A VERITABLE SEA STORY.
BY HARRY FRANCO.
‘The sea, the sea, the o—pen sea, the blue, the fresh;’ but here we halt;
Mr. Cornwall knew very little about the sea, or he would have written SALT.
‘The whales they whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;’
Worse and worse; more blunders than words, and such a jumble!
Whales spout, but never whistle; dolphins’ backs are silver; and porpoises never roll, but tumble.
‘It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
And like a cradled creature lies,’ and squalls,
He should have added; but to avoid brawls
With the poet’s friends I’ll quote no more; but entre nous,
Those who write correctly about the sea are exceeding few.
Young Dana with us, and Marryat over the water,[1]
Are all the writers that I know of, who appear to have brought a
Discerning eye to bear on that peculiar state of existence,
An ocean life, which looks so romantic at a distance.
To succeed where every body else fails, would be an uncommon glory,
While to fail would be no disgrace; so I am resolved to try my hand upon a sea-story.
In naming sea-authors, I omitted Cooper, Chamier, Sue, and many others,
Because they appear to have gone to sea without asking leave of their mothers:
For those good ladies never could have consented that their boys should dwell on
An element that Nature never fitted them to excel on.
Their descriptions are so fine, and their tars so exceedingly flowery,
They appear to have gathered their ideas from some naval spectacle at the ‘Bowery;’
And in fact I have serious doubts whether either of them ever saw blue water,
Or ever had the felicity of saluting the ‘gunner’s daughter.’
It was on board of the packet ——, from feelings deferential
To private griefs, I omit all facts that are non-essential:
To Havre we were bound, and passengers there were four of us,
Three men and a lady—not an individual more of us.
The month was July, the weather warm and hazy,
The sea smooth as glass, the winds asleep or lazy.
Dull times of course, for the sea, though favorable to the mind’s expansion,
Yet keeps the body confined to a very few feet of stanchion.
Our employments were nought save eating, drinking and sleeping,
Excepting the lady, who a diary was keeping.
She was a very pleasant person though fat, and a long way past forty,
Which will of course prevent any body from thinking any thing naughty.
A very pleasant person, but such an enormous feeder,
That our captain began to fear she might prove a famine-breeder;
A sort of female Falstaff, fond of jokes and gay society,
Cards, claret, eau-de-vie, and a great hater of sobriety.
Her favorite game at cards she acknowledged was ecarté,
But like Mrs. Battle, she loved whist, and we soon made up a party.
We played from morn till night, and then from night till morning,
Although the captain, who was pious, continually gave us warning.
That time so badly spent would lead to some disaster;
At which Madame G—— would laugh, and only deal the faster.
Breakfast was served at eight, and as soon as it was ended
Round flew the cards; and the game was not suspended
Until seven-bells struck, when we stopped a while for lunch,
To allow Madame time to imbibe her allowance of punch;
This done, at work we went, with heated blood and flushed faces,
Talking of kings, queens, knaves, tricks, clubs and aces.
At six bells (three P. M.,) we threw down our cards and went to dinner,
Where Madame never missed her appetite, whether she had been a loser or a winner;
Then up from the almonds and raisins, and down again to the queens and aces,
We had only to remove from one end of the table to the other to resume our places;
Another pause at six, P. M., for in spite of all our speeches,
Madame’s partner would lay down his cards for the sake of pouchong and brandy peaches;
Being French and polite, of course, she only said ‘Eh bien!’ but no doubt thought him a lubber,
For a cup of washy tea to break in upon her rubber.
At four bells (ten P. M.,) up from the cards and down again at the table,
To drink champaigne and eat cold chicken as long as we were able:
With very slight variations this was the daily life we led,
Breakfast, whist; lunch, whist; dinner, whist; supper, whist; and then to bed.
The sea, for aught we know, was like that which Coleridge’s mariners sailed on;
We never looked at it, nor the sky, nor the stars; and our captain railed on,
But still we played, until one day there was a sudden dismemberment of our party;
We had dined on soup à la tortu, (made of pig’s feet,) of which Madame ate uncommonly hearty;
And had just resumed our game; it was her cut, but she made no motion;
‘Cut, Madame,’ said I; ‘Good Heavens!’ exclaimed her partner, ‘I’ve a notion
That she has cut for good; quick! help her! she’s falling!’
And the next moment on the floor of the cabin she lay sprawling.
Poor Madame! It was in vain that we tried hartshorne, bathing and bleeding;
Her spirit took its flight, tired to death of her high feeding:
For spirits are best content with steady habits and spare diet,
And will remain much longer in a tabernacle where they can enjoy repose and quiet
Than in a body that is continually uneasy with stuffing,
And goes about like an overloaded porter, sweating and puffing.
The next morning at four-bells, the sun was just uprisen,
Glowing with very joy to leave his watery prison;
The bright cerulean waves with golden scales were crested,
Forming the fairest scene on which my eyes had ever rested;
The wind was S. S. W., and when they let go the main-top bowline
To square the after yards, our good ship stopped her rolling.
Madame lay on the quarter-deck sewed up in part of an old spanker,
And for this glorious sight of the ocean we had solely to thank her,
For to have kept her lying in the cabin would have caused some of us to feel qualmish,
And she could not have been kept on deck, as the weather was growing warmish;
Therefore it had been resolved in a kind of council, on the captain’s motion,
At sunrise to commit the old lady to the ocean.
She was placed upon a plank, resting upon the taffrail, (the stern railing,)
One end of which was secured by a bight of the trysail brailing.
The captain read the prayers, somewhat curtailed, but a just proportion,
The plank was raised, ‘Amen!’ the corpse dropped into the ocean.
Down in its deep mysterious caves she sunk to sleep with fishes,
While a few bubbles rose from her and burst as if in mockery of human wishes.
‘Up with your helm; brace round; haul out your bowlines;
Clear up the deck; keep her full; coil down your tow-lines!’
The ship was on her course, and not a word said to remind us
Of the melancholy fact that we had left one of our number behind us.
‘Shocking affair!’ I remarked to Madame’s partner, who looked solemn as a mummy,
‘O! horrid!’ said he; ‘I shall now be compelled to play with a Dummy!’