Perhaps there are few more exciting spectacles than a vessel stranded on a lee-shore—and especially such a shore—which is fringed with reefs extending far out, and offering no spot for shelter. The hapless ship lies dismasted, bilged, and beat about by the waves, with her despairing crew clinging to the wreck, or to the shrouds, and uttering cries totally inaudible in the roar of the sea—while at each successive dash of the breakers, the number of the survivors is thinned, till, at length, they all disappear—the gallant bark goes to pieces—and the coast, for a league on either side, is strewed with broken planks, masts, boxes, and ruined portions of the goodly cargo, with which, a few hours before, she was securely freighted, and dancing merrily over the waters.
But it is the greatest of all mistakes to suppose that the actual contemplation of such disasters, still less the description of hardships, has any tendency to divert a young mind from following its original bent, towards a profession of such varied and high excitement as that of the sea. At all events, the effect of each succeeding shipwreck I witnessed, was only to stimulate me more and more to pursue the object of all my thoughts, waking or dreaming.
I can recollect, however, being conscious of a feeling of awe, approaching at times to dread, as I saw the waves curling themselves over these devoted vessels, and gradually tearing them to pieces as the tide advanced. But still there was always more of confidence and pleasure in the prospect which my mind’s eye conjured up to itself beyond these stirring adventures. To this day there is told a traditional story amongst our fishermen, of my having once contributed to save a ship’s crew, by engaging some country people to transport a boat from a distance, across the hills, in a cart. The account farther sets forth, that I had only a few halfpence in my pocket; and that when these proved insufficient to induce the carter to go out of his way, I stoutly asserted I had authority from my father to offer five pounds for any such assistance. Upon this pledge, the cart was freighted with its unwonted cargo, and the boat was brought in time to the spot. I have no recollection whatsoever of this incident; but something of the kind may possibly have occurred, or, more probably, may have been merely talked of amongst the fishermen, my great patrons and admirers. These things, by making me feel not so utterly useless in the world, as I was made to appear at school, must have united me by still stronger ties to the animating profession to which I grew up, apparently as a matter of course.
Future generations of the family, however, will not have this costly and melancholy source of encouragement for their children to go to sea:—since the shipwrecks that helped to do me this good turn, are now, fortunately for commerce and humanity, hardly ever known. The fatal Bell Rock—the direct and indirect cause of so many losses—has recently been converted into one of the greatest sources of security that navigation is capable of receiving. By dint of scientific skill, backed by well-managed perseverance, and the example of the Eddystone to copy from, a light-house, one hundred and twenty feet high, has been raised upon this formidable reef as a foundation. So that the mariner, instead of doing all he can to avoid the spot, once so much dreaded, now eagerly runs for it, and counts himself happy when he gets sight of the revolving star on the top, which, from its being variously coloured, he can distinguish from every other light in that quarter. He is then enabled to steer directly for his port, in perfect security, though the night be ever so dark.
On returning from these scenes of real life and activity, to that most picturesque of cities, the Old Town of Edinburgh, I was plunged into tenfold gloom; and really do not know what I should have done had I not lighted accidentally upon Shakspeare’s description of the ship-boy reposing on the high and giddy mast. This idea was so congenial to the fancy of a sailor elect, and withal so exquisitely poetical, that I could not rest till possessed of a copy of the whole of his Plays, which were forthwith read over from beginning to end—to the total destruction, I am half ashamed to say, of all the little respect I then had for the ancient classics. The Tempest was soon learned almost by heart—the nautical part of it in particular—and I swore an eternal friendship with the boatswain, whose seamanship, by the way, though wild and strange, is, upon the whole, wonderfully correct. One would like to know how Shakspeare picked it up.
About this period, also, when my thoughts presented a strange jumble of real and imaginary shipwrecks, with the intricate niceties of Latin grammar, I met my father one day in the streets, close to the late Lord Duncan’s house.
“Well met!” he cried, “come along, master sailor, and you shall see the hero of Camperdown.”
I was accordingly introduced as a future brother-seaman to this great officer, whose noble appearance was in such good keeping with his renown, that I felt my respect for him rise at every moment of the interview.
“You are a youngster of some taste,” observed his lordship good-naturedly; “and if you will come here with me, I can shew you something to encourage you to stick to your business.”
So saying, he led the way to another room, where a flag he had taken from Admiral de Winter, on the 11th of October, 1797, was hanging up. This sight was interesting, to be sure, but I was still more enchanted with the frankness and kindliness of the veteran’s manner,—and I could not help saying to myself, that if such a man saw reason to treat a boy with attention, I was surely entitled to something less disrespectful than I met with at school,—and I remember, next morning, shedding a torrent of tears as I entered the scene of what I considered my imprisonment, and contrasted the master’s reception with that of the admiral.