All idea of capturing him was now, of course, given up; if, indeed, any such frantic notion could ever seriously have entered our heads. But our curiosity was vehemently roused to witness such another feat; and, after lying on our oars for some time, we once more detected the whale’s back at a little distance from us.
“Let us poke him up again!” cried one of the party.
“Agreed! agreed!” roared out the others; and away we dashed, in hopes of producing a repetition of this singular exploit. The whale, however, did not choose to exhibit any more, though we were often near him. At last he fairly bolted, and took the direction of the North Rock, hoping, perhaps, to make his escape by the narrow passage known only to the most experienced pilots of those intricate regions.
It was not until after we had entirely lost sight of the chase, and when we had rowed so far, that we could just see the top of St. George’s Island astern of us, that we had leisure to remark the change of weather, which had taken place during this absurd pursuit. The sky had become overcast, and the wind risen to such a smart breeze from the south-west, that, when we again put the boat’s head towards the island, it was quite as much as we could do to make any headway at all, and sometimes we hardly held our own. Had the wind increased only a little more, we must inevitably have been blown to sea—and even as it was, it cost us many hours of severe tugging at the oars to regain the anchorage, just before night-fall, completely worn out.
I have not related this story of the whale’s leap without considerable hesitation, the source of which distrust will be found, better than I can express it for myself, in the following anecdote, related to me by Sir Walter Scott; which I recommend to the attention of travellers who have any thoughts of communicating to the public, what they have seen in distant lands.
It appears that Mungo Park, the first, and still, perhaps, the most interesting of African travellers, was in the habit of relating, in a quiet way, to his most confidential friends, sundry curious and highly amusing incidents, that had occurred to him during his celebrated journey in search of the Niger. Of these anecdotes, however, no mention is to be found in his printed statements—while many others are inserted, not nearly so interesting as these rejected stories.
“How is this?” asked his friends. “Why did not you put these things also into your book?”
“Oh,” replied Park, “the case is simply this:—I was sent to Africa for certain public purposes, and expressly required to investigate particular points. Now, it seemed to me of consequence not only that these inquiries should be carefully made, but that a credible, as well as a faithful account, should be rendered to the world.”
“Very true,” resumed his friends; “but as there is nothing which you have now told us, in addition to what you have printed, which is not strictly true, while it is certainly very entertaining, why should you wantonly deprive your book of so much that would recommend it still more to general favour?”
“There is nothing wanton in the matter,” answered the traveller; “indeed, it is precisely because I believed it would have had no such good effect as you suppose, that I have kept out the matter alluded to. It might, indeed, have gained for the work a little more temporary popularity; but that was not what I desired. At all events, I had, as I conceived, a still higher duty to perform. Being sent to execute a given service, I performed my task to the best of my ability. But on returning, I felt I had another obligation to attend to, not less binding, which was, to give such an account as, over and above being strictly true, should carry with it such evidence of its own good faith, as should insure every part of my story being credited. These anecdotes, however, which I only venture to tell you because you have known me all my life, I have shrunk from repeating to the world, whose knowledge of my character is drawn from this book alone. In short, I did not feel that I was at liberty to shake my own credit, or even to risk its being shaken, by relating anecdotes so much out of the ordinary line of events as some of these stories are. As a servant of the public in the great field of discovery, I considered my character for veracity as part of their property, which was not to be trifled with, merely for the sake of making idle people laugh or stare a little more. And I feared, that even one doubtful point in such a work, no matter how small, or how true, might have weakened the authority of the whole, and this I did not choose to hazard.”