The occasion of my second visit to England was an invitation from some Mechanics’ Institutes in Lancashire and Yorkshire, which separately are organized much in the same way as our New England Lyceums, but, in 1847, had been linked into a “Union,” which embraced twenty or thirty towns and cities, and presently extended into the middle counties, and northward1 into Scotland. I was invited, on liberal terms, to read a series of lectures in them all. The request was urged with every kind suggestion, and every assurance of aid and comfort, by friendliest parties in Manchester, who, in the sequel, amply redeemed2 their word. The remuneration was equivalent to the fees at that time paid in this country for the like services. At all events, it was sufficient to cover any travelling expenses, and the proposal offered an excellent opportunity of seeing the interior of England and Scotland, by means of a home, and a committee of intelligent friends, awaiting me in every town.
I did not go very willingly. I am not a good traveller, nor have I found that long journeys yield a fair share of reasonable hours. But the invitation was repeated and pressed at a moment of more leisure, and when I was a little spent by some unusual studies. I wanted a change and a tonic3, and England was proposed to me. Besides, there were, at least, the dread4 attraction and salutary influences of the sea. So I took my berth5 in the packet-ship Washington Irving, and sailed from Boston on Tuesday, 5th October, 1847.
On Friday at noon, we had only made one hundred and thirty-four miles. A nimble Indian would have swum as far; but the captain affirmed that the ship would show us in time all her paces, and we crept along through the floating drift of boards, logs, and chips, which the rivers of Maine and New Brunswick pour into the sea after a freshet.
At last, on Sunday night, after doing one day’s work in four, the storm came, the winds blew, and we flew before a north-wester, which strained every rope and sail. The good ship darts6 through the water all day, all night, like a fish, quivering with speed, gliding7 through liquid leagues, sliding from horizon to horizon. She has passed Cape8 Sable9; she has reached the Banks; the land-birds are left; gulls10, haglets, ducks, petrels, swim, dive, and hover11 around; no fishermen; she has passed the Banks; left five sail behind her, far on the edge of the west at sundown, which were far east of us at morn, — though they say at sea a stern chase is a long race, — and still we fly for our lives. The shortest sea-line from Boston to Liverpool is 2850 miles. This a steamer keeps, and saves 150 miles. A sailing ship can never go in a shorter line than 3000, and usually it is much longer. Our good master keeps his kites up to the last moment, studding-sails alow and aloft, and, by incessant12 straight steering13, never loses a rod of way. Watchfulness14 is the law of the ship, — watch on watch, for advantage and for life. Since the ship was built, it seems, the master never slept but in his day-clothes whilst on board. “There are many advantages,” says Saadi, “in sea-voyaging, but security is not one of them.” Yet in hurrying over these abysses, whatever dangers we are running into, we are certainly running out of the risks of hundreds of miles every day, which have their own chances of squall, collision, sea-stroke, piracy15, cold, and thunder. Hour for hour, the risk on a steamboat is greater; but the speed is safety, or, twelve days of danger, instead of twenty-four.
Our ship was registered 750 tons, and weighed perhaps, with all her freight, 1500 tons. The mainmast, from the deck to the top-button, measured 115 feet; the length of the deck, from stem to stern, 155. It is impossible not to personify a ship; every body does, in every thing they say: — she behaves well; she minds her rudder; she swims like a duck; she runs her nose into the water; she looks into a port. Then that wonderful esprit du corps16, by which we adopt into our self-love every thing we touch, makes us all champions of her sailing qualities.
The conscious ship hears all the praise. In one week she has made 1467 miles, and now, at night, seems to hear the steamer behind her, which left Boston to-day at two, has mended her speed, and is flying before the gray south wind eleven and a half knots the hour. The sea-fire shines in her wake, and far around wherever a wave breaks. I read the hour, 9h. 45’, on my watch by this light. Near the equator, you can read small print by it; and the mate describes the phosphoric insects, when taken up in a pail, as shaped like a Carolina potato.
I find the sea-life an acquired taste, like that for tomatoes and olives. The confinement17, cold, motion, noise, and odor are not to be dispensed18 with. The floor of your room is sloped at an angle of twenty or thirty degrees, and I waked every morning with the belief that some one was tipping up my berth. Nobody likes to be treated ignominiously19, upset, shoved against the side of the house, rolled over, suffocated20 with bilge, mephitis, and stewing21 oil. We get used to these annoyances22 at last, but the dread of the sea remains23 longer. The sea is masculine, the type of active strength. Look, what egg-shells are drifting all over it, each one, like ours, filled with men in ecstasies24 of terror, alternating with cockney conceit25, as the sea is rough or smooth. Is this sad-colored circle an eternal cemetery26? In our graveyards27 we scoop28 a pit, but this aggressive water opens mile-wide pits and chasms30, and makes a mouthful of a fleet. To the geologist31, the sea is the only firmament32; the land is in perpetual flux33 and change, now blown up like a tumor34, now sunk in a chasm29, and the registered observations of a few hundred years find it in a perpetual tilt35, rising and falling. The sea keeps its old level; and ‘tis no wonder that the history of our race is so recent, if the roar of the ocean is silencing our traditions. A rising of the sea, such as has been observed, say an inch in a century, from east to west on the land, will bury all the towns, monuments, bones, and knowledge of mankind, steadily36 and insensibly. If it is capable of these great and secular37 mischiefs38, it is quite as ready at private and local damage; and of this no landsman seems so fearful as the seaman39. Such discomfort40 and such danger as the narratives41 of the captain and mate disclose are bad enough as the costly42 fee we pay for entrance to Europe; but the wonder is always new that any sane43 man can be a sailor. And here, on the second day of our voyage, stepped out a little boy in his shirt-sleeves, who had hid himself, whilst the ship was in port, in the bread-closet, having no money, and wishing to go to England. The sailors have dressed him in Guernsey frock, with a knife in his belt, and he is climbing nimbly about after them, “likes the work first-rate, and, if the captain will take him, means now to come back again in the ship.” The mate avers44 that this is the history of all sailors; nine out of ten are runaway45 boys; and adds, that all of them are sick of the sea, but stay in it out of pride. Jack46 has a life of risks, incessant abuse, and the worst pay. It is a little better with the mate, and not very much better with the captain. A hundred dollars a month is reckoned high pay. If sailors were contented47, if they had not resolved again and again not to go to sea any more, I should respect them.
Of course, the inconveniences and terrors of the sea are not of any account to those whose minds are preoccupied48. The water-laws, arctic frost, the mountain, the mine, only shatter cockneyism; every noble activity makes room for itself. A great mind is a good sailor, as a great heart is. And the sea is not slow in disclosing inestimable secrets to a good naturalist49.
‘Tis a good rule in every journey to provide some piece of liberal study to rescue the hours which bad weather, bad company, and taverns50 steal from the best economist51. Classics which at home are drowsily52 read have a strange charm in a country inn, or in the transom of a merchant brig. I remember that some of the happiest and most valuable hours I have owed to books, passed, many years ago, on shipboard. The worst impediment I have found at sea is the want of light in the cabin.
We found on board the usual cabin library; Basil Hall, Dumas, Dickens, Bulwer, Balzac, and Sand were our sea-gods. Among the passengers, there was some variety of talent and profession; we exchanged our experiences, and all learned something. The busiest talk with leisure and convenience at sea, and sometimes a memorable53 fact turns up, which you have long had a vacant niche54 for, and seize with the joy of a collector. But, under the best conditions, a voyage is one of the severest tests to try a man. A college examination is nothing to it. Sea-days are long, — these lack-lustre, joyless days which whistled over us; but they were few, — only fifteen, as the captain counted, sixteen according to me. Reckoned from the time when we left soundings, our speed was such that the captain drew the line of his course in red ink on his chart, for the encouragement or envy of future navigators.
It has been said that the King of England would consult his dignity by giving audience to foreign ambassadors in the cabin of a man-of-war. And I think the white path of an Atlantic ship the right avenue to the palace front of this sea-faring people, who for hundreds of years claimed the strict sovereignty of the sea, and exacted toll55 and the striking sail from the ships of all other peoples. When their privilege was disputed by the Dutch and other junior marines, on the plea that you could never anchor on the same wave, or hold property in what was always flowing, the English did not stick to claim the channel, or bottom of all the main. “As if,” said they, “we contended for the drops of the sea, and not for its situation, or the bed of those waters. The sea is bounded by his majesty’s empire.”
As we neared the land, its genius was felt. This was inevitably56 the British side. In every man’s thought arises now a new system, English sentiments, English loves and fears, English history and social modes. Yesterday, every passenger had measured the speed of the ship by watching the bubbles over the ship’s bulwarks57. To-day, instead of bubbles, we measure by Kinsale, Cork58, Waterford, and Ardmore. There lay the green shore of Ireland, like some coast of plenty. We could see towns, towers, churches, harvests; but the curse of eight hundred years we could not discern.
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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stewing
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| 炖 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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tumor
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| n.（肿）瘤，肿块(英)tumour | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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mischiefs
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| 损害( mischief的名词复数 )； 危害； 胡闹； 调皮捣蛋的人 | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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40
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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42
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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43
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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44
avers
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| v.断言( aver的第三人称单数 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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45
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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46
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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47
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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48
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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49
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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50
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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51
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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52
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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54
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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