“But the same breeze blows for John Bull, remember,” replied Jack, who, being a Briton, perhaps favoured the Englishman more than the Neversink.
“But how we boom through the billows!” cried Jack, gazing over the top-rail; then, flinging forth his arm, recited,
“‘Aslope, and gliding on the leeward side,
The bounding vessel cuts the roaring tide.’
Camoens! White-Jacket, Camoens! Did you ever read him? The Lusiad, I mean? It’s the man-of-war epic of the world, my lad. Give me Gama for a Commodore, say I—Noble Gama! And Mickle, White-Jacket, did you ever read of him? William Julius Mickle? Camoens’s Translator? A disappointed man though, White-Jacket. Besides his version of the Lusiad, he wrote many forgotten things. Did you ever see his ballad of Cumnor Hall?—No?—Why, it gave Sir Walter Scott the hint of Kenilworth. My father knew Mickle when he went to sea on board the old Romney man-of-war. How many great men have been sailors, White-Jacket! They say Homer himself was once a tar, even as his hero, Ulysses, was both a sailor and a shipwright. I’ll swear Shakspeare was once a captain of the forecastle. Do you mind the first scene in The Tempest, White-Jacket? And the world-finder, Christopher Columbus, was a sailor! and so was Camoens, who went to sea with Gama, else we had never had the Lusiad, White-Jacket. Yes, I’ve sailed over the very track that Camoens sailed—round the East Cape into the Indian Ocean. I’ve been in Don Jose’s garden, too, in Macao, and bathed my feet in the blessed dew of the walks where Camoens wandered before me. Yes, White-Jacket, and I have seen and sat in the cave at the end of the flowery, winding way, where Camoens, according to tradition, composed certain parts of his Lusiad. Ay, Camoens was a sailor once! Then, there’s Falconer, whose ‘Ship-wreck’ will never founder, though he himself, poor fellow, was lost at sea in the Aurora frigate. Old Noah was the first sailor. And St. Paul, too, knew how to box the compass, my lad! mind you that chapter in Acts? I couldn’t spin the yarn better myself. Were you ever in Malta? They called it Melita in the Apostle’s day. I have been in Paul’s cave there, White-Jacket. They say a piece of it is good for a charm against shipwreck; but I never tried it. There’s Shelley, he was quite a sailor. Shelley—poor lad! a Percy, too—but they ought to have let him sleep in his sailor’s grave—he was drowned in the Mediterranean, you know, near Leghorn—and not burn his body, as they did, as if he had been a bloody Turk. But many people thought him so, White-Jacket, because he didn’t go to mass, and because he wrote Queen Mab. Trelawney was by at the burning; and he was an ocean-rover, too! Ay, and Byron helped put a piece of a keel on the fire; for it was made of bits of a wreck, they say; one wreck burning another! And was not Byron a sailor? an amateur forecastle-man, White-Jacket, so he was; else how bid the ocean heave and fall in that grand, majestic way? I say, White-Jacket, d’ye mind me? there never was a very great man yet who spent all his life inland. A snuff of the sea, my boy, is inspiration; and having been once out of sight of land, has been the making of many a true poet and the blasting of many pretenders; for, d’ye see, there’s no gammon about the ocean; it knocks the false keel right off a pretender’s bows; it tells him just what he is, and makes him feel it, too. A sailor’s life, I say, is the thing to bring us mortals out. What does the blessed Bible say? Don’t it say that we main-top-men alone see the marvellous sights and wonders? Don’t deny the blessed Bible, now! don’t do it! How it rocks up here, my boy!” holding on to a shroud; “but it only proves what I’ve been saying—the sea is the place to cradle genius! Heave and fall, old sea!”
“And you, also, noble Jack,” said I, “what are you but a sailor?”
“You’re merry, my boy,” said Jack, looking up with a glance like that of a sentimental archangel doomed to drag out his eternity in disgrace. “But mind you, White-Jacket, there are many great men in the world besides Commodores and Captains. I’ve that here, White-Jacket”—touching his forehead—“which, under happier skies—perhaps in you solitary star there, peeping down from those clouds—might have made a Homer of me. But Fate is Fate, White-Jacket; and we Homers who happen to be captains of tops must write our odes in our hearts, and publish them in our heads. But look! the Captain’s on the poop.”
It was now midnight; but all the officers were on deck.
“Jib-boom, there!” cried the Lieutenant of the Watch, going forward and hailing the headmost look-out. “D’ye see anything of those fellows now?”
“See nothing, sir.”
“See nothing, sir,” said the Lieutenant, approaching the Captain, and touching his cap.