance to the freaks of fortune, gained some knowledge of the world, and rejoiced in robust health, one of the greatest of earthly blessings, and which as often cheers and enlightens the condition of the poor man, as his more fortunate fellow-mortal rolling in riches.
When paid off, I found myself in possession of means to rig myself out in decent apparel, and provide myself with other exterior appurtenances of a gentleman; and also to defray my expenses on a visit to my relations in New Hampshire, from whom I had so long been separated, and whom I longed to convince by tangible proofs that I was still in the land of the living. And thus I returned from my wanderings after an absence of nearly seven years, during which I had witnessed many eventful scenes, and had studied the page of human nature in various climes.
Notwithstanding my occasional hard fortune at sea, a seafaring life still possessed many powerful attractions. I was bound to it by a charm which I did not attempt to break. Besides, I had put my hand to the plough and I would not look back. Although I had passed many happy hours in the forecastle, free from care and responsibility, and associating with men whose minds, if may be, were uncultivated, but whose heads were well furnished and whose hearts were in the right place, yet visions of an important station on "the quarter-deck," at no distant period, were often conjured up by my imagination; and I resolved that many day should not pass before I would again brave the perils, share the strange excitement, and court the joys which accompany life on the sea.
When we embark on the ocean, we are astonished at its immensity, bounded only by the horizon, with not a speck of land, a solitary rock, or landmark of any description, to guide the adventurers cast adrift on its broad surface, with "water, water, every where;" and when we see its face agitated by storms, and listen to the thunder of its billows, and reflect on its uncertain and mysterious character, and on the dangers with which it has been associated in every age, we wonder at the courage and enterprise of those early navigators, strangers to science, who dared embark on the waste of waters in vessels of the frailest construction, to explore the expanse of ocean and make discovery of,
Even familiarity with the sea, which has become the great highway of nations, does not diminish its sublimity, its wild beauties, its grandeur, and the terrible power of its wrath.
The immensity of the sea, notwithstanding its surface has been traversed and measured by thousands of voyagers for centuries, fills the contemplative mind with awe, as a wonderful creation of Almighty Power. One can hardly realize its vast extent from figures and calculations, without sailing over its surface and witnessing its immensity, as day after day passes away, the cry being still "onward, onward!" and the view bounded on every side by the distant horizon.
On gazing down into its depths, when not a breath of wind sweeps over its surface, when its face is like a polished mirror, we find the water almost as transparent as the air we breathe, yet the keenest optics can penetrate but a few fathoms below the surface. The movements, the operations instinct with life, that are constantly taking place in that body of water, and the mighty changes which are going on in the vast tract of earth on which it reposes, are invisible to mortal eye.
Within a few years, the progress of scientific knowledge has enabled man to measure the depths of the ocean, which were formerly believed to be as unfathomable as boundless in extent. From soundings which have been taken, it is ascertained that the configuration of the earth at the bottom of the sea, is similar to that portion which rises above the surface, undulating, and interspersed with hills, and valleys, and plains, and mountain ranges, and abrupt precipices. The greatest depth of water at which soundings have been obtained, being between five and six miles, is deeper than the altitude of the highest mountain of which we have knowledge; and there may be cavities of far greater depth. Geological researches prove that at an early period of the history of the earth its surface was vastly more irregular than at the present time. Not only the mountains on the earth were higher, but the deepest valleys of ocean were far deeper. Disintegrations caused by exposure to water or the atmosphere, and abrasions from causes with which we may not be familiar, have lowered the mountain tops, and created deposits which raise the plains and fill the deepest chasms. And here geologists find the origin of the earliest formation of stratified rocks.
Men have striven in vain to develop the secrets which lie hidden in the sea. Imagination has been at work for ages, and in some cases has pictured the bottom of ocean as a sort of marine paradise, a nautical Eden, with charming grottoes, spacious gardens, coral forests, ridges of golden sands, and heaps of precious gems; and abounding in inhabitants with fairy forms, angelic features, and other attributes corresponding with the favored region in which they flourish, who sometimes rise to the surface of ocean, and seated on the craggy rocks, sing sweet ballads to charm away the life of the unwary mariner. Leyden, a Scottish poet, imagines one of these charming denizens of the deep to describe, in the following poetic language, the attractions of this submarine world:
Others, however, with fancies equally vigorous, but less ornate or refined, give us different sketches of the doings in Neptune's dominions. They picture the bottom of ocean as un uninviting spot, replete with objects calculated to chill the blood and sadden the heart of man; inhabited by beings of a character rather repulsive than prepossessing, as salt-water satyrs, krakens, polypuses, and marine monsters of frightful aspects and hideous habits; glimpses of which are occasionally seen by favored inhabitants of these upper regions, sometimes in the shape of monstrous sea-serpents, with flowing manes and goggle eyes, lashing with their tails the astonished waters of Massachusetts Bay.
In "Clarence's Dream: we find Shakespeare's idea of the sights exhibited far down beneath the ocean waves:
Although man can fathom the depths of the sea, and may by scientific experiments, conducted with immense labor and expense, succeed in mapping out the great ocean basins, and obtaining an accurate idea of the configuration of that part of the earth which lies beneath the waters, yet the true character of the scenery, vegetation, and inhabitants of that region must remain unknown until some new philosophical and mechanical principles shall be discovered to pave the way to a system of submarine navigation, and the enterprise confided to some daring Yankee, with the promise of an exclusive patent right to its use for a century to come.
In the mean time we may rest assured that no valuable gems or lumps of gold have yet been brought up by the plummet. Indeed, so far as is shown by the soundings, the bottom of the ocean is covered with microscopic shells, so wonderfully minute that thousands may be counted on the surface of a single square inch. We know also that the bed of ocean, for at least four hundred years, has served as a repository, a burial-place, not only for earth's choicest productions and myriads of human beings, gone to the bottom in sunken ships, but for disappointed hopes, false calculations, and sanguine schemes for the realization of fortune and honor.
The immensity, the majesty, and the wonders of the sea are manifest, and acknowledged by all. But what can surpass its beauty when in repose! What scene can be more sublimely beautiful than the sea when gazed upon from the mast-head of a ship, gliding along as if impelled by the breath of a fairy! Every thing in the vicinity, as well as the vast expanse stretching out on every side, is calculated to inspire confidence, invite security, and give complete reliance on its gentle and pacific character. While enjoying the delightful scene, the passions are hushed. The sea seems the blest abode of tranquillity. We are alive only to its beauty, its grace, its magnitude, its power to interest and charm, to benefit mankind and beautify the world.
And how calmly beautiful is the close of day! What nameless charms cluster around a sunset at sea! The heavens and light clouds are not clad in purple and gold; but the western sky is attractive and lovely in the richness of its sober brilliancy. The sun, with undivided glory, goes down in the west, sinking gently and gradually beneath the well-defined horizon, like the spirit of a good man in the evening of life, departing for a better world.
Night drops her curtain only to change the scene and invest it with holier attributes. The moon sheds her light on the surface of the ocean. No sounds break the stillness of the hour as the ship, urged by the favored breeze, quietly, yet perseveringly, pursues her course, save the murmuring ripple of the waves, the measured tread of the officer of the watch as he walks the deck, the low, half-stifled creaking of a block as if impatient of inactivity, the occasional flap of a sail awakened out of its sleep, and the stroke of the bell every half hour to mark the lapse of time, sending its musical, ringing notes far over the water. What a time is this for study, for contemplation, for enjoyment! The poet Gilfillan, in describing a lovely night at sea, says, with true poetic warmth and energy,
Were such scenes always met with at sea, was its surface always smooth, the winds favorable and the sky unclouded, little resolution or physical endurance would be required to navigate the ocean; the energies which call THE SAILOR into life would no longer be necessary; the sea would be covered with pleasure yachts of the most fanciful description, manned by exquisites in snow-white gloves, propelled with silken sails, and decked with streamers, perhaps with flowers, while their broad decks would be thronged with a gay and happy bevy, of both sexes and every age, bent on pleasure and eager to enjoy the beauties of the sea.
But this attractive spectacle is sometimes changed with magical rapidity! The scene shifts; and instead of gentle zephyrs and smooth seas, the elements pour forth all their pent-up wrath on the devoted ship, and events are conjured into being which rouse into action the noblest faculties of man. If the records of the sea were truly kept, they would tell of hurricanes, shipwrecks, sufferings, and perils too numerous and appalling to be imagined, to struggle successfully against which demands those manifestations of courage and energy, that, when witnessed on the land, elicit the admiration of mankind. These chronicles, if faithfully kept, would tell of desperate encounters, of piracies where whole crews were massacred, of dark deeds of cruelty and oppression, of pestilence on shipboard, without medical aid and with no Florence Nightingale to soothe the pains and whisper comfort and peace to the dying!
And what may be said of the mariners, the life-long actors on this strange, eventful theatre, the sea, who perform their unwritten and unrecorded parts, face danger and death in every shape, and are heard and seen no more? Is it remarkable that, estranged from the enjoyments which cluster around the most humble fireside, and familiar with scenes differing so widely from those met with on the land, they should acquire habits peculiar to themselves and form a character of their own?
The failings of this isolated class of men are well known; a catalogue of their imperfections is scattered abroad by every wind that blows; they are acknowledged, even by themselves, and enlarged upon and exaggerated by those who know them not. True are the words of the poet,
Those who are familiar with a seafaring life, and have had opportunities for analyzing the character of the sailor, know that it possesses many brilliant spots as well as blemishes, and that it would be cruel and unjust on the part of those more favored with the smiles of fortune, to steel their hearts against sympathy for his sufferings, or respect for his intrinsic worth.
The sailor is said to be rough and unpolished, as well as addicted to vices. It is true he is seldom a proficient in classical studies, or versed in the logic of the schools. But he is conversant with men and manners in various parts of the globe, and his habits of life, and opportunities for observation, supply him with a fund of worldly wisdom and practical knowledge, which qualify him to render good service when strong hands and bold hearts are in demand on the land as well as on the sea. It should be remembered, also, that the sailor has few opportunities of receiving instruction in polite literature, of learning lessons of moral culture, and of sharing the pleasures and refinements of domestic life. The many temptations to which he is exposed should also be remembered, and it will be found that, with his generous heart and noble spirit, he is far more worthy of confidence and respect than the thousands we meet with in society, who, in spite of words of warning and the example of good men, with every inducement to pursue the path of rectitude, voluntarily embrace a life of dissipation, consume their substance in riotous living, and become slaves to habits of a degrading character.
The same records that tell of stormy passions, profligate habits, thrilling disasters, and violent deaths on the sea, also chronicle the manifold deeds of philanthropy, heroism, self-devotion, and patriotism of those,
Of those who, however rough and unpolished, are ever ready to lend a protecting hand to the weak, to spend their last dollar in encouraging the unfortunate or relieving distress, and to risk their lives in defence of the honor of their country, and the flag which waves over their heads.
When we look at the hardships, sufferings, and perils of the sailor, with his few enjoyments and recreations, and consider the services he renders society, that by his courage and energy we enjoy the countless advantages of commerce, and that through his means are spread abroad the blessings of civilization and Christianity, while for HIM "no Sabbath bell awakes the Sabbath morn," we ought to cherish a sense of gratitude and indulgence for that class of men "who go down to the sea in ships and do business on the great waters;" to that class of men to whom we intrust, with confidence, not only our golden treasures, but our wives and our children, all which are most dear to us.
So far from despising the character and calling of the sailor, and regarding him with an eye of distrust, let us throw a veil over his faults, appreciate his virtues, be ready at all times to give him words of good cheer, and encourage him to keep within his bosom a clear conscience and an honest heart. Let us not grudge our influence or mite in favor of measures to elevate his character and promote his comfort while sailing over the tempestuous sea of life; or in preparing for his reception, towards the close of the voyage, when broken down with toil and suffering, a quiet haven, a SNUG HARBOR, where, safely moored, secure from storms and troubles, he can calmly await the inevitable summons aloft.
My task is finished. I have given, in the foregoing pages, a brief, but strictly truthful, summary of my adventures during a few years of my early life. It would have been comparatively easy to concoct a series of incidents far more wild, romantic, and improbable, and, therefore, more interesting, than any thing contained in this simple narrative. But I have preferred to give a faithful transcript of events which actually occurred.
If the tale of my trials, temptations, resources, and enjoyments will tend to brighten a passing hour of the indulgent reader, throw light on the character, habits of life, recreations, and perils of the common sailor; guard an unsuspecting young man against temptations to vice, and encourage him to exert all his energies, and boldly press forward in the channel which leads to usefulness and honor; my labors will not have been in vain, and I shall never regret having attempted to lift a corner of the curtain, which has for centuries screened from public view, JACK IN THE FORECASTLE.