The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
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 of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and
sailors.
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; which has in a manner triumphed over
wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world 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 descried some shapeless object drifting at 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 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 may ever return for love to cherish. All
that may ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, “and was never
heard of more!”
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 serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of
a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, everyone had his
tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly 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
daytime; 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 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 her broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. 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 half-naked 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
further 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 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
overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered
along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly
terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were
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 appeared ready to overwhelm her, and 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
bulkheads, as the ship labored 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 around 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 favoring 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 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. None but those who have experienced it can form an
idea of the delicious throng of sensations which 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
everything 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
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 neighboring hill;--all were characteristic of
England.
The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was enabled to come
at once to her pier. It was thronged with people; some idle lookers-on;
others, eager expectants of friends or relations. 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 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. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble
dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch
some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and sad; 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 was 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 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.
ROSCOE.
----In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind’s brave ardor in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o’er the grovelling herd,
And make us shine for ever--that is life.
THOMSON.
ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is
the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan; it
contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great
literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are
sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in
the study of newspapers.
As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was
attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life,
tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was
a little bowed by time--perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of
countenance; a a head that would have pleased a painter; and though some
slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy
there, yet his eye beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was
something in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different
order from the bustling race round him.
I inquired his name, and was informed that it was ROSCOE. I drew back
with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author of
celebrity; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth to
the ends of the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in the
solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know
European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of
other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with
the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before
our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of
their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory.
To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling among
the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas; but it is