THE VOYAGE.
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Ships, ships, I will descrie you
Amidst the main,
I will come and try you
What you are protecting
And projecting,
What's your end and aim.
One goes abroad for merchandize and trading,
Another stays to keep his country from invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?
Old Poem.
To an American visiting Europe, the long
voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative.
The temporary absence of wordly
scenes and employments produces a state of
mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid
impressions. The vast space of waters that
separates the hemispheres is like a blank page
in existence. There is no gradual transition
by which, in Europe, the features and
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population of one country blend almost imperceptibly
with those of another. From the moment you
lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy,
until you step on the opposite shore, and
are launched at once into the bustle and novelties
of another world.
In travelling by land there is a continuity of
scene, and a connected succession of persons
and incidents, that carry on the story of life,
and lessen the effect of absence and separation.
We drag, it is true, “a lengthening chain” at
each remove of our pilgrimage: but the chain
is unbroken; we can trace it back link by
link; and we feel that the last of them still
grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage
severs us at once. It makes us conscious of
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of
settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful
world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary,
but real, between us and our homes—
a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty,
that makes distance palpable, and return
precarious.
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Such, at least, was the case with myself. As
I saw the last blue line of my native land fade
away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if
I had closed one volume of the world and its
concerns, and had time for meditation, before I
opened another. That land, too, now vanishing
from my view, which contained all that was
most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might
occur in it—what changes might take place in
me, before I should visit it again. Who can
tell when he sets forth to wander, whither he
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence;
or when he may return; or whether it
may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his
childhood?
I said that at sea all is vacancy: I should
correct the expression. To one given to day
dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries,
a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation;
but then they are the wonders of the
deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract
the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to
loll over the quarter railing, or climb to the main
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top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together
on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea. To
gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering
above the horizon; fancy them some fairy
realms, and people them with a creation of my
own. To watch the gently undulating billows,
rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on
those happy shores.
There was a delicious sensation of mingled
security and awe with which I looked down,
from my giddy height, on the monsters of the
deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises
tumbling about the bow of the ship; the
grampus, slowly heaving his huge form above
the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting, like
a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination
would conjure up all that I had heard or
read of the watery world beneath me: of the
finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of
the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very
foundations of the earth, and those wild phantasms
that swell the tales of fishermen and
sailors.
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Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the
edge of the ocean, would be another theme of
idle speculation. How interesting this fragment
of a world, hastening to rejoin the great
mass of existence. What a glorious monument
of human invention, that has thus triumphed
over wind and wave; has brought the ends of
the earth into communion; has established an
interchange of blessings; pouring into the sterile
regions of the north all the luxuries of the
south; has diffused the light of knowledge, and
the charities of cultivated life; and has thus
bound together those scattered portions of the
human race, between which nature seemed to
have thrown an insurmountable barrier.
We one day described some shapeless object
drifting as a distance. At sea, every thing that
breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse,
attracts attention. It proved to be the
mast of a ship that must have been completely
wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs,
by which some of the crew had fastened
themselves to this spar, to prevent their
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being washed off by the waves. There was no
trace by which the name of the ship could be
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted
about for many months; clusters of shell fish
had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted
at its sides. But where, thought I, is the
crew? Their struggle has long been over—
they have gone down amidst the roar of the
tempest—their bones lie whitening among the
caverns of the deep. Silence—oblivion, like
the waves, have closed over them, and no one
can tell the story of their end. What sighs
have been wafted after that ship; what prayers
offered up at the deserted fireside of home.
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother,
pored over the daily news, to catch some
casual intelligence of this rover of the deep.
How has expectation darkened into anxiety—
anxiety into dread—and dread into despair.
Alas! not one memento shall ever return for
love to cherish. All that shall ever be known,
is, that she sailed from her port, “and was never
heard of more!”
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The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to
many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly
the case in the evening, when the weather,
which had hitherto been fair, began to look
wild and threatening, and gave indications of
one of those sudden storms that will sometimes
break in upon the screnity of a summer voyage.
As we sat round the dull light of a lamp, in the
cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every
one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I
was peculiarly struck with a short one related
by the captain.
“As I was once sailing,” said he, “in a fine
stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland,
one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those
parts rendered it impossible for us to see far
ahead, even in the day time; but at night the
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish
any object at twice the length of the ship.
I kept lights at the mast head, and a constant
watch forward to look out for fishing smacks,
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the
banks. The wind was blowing a smacking
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breeze, and we were going at a great rate
through the water. Suddenly the watch gave
the alarm of “a sail ahead!”—it was scarcely
uttered, before we were upon her. She was
a small schooner, at anchor, with the broadside
toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just
a-mid-ships. The force, the size, and weight,
of our vessel bore her down below the waves;
we passed over her, and were hurried on our
course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath
us, I had a glimpse of two or three halfnaked
wretches, rushing from her cabin; they
just started from their beds to be swallowed
shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning
cry mingling with the wind. The blast
that bore it to our ears, swept us out of all farther
hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It
was some time before we could put the ship
about, she was under such headway. We returned,
as nearly as we could guess, to the place
where the smack had anchored. We cruised
about for several hours in the dense fog. We
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fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear
the halloo of any survivors; but all was silent—
we never saw or heard any thing of them
more!”
I confess these stories, for a time, put an end
to all my fine fancies. The storm increased
with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen
sound of rushing waves, and broken surges.
Deep called unto deep. At times the black
volume of clouds over head seemed rent asunder
by flashes of lightning that quivered along
the foaming billows, and made the succeeding
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed
over the wild waste of waters, and
seemed echoed and prolonged by the mountain
waves. As I saw the ship staggering and
plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed
miraculous that she regained her balance, or
preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip
into the water; her bow was almost buried beneath
the waves. Sometimes an impending
surge seemed ready to overwhelm her, and
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nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm
preserved her from the shock.
When I retired to my cabin the awful scene
still followed me. The whistling of the wind
through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings.
The creaking of the masts; the straining
and groaning of bulk heads, as the ship laboured
in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I
heard the waves rushing along the side of the
ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as
if death were raging round this floating prison,
seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail—
the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.
A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and
favouring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections
to flight. It is impossible to resist the
gladdening influence of fine weather and fair
wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in
all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how
gallant, she appears—how she seems to lord it
over the deep! I might fill a volume with the
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reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is almost
a continual reverie—but it is time to get
to shore.
It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling
cry of “land!” was given from the mast head.
I question whether Columbus, when he discovered
the new world, felt a more delicious
throng of sensations, than rush into an American's
bosom, when he first comes in sight of
Europe. There is a volume of associations
with the very name. It is the land of promise,
teeming with every thing of which his childhood
has heard, or on which his studious years
have pondered.
From that time until the moment of arrival,
it was all feverish excitement. The ships of
war, that prowled like guardian giants along the
coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out
into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering
into the clouds; all were objects of intense
interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred
the shores with a telescope. My eye
dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their
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trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw
the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with
ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising
from the brow of a neighbouring hill—all
were characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favourable, that
the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier.
It was thronged with people; some idle lookerson,
others eager expectants of friends or relatives.
I could distinguish the merchant to
whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by
his calculating brow and restless air. His
hands were thrust into his pockets; he was
whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro,
a small space having been accorded to him by
the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance.
There were repeated cheerings and salutations
interchanged between the shore and
the ship, as friends happened to recognize each
other. But I particularly noticed one young
woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanour.
She was leaning forward from among the
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it
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neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance.
She seemed disappointed and agitated;
when I heard a faint voice call her name.—
It was from a poor sailor, who had been ill all
the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of
every one on board. When the weather was
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for
him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness
had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock,
and only breathed a wish that he might see
his wife before he died. He had been helped
on deck as we came up the river, and was now
leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance
so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it is no wonder
even the eye of affection did not recognize
him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye
darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole
volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered
a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in
silent agony.
All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings
of acquaintances—the greetings of friends—
the consultations of men of business. I
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alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend
to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped
upon the land of my forefathers—but felt that
I was a stranger in the land.
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Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1819], The sketch book of Geoffrey Crayon, gent. [Pseud], volume 1 (C. S. Van Winkle, New York) [word count] [eaf214v1].
