Rose at about half-past eight, dawdled about as usual, breakfasted in the round-house—by the by, before I got out of bed, read a few more pages of Byron's life. I don't exactly understand the species of sentimental galimatias Moore talks about Byron's writing with the same penfull of ink, "Adieu, adieu, my native land!" and "Hurra! Hodgson, we are going." It proves nothing except what I firmly believe, that we must not look for the real feelings of writers in their works—or rather, that what they give us, and what we take for heart feeling, is head weaving—a species of emotion engendered somewhere betwixt the bosom and the brain, and bearing the same proportion of resemblance to reality that a picture does; that is—like feeling, but not feeling—like sadness, but not sadness—like what it appears, but not indeed that very thing: and the greater a man's power of thus producing sham realities, the greater his main qualification for being a poet. After breakfast, sat, like Lady Alice in the old song, embroidering my midnight coif. Got Colonel —— to read Quentin Durward to us as we sat working under our canvass pavilion.
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Our company consists chiefly of traders in cloth and hardware, clerks, and counting-house men—a species with but few peculiarities of interest to me, who cannot talk pounds, shillings, and pence, as glibly as less substantial trash. Most of them have crossed this trifling ditch half a dozen times in their various avocations. But though they belong to the same sort generally, they differ enough individually for the amusement of observation. That poor widower, whose remarks on the starry inside of the sea attracted my attention the other evening, put into my hands to-day a couple of pretty little books enough; a sort of hotch-potch, or, to speak more sweetly, pot-pourri praise of women—passages selected from various authors who have done us the honour to remember us in their good commendations. There were one or two most eloquent and exquisite passages from Jeremy Taylor—one on love that enchanted me. I should like to copy it. What a contrast to that exquisite thing of Shelley's, "What is Love?" and yet they are both beautiful, powerful, and true. I could have helped them to sundry more passages on this subject, particularly from my oracle. Mr. —— read to us after lunch, and we sat very happily under our yawning till the rain drove us in. No wind, the sea one rippleless sheet of lead, and the sky just such another. Our main-top gallant-mast had been split in one of our late blows, and I went out in the rain to see them restore the spar. Towards evening the wind faired and freshened, in consequence of which our gentlemen's spirits rose; and presently, in spite of the rain, they were dancing, singing, and romping like mad things on the quarter-deck. It was Saturday—holiday on board ship—the men were all dismissed to their grog. Mr. —— and I sang through a whole volume of Moore's melodies; and at ten o'clock (for the first time since our second day on board) we of the petticoats adjourned to the gentlemen's cabin to drink "sweethearts and wives," according to the approved sailors' practice. It made me sad to hear them, as they lifted their glasses to their lips, pass round the toast, "Sweethearts and wives!" I drank in my heart—"Home and dear H——." One thing amused me a good deal:—the Captain proposed as a toast, "The Ladies—God bless them," which accordingly was being duly drunk, when I heard, close to my elbow, a devout, half audible—"and the Lord deliver us!" This, from a man with a face like one of Retsch's most grotesque etchings, and an expression half humorous, half terrified, sent me into fits of laughter. They sang a song or two, and at twelve we left them to their meditations, which presently reached our ears in the sound, not shape, of "Health to Bacchus," in full chorus, to which tune I said my prayers.
Sunday, 19th.
Did not rise till late—dressed and came on deck. The morning was brilliant; the sea, bold, bright, dashing its snowy crests against our ship's sides, and flinging up a cloud of glittering spray round the prow. I breakfasted—and then amused myself with finding the lessons, collects, and psalms for the whole ship's company. After lunch, they spread our tent; a chair was placed for my father, and, the little bell being rung, we collected in our rude church. It affected me much, this praying on the lonely sea, in the words that at the same hour were being uttered by millions of kindred tongues in our dear home. There was something, too, impressive and touching in this momentary union of strangers, met but for a passing day, to part, perhaps, never to behold each other's faces again, in the holiest of all unions, that of Christian worship. Here I felt how close, how strong that wondrous tie of common faith that thus gathered our company, unknown and unconnected by any one worldly interest or bond, to utter the same words of praise and supplication, to think perhaps the same thoughts of humble and trustful dependence on God's great goodness in this our pilgrimage to foreign lands, to yearn perhaps with the same affection and earnest imploring of blessings towards our native soil and its beloved ones left behind.—Oh, how I felt all this, as we spoke aloud that touching invocation, which is always one of my most earnest prayers, "Almighty God, who hast promised when two or three are gathered together in thy name," etc. * * * The bright cloudless sky and glorious sea seemed to respond, in their silent magnificence, to our Te Deum.—I felt more of the excitement of prayer than I have known for many a day, and 'twas good—oh! very, very good!
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'Tis good to behold this new universe, this mighty sea which he hath made, this glorious cloudless sky, where hang, like dew drops, his scattered worlds of light—to see all this, and say,—
"These are thy glorious works, parent of good!"
After prayers, wrote journal. Some sea-weed floated by the ship to-day, borne from the gulf stream; I longed to have it, for it told of land: gulls too came wheeling about, and the little petterels like sea-swallows skimmed round and round, now resting on the still bosom of the sunny sea, now flickering away in rapid circles like black butterflies. They got a gun, to my horror, and wasted a deal of time in trying to shoot these feathered mariners; but they did not even succeed in scaring them. We went and sat on the forecastle to see the sun set: he did not go down cloudless, but dusky ridges of vapour stretched into ruddy streaks along the horizon, as his disk dipped into the burnished sea. The foam round the prow, as the ship made way with all sail set before a fair wind, was the most lovely thing I ever saw. Purity, strength, glee, and wondrous beauty were in those showers of snowy spray that sprang up above the black' ship's sides, and fell like a cataract of rubies under the red sunlight. We sat there till evening came down: the sea, from brilliant azure, grew black as unknown things, the wind freshened, and we left our cold stand to walk, or rather run, up and down the deck to warm ourselves. This we continued till, one by one, the stars had lit their lamps in heaven: their wondrous brilliancy, together with the Aurora Borealis, which rushed like sheeted ghosts along the sky, and the stream of fire that shone round the ship's way, made heaven and sea appear like one vast world of flame, as though the thin blue veil of air and the dark curtain of the waters were but drawn across a universe of light. Mercy, how strange it was! We stood at the stern, watching the milky wake the ship left as she stole through the eddying waters. Came back to our gipsy encampment, where, by the light of a lantern, we supped and sang sundry scraps of old songs. At ten came to bed.
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