CHAPTER I.
Ye country lads of yankee land,
Who live at home at ease,
Ye little know,
What we, poor sailors, undergo
Upon the stormy seas.
Sailor's Song.
Well say the ministers, that the heart is deceitful.
It may be unconscious vanity that impels me to
wish to relate my history among the rest. The
reader must settle that as he may. He will see,
that I have put myself in earnest to relate the passages
and adventures of my life. In point of extent
and number, he will find, that my deeds and
wanderings make no mean figure in comparison
with most that have been told. I think, if the
reader has a sound understanding and a charitable
heart, he will admit, that reading my story on the
whole will have a good moral effect. It is true, the
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world has as yet heard nothing of my fame as a
writer; but that is no good reason why it never
should hear of it. I have never written, I admit, a
treatise upon philosophy, or morals: the community
will have so much the more ground of confidence
in a plain, straight forward story, related
by a man who could not fabricate and deceive, if
he would.
If I am not a profound scholar, I have seen and
suffered much; and travelling, experience and misfortunes,
as I flatter myself, have stood me, in some
measure, instead of the discipline of the schools.
Since I have become rich—for I may as well let the
reader into that secret from the beginning—it has
been insinuated to me by some friends, who wanted
an endorser, that I have become a better, as well as
a wiser man, for what I have endured. Great part
of what I have to relate, is little more than lonely
records of the feelings of the human heart in a
desert island, penned fresh, as they sprung up in
my bosom. I would have consigned this manuscript
to the flames, if I had not thought that the
moral on the whole would be a good one. If it be
of any use to disclose the movements of the human
heart with the simplicity of a child, without concealment
or disguise, my story will not be without
its utility. I am at least confident in my conscience,
that I intend no harm. For the rest, it is
modesty and humility, I am sure, which have
prompted me to speak of myself in the third person,
and no disposition to copy the example of
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Cæsar in his Commentaries. I wholly disavow,
too, the authorship of any thing in these annuals
complimentary to myself.
Arthur Clenning was born the twelfth day of
July, 1790, on the New York side of lake Champlain.
His father, Arthur Clenning, was of Scotch
origin, and both he and his mother were often heard
to say over the winter evening fire, of a highly respectable
and remotely ancient family. They were
among the first settlers in the north east corner of
New York, then a deep and dreary wilderness.
Arthur was the second generation in descent born
in the country. That he ever improved his slender
advantages for scholarship was, probably, owing
to a feeling of pride of ancestry, hereditary, or inculcated,
or, perhaps, both. Having it constantly
taught at home, as a standing article of the domestic
catechism, that he was of a good and an ancient
family, he learned from infancy to think a great
deal of himself. The constant teaching of father
and mother was, “Remember, Arthur, you are not a
common boy.” Or, “think what your forefathers
would have said or done in a like case.” Or, “remember
that you are descended from the Clennings
on the father's side, and the M'Allisters on
the mother's.” In this way, though sometimes
poorly clad, and often hungry, Arthur was taught
to draw himself up, stand on his base like a pyramid,
and respect himself.
In actual condition, his father was a common
farmer with a hundred and fifty acres of land, and
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a numerous family of children, with appetites
always sharp from labour, high health, and a brisk
and Canadian atmosphere. He lived at one extremity
of a considerable village, with a white
meeting house, a spire, and a settled minister. The
village was built of such materials, and arranged in
such a way, as is calculated to call into action all
the elements of emulation and pride, and all those
inward aspirings, of which such a kind of village,
the free school in it, and the common union of all
the people every Sabbath, on a footing of perfect
equality, are well known by experience to be the
fostering nurse. Many were the early shifts between
poverty and pride, which native genius,
sharpened by necessity, and nurtured by family ambition
and example, taught him to make. The praise
was early conceded to his family, as a thing out of
question in the village, that no other family there,
and it might have been added, in the world, could
keep up such a respectable, or as the phrase was,
“tidy” outside, with such small means. In fact, the
village was an assemblage of New England people,
and was no more than a slice of New England
transferred to New York, with all the native habits,
good and bad, more firmly fixed by comparison
with the foreign manners of the Dutch, settled in
the vicinity. No where on our globe can there be
found better nurseries of liberty and equality, emulation
of every sort, and incitement to sharpen the
intellect, than in such a free school as that of this
village. It often enclosed in its narrow walls more
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than a hundred scholars, of all ages, conditions
and sizes, from twenty-one to five, and from the
children of the minister, the justice of the peace,
aristocrats by prescription, down to the chubby
sprouts of the blacksmith and the tinker; and from
Susan, the pretty daughter of the patron of the village,
whose blond curls fell on her neck, to two
yellow children and three black ones, that sat
at a bench by themselves in one corner of the
school. It is well known, that in those schools
every thing is managed on the code of “rough and
tumble,” and yet an admirable principle of general
justice, and a fine influence of moral reaction runs
through these nurseries of genuine republicanism,
good sense, and self-respect.
Arthur sometimes made his appearance in this
school clad in ill assorted finery from his crown to
his middle, and thence downwards in ragged pantaloons,
without stockings or shoes. Nothing was
so sure to render the scholar a speckled bird,
an object of united ridicule and warfare, as any
attempt at finery, any manifestation of feelings
above the common level. The first miseries written
upon his memory as lessons, were occasioned
by assumptions of this sort, and by feelings which
had been cherished even from the mother's breast.
He had often experienced the bitter feelings, inflicted
by the ridicule of the school, elicited by
poor attempts at making a show in dress, or in
some other way dictated by self-importance. Thus
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were early taught habits of self watchfulness and
concealment of the feelings.
A single instance will show what was the mode
and measure of retribution inflicted upon these inward
aspirings, whenever they became manifest.
Arthur had reached the head of a class of thirty, by
spelling, and had displaced from that proud preeminence
the butcher's son, who generally held
that place. He happened to be unusually fine that
day. The comfortable swelling, nurtured in his
bosom, would not be repressed. His eyes looked,
and his manner showed exultation. As the school
was dismissed, amidst the rush of a hundred children,
squeezing from the narrow precincts, he was
making his way among the rest. The displaced
captain of the class elbowed him as they came in
contact. The matter was too palpable to be passed
over in that hour of triumph; and a war of menace
ensued. As soon as they were fairly clear of the
door, the butcher's son repeated some of the proud
sayings of Arthur, cautioning all present not to
think of meddling with the fine young gentleman,
descended from the Clennings and M`Allisters.
The envy of twenty boys was roused at once. As
the dogs of a village assail a stranger cur, all fell
upon Arthur in a moment. He was rolled in the
mud, and beaten without ceremony.
This was but one lesson of a hundred, painful at
the time, but full of moral effect. It is thus that
the independence, self-scrutiny, self-respect, and
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the sturdy, unshrinking self-reliance of the northern
character are formed. In this kind of discipline is
formed that sort of mind, that penetrates motive
and investigates character, and creates the yankee
shrewdness, that inspires moral pride and self-estimation,
and forms the intrepid soldier and the unshrinking
mariner, whose characteristic hardihood
is so well understood over all the globe.
At ten, Arthur began to manifest uncommon
fondness for his book, devouring every thing in the
form of reading that the village could furnish.
Books of geography, voyages and travels, were his
favourite reading. This appetite, originally instinctive,
received farther incitement from the
praises of the minister and the schoolmaster. To
hear himself called a “young book worm” by the
one, and distinctly pointed out by the other as the
best scholar in the school, was enough to exalt his
head to the stars. Many and serious were the talks
and counsels of those who wished to please the
family, that such a genius ought to be encouraged,
and that he ought by all means to have, as the
phrase was, a liberal education. The Clennings
were neither loath to hear, nor slow to believe every
word; but their means absolutely forbade. When
the thing was discussed for a moment, other members
of the family pointed out the partiality and injustice
of doing for one member of the family what
could not be done for the rest, in colours so striking,
that the proposal never underwent a serious examination.
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To atone for the grand deficiency of a liberal
education as well as he might, Arthur made himself
a favourite with the minister, by a docility
which was foreign to his nature, and by reading to
him fair and rather complimentary notes, which
he had taken of some of his best sermons, as he
heard them in the church. The minister was
amiable, modest and exemplary. But what minister
can resist such a compliment? Arthur had the
satisfaction to see, that he was at once an adopted
favourite. This obtained him the whole range of
the minister's library, and much kind and gratuitous
instruction beside. He had a maiden aunt, too, the
proudest part of the Clenning establishment, who
fostered her virgin pride and honours at a very low
board in the family. Having a pittance of an annuity,
she affected the independent lady, and was
equally dreaded and disliked at home and abroad.
To her, besides her small income, had descended
by heritage a wonderfully miscellaneous collection
of books. An apartment was fitted up for these
books, in which the old lady used to knit, and take
snuff, seldom opening a volume herself, except when
some one knocked at her door, in which case she
was found reading in due decorum. Over this
treasure she brooded, like the animal in the manger;
for few would suffer the humiliation of her ill
will to get at her books.
To have free admission to this intellectual treasure,
Arthur studied her humours, discovered her
ruling propensity, and put himself so wisely and
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cautiously on the track of gaining her good graces,
that he alone was allowed entré, to read as much,
and as often as he pleased.
From these circumstances, as may be readily
imagined, his education was wonderfully desultory,
and without plan. But this absorbing propensity
for reading, consumed so many of the hours in
which he was expected to have been engaged in the
same labours with the rest of the family, that he
suffered much from chiding and complaints of indolence.
As he grew towards maturity, these complaints
became so frequent, and so wearying, that
he began early to turn his thoughts towards escape
from them, by setting forth into the world, and becoming
the chooser and maker of his own fortunes.
At nineteen, he could talk fluently from Josephus
and Rollin's Ancient History. Often had he described
Plato's beard, and the pyramids, to the
chance guest, or inmate of the family. He had
drawn the genealogical tree of the house, and produced
a treatise upon the heraldic bearings of the
M`Allisters for his maiden aunt. He had written a
fair copy of verses upon the flaxen curls of the
aforesaid Susan, his school-mate. He had delighted
the very core of the heart of the minister, by
publishing a most extravagantly complimentary
critique of a thanksgiving sermon of his in the village
newspaper. Besides all these extra capabilities,
he was well grounded in the rudiments of a
good plain English education, was reasonably
versed in mathematics, knew the use of the globes,
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and, notwithstanding he had understood it was a
bad omen for a scholar, he wrote an uncommonly
fine and fair hand.
Although he sometimes manifested a little of that
finesse and cleaverness, that are supposed to be
natural to the yankee character, in making his approaches
towards those whose good will he wished
to gain, he was on the whole well principled, and
trained with a fund of moral and religious feeling
and purpose, and a deep and noble internal determination
never to disgrace the name and blood of
the Clennings and M`Allisters. Add to this, he
had an excellent consitution, and when the snow
whistled over the Green Mountains in his vicinity,
he could eat beef and pudding with any lad of his
size in America. But in the same family there
were eight children, most of whom involuntarily
adopted the admirable maxim for an invalid, of
rising from table with as keen an appetite as they
had at setting down. Of course, dyspepsia was not
in fashion in that family.
At this time, chidden as he was every day for
indolence, often hearing the mournful questionings
of the parents, how they should support so many
hungry children? and his mind and imagination
expatiating in the distant regions about which he
read, he began to feel his purposes ripen to go
abroad, where he could see, and eat more, and be
more entirely master of his own time and thoughts.
His request to be permitted to go to sea, was at
first resisted alike by his parents and the minister.
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The motives of the former were mixed. The latter,
probably, felt pain at the idea of losing so
gifted a hearer, and so partial a critic. But he
finally brought the maiden aunt to his side; and
she, from spending her annuity in the family, had
a preponderating influence. Yet with her appliances
in his favour, it was nearly a year before he
obtained unequivocal permission to go to sea.
It ought to be recorded, as a due tribute to the
rest of the family, that when this consent was
gained, and this purpose announced, the parents,
the brothers and sisters, felt regret and sorrow at
the thought of the parting that approached. Perhaps
they even repented the severe and complaining
remarks which they had made, concerning his indolence.
But it was a numerous family. Seven
children still remained. Anxieties for the food and
clothing of so large a family in rather straightened
circumstances, and the tranquillizing effect of daily
toil, prevented these sensations from rising to a
painful excess. His father went to New York, with
other objects indeed, but chiefly to obtain a place
for his son on board of some ship. By great good
fortune, he obtained the birth of steward on board
the packet ship Powhatan, bound from New York
to Liverpool. An uncommon concurrence of circumstances
only, could have brought about this
success. The Captain was a native of Plattsburg,
had known Mr. Clenning, and, on a particular occasion,
had received favours from him, which he
had never forgotten. Mr. Clenning learned, that
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there were at least a dozen applications for this
single birth of steward, all accompanied by certificates
and recommendations of uncles and cousins,
with testimonials of uncommon cleverness and education.
It may be supposed, that this was most
gratifying intelligence to Arthur on the return of
his father, and the more so, as he heard with delight
of the wonderful apparatus for cookery, and
the rich abundance of stores on board the ship.
Intellectual as he was, it went joyfully to the heart
of the lad to believe, that, having charge of the
stores of the ship, he should never again be obliged
to stint his appetite; and resolutely did he determine,
that neither passengers nor crew should ever
eat the detestable salt meat broth, which had made
such an essential part of the Spartan provisions at
home.
When the day of parting came, the minister
blessed him. Susan looked melancholy. The villagers
shook hands with him, wished him a good
voyage, and forgot him in their own thought-dispelling
occupations. The maiden aunt bade him
bear her remembrances to father-land, and not forget
that he was descended from the M`Allisters.
His brothers and sisters appeared to feel more than
could have been expected. His parents would have
been inconsolable, had they not had seven more to
love and feed, after he should be gone. In short,
just as much feeling and regret was manifested in
this case, as is generally shown in like circumstances
any where but in books. For Arthur
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himself, when he left the humble roof, the quiet home,
the generally affectionate and pious parents, and,
more than all, when about to make a turn in his
path which would hide the house, the village, the
spire, the lake, and the scenes of his infancy, and
his daily walks and inspection from view, and perhaps
for ever, all the feelings natural to an unsophisticated
heart, rushed upon him. The perils of
the ocean, the sense of distance and loneliness came
over his mind, and he began to contemplate the
rashness and folly of foregoing the homely, but
sure care of such a mother as his, for the indifference
of strangers. The first half hour after his
native village was hidden from his view, brought
with it misgiving and shrinking from the hazards
of his purpose, and almost a half formed wish to
return. Inexpressible feelings of shrinking and
gloom had the master sway over his mind for some
time. But the propensity to rove was engrafted on
his mind. He was naturally of a buoyant and
cheerful disposition, inclined to see things on the
bright side. He began to count up his capabilities.
He remembered how often he had defeated the village
lawyer in his argument, and put the minister
to the extent of his powers, to answer his objections.
He had heard an hundred times, and in as many
ways, that he was an uncommonly likely young
man. He was going to seek his fortune, and he
felt a proud consciousness, that descended, and
educated, and trained as he was, he could and
would do nothing that should disgrace his name
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and character. The world, upon which he was
entering, received from his sanguine temperament,
the gay colouring of youthful vision. He was
going to England, from the land of woods and
nature to the land of splendour, luxury, and art.
He was going to see his great relatives in Scotland;
for he was charged to visit the ancestral stem, as
soon as he should arrive in the old world. A presentiment,
that he should return with riches and
honours, to make a figure in the eye of the fairhaired
Susan, and those of the village who had
manifested feelings of envy towards him, was not
without its influence in soothing his feelings of
loneliness at quitting the paternal home.
Alternating between views, at one time of this
cast, and at another of discouragement and homesickness,
he arrived at his new and strange position
on shipboard. He put himself resolutely to learn
the duties of his office, and in a few days was at
ease in them. The voyage was short, pleasant and
prosperous. A steady breeze propelled the ship
so smoothly on her course, that he did not even experience
sea sickness. The stern despotism on shipboard
at first militated strongly with his republican
habits and feelings. Once or twice, the tone in
which certain duties were enjoined upon him, caused
thoughts of resistance to arise in his bosom. But a
specimen or two of the manner in which the captain
managed insubordination, had a wonderful effect
to inspire a docile and faithful execution of all the
orders with which he was charged.
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In twenty-eight days from the time in which he
left his native village, on foot and alone, he was in
Liverpool, as though dropped from the clouds.
The Powhatan was to stay some time at that port,
and then return direct to America. To return in
her was no part of his purpose. He remembered
his promise, and the charge of his parents, and determined
immediately to set out on a visit to his
relatives in Scotland. He received the pittance of
his wages, put his effects into a bandanna handkerchief,
received the good wishes of the crew, and
a hearty shake of the hand from the captain, and
whistled off for Scotland with as much gaiety as he
could assume. There is no accounting for the impulses
of our feelings at different times, and under
different circumstances. No parting had ever affected
him so painfully as when, at the head of the
street, he turned round to take a last look of the
stars and stripes of the good ship Powhatan. At
that parting he seemed to lose parents, friends,
country, home, and every thing, and to be about to
identify his existence and thoughts with a world entirely
new. As he waved his hand, and said, “farewell
stars and stripes of my country,” an effort was
necessary to repel the moisture from forming in his
eye. The distant prospect of the blue hills of Scotland,
too, rolled up with so much freshness the remembrance
of the beautiful and interminable line
of the Green Mountains, in view of which he had
been reared, gave him a distinct perception of the
horrible feeling of home sickness.
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On the third day of his journey, the frowning
mountains that he had been constantly nearing, had
begun to assume that distinctness of outline, and
that visible dimension of the objects on their summits,
as convinced him, he must be near that point
of the Highlands where his relatives resided. He
began to inquire of the passengers that he accidentally
met on the road, if they could direct him
to the Clennings and the M`Allisters. A grin in
his face, and some quizzical remark in broad Scotch,
which he hardly comprehended, was generally the
response that he obtained. Ridicule is not apt to
sit easy on any mind, but to the young mind it is
particularly annoying. Arthur had not learned to
curse; but he offered a trial of his yankee sinew
and muscle to some of these passengers, who carried
their jokes, as he thought, a little too far. At
lengh, when he almost desponded of finding any
one who could or chose to give him any direction
to these much sought relatives, he chanced upon a
considerate resident in the vicinity, who put him on
his way.
The Clennings lived on the first ascents of the
hills, and the M`Allisters still deeper in the glens
of the mountains. It is natural for us to measure
the cordiality of the greeting, which we expect from
friends, not only from having heard affectionate
and frequent mention of them, but by the trouble
we have taken to find them out, and arrive at their
residence. Many a winter's evening had Arthur
heard beguiled with stories of the antiquity and
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importance of these people, whom he had travelled
one hundred and fifty miles on foot to visit. He
had heard much, too, about the eagerness and
warmth with which the Scotch feel and recognize
the ties of relationship to the third and fourth generation.
For the first time in his life he had been
cast wholly upon strangers, and treated with the
careless indifference which nature's commoners bestow
upon each other; and his heart now craved
the kindness of friendship and consanguinity, rather
with the earnestness of appetite, than calculation.
Judge, then, his disappointment, when, after crossing
the threshold of a large stone farm-house, he
was harshly asked in broad Scotch what he wished
of the Clennings. He was manifestly received by
the head of the family, a tall, lean, and hard favoured
farmer, as if he was supposed to have come
to help devour them. Never was more mortifying
scrutiny, than that which he was compelled to undergo
in order to prove his identity. It was not
without the most diligent and severe sifting into all
the circumstances appended to his connection with
them, that he was allowed to be a scion of the genuine
wood. It was clear to him, that they considered
the American branches as alien and degenerate
parts of the tree. Often, while encountering
the circumstances of this harsh and unkind reception,
so different from that which his fancy had
sketched, did he reproach himself in the bitterness
of his spirit, for the reckless folly which had tempted
him away from the sure welcome of home, to
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try the hospitality of strangers. It is only in such
places, that we learn the value of the sacred hearth,
and that dear spot, our home. But he was at length
grudgingly admitted, as it seemed to him, upon the
single ground of his being a Clenning. A most
repulsive comparison of this reception with the
common hospitality proferred even to strangers at
his own home, instantly and painfully suggested itself.
He soon realized, too, that the evils from
which he had wished to fly at home, for instance
poverty and pride, might exist elsewhere. He found
that these evils were appended to the condition of
the Clennings of the old world still more forcibly
than to that of the new. He saw, that the bard
had reason, who said, that we go beyond the seas,
and shift our sky and climate, without changing
our mind or circumstances. Indeed, apart from
all the partialities of a son, Arthur could not help
thinking the American branch of the family as not
only the most easy and abundant in their circumstances,
but least ridiculous in their assumption,
and intrinsically the most amiable and respectable.
Evidently to the joy of the Scotch Clennings,
Arthur soon took his departure, to scramble up the
hills to visit the M`Allisters. Here he found something
more of cordiality in his reception. But the
ill star of the race seemed to have the ascendant
here also, for the M`Allisters, however disposed to
be kind, were still poorer than the Clennings. Between
these kindred races, he contented himself, as
he might, a number of weeks, occasionally lending
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his aid to the prosecution of their rural labours, that
he might not be burdensome. In the progress of
this acquaintance, he made full proof of his comparative
scholarship with the numerous race of the
Clennings and M`Allisters; and convinced them,
as well as himself, that the American was by for
the better disciplined and instructed member of that
ancient race. This and various other circumstances
subjected him to painful manifestations of
pride, jealousy and envy, which required all his
prudence and forbearance so to manage, as not to
evince either poverty of spirit, or disposition to
quarrel with his relatives and his host.
By a steady perseverance in such a course, he
was gradually trampling over these mean, but natural
feelings on the part of the young men of the
establishments, and was evidently making rapid advances
in the good graces of the female members,
one or two of whom were very beautiful. On the
part of one of these fair third cousins he was given
with sufficient clearness to understand, that she had
no fears of the wide Atlantic, nor objections to a
residence in the American woods. This partiality
soon became manifest to the two families. They
evidently recoiled from the thought of such a misalliance
on the side of their beauty, and betrayed
sufficient marks of a disposition to get rid of him.
His wages had all been spent in articles of dress,
that he might not shame his relatives by his appearance.
The youth was in the interior of Scotland,
a stranger in a strange land, without money or
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connexions. His prospects on the whole were sufficiently
gloomy. He wrote a letter, rather desponding
in its tone, to his parents, and made known to
his ancient relatives his purpose to return to Liverpool,
and try the seas again. The pride of the
family, and perhaps more worthy and generous
feelings were aroused in his favour, and the rather,
as they said, that he gave no countenance to the
partiality of his fair relative.
A large armed ship, “The Australasia,” in the
service of the East India Company, was fitting up to
carry out passengers to New Holland. The commander,
Captain Clenning, was a connection of the
family, and was supposed to have an affection for
the beautiful Miss Clenning that had manifested
such evident partiality for Arthur. The family
made interest with Captain Clenning to obtain a
place for him on board his ship. The birth of
steward on board this ship was offered him, and
never came proposal more opportunely. Weary
of his dependent and disagreeable condition, he
would have preferred a condition still more menial,
to have got rid of dependence upon his ancient relatives.
With all his ambition, and high purposes,
rather would he have returned to America, and
have gone into the fields as a day labourer for life,
than have seen himself exposed from day to day to
internal feelings of dislike and contempt, poorly
disguised by his host under the semblance of countenance,
graciousness and protection.
Thankful was Arthur to Providence for this
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chance, which, bring what humiliation it might,
was preferable to his condition there. With much
more cheerfulness of heart than he left Liverpool to
visit his ancient blooded kinsfolk, did he once more
bundle up his whole baggage in his bandanna handkerchief,
and prepare to make his way back to Liverpool
on foot. The parting from the M'Allisters
and Clennings was an affair poorly got up. Gladness
on the part of all the concern but one, was
thinly disguised by the appearance of sorrow, and
the famed tenderness of Scotch relationship.
For this time, Arthur left the house of relatives
and acquaintances with pleasure, and felt himself a
free man when his foot once more pressed the
plains, and he saw no faces but those of strangers.
The sight of the “stars and stripes” in Liverpool
once more kindled the deep affections, and painfully
called up the thoughts of sacred home and the Green
Mountains. It was hard to resist the united movements
of the love of country, of friends and home,
and the deep craving of the heart for the countenance
and the voice of acquaintances, and pass
by these ships that bore the emblem of his country.
But the offer of the place on board the Australasia,
seemed to him as the call of Providence; and besides,
he reflected, that even on board the American
ships he would be as entirely a stranger, and as
completely unknown, as in that foreign ship. He
passed over the cable of one of his country's ships,
adding hastily, “not now, nor never, unless I can
return to thee with reputation and wealth. But
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
when I forget thee, my country, may my right hand
forget her cunning.”
Amidst a moving crowd of passengers and their
friends, making their way on board the Australasia
for embarkation, he descended to the cabin of this
large and noble ship. More than a hundred passengers
were to embark with him. They were taking
in great numbers of sheep and other animals,
to carry to the distant regions of the south seas. A
hundred convicts were also to be transported in the
same bottom. To one who has not seen the hurry
and bustle of such a scene of preparation, to remove
so many human beings to the opposite extremity
of the globe, and most of them, doubtless, for ever,
it would be useless to attempt to describe it. Had
he felt less personal interest in this note of preparation,
the whole, as calling into operation all the
movements of the human heart, and all the actings
of the human passions, would have furnished a spectacle
of intense interest. In one quarter, closely
confined and guarded, were the outcast malefactors,
with the mark of contempt and reprobation fixed
upon them. Some of them were clad in tattered
finery. More than half were females, some having
countenances that were once evidently beautiful.
One or two faces were still exquisitely so. All
were haggard, sin-worn, and with the marks of guilt
and shame on their brow. On the other hand were
the hardy tars, hurrying to and fro in their appropriate
dresses, and busily engaged in the preparations
for departure. There were the passengers,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
with mixed views and motives, preparing to fix themselves
in another hemisphere, all concealing in their
bosoms expectations of more wealth, importance, or
enjoyment, in thus shifting their position to a new
quarter of the globe. He could not fail to remark,
that one of the passengers was a stout and portly
man, nobly dressed, with a look of importance, a
step of dignity, and an air of authority and self-importance
on his countenance and his whole deportment.
He seemed—to compare great things to
little—like the king bee of the hive. Deference and
homage were marked in the manner of every one
on board, as he stepped on deck. On his arm hung
a young girl of exquisite beauty and loveliness of
person; nor, distant as were the condition and hopes
of the friendless American steward from any prospect
that he could ever approach these people on
a footing of equality, did he fail to have his pulses
quickened by knowing, that a lady of so much loveliness
of person was destined to share the same
dangers of the ocean with himself, and be cooped
within such narrow limits, from which there was no
escape during a voyage of months.
In due time all the parting embraces were given
and taken. This moving colony of men and animals
was bestowed on board the precincts of the
ship. The convicts were crowded forward to their
prison. The fasts were cast off. The cry of Yo,
heave! arose from the mariners, and the mass of life
moved slowly away from the wharf. In casting his
eye over this crowd of people, with whom his lot
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
was now identified for so long a voyage, the first
obvious thought of Arthur was, that among all on
board there was not a single associate for him. The
captain, though a Clenning, had a cool and stern
haughtiness of manner towards him, which said sufficiently
plainly, that he must keep his distance, and
not expect to be recognised as a relation. The
sailors whispered the odious appellation yankee, as
they passed him. The passengers of wealth, witl
their families, were, as too often happens, more insolent,
inversely, as their real rank and consequence
were less; and if they thought of him at all, would
only consider him as intermediate between menial
and companion, and of course interdicted from any
intercouse in either relation. His duties would
often bring him in contact with the convicts, with
whom any intimacy was out of the question. The
idea of being in a perfect solitude in the midst of
four hundred human beings, all to be included for
months in the narrow precincts of a ship, making
her way over the trackless waters, was sufficiently
painful, as well as humiliating.
To show that Arthur was a practical philosopher,
young and undisciplined as he may be supposed
to have been; to prove that he acted as every one
ought, with a mark, an aim, and by system, and
that he did not float along the current of time as
most young men do, without plan or object, it will
only be necessary to record his rules of conduct reduced
to writing, and upon which he appears to
have acted, as steady and invariable principles.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
1. My place is an humble one. I have therefore
so much the more need of caution in my deportment,
to render it respectable.
2. I will always measure back a little, and not
much more civility than I receive.
3. I will always be strictly temperate; command
my temper, my thoughts and words; and in my deportment,
balance rather towards the grave than the
gay.
The vessel set sail with a fair wind, and was soon
beyond the view of the white cliffs of England,
leaving no mark on which the eye could rest, but
the sky and the sea. It would be useless to make
many observations upon a voyage that almost includes
the circuit of the globe. If much nautical
remark were given, if an accurate journal were
detailed, and if every thing appertaining to the
weather, the ship, her course and progress on the
voyage, were noted in the full and accurate terms
of sea technics, but few would understand the language,
and still fewer would be interested in it.
Every thing that relates to nautical science and seamanship,
will therefore be omitted, and such terms,
and such language only will be used, as may be
supposed to be familiar to landsmen, and within the
comprehension of every reader.
For the first and second month, the ship had a
pleasant and steady breeze with little intermission
of light and baffling winds. Arthur made it a point
to understand his duty and to discharge it most
punctiliously, and to the letter. Having, as has
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
been remarked, an uncommonly fine person and
figure, in the tediousness and ennui of a sea voyage,
and in the want of other objects of observation,
a person so often in the view of every one as
the ship's steward, could not fail to have been the
theme of that kind of interest and discussion, that
every character on shipboard undergoes in such
circumstance. Various and wavering estimates of
him appeared to have been formed at different
times. His common denomination with the passengers
was, the handsome yankee. The sailors
designated him by a coarser epithet. An attention
to his duty at once civil, stern and undeviating,
could not but win him a certain degree of respect.
Such deportment always counts, and has an undefinable
influence. Some pronounced him a
quaker, some a methodist, and some a conceited
and impertinent republican. It must have been
particularly soothing to the feelings of a young
man to perceive, that he always received a due observance
from the ladies on board.
No part of his duty was more trying, than his
necessary intercourse with the female convicts.
Challenges, curses, derision, immodest looks, gestures
and words, soon forced him to a hasty retreat,
which never failed to produce such a shout of ridicule
at his expense, as scarce even the firm philosopher,
much less a fine looking young man, can bear.
This was the more trying, as among them there
was one girl, scarcely past eighteen in appearance,
not only of extreme beauty, but of the most modest
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
and graceful manners. Katharine Olney, for so
she was called, always attempted to repress this
manner in her abandoned associates, always spoke
gently to the steward. This of course identified
her with him in the coarse ridicule of the rest, and
many were the rude jests of the inmates of their
quarters upon the modest and sentimental lovers,
as they were termed. So often had such language
occurred in this intercourse, so often had he seen
this girl distressed and in tears, in her attempts to
repress the abandoned deportment of the rest, that
a deep feeling of shame, pity, and sorrow always
came upon him, as he entered the quarters of the
convicts. It will readily be supposed, that it required
no small degree of philosophy and forbearance
in him, not to be moved with this distress of
the beautiful Katharine Olney. The temptation
was increased, when this forlorn and abandoned
girl, whose hopes had been blighted in the bud,
told him her tale of sorrow and ruin, and implored
his pity and confidence, while she spoke of her
hopeless prospects in the country to which she was
going. Natural and unaffected grace was in all
she said or did. She sung most charmingly. She
always seemed modest, and wore that touching
aspect of sorrow, humiliation, and resignation to
her forlorn condition, which are so peculiarly calculated
to touch the sympathy, and engage the still
deeper interest of such a mind as his.
Every one knows that a sea voyage, especially
one of such length as that from England to New
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Holland, is the most tedious and monotonous business
in nature. The continued recurrence of the
same objects and scenes, and the weariness and disgust
which they excite, especially in minds not
amply stored with the materials of thinking, abundantly
prove, that we were made to range amidst
that variety of objects that nature has every where
placed around us. Every mode and form of amusement
were put in requisition. Music, cards, conversation,
promenading, every thing had been tried,
until in turn it had become wearisome. This ennui
seemed to manifest itself most painfully among the
ladies.
Among the number on whom it shed its baneful
influence, was the young lady of whom mention has
already been made. Augusta Wellman was the
only child of a proud and disappointed courtier,
whose self-importance was measured by his wealth,
which was immense, and concentrated by having
obtained a high office at the close of a falling ministry,
with whom he fell. He retired to his estates
in the country, carrying with him this single and
lovely daughter, as proud as himself. His scheming
mind in the country preyed upon itself. He
finally took the whim of becoming a patron and a
leader in practical farming. He had made his
speech—had distributed premiums, and been the
Mecænas of agriculture. He became infected with
the prevalent propensity of the time, to increase the
stock of merino sheep. A wealthy acquaintance
had already emigrated to New Holland, and had
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
entered largely into the business of raising merinos
in that country. He had written back to his friend
such flattering accounts of the country, and its prospects
and capabilities, especially for that branch
of farming, and had presented such favourable
estimates of the climate, as delicious and salubrious,
and tending to prolong life for such kind of worn
down epicures as he was, that he had finally come
to the determination to transport himself to the
other extremity of the globe; and as he could not
be a great man in England, to render himself decidedly
the greatest, as he would be the richest
man in New Holland. A flock of merinos was
transported with him. An ulterior object, it was
whispered on board, was to marry his proud and
beautiful daughter, to the only son of his rich
friend, already settled in New Holland.
Augusta Wellman was aged eighteen, gay, carressed,
and spoiled at once by indulgence and denial,
if such an enigma may be uttered. She appeared
beautiful and capricious; and to be a strange
combination of sensibility and pride. Such a voyage
is sure to call forth all the strong points and
propensities of every shade of character. Even the
common sailors on board could have made shrewd
conjectures touching her mind and disposition, and
the still more palpable traits of her haughty, cold,
stern, avaricious and unfeeling father, who knew
no other qualification than wealth, was wrapped
up in immeasurable estimates of his own importance,
and who loved his beautiful daughter, only
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
as she was identified with his possessions, and the
perpetuation of his name and estates.
For a few days, this proud beauty was under a
most guarded and vigilant watch. The father, in
the plenitude of confidence in his own sagacity and
foresight, had calculated, and surveyed every person
on shipboard, from whom danger might be apprehended,
as having designs upon his daughter as
an object of fortune hunting. He had settled down
to the conviction, that there was not the slightest
danger from any individual on board. An indulgence
and a license of range was, in consequence,
allowed to his daughter, such as she had never experienced
before. For a while, the novelty of this
extended range delighted her. She was as gay as
a lamb, bounding in the first sunny days of spring.
Even Mr. Wellman, insensible and austere as he
was, felt the cheering influence of her gaiety. The
gay, the beautiful Miss Wellman, was the delight
of every body on board. Wherever she moved,
the most assiduous attention followed her, much to
the annoyance and envy of the ladies on board,
that were less favoured by beauty and fortune.
But in a few days, the tiresome monotony of
every thing on board wore out this flow of spirits.
Every variety of amusement had been tried to
weariness. The grand scenery of the Cape of
Good Hope and Table Bay had been passed. The
ship was almost becalmed in the bland and sultry
atmosphere of the tropics. Augusta had ceased to
take any interest in her promenade, her harp and
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
piano, her conversation and the gallantry of her
admirers. She had received all the homage that
could be levied from every gentleman on board, in
all the combinations that their wits could devise,
and served up with every spice that could render
it piquant, until the whole had become perfectly
cloying and insipid.
One of the most wearing duties of the steward
in these cases of ennui, and the thirst of the sultry
weather, was to furnish lemonade and sherbet for
the passengers. The skill and assiduity of Arthur
in making these drinks, won many compliments
from the ladies for the handsome yankee. For
some days the frequent calls of the fair heiress for
lemonade, passed unnoticed by him as matters of
course, and growing out of the thirst inspired by
the heat. It was at length discovered by him,
that in her caprice of taste, and wearied with her
empire over the gentlemen passengers, she had
made a study of him for the sake of variety. The
proud humility of his deportment, the erectness of
manner, with which, like another Mordecai, he met
the condescending badinage of this Vashti, piqued
her, by interesting her vanity and her curiosity.
Here was a man of fine form and person in humble
life, whose eye flashed, and who seemed to want
neither understanding, feeling, nor spirit, who did
not appear to acknowledge in his manner, that he
was disposed to show her any of that homage and
admiration that was paid her, even by the sailors
as she passed them. This circumstance became
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
more piquant, when she learned that he was an
American, a variety of the species which she had
been taught to consider as a kind of half tamed
savages. When she travelled into his precincts,
ostensibly for the purpose of drinking lemonade,
he could not but discover, that her real object was
to play off upon him a kind of badinage, half playful,
half in ridicule; and to treat him with a sort of
condescending and yet degarding equality. She
soon discovered, with equal astonishment and interest,
that he expressed himself with grace and
fluency, that he had read and reflected much more
than herself, and she was made sensible of intellectual
inferiority in the case of a person, whom she
had supposed as much her inferior in mind and
cultivation, as in fortune and condition. This discovery
contributed to give edge to her curiosity;
and the entire absence of all suspicion, touching
this intercourse on the part of her father, gave her
all latitude and every desired opportunity for the
indulgence of it.
He on his part, piqued also with a condescension
which was evidently composed chiefly of pride and
scorn, made it a point to be very respectful, and
yet erect. He measured out to her with guarded
observance, all the deference due to her condition,
but always resolutely avoided paying her the least
particle of that kind of homage that she seemed
alone to prize, and which was so constantly paid
her by every other person on board, the homage
bestowed on a young, proud, and conscious beauty.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
He was pleased to find, that she had tact to discriminate
this deficiency and to feel it acutely.
There is no condition in life so humble as to be
beyond the range of the ambition of conquest, in
such a mind as hers; and to suppose that he, however
different in condition, did not enjoy the consciousness
that he piqued her vanity and wounded
her pride, would be to suppose him more or less
than man.
The united influence of pique and curiosity, and
desire to humble even the ship's steward under the
influence of her charms, a new study of human nature
opened before her, in this unbending American,
equally handsome and insensible, an object of
interest and distraction from the tiresomeness of
the voyage, which so increased the frequency of
her visits, as to render them perplexing, and at
times almost annoying. They became more questionable
and unpleasant to his balanced and correct
views of propriety, by being evidently sought as
free from inspection as the case would admit. At
one time, she affected to enter into conversation with
him on the equality of a young lady with a young
gentleman, whose society she sought for the mere
pleasure of it. At the next call, she adopted the
tone of speaking to a servant, whose character was
a kind of monstrous and unnatural rarity, from
knowing more and looking higher, than might be
expected from his place. She was probably sometimes
in doubt, whether the sturdy insensibility to
her charms which he seemed to manifest, resulted
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
from ignorance and obtuseness of feeling, or from
plan and design. Whatever view she took of the
subject, manifestly gave excitement to her curiosity,
and frequency to her visits.
One day, as she came for her usual conversation
and lemonade, she appeared to be suffering alike
from the extreme heat and from ennui. She yawned
repeatedly while her lemonade was preparing,
and showed in her countenance traces of real suffering
from lassitude and debility. “Steward,”
said she, “I shall tire to death on board this weary
ship. Never was such a stupid collection of mortals
found in one place. Nothing but sky, and sea,
and heat, and dull people. You will have to answer
for my death. To make the affair worse, you
give us nothing fit to eat or to drink. It is absolute
starvation both of body and mind. Your
lemonade is as mawkish as the ship's water. Yet
you seem to be a very learned and knowing sort
of a personage. Fie on you, Mr. Steward! Are
all your American people such a tall, grim, tasteless
race of beings?” He answered, that she must
be aware, that they could command neither the
varieties of a market, nor ice, nor fresh lemons, on
so long a voyage; that he hoped she would understand
the difficulties of the case, and be indulgent
to make allowances, and to believe, that he tasked
his best powers to make the passengers comfortable.
He added, that if his means equalled his wishes,
she should not want nectar and ambrosia, nor the
luxuries and delights of the Houri.
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
It was the first compliment which the steward
had ever attempted to pay her. She held up her
hands in ironical and well dissembled astonishment.
“Nectar and ambrosia!” said she, in a tone of
amazement. “Nectar and ambrosia indeed! Why
are you not a yankee, steward? Do you ever
meet Houri in your woods, steward? I had heard
that your people drank whiskey. Have you ever
tasted ambrosia?” “Not at all,” replied Arthur.
“But every one in my country reads novels, and
we not only know that there are such personages
as Houri, but are exceedingly prone to worship
them.” “Indeed, you have!” said she. “I dare
say, you have often perpetrated the wit of comparing
your rustic beauties to these same Houri
before.” He replied, “that although there were
few in his country to compare in beauty with Miss
Wellman, what they wanted in that point, they
more than compensated in humility, amiable manners,
and modesty, and that they sought rather to
conquer by gentleness, than the mere blaze and
display of personal charms.”
She evidently felt, and most keenly, the important
of what the steward had wished to say. Her father
happened to come up as this dialogue passed, and
while she was still holding up her hands in counterfeited
astonishment. “My dear father,” said she,
“you have little imagined what a knowing man we
have to make our beverage for us. I wish to apprise
you, that you may henceforward treat him with
more respect. Would you believe him, that they
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
have Houri in his country, and drink nectar instead
of whiskey?” Saying this, she walked away
with her father, manifesting obvious pique in her
countenance, as she went.
After an absence of a day or two, these visits
were renewed, and became more frequent; and she
continued to accord the steward so much notice
and regard, and so protracted her conversations
with him, that she began to excite the notice and
remark of the passengers. By a steady and unalterable
adherence to his maxims and principles,
Arthur found, that he had travelled through every
degree of estimation in the minds of the passengers,
from dislike to confidence, and from that to regard.
He often received ironical and left handed compliments,
on having been the only person on board
that seemed to have won any degree of favourable
notice from the proud heiress. But he never for a
moment forgot his principles, or the kind of deportment
prescribed alike by duty and self-respect.
When Miss Wellman saw him evidently hold back
from applying her marked attentions in his favour,
the conduct seemed to her perfectly inexplicable.
She attempted to expound the enigma in vain.
Sometimes pride and disdain came to her aid, and
she abstained a whole day from a visit. Then
pique, curiosity, and a disposition to solve the riddle,
caused her visits to become more frequent than
ever.
All this license had resulted from the circumstance,
that her arrogant father had never dreamed
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
that merit, and talent, and interest, are sometimes
disguised in a humble condition; that an intelligent
girl, whose thoughts had never been disciplined,
might very naturally make comparisons
between insipid men in the dress of gentlemen, and
a gifted and fine young man, whose talents and
accomplishments even counted beyond their value,
from being discovered in a condition where they
were so little to have been expected. But some
person on board, either a gossip or envious, finally
opened his eyes to the state of the case. He came
one day upon his daughter, when she was chattering
away in her accustomed style with the steward,
about the nectar, ambrosia, and Houri of his country.
He darted a glance of inexpressible contempt
upon him. His daughter's countenance
quailed under his angry and flashing eye, and became
as pale as death. Whatever language he
used in the case, or what measures he took, was
not known. The effect was, that she came for lemonade
no more, nor spoke to him again, during
the voyage, except in the tone of the most distant
and measured civility.
It may not be said that he felt no pain at this
deprivation. Guarded and distant as he had been
in his manner of receiving her courtesies and
conversations, to have the intercourse thus rudely
broken off, and with such palpable contempt on
the part of the father, was a bitter humiliation.
About the same time, another disagreeable incident
occurred to interrupt the tranquil order of his duties.
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
A petty officer, whose command allowed him occasional
visits among the convicts, had been smitten
with Katharine Olney, and had availed himself of
every opportunity of access to the convicts' quarters,
to pursue his suit, as much to the annoyance
and terror of the penitent and unhappy girl, as to
the malignant envy of most of the other wretched
women. From the first day, she had manifested
towards Arthur, not the partiality of affection, but of
sisterly confidence. This feeling had been strengthening
with the intercourse of every day. She had
finally come to regard him with the frank and confiding
trust of that relation. Nor, with such a character
and heart as he possessed, could he be supposed
to be indifferent to the pleading confidence of
such a fair penitent, so young, so humble, and, apparently,
reformed, and whose ruin common report
traced to the basest treachery and a combination of
circumstances that few could be imagined capable
of resisting. From the persecutions of the young
officer of the commissary, she appealed for the
protection of Arthur, and he would have denied
the blood of his father and his country to have
refused it.
The consequence was, a most violent quarrel with
the young officer. He rushed upon the steward,
when on deck, with his dirk. Fortunately, he
averted the blow, wrested the weapon from the
assailant, and, in the heat of the affray, handled
him so roughly, that he was severely bruised. The
steward was arrested and confined, and a general
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
prejudice against him, as an insolent and quarrelsome
foreigner, pervaded the whole ship's company.
The affair, however, underwent a severe, but a fair
investigation. Katharine Olney gave evidence that
strongly tended to remove the general impression
against him. It was long afterwards before he
learned that more effectual intercession was made
in his favour from another quarter. He was not
only honourably acquitted, but the result of the
trial, so different from the first impressions against
him, manifestly raised his character with the passengers.
He was no longer estimated a stiff and
ignorant rustic, a methodist, or a quaker. But a
romantic tale of his being a young man of ancient
Scotch descent and fallen fortunes, and the most
chivalrous courage, and generous and noble bearing,
circulated in lieu of the reports that had gone
against him the day before. Henceforward he was
treated, not only with kindness, but marked attention;
and the discharge of his duties was so peaceful
and pleasant, that he began to look forward to
the termination of the voyage, and to his being
turned loose upon the strange and distant world
of New Holland with apprehension and solicitude.
The pleasantness of the voyage continued until
after the ship had passed not far from Sumatra,
and was supposed to be nearing New Holland.
The weather at last began to change; not suddenly,
but an almost imperceptible and leaden-coloured
gloom grew upon the sky. The season of the
monsoon seemed to be anticipated. First, a thick
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
mist arose from the sea with drizzling rain, and
winds that shifted to every point of the compass in
the course of a single hour. The sky was continually
accumulating gloom, and the wind freshening
until it blew a gale. Arthur now saw, for the first
time, the terrific spectacle of a high and heavy sea.
A chill went to his unpractised heart, as he looked
abroad upon the illimitable expanse of dark blue
mountains, with their curling, whitened, and rolling
summits. Mountain dashed against mountain,
and the ship, which looked so stately and swan-like
upon a smooth sea, seemed like some little frail
speck of matter, ready to be plunged for ever beneath
the foaming abyss. Nothing but the long
experience of practised seamen, could inspire any
other persuasion, than that at every plunge down
the declivity of the billow, the ship would be
merged in the yawning gulf below. The debilitating
and unnerving effect of sea-sickness added
its physical influence to the awfulness of the spectacle,
in impressing his mind. Words lose their
power, when we wish to convey an adequate idea
of the aspect of the sea in such a storm, or the feeling
of weakness and desolation, as the beholder
views himself, far removed from all succour, on
the trackless and angry waste, and can only look
up to that invisible and awful Manager of the elements,
who seems to manifest his purpose in the
increasing terrors of the tempest, the deafening
roar of the winds and commotion of the waves,
and whose response, thus manifested, indicates, that
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
application, even to him, is either not heard, or
not regarded.
Much, and often, as he saw the increasing horrors
of the tempest, and dismay of his companions in
danger, did he think of the security and tranquillity
of his quiet home under the sleeping Green Mountains;
of the calm and noiseless course of events
under the nursing eye of his mother, from year to
year. He meditated, that comparison was too late,
and in witnessing the distracting terror, which was
becoming general on board, with the disinterested
feeling of a mind naturally noble, he lost his own.
Not but he viewed the sea, as it seemed to others,
an angry and devouring power, ready to execute
its gigantic and brute vengeance upon them. Not
but his imagination, like the rest, could descend to
the sea-green caves of poetry, on the bottom of the
depths, a thousand fathoms below. Not but he
could imagine the bleaching and swollen corses,
and the hollows of the eyes in the skulls, filled with
pearls. But he consoled himself, that drowning
had been said to be the easiest mode of that death,
which, in some form, was inevitable. He thought,
from how many sorrows an early death would free
him. He whispered the earnest prayers of confidence
and affection to his heavenly Father, and
moral courage, calmness, and resignation, came
over his mind. He became thus more capable of
inculcating calmness and self-possession upon the
rest.
-- 058 --
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What with the increasing uproar of the storm,
the sea-sickness, and the growing apprehensions
and despair, no words could adequately describe
the scene on board. Here was seen, how quick
community of extreme danger, and the immediate
and threatening terrors of death, level the adventitious
barriers of pride, and the self-consequence of
rank and distinction. Sense of the subordination
necessary for self preservation kept up the requisite
authority of command. But in other respects,
every person on board seemed to be of one standing.
Some of the convicts were pale, in silent horror.
Others, reckless and intoxicated, sang snatches
of obscene songs, or uttered horrid ejaculations of
joy, that the happy, and the rich, and the fair, and
the undefiled in reputation, had to share the same
fate, and be drowned with them. In another place,
lips which had never uttered prayers before, moved
in the earnestness of petitions for the divine mercy.
In another place, the passengers, male and female,
crowded round the captain, and other officers of
the ship, imploring them to inform them what were
the prospects, and if they had ever encountered
such a storm before, or if there were any hopes
of weathering the gale; and their countenances
brightened with hope, or they betook themselves
to prayer, as the answers were encouraging or
otherwise. There were two mothers on board,
with infants at their breasts. There was something
affecting, and of the moral sublime, in the calm
-- 059 --
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and impassive fortitude with which they clasped the
dear babes to their bosoms, and moved their lips,
as they looked upwards.
Of all the passengers, no one manifested more
calmness than the beautiful Katharine Olney. The
convicts, no longer guarded, mingled on deck with
the rest. Arthur saw her leaning over the tafrail
of the ship, as it took its prodigious leaps up and
down the mountain surges, or as the waves burst
on the deck. Her countenance was pale. Her
dishevelled hair streamed in the winds, and she was
drenched with the spray. But she alone seemed
at home in the commotion, and to view the whole
scene with the calmness of one who had nothing to
fear nor to lose. In the momentary intervals of
the roar of the winds, and the cries of the sailors,
and the shrieks of terror, her sweet voice was heard
singing the beautiful song,
“Farewell, ye green fields.”
She beckoned Arthur to her side, and sung to a
rich and delightful melody the following charming
verses from Mrs. Hemans.
What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?
Thou hollow-sounding, and mysterious main!
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colour'd shells,
Bright things, which gleam unreck'd of, and in vain!
—Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea!
We ask not such from thee.
-- 060 --
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Yet more, the depths have more!—what wealth untold,
Far down, and shining through their stillness lies!
Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold,
Won from ten thousand royal Argosies!
—Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main!
Earth claims not these again.
Yet more, the depths have more! thy waves have roll'd
Above the cities of a world gone by!
Sand hath fill'd up the palaces of old,
Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.
—Dash o'er them, ocean! in thy scornful play!
Man yields them to decay.
Yet more! the billows and the depths have more!
High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast!
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle-thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave!
Give back the true and brave!
Give back the lost and lovely!—those for whom
The place was kept at board and hearth so long,
The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom,
And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song!
Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown—
But all is not thine own.
To thee the love of woman hath gone down,
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head,
O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown,
—Yet must thou hear a voice—Restore the dead!
Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!
—Restore the dead, thou sea!
To hear this beautiful and desolate girl raising her
rich voice amidst the uproar of the storm, sounded
-- 061 --
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on the ear of Arthur, as the dirge of lament over
the ship and the crew. He asked her how it happened,
that she alone was calm in the midst of such
threatening prospects, and such general terror and
consternation. She paused from her song to answer,
and her eyes filled with tears. “Time was,”
said she, “my friend Arthur, when I, too, should have
trembled, and when I should have recoiled from
making my last bed in this tumultuous sea. But that
day has past. Love, and fame, and hope, and all for
which mortals hope or desire life, are alike extinct.
There is not a ray of light for me below the sun.
What should I have done, how should I have lived
at Botany Bay? I had begun to cherish for you,
especially since you so kindly interposed for me,
the affectionate feelings of a sister. But my regard
for you was too sincere, even to wish to have been
recognized by you at Botany Bay. How dreadful is
the doom of infamy! It carries its own contamination
even to those that would wipe it away. There
is a chance that you may survive this storm, and
escape in the boats, or on the wreck. There is none
for me. Should you ever return to England, present
this little package to my mother, according to
the direction. When she shall see it, it will be all
that will remain of her only and ill fated child. You
ask me why I am calm? I look to these waves as
an asylum. When the water shall rush into my
ears, nature may recoil for a moment. To embrace
the cold and barren billow, in the tranquil sleep of
death, is all that now remains for Katharine Olney.”
-- 062 --
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Saying this, she put into his hands a small package,
addressed to her mother, and walked calmly away,
resuming her song, “Farewell, ye green fields.”
The storm, meanwhile, increased in fury. The
captain continued to answer, that all was well, and
that there was little danger, though his countenance,
and that of the most experienced mariners, told a
very different tale. The whole ship's company
were mixed in indiscriminate confusion. Every
wave that broke upon the deck, began to penetrate
to the cabin, and every thing on board was drenched
with the spray. The ship laboured, and the seams
began to open. When the mountain billow burst,
a thrilling shriek would ensue. Some counselled
this, and some that, project of safety. Some were
for lightening the ship, and some for laying her
out of her course, to let her move more directly before
the wind; others were discussing the chances
of taking, in the final extremity, to the long boat;
and as the boats could not possibly live with all the
company on board, some were ineffectually proposing
to determine by lot, who, in the last emergency,
should have the chance of the long boat. It was
an impressive view of the earnestness of invention,
and the instinctive keenness of anxiety for self-preservation,
suggested by the dread of death.
Arthur once more came in contact with Miss
Wellman. Her haughty and avaricious father, now
absorbed with a deeper sentiment than concern for
his daughter, while he held fast to the rigging,
and watched, with apprehension and horror, the
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
terrible commotion abroad, forgot his anxiety for
her, in still deeper concern for himself. It was not
without extreme difficulty, and being often thrown
down, that she reached Arthur, who was holding
to the mainmast. She calmly asked him what he
thought of the prospect, and the chances of the
storm subsiding, or the ship surviving it. He spoke
with all the assurance that the case would possibly
admit, confessing that he was little qualified to
judge. She complimented him, on his seeming to
be almost alone in preserving self-possession, adding,
that it was no more than what she had expected
of him. She remarked, that the chances seemed to
be slender, and against them. As a proof of her
good opinion of him, she continued, she requested
him, in the last extremity, to give any chance that
might be allowed of escape, to her father, who was
feeble and infirm, and would be utterly incapable
of making any exertion for himself. “For me,” she
said, with a sad smile, “so that you can preserve him,
leave me to my fate.” She apologised for making
these requests to him, that she was but too well
aware that most of the passengers, however capable
of compliments and professions in the hour of security,
would think only of themselves in the period
of scramble, danger, and death.
Waves now at intervals began to sweep the whole
length of the ship. When such a wave was shipped,
the crash, the uproar, the cries of the sailors, the
creaking and shivering of the ship, the sweeping of
the upper works, the consternation and despair,
-- 064 --
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visible in every face, the drenching floods of rain
that came pouring from the sky, as well as the dashing
of the spray from the sea, seemed to leave little
room for additional shading to the horrors of the
scene. But when the night came on, thick, dark,
and dreary; when water, notwithstanding the plying
of all the pumps, had gained the cabin from below
as well as above; when every ray of light was extinct,
except occasional gleams of lightning, that
only passed across the ship to render darkness
visible for a moment; it was then perceived, how
many successive shades of horror our progress towards
the last hour can assume. All description
would fail, in depicting the gloom of so many
countenances, as the pitchy darkness of that night
settled over them. Thunder, lightning, rain in
torrents, the howling of the wind, the vessel plunging
along among the mountain billows, the gradual
sinking of the shrieks under deck from mere terror
and exhaustion; these were among the prominent
and striking features of that awful scene.
The ship, however, survived all the horrors of
that long night of Egyptian darkness; and the
people once more saw the dim and misty light of
the morning. But it only served to show to the forlorn
inmates of the ship, that her power of sustaining
the waves was gradually sinking; only to convince
them, by her quivering and reeling as the
wave struck her, that she must soon, and inevitably
be wrecked. At ten there was the cry of a new
leak. Every person, who was able to stand at the
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
pump, was put in requisition. To the other distresses,
was now added that of wearying and exhausting
labour. Notwithstanding the exertions
even of desperation, the water rapidly gained upon
the ship, and the cry of three, and four feet water,
was succeeded only by short intervals. Another
night was coming on; and on every brow was written
the conviction, that the ship could not survive
another night. All subordination, except between
the captain and crew, was at an end. They still
kept their places, and performed their duty, under
all these circumstances of despair. In them was seen
the effect of years of training, of stern discipline,
and implicit obedience. The exertions of these
intrepid men, under such circumstances, added a
sublime moral interest to the scene. The boat-swain's
whistle, and the shrill and clear cries of the
captain, were still heard from interval to interval,
and the seamen still managed their cordage, and
clung to their ropes, after all hope of being saved
had been relinquished.
At nine in the evening, a tremendous wave burst
upon the Australasia, that seemed to open the seams
of the ship from the bows to the stern. Amidst the
pitchy darkness, and the deafening uproar, it was
instantly manifest to all on board, that some new
disaster had happened. Instantly every person
below, that was able to mount, was on deck. It
was then discovered, that the greater portion of the
people on board, were gone with all the boats.
The ship was left to her fate. She wore and
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
capsized. The few who remained, soon cleared the
masts from the ship. Arthur remembered the charge
of Miss Wellman; but neither father nor daughter
could be seen in the confusion and darkness. By
a flash of lightning, he discovered a detached mast,
which still floated near the ship which was evidently
sinking. He plunged into the sea, and held fast to
the mast.
From that moment, he was unconscious of the
fate of all on board, but himself. He was so often
plunged beneath the waves, and swallowed so much
water, that he soon became exhausted; and so lost
to all that passed, as to retain very imperfect recollections
of a scene, in which some hours must
have elapsed. He clung with the grasping hold
of instinct to his mast. At length, at no great distance,
appeared before him immense piles, apparently
of flame. Enough of thought and reason
remained to convince him, that it was the phosphoric
aspect of the waves, dashing upon rocks.
The view, by inspiring the hope that the shore was
near, restored him to consciousness and exertion.
He perceived that he was drifting upon land, and
that the surf was bursting upon rocks just before
him. Providence guided the mast to which he
clung between two jutting cliffs, to appearance only
far enough apart to permit it to float between them.
Between them it did float; and, in a moment afterwards,
struck upon the beach. He had not sufficient
strength to hold to the earth, though he felt it with
his feet. He was once more swept back into the
-- 067 --
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deep by the recoil of the surf, and was again buried
under the wave. He awakened to hope and consciousness
for a moment, only to feel this renewed
plunge in the waves with aggravated bitterness.
He remembered the rushing noise of water in his
ears, and the flashing of a thousand fleaks of glaring
light from his strained eyes, and a kind of convulsive
and sinking horror was his last recollection.
His next sensation was as of recovering from
exhausting sickness, and a faint sensation of light
opening upon his eyes, and a painful but unavailing
attempt to comprehend where he was. The ripple
of the wave, just dashing upon his feet, began, by degrees,
to impress that truth upon him. He extended
his hands and feet, and felt the soft and wet sand
upon which he lay. Faint gleams of morning twilight
enlightened the sky; but without light enough
to render objects distinctly visible through a thick
mist. He began to comprehend distinctly, that the
surf still rippled but a step from him; and he still
felt the chill of the waters occasionally dashing upon
his feet. He found a violent exertion necessary to
drag himself a little distance from the surge. This
effort was sufficient to exhaust him. He drew his
feet under him, to remove the chill, and recover the
vital warmth. A full sense of his condition came
over him. He thought of his dear home, of his
affectionate parents, the sweet spot where he had
drawn his first breath, the blue line of his native
mountains, and all the tender remembrances that
are the last images to crowd on the mind of the
-- 068 --
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stranger, who sinks in a foreign land. He felt a
sinking and careless tranquillity. Objects swam
before his eyes, as in fainting. He considered
himself sinking in his last sleep, whispered his last
prayers, and resigned himself to die.
He evidently slept some hours; for, when he
opened his eyes, it was in the full glare of the meridian
sun, which shone intensely on his head. The
beautiful and flying clouds that come after the rain,
flitted occasionally across his glaring disk, and
tempered the dazzling radiance of the sky. He
looked round him, as one awakening from a painful
and feverish dream. The dreariness of his forlorn
and desolate condition rushed upon him, along
with the grateful sentiment, that he was almost
miraculously delivered from the waves. He found
himself lying on a clean white sand beach. Two
paces only from his feet dashed the subsiding waves
of the late storm. On each side of him towered
gigantic cliffs of black and volcanic stone, whose
bases resounded with the hoarse and incessant lashing
of the surge. Through the opening in the cliffs
was seen the “broad, flat sea,” still whitened with
the foaming of the late storm. Beyond, a belt of
clean white sand rose, like a glacis, from the beach;
a kind of smooth lawn, carpeted with grass, and
enamelled with flowers. It was sparsely studded
with trees of a new and foreign aspect; their tall,
straight stems rising, like columns, to an astonishing
height, without a branch. They were surmounted
at the summit with interlaced branches,
-- 069 --
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spreading, like an immense umbrella, with foliage
of prodigious size and most brilliant verdure.
Oppressed with the heat and the glare of the sun,
he dragged his weary limbs to the shade of one of
these trees; and half raising himself, looked round
upon a prospect at once inexpressibly lovely and
desolate. With the weakness and exhaustion, he
felt a new and strange sensation, at once of sinking
and of pain, which he judged to be the effect of
extreme hunger. Though in other respects tranquil
and free from pain, he was aware, that unless
he could soon find food, he must perish of hunger,
after escaping the perils of shipwreck. At the
same time, such was his extreme weakness, that had
food been placed visibly before him, at any considerable
distance, he was sensible that he could not
have commanded the effort necessary to reach it.
He felt that no time was to be lost in making his
best efforts for food, while any strength yet remained
to him. By repeated and painful efforts
he reached the beach. Who can imagine his joy
on discovering a cask of bread lying on the margin
of the river, bearing the brand of the Australasia?
True, it was bilged; and the hard bread was swelled
and drenched with the salt water. But, tasteless as
it was, it was the staff of life. As he appeased his
hunger his strength returned, and with it the usual
keenness of perception.
With his recovered strength, he rolled the cask
up the beach, calculating that it contained the
means of subsistence, at least for a time. He looked
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
up to that universal and affectionate Father in
heaven, who spreads the common feast for all that
live; and tears of gratitude and joy filled his eyes,
and the voiceless eloquence of a grateful heart ascended,
in prayer and thanksgiving, to the eternal
throne. Somewhat refreshed, and now able to walk,
he once more directed his steps to the shade. The
sun sank in dazzling splendour behind the trees,
and cast his crimson colouring far off on the waves.
Birds of brilliant plumage and foreign song commenced
their preludes of the evening hymn of nature.
At a distance in the forest, he heard the
melancholy cry continually sinking away, and renewed,
in strains half human, and yet of such mild
and feeble plaintiveness, as to raise no impressions
of ferocity and danger. He looked a moment in the
direction of the cry. But objects again swam before
his vision. Streams of variegated light flashed
again in his eyes. He felt that he was sinking to
sleep. For one moment he was conscious to the
danger of passing the night exposed to serpents, to
be devoured by wild beasts, or slain by savages, and
to be wet with the dews of the night. But there
was no other alternative, than to take whatever
dangers might present. A house, seen at the distance
of half a mile, might as well, for his strength,
have been removed a hundred leagues.
-- 071 --
Flint, Timothy, 1780-1840 [1828], The life and adventures of Arthur Clenning volume 1 (Towar & Hogan, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf101v1].
