 | Seven stories, with basement and attic |  |
BASEMENT:
SERVING FOR INTRODUCTION.
IN an out of the way corner of my library are five
plethoric little note-books of Travel. One of them,
and it is the earliest, is bound in smart red leather, and
has altogether a dapper British air; its paper is firm
and evenly lined, and it came a great many years ago
(I will not say how many) out of a stationer's shop
upon Lord street in Liverpool. A second, in stiff
boards, marbled, and backed with muslin, wears a
soldierly primness in its aspect that always calls to mind
the bugles, and the drums, and the brazen helmets of
Berlin—where, once upon a time, I added it to my
little stock of travelling companions. A third, in limp
morocco, bought under the Hotel de l'Ecu at Geneva,
shows a great deal of the Swiss affection of British
wares, and has borne bravely the hard knapsack service,
and the many stains which belonged to those glorious
mountain tramps that live again whenever I turn
paper frail, and a half of its cover gone; yet I think it
is a fair specimen of what the Roman stationers could
do, in the days when the Sixteenth Gregory was Pope.
The fifth and last, is coquettish, jaunty—as prim as the
Prussian, limp like the Genevese, and only less solid
than the English: it is all over French; and the fellows
to it may very likely have served a tidy grisette to write
down her tale of finery, or some learned member of the
Institute to record his note-takings in the Imperial
Library.
I dare not say how often these little conjurers of
books wean me away from all graver employment,
and tempt me to some ramble among the highlands
of Scotland, or the fastnesses of the Apennines. I
do not know but that this refreshment of the old sentiment
of travel, through the first unstudied jottings-down,
is oftentimes more delightful than a repeated
visit.
To-night—by a word, by a fragment of a line,
dropped upon my little Genevese book, the peak of
Mont Blanc cleaves the sky for the first time in all my
range of vision; the clear, up-lifted mountain of white,
just touched with the rosy hues of approaching twilight
—the blue brothers of nearer mountains shouldering up
the monarch—the dark, low fir forests fringing all the
valley up which I look—a shining streak of road that
it the Arve?) glistening and roaring a great song—all
this my little book summons, freshly, and without disturbing
object. But if I repeat the visit, the inevitable
comparisons present themselves. “Aye, this is it; but
the atmosphere is not altogether so clear, or the approach
is not so favorable;” and so, for mere vanity's
sake, you must give a fellow-passenger the benefit of
your previous knowledge: as if all the “le voici!” and
“le voilà!” were not the merest impertinences in such
august presence! No: it is sadly true—perhaps pleasantly
true—that there are scenes of which no second
sight will enlarge the bounds wherein imagination may
disport itself,—for which no second sight will create an
atmosphere of more glorious rarity.
To-night, this tattered little Roman journal, by
merest mention of the greasy, cushioned curtain, under
whose corner I first urged my way into the great aisle
of St. Peter's—brings up the awed step with which I
sidled down the marble pavement, breathing that soft
atmosphere, perfumed with fading incense—oppressed,
as by a charm, with the thought of that genius which
had conjured this miracle of architecture; and oppressed
(I know not how) by a thought of that Papal hierarchy
which by such silent show of pomp and power,
had compelled the service of millions. And if I go
back again, all this delightfully vague estimate of its
all the width is there; those cherubs who hold the font
are indeed giants; but the aroma of first impressions
is lost in a whirl of new comparisons and estimates;
is the Baldachino indeed as high as they say it is? Is
St. Peter's toe, of a truth worn away with the inveterate
kissings? Every piece of statuary, every glowing
blazon of mosaic compels an admeasurement of the old
fancy with the object itself. All the charming, intoxicating
generality of impression is preyed upon, and absorbed
piecemeal by specialities of inference, or of observation;
while here, in the quiet of my room, with no
distracting object in view, I blunder through the disorderly
characters of my note-book with all the old glow
upon me, and start to life again that first, rich, Roman
dream.
And the same is true of all lesser things: There was
once a peasant girl, somewhere in Normandy, with deliciously
quaint muslin head-dress, and cheeks like the
apricots she sold,—a voice that rippled like a song; and
yet, with only a half line of my blotted note-book, she
springs into all that winsome, coquettish life which
sparkled then and there in her little Norman town; but
if I were to leave the pleasant cheatery of my book,
and travel never so widely, all up and down through
Normandy, I could never meet with such a blithe young
peasant again.
By one or two of the old pen-marks, I am reminded
of a burly beggar, encountered in my first stroll through
Liverpool. He was without any lower limbs that I
could discover, and was squatted upon the stone flagging
of St. Nicholas' church-yard, where he asked
charity with the authoritative air of a commander of
an army. And I recall with a blush the admiring
spirit with which, as a fresh and timid traveller, I
yielded my pence to his impetuous summation; and how
I reckoned his masterful manner fairly typical of the
sturdy British empire, which squatted upon its little
islands of the sea, demanded—in virtue only of its big
head and shoulders—tribute of all the world. I do not
believe that such imaginative exaltation of feeling could
overcome me upon a repeated visit; or if it did, that it
would beget—as then—the very romanticism of charity.
There was a first-walk—scored down in the red-covered
book—along a brook-side in the forest near to
Blair-Athol in the north of Scotland,—in the course of
which all the songs of Burns that I had ever known, or
heard, came soughing to my ear through the fir-branches,
as if ploughmen in plaids had sung them; but if I
should go there again, I think the visionary ploughmen
would sing no more; and that I should be estimating
the growth of the larches, or wondering if the
trout would rise briskly to a hackle?
I do not write thus, simply to iterate the stale truism,
of travel, can never be renewed; that we all know; all
enthusiasms have but one life, in the same mind. Convictions
may be renewed, and gain strength and consistency
by renewal; but those enthusiasms which find
their life in exultant imaginative foray, can no more be
twice entertained, than a foaming beaker of Mumm's
Imperial can be twice drank.
What I wish to claim for my spotty note-books, is—
that their cabalistic signs revive more surely and freshly
the aroma of first impressions than any renewed
visit could do. Therefore I cherish them. Time and
time again, I take them down from their niche in my
library, when no more serious work is in hand, and glide
insensibly into their memories,—the present slipping
from me like a dream,—and indulge in that delightful
bewilderment at which I have hinted, and in which cities
and mountains pile before me, as if I lived among them.
It is true that the loose and disjointed wording in
which I have scored down incidents or scenes of travel,
would prove wholly uninteresting, if not absolutely
unintelligible, to others. There are little catch-words,
by the sight of which I may set a great river aflow,
or build a temple; there are others, that start a company
of dead faces from their graves, or put me in the
middle of a great whirl of masked figures who dance
the night out to the music of Musard. And I must say
individuates a man's private memories. Who knows
what cold, invidious eye may be scanning them some
day?
Let me satisfy the reader's curiosity—if I have succeeded
in arousing any—by a little sample. It is taken
from my dapper-looking British note-book, and is dated
“London, —” (near twenty years ago), and runs
thus:—“Arrival—night time—sea of lights—order—
clattering cab—immense distances—whither going?—
Covent Garden—no money—wanderings—American
Prof.—tight cloak—Cornhill—Post-office—anxieties—
relief.”
Can the reader make anything of it? If he cannot,
I think that I can and will. It brings to mind the first
approach to London, and all the eager wonder with
which I came bowling down upon it at dusk: this side
and that, I look for tokens of the great Babylon; but
the air is murky and dim, and it is past sunset; still I
look, peering through the gloom. At last, there can be
no mistake; a wilderness of lamps, far as I can see—
east and west—fret the horizon with a golden line.
On and on we hurtle over the rail, and always—east
and west—the golden lamp-line of horizon stretches
until we are fairly encircled by it, and the murky atmosphere
has changed into a yellow canopy of smoke,
under which—of a sudden—we halt, in London.
There is order; I remember that. There is somewhere
a particular cab in a great line of cabs, of which
I become presently the occupant, in virtue of the system
which seems to govern passengers, railways, stations,
cabmen and all. There is a wilderness of streets,
—of shining shop-fronts,—of silent, tall houses,—of
brother cabs, rattling our way—rattling the contrary
way; there is a flicker of lanterns on a river, where
steamers with checkered pipes go by like ghosts; there
is a plunge into narrow streets, and presently out we
go into broad and dazzling ones; on and on, we pass,
by shops that show butchers' stores, shops that are particolored
with London haberdashery, drug shops, shops
with bonnets, shops with books, shops with bakers'
wares; a long, bright clattering drive, it seems to me,
before I am landed in Covent Garden square.
Yet—how well I remember—under all the boyish
excitement of a first visit, there lay a covert embarrassment
and anxiety; for by the most awkward of haps, I
chanced upon that first night in London, to be nearly
penniless. It is rather a sorry position to be in,
at almost any time; but for a young stranger, whose
excitable brain is half addled by the throng of novelties
and of splendor, in the largest city of the world,
and whose nearest familiar friends are three thousand
miles away—the money-less condition is awkward indeed.
I had even cruel apprehensions that I should
these, however, I was fortunately mistaken; and with
six half-pence in my pocket I found myself for the first
time a guest at a London inn.
I had, indeed, ordered remittances to be sent me
there, from the Continent; but in due course of mail
the reply could not arrive till next day. And who
could tell what might happen to the mail? If I had
only placed a little curb upon my curiosity in the southern
counties, and not loitered as I did about Salisbury,
and Stonehenge, and Winchester!
I awoke upon a murky morning in full sight of
Covent Garden market; and could I believe my eyes?
—were strawberries on sale under this chilling March
gloom? I rang the bell, and sent my card below, with
an inquiry for letters.
No letters had come.
I ate my breakfast nervously—though the chops
were done to a turn, and the muffins were even less
leathern than usual. I spent the greater part of the day
sauntering between Charing Cross, Temple Bar, and the
River. I have no dislike to a good, wearisome walk;
most people, with only six half-pence in their pockets,
have not.
I kept my room during the evening (although Jenny
Lind was figuring in the Somnambula on the next block)
and in the morning, after mail-time, sent the servant
down again with my card—for letters.
He returned very promptly, with the reply,—“No
letters this morning, Sir.”
“Ah!” (and I think I crowded as much of hypocrisy
into the expression, as ever man did.)
The chops on this morning were even better than
yesterday; and the muffins were positively light;—I
could have sworn they had been baked within the hour.
As I sat ruminating over the grate, the thought
struck me that I had possibly made an error in the address
left with the Paris banker. I can hardly tell
why, but there seemed to me a sudden confusion in my
mind between the names of Covent Garden and Cornhill.
Possibly I had ordered my letters addressed to
Cornhill? I had, unfortunately, no memoranda to
guide me: to one of these two localities I was sure that
I had requested remittances to be directed. What if
they were lying at No. 9 Cornhill?
Everybody who has been in London knows that a
crowded and weary walk lies between the two places;
but there were no pennies to be spared for the omnibus
people, however cajolingly they might beckon. So I
entered bravely upon the tramp: and who should I
come upon half down Fleet street, under the shadow of
St. Bride's, but my old Latin professor, whom I had
seen last in the plank box that forms the dais in the recitation
room of a quiet New England college. If
Ergasilus (of the Capteivi—whose humor the old gentleman
shop, and confronted me with talk about his chances of
a prospective dinner, I could hardly have been more
surprised.
His white hair, his stooping figure, his cloak gathered
tightly about him, his keen eye, fairly dancing
with boyish excitement—all these formed a picture I
can never forget. We passed a pleasant word or two
of salutation, and of as quick adieux; only words—
“verbœ sine penu et pecuniâ”—(and the old gentleman's
alliterative rendering of it came back to me
as I stood there penniless).
After parting, I turned to watch him, as he threaded
his way along the Fleet street walk;—quick, nervous,
glancing everywhere; if only our sleepy college
cloisters could get a more frequent airing!
In an hour and a half thereafter, I found myself,
utterly fagged, pacing up and down the sidewalk of
Cornhill. I found a Number Nine. I made appeal
after my missing letter at a huckster's shop on the
street.
They knew nothing of it.
I next made application in a dark court of the rear.
“There was niver a gintleman of that name lived
here.”
I asked, in my innocence,—“if the postman were in
possession of such a letter, would he leave it?”
“Not being a boording-house—in coorse not.”
My next aim was to intercept the Cornhill postman
himself. Fortunately, the British postmen are all designated
by red cuffs and collars; I made an eager rush
at some three or four, whom I espied in the course of
an hour or more of watch. They were all bound to
other parts of the city.
By this time I had an annoying sense of being constantly
under the eye of a tall policeman in the neighborhood.
I thought I observed him pointing me out,
with an air of apprehension, to a comrade, whose beat
joined his upon the corner of the next street.
I had often heard of the willingness to communicate
information on the part of the London police, and determined
to divert the man's suspicions (if he entertained
any) by explaining my position. I thought he listened
incredulously. However, he assured me very
positively, that if I should see the Cornhill postman on
his beat (which I might not for three hours to come),
he would deliver to me no letter, unless at the door to
which it might be addressed, and then only unless I was
an acknowledged inmate.
He advised me to make inquiries at the General
Post-office.
Under his directions, I walked, wearily, to the General
Post-office. One may form some idea of the General
Post-office of London by imagining three or four
flanked with Ionic columns, topped with attics, and
pierced through by an immense hall, on either side of
which are doors and traps innumerable.
I entered this hall, in which hundreds were moving
about like bees—one to this door, and one to another—
and all of them with a most enviable rapidity and precision
of movement (myself, apparently, being the only
lost or doubtful one), and read, with a vain bewilderment,
the numerous notices of `Ship for India'—`Mails
here close at 3.15'—`Packages over a pound at the
next window, left'—`All newspapers mailed at this
window must be in wrappers'—`Charge on Sydney letters
raised twopence'—`Bombay mail closes at two,
this day'—`Stamps only.'
Fluttering about for a while, in a sad state of trepidation,
I made a bold push for an open window, where
an active gentleman had just mailed six letters for Bombay,
and began—“Please, Sir, can you tell me about
the Cornhill postman?”
“Know nothing about him!” and slap went the
window.
I next made an advance to the newspaper trap—
rapped—open flew the door: “I wish to inquire,” said
I, “about a letter—”
“Next window to left!” and click went the trap.
I marched with some assurance to the window on
want to know,” I began, more boldly, “about a letter
directed to Cornhill.”
“Know nothing about it, Sir; this isn't the place,
you know.”
“And pray where is the place, if you please?”
(This seemed a very kindly man.)
“Oh, dear!—well,—I should say,—now, the place
was—let me see—over the way somewhere. It's City,
you know.”
I thanked him; indeed I had no time to do more,
for the window was closed.
I marched over the way—that is, to the opposite
side of the hall. I rapped at a new trap: click! it
flew open. “I wish to inquire,” said I, “about a letter
which the Cornhill postman may have taken by accident—”
“Oh—may have taken: better find out if he really
did, you know; for if he didn't, you see, it's no use,
you know, t'inquire.” And—click!—the trap closed.
How to find out now if he really did? If I could
only see the Cornhill postman, who, from the nature of
his trust, could hardly be very officious, I might hope at
least for some information. My eyes fell at this juncture
upon a well-fed porter, in royal livery, who was
loitering about the great entrance-gates of the establishment,
and seemed to be a kind of civic beadle.
I ventured an appeal to him about the probable
whereabouts of the Cornhill postman.
“Oh, Corn'ill postm'n; dear me! I should say,
now, p'r'aps he might be down to the pay-office. That's
to the right, out o' the yard, down a halley—second
flight o' 'igh steps, like.”
I went out of the yard, and down the alley, and applied,
as directed, at the second flight of steps. Right
for once; it was the pay-office.
“Was the Cornhill postman there?”
“He was not.”
“Where would I probably find him?”
“He was paid off, with the rest, every Saturday
morning at nine o'clock—precisely.”
It was now Tuesday: I had allowed myself on this
occasion, only a week for London. My anticipations of
an enjoyable visit were not high.
I returned once more to the communicative porter.
I think I touched my hat in preface of my second application
(you will remember that I was fresh from the
Continent): “You see,” said he, “they goes to the
'stributing office, and all about, and it's 'ard to say ajust
where he might be; might be to Corn'ill—poss'bly;
might not be, you know; might be 'twixt here and
there; 'stributing office is to the left—third court, first
flight, door to right.”
I made my way to the distributing office; it seemed
found the door described by my stout friend, the porter,
and entered very boldly. It opened upon an immense
hall, resembling a huge church, with three tiers of galleries
running around the walls, along which I saw
scores of postmen, passing and repassing, in what seemed
interminable confusion. I had scarce crossed the
threshold when I was encountered by an official of some
sort, who very brusquely demanded my business. I explained
that I was in search of the Cornhill postman.
“This is no place to seek him, Sir; he comes here
for his letters, and is off directly. No strangers are allowed
here, Sir.”
The man seemed civil, though peremptory.
“For Heaven's sake,” said I, appealingly, “can
you tell me how, or where, I can see the man who distributes
the Cornhill letters?”
“I really can't, Sir.”
“Could you tell me possibly where the man lives?”
“Really couldn't, Sir; don't know at all; de'say it
wouldn't be far.”
I think he saw my look of despair, for he continued
in a kinder tone: “Dear me, eh—did you, p'raps, eh—
might I ask, eh—what your business might be with
the, eh—Cornhill postman?”
I caught at what seemed my last hope. “I wanted,”
said I, “to make an inquiry—”
He interrupted—“Oh, dear me—bless me—an inquiry!
Why, you see, there's an office for inquiry. It's
here about—round the corner; you'll see the window
as you turn; closes at three (looking at his watch);
you've, eh—six minutes, just.”
I went around the corner; I found the window—
`Office for Inquiry,' posted above. There was a man
who stuttered, asking about a letter which he had mailed
for Calcutta two months before, to the address of
“Mr. T-t-t-th-thet-Theodore T-t-tr-tret-Trenham.”
I never heard a stutterer with less charity before.
A clock was to be seen over the head of the office clerk
within. I watched it with nervous anxiety. The Calcutta
applicant at length made an end of his story. The
clerk turned to the clock. Two minutes were allowed
me.
I had arranged a short story. The clerk took my
name, residence, address—promised that the matter
should be looked after.
I walked back to Covent Garden, weary, but satisfied.
The next morning the waiter handed me a letter addressed
properly enough, “— —, No. 9 Covent
Garden.”
The banker's letter had been delayed. My search
through the London office had been entirely unnecessary.
Three days after, and when I was engrossed with
Madame Toussaud's wax-work and the Vauxhall wonders,
and had forgotten my trials of Cornhill, I received
a huge envelope, under the seal of the General Post-office
of London, informing me that no letter bearing
my address had been distributed to the Cornhill carrier
during the last seven days; and advising me that,
should such an one be received at the London Post-office,
it would, in obedience to my wishes, be promptly
delivered at No. 9 Covent Garden Square.
For aught I know, the officials of the London office
may be looking for that letter still.
I hope not.
Shall I detach another memory from this mosaic of
note books?
It is the figure of a ship that I see, making her way
slowly, and lumberingly out of the Havre docks. The
little jetty where the old round tower stood (they tell
me it is gone now) is crowded with people; for it is a
day of fête, and the idlers have nothing better to occupy
them for the hour, than to watch the trim American
vessel as she hauls out into the stream. As we slip
through the dock gates there is a chorus of voices from
the quay—“Adieu!” “Bon voyage!” and the emigrants
who crowd the deck shout and wave a reply. A
bearded man meantime, is counting and scoring them
huge baskets of meats, red-shirted sailors; and I
hear from some quarter the cackle of poultry, and see a
cow's head peering inquiringly from under the long boat
which lies over the cook's galley amidships.
A sooty, wheezing little steamer presently takes a
tow-line; the French pilot with stiff, but confident English,
is at the helm; our hawser that is fast to the little
tug stiffens, and we swoop away from dock and jetty;
we brush a low two-master that is in our track—crash
goes her boom, and our main-yard fouling in her top
rigging, makes her mast bend like a withe; we upon
the quarter deck shy away to avoid the falling spars;
there is a creak and a slip—French oaths and English
oaths mingle in the air; a broken brace spins through
the whizzing blocks, until running out it falls with a
splash into the water, and the little vessel is free.
I see them gathering up the fragments of their shattered
boom, and catch the echo of an angry “Sacre!”
floating down the wind. The jetty grows smaller; its
crowds dwindle to a black and gray patch of people,
from among whom one or two white kerchiefs are still
fluttering long and last adieux. Presently the mainsail
is dropped; the little French pilot screams out—“Hyst
de geeb!”—the tow-rope is slipped, and we are battling
with canvas only, for an offing, in the face of a sharp
Northwester.
My companions of the quarter-deck and after cabin,
are a young French lad who is going out to join an
elder brother established in New York—the burly captain,
who makes it a point of etiquette to appear the
first day in a new beaver which sits above his round red
face with the most awkward air in the world—and last
a Swiss lady, with three little flaxen-haired children,
who is on her way to a new home already provided for
her in the far West, by a husband who has emigrated
some previous year. It is a small company for the
ample cabin of the good ship Nimrod; but she is reputed
a dull sailer; and we embark at a season when
strong westerly winds are prevailing.
The captain is a testy man, loving his power—not
so much by reason of any naturally tyrannic disposition,
as by a long education—from the day when he first bore
the buffetings of a cabin boy,—toward the belief that
authority was most respected when most despotically
urged; and very much subsequent observation has confirmed
me in the opinion, that many American ship-masters
have brutalized all their more humane instincts,
by the same harsh education of the sea.
The French lad was at that wondering, and passive
age, which accepted all the accidents of his new experience
of life, as normal conditions of the problem he was
bound to solve; and I think that if the steward had
some day killed the captain and taken command, he
American packets, and have eaten his dinner—of which
he always showed high appreciation—with his usual
appetite.
The Swiss lady was of a different stamp; refined
and gentle to a charm; a Swiss protestant, devoted to
her faith, and giving type of a class, that is I think
hardly to be found out of Scotland, New England, and
certain portions of Switzerland;—a class of women,
with whom a sense of Christian duty—so profound as
to seem almost a mental instinct—holds every action
and hap in life under subordination. I paint no ascetic
here, who is lashed to dogmas, and carries always a
harsh Levitical judgment under lifted eyebrows; but
one—slow to condemn, yearning to approve;—true as
steel to one faith, but tolerant of others;—wide in sympathy,
and with a charity that glows and spends, because
it cannot contain itself. I wish there were more
such.
The children are fairy little sprites, educated, as
such a mother must needs educate them—to moderate
their extravagances of play, at a word, and to cherish
an habitual respect for those older than themselves.
The first mate is a simpleton, shipped upon the last
day at Havre (the old mate having slipped his berth),
in whom, it is soon evident, the captain has no confidence,
and who becomes a mere supernumerary among
who has acted as third mate; the old `second,' being
killed not long before by a blow from the windlass.
Among the crew I note only a shy Norwegian who is
carpenter, and a lithe, powerful mulatto,—with a constant
protest in his look against the amalgamation of
his blood,—who acts as ship's cook.
There is a tall unshaven emigrant, who brings on
deck every day a sick infant wrapped in a filthy blanket,
out of which the little eyes stare vividly, as if they
already looked upon the scenes of another world. There
is a tall singer, in a red cap—who smokes, as it seems to
me, all the day long; and every pleasant evening, when
the first bitter rocking of the voyage is over, he leads
off a half score of voices in some German chant, which
carries over the swaying water a sweet echo of the
Rhine-land.
There is a German girl of some eighteen summers,
blue-eyed, and yellow-haired, who as she sits upon one
of the water-casks, with her knitting in hand, coquettes
with the tall singer; she knits—he smokes; her eyes
are on her work—his eyes are upon her; she changes
her needles, and looks—anywhere but at him; he fills
his pipe, and looks (for that brief interval) anywhere
but at her.
All these figures and faces come back to me, clear
as life—as I follow the limnings of my musty note-books.
Again, on some day of storm, I see the decks
drenched and empty. The main and fore top-sails are
close reefed, and all others furled. The atmosphere is
a wide whirl of spray, through which I see the glittering
broad sides of great blue waves bearing down upon
us, and buoying the flimsy ship up in mid air, as if our
gaunt hulk, with all her live freight, and all her creaking
timbers, were but a waif of thistle-down. Sailors in
dreadnoughts grope their way here and there, clinging
by the coils that hang upon the belaying pins, and
`taughtening,' in compliance with what seems the needless
orders of the testy captain, some slackened sheet
or tack. I see the deck slipping from under me as I
walk, or bringing me to sudden, dreary pause, as the bow
lifts to some great swell of water. And below, when
I grope thither, and shut the state-room door to wind-ward
with a terrible lift, I sink back with one hand
fast in the berth-curtains, and the other in the bottom of
the washbowl. I reflect a moment, and try to catch the
gauge of the ship's movements; but while I reflect, a
great plunge flings me down against the laboring door;
I grasp the knob; I grasp the bed curtains which stretch
conveniently toward me. The door flies open, the curtains
fly back, and I am thrown headlong into my berth.
There, I can at least brace myself; now I am
wedged one way; now I am wedged the other. The
stifling odor of the damp clothes, the swaying curtains,
are very wearisome and sickening. I hear noises from
neighbor berths that are no way comforting; I hear
feeble calls for the steward;—bah! shall I read these
notes only to revive the odium of sea-sickness?
Again, I see the sun on a great reach of level
water, that has only a wavy tremor in it—as peaceful
as the bowing and the lifting of grain in the wind.
The yellow-haired German is at her knitting; her red-capped
admirer is filling his pipe. Our quarter-deck's
company are all above board, and luxuriating in the
charming weather—when a lank, hatless, bearded man
strides with a quaint woollen bundle in his arms to the
lee gangway, and `plash'—goes his burden upon the
water. It is a sudden and sorry burial; for it is the
dead infant, whose eyes looked beyond us, three days
ago. I see the Swiss lady, with her hands met together;
and her little ones, when they learn what has
befallen, grow pale, and leave their play, and whisper
together, and look over astern where the white bundle
goes whisking under the inky blue.
Even the French lad bestirs himself into asking
what it may be?
“A child—dead—that's the body.”
“Sacr-re!” and he, taking his cigar from his mouth,
looks after it too,—shadowy now, and fading in the
depths. There are times when the weakest of us, as
thought toward that great mystery of Death.
It is but a shabby funeral, as I said; no prayer
save the silent one of the Swiss lady. God only knows
what worshipful or tender thought of the child's future,
was in the mind of the emigrant father, as he tossed
the little package from him into the sea. He staggered
as he walked back to the hatchway, to climb below;
but it may have been only from the motion of the ship.
After this—it was perhaps a matter of two days—
I remember a somewhat worthier burial. It is an old
man of seventy (they said) takes the plunge. He has
been ailing from the day of sailing;—going with his
daughter and grandchild to try the new land. She is
chief-mourner. There is a plank the carpenter has
brought; and he has placed one end upon the bulwarks
and the other upon a cask; they lay presently a long
canvas bundle upon it; the old dead man is safely
sewed in, with a cannon shot at his feet. Some one
among the emigrants reads a guttural prayer. The
captain pops out an “Amen!” that sounds like a military
command; and thereupon the carpenter, with the
second-mate, tilt the plank; and away the old man slides
with a sullen, heavy splash. The daughter rushes to
the gangway, with a scream—as if they had done him
wrong, and looks yearningly after him. If she saw
anything, it was only the gray sack going down—full
little whirlpool smooth, where he sank.
I observe after some days, that the captain is growing
more crotchety and testy; it irks him to share the
night watches as he does, with only the plucky little
second-mate, who, though sailorly enough in his air,
has I notice a very awkward handling to his sextant;
but he makes up for his lack of the science of navigation
with a pestilent shower of suggestions to the helmsman:
“A pint nigher the wind!” “Kip her full!”
“Now you're off, you lubber!” Thus I hear him,
hour after hour, as he paces off his night watches upon
the deck above my head.
I look back upon a sunny noon shining down upon
the vessel, and upon the little Swiss children, who have
forgotten the dead baby, and are rollicking up and down
the decks with glee. The mother seated by the taffrail,
with a book under her eye—is not reading, but
looking over the page at that romp of her little ones—
to which I have contributed my own quota, by joining
in their play of “Puss in the corner.”
Suddenly there is a swift, angry outcry from the
waist of the ship—the sound of a quick blow—a scuffle,
and loud shouts. The little children cower away
like frighted deer, and the mother swoops forward,
her face full of terror, to give them the protection of
those outstretched arms. I step to the little bridge
There is an excited, clamorous group of sailors and of
emigrants below me; in the middle of them is the captain,
hatless and panting, and with his hand streaming
with blood; the tall mulatto cook confronts him, his
face livid with rage. I learn about the happening of it
all, afterward. It seems that the captain had given an
order, which the cook has chosen either to neglect, or to
treat with indifference. “But by —, sir, on my ship,
sir, I'll have my orders obeyed:”—and thereupon, he
has seized a billet of wood (an ugly stick, I remember,)
and rushed upon the mulatto. The blow it seems only
stunned the man for a moment, for he has rallied so
far as to give an answering blow; and as the captain
springs forward to seize him by the throat, he has
caught his hand in his teeth (they are as white and
sharp as a leopard's) and nearly torn away his thumb.
There is a manifest show of sympathy with the mutineer,
on the part of the sailors; but the instinct of obedience
is strong—strong even in the culprit; for he
makes no resistance now, as the carpenter and second
officer place the irons on his wrists. And presently he
is safe in the meat house, under the jolly boat; at least
we think so—and the captain, as well—who coolly
pockets the key.
It is a sad break-in upon our quiet life of the decks;
we are as yet only mid-way over the ocean, and a war
tasks; they even bandy words with the doughty second
officer. Who knows what course the helmsman may
give the ship to-night?
The poor Swiss lady is in an agony of apprehension,
with those frighted little ones demanding explanations
she cannot give. “And what if he had killed monsieur
le capitaine?—ah par exemple! Et comme il était feroce!
je l'ai vu—moi.”
I am with the watch till midnight; all is quiet; I
leave the captain on deck with his arm in its sling—not
the less testy, for that mangled hand of his. At four,
he goes below again (so they tell me), but I am sleeping
at last; yet only for a little while, and in a disturbed
way.
At six, I hear a sudden rush of feet over my head,
and directly after a leap down the companion way;
a man bursts into the captain's room next me; I am
wide awake now.
“For God's sake! quick, captain; the door is
broken down, and the man's out—irons off; they say
he's armed.”
I dress hurriedly; but the captain is before me,
and I hear the click of his pistol-lock before he goes
out.
I am all ears now for the least sound.
“There's the scoundrel! quick!”
Whose voice is that? A tempest of oaths succeeds,
and now—crack!—crack!—two pistol shots, and a
heavy fall upon the deck. I rush up the companion
way, and run to the quarter rail; a half-dressed swarm
of emigrants are beating off the sailors, and stamp furiously
upon the mulatto who is struggling, and writhing
upon the deck.
The carpenter and second officer are assisting the
captain to rise, and he staggers aft—not shot, but horribly
bruised and scalded about the head. He has
fired two shots—both, strangely enough, missed his
man; and if the emigrants had not been near, the enraged
cook, armed as he was with a heavy iron skillet,
would have made an end of him.
The mutineer is in irons again, and is presently led
aft to the taffrail, that he may have no communication
with the sailors. But it is a small ship, after all,
in which to pack away so resolute and determined a
mutineer, against all chance of connivance. The man
is suffering fearfully from that stamping of the deck;—
no creature could be more inoffensive than the poor
fellow now. I venture a private talk with him, and a
show of some friendliness touches him to the quick.—
Aye, there are those who will shiver and groan (he told
me this) when they hear that he has worn manacles
and must go to prison (he knows that); his father is
alive and an honest working-man,—God help him! but
wish to — I'd killed him!”
We made a common duty on the quarter deck of
dressing the captain's head, and of keeping by him during
his watches. A very dreary time it was.
The carpenter reports certain oak plank, with which
presently he sets to work upon a cell for the culprit, between
decks, among the emigrants; and there he was
lodged next day. But the sailors found their way to
him, we learned; duty was more slackly performed than
ever, and a thousand miles or more still between us and
our Western harbor. I felt sure that if he escaped
again, the prisoner would throttle the captain, as a
wild beast might, and kill him out of hand. The second
officer beside being a doubtful navigator, had no
mettle in him to keep in awe that sullen company of
sailors; I think they would have tossed him overboard;
and we, of the quarter deck, I think were not looked
upon with great favor. Even the little children took
on a gloomy, apprehensive air, which they may well
cave caught from the distraught and anxious manner
of the mother.
Week follows week, and still the winds baffle us:
we count thirty-five days, and six hundred miles are to
be run: we listen nervously for all unusual night-sounds
coming from below. The solitary pair of pistols
belonging to the whole quarter-deck company are
meantime is threatened with erysipelas, and is compelled
to keep mostly on deck; he fairly dozes upon his
long watches, while the French lad or myself keep
guard.
“God send good wind!”—how we pray that prayer;
but none so fervently, I am sure, as our Swiss friend,
with her little jewels clustering about her.
I see the same good ship Nimrod, stanch and safe,
sailing up through the Narrows, with a laughing sun
playing on the shores, and three laughing and rejoicing
children—looking eagerly out, at the strange sights—at
the forts that flank us—at the broad bay that blazes in
the front—at the islands that sleep upon its bosom—at
our city spires that glitter along the horizon.
I see the manacled man brought up from below the
hatches—sallow and with cavernous cheeks, and something
dangerous in his eye still; he is led away between
two officers to jail—to prison;—three years of it, the
papers said. The French lad has eaten his last lunch,
and comes upon the deck a perfect D'Orsay in his equipment.
Now, he must have grown out of my knowledge;
ten—twelve—fifteen years—will have given him
—if dyspepsia did not make him a victim—the figure
of an alderman. I trust he takes life serenely.
Is the captain among the living? Does anybody
answer? And does he keep the same rotund face and
of embarkation which he wore in the old times—
“as he sailed—as he sailed”?
And the Swiss lady? She found her home—I
know that—with all her flock; from her own hand, I
have it:
—“Nous y entrons avec courage et confiance, nous
attentons à Celui qui a promis d'être avec nous jusqu'à la
fin. Son Amour est le seul qui puisse suffire à tous nos
besoins.” The same brave Christian spirit! the same
hearty benevolence too:—“Puissiez-vous, mon cher
Monsieur, l'eprouver [son Amour] au plus profond de
votre être, afin que vous soyez heureux, selon le vœu de
“Votre Amie.”
Long years, and I heard nothing more: at length,
upon a certain summer's day, I met one who knew and
appreciated her sterling worth—her tender, womanly
nature.
“And how is it with Madame in the new home?”
“Monsieur!—elle est au ciel!”
I believed him—with all my heart.
So we pass: voyagers all, to the Silent Sea. Of
some we hear as they glide through the straits; of many
we hear nothing and shall know nothing, until we ourselves
are arrived.
Thus far, and with a pleasant recollection of old
scenes, I have but filled in the little skeleton notes that
meet my eye in the musty memoranda of travel.
Through all the night, I might plague my brain, and
vex my heart, with this revival of scenes and characters,
half forgotten, but which, when they come with that
fresh and airy presence, that the small hours `ayont
the twal' alone can give them, cheat me into a glow
or a tenderness of feeling, of which next morning I am
ashamed.
Yet why?
Our life is not all lived by day-light. It is not all
summed up in what we do, or in what we shall do;
what we think and what we remember, have their place
in the addition. Therefore when night comes again,
and when reading and severer work is done, I rather
incline to build away, upon the scaffoldings which old
notes and old letters may afford—story by story: and
it is precisely this, which I have been doing here; until
at last I have a book, Seven Stories high—to which this
introduction shall serve for Basement.
| Seven stories, with basement and attic | |