Micro R&D 1/MicroRD-CD-ROM-Vol1-1994.iso/books/irving/voyage

Text File | 1992-12-02 | 14KB | 214 lines

                                    1819-20
                                THE SKETCH BOOK
                                   THE VOYAGE
                              by Washington Irving

               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 merchandise and trading,
           Another stays to keep his country from invading,
           A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
           Halloo! 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 worldly 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, as in Europe, the features and 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 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, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious.
  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 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-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 gentle 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 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
which 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, every one 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 which 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 towards us.
The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We
struck her just amid-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 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 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 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
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
bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were
frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides 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 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 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 shore 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 the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle
lookers-on, 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 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
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 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.
                        THE END