Some points in the Canary Islands are often visible in the voyage from Brazil to Europe, especially the lofty peak of Palma; but we passed this part of the course at night, and nothing was seen. As we drew near to Europe, the wind, through keeping the same direction, gradually fell off to a gentle breeze, and the surface of the water became glassy smooth, heaving gently in long undulations. The relative effect of smooth or rough water on the speed of steamers is remarkable, and was shown by the fact that during the twenty-four hours ending at noon on the 11th of August the Tagus accomplished a run of 295 knots, while three days before, with only a gentle breeze but rougher water, the run to noon was only 240 knots.
THE TOWER OF BELEM.
Early in the afternoon of the 11th, the Rock of Lisbon at the mouth of the Tagus was distinctly visible, and we slowly entered the river and cast anchor at the quarantine station below Belem. Our captain, after the experience of St. Vincent, did not expect to obtain pratique at Lisbon, and with more or less grumbling the passengers had made up their minds to remain on board, when, after a long deliberation, the unexpected news, “admitted to pratique,” was rapidly spread through the ship, and we moved up to the anchorage opposite the picturesque old tower of Belem, which the true mariner must always regard as one of his holy places. It marks the spot wherefrom Vasco de Gama and his companions, after a night spent in prayer in the adjoining chapel, embarked on their memorable voyage, and here, after years of anxious uncertainty, King Manuel greeted the survivors on their return to their country.
The sun was sinking when such passengers as wished to see something of Lisbon took the opportunity for going ashore, while others, like myself, preferred to remain on board. Hoping to receive letters at the post-office, I landed early next morning, and found a tramcar to carry me to the centre of the town. Early hours are not in much honour at Lisbon. I found the post-office closed, and, after several vain efforts, was informed that letters could not be delivered until ten o’clock, the precise hour fixed for our departure from the anchorage at Belem.
The voyage from Lisbon along the coasts of Portugal and Galicia is usually enjoyed, even by fair-weather sailors. The case is often otherwise with the Bay of Biscay, but on this occasion there was nothing of which the most fastidious could complain. I have sometimes doubted whether injustice has not been done to that much-abused bay, which, in truth, is not rightly so called by those bound from the north to the coast of Portugal. It is simply a part of the Atlantic Ocean, adjoining the coast of Europe between latitudes 43° 46′ and 48° 28′. I have not been able to ascertain that the wind blows harder, or that the sea runs higher there than elsewhere in the same latitudes, and am inclined to rank the prejudice against that particular tract of sea-water among vulgar errors.
The adventurer who has attempted to open up a trade with some distant region is accustomed, as he returns home, to count up the profits of his expedition; and in somewhat the same spirit the man who pursues natural knowledge can scarcely fail to take stock of the results of a journey. It is his happy privilege to reckon up none but gains, and those of a kind that bring abiding satisfaction. He may feel some regret that outer circumstance or his own shortcoming have allowed opportunities to escape, and lessened the store that he has been able to accumulate; but as for the positive drawbacks, which seemed but trivial at the time, they absolutely disappear in the recollection of his experiences. Thinking of these things as the journey drew to a close, I could not help feeling how great are the rewards that a traveller reaps, even irrespective of anything he may learn, or of the suggestions to thought that a voyage of this kind cannot fail to bear with it. How much is life made fuller and richer by the stock of images laid up in the marvellous storehouse of the brain, to be summoned, one knows not when or how, by some hidden train of association—shifting scenes that serve to beautify many a common and prosaic moment of life!
PSEUDO-PESSIMISM.
Often during this return voyage my thoughts recurred to an article in some periodical lent to me by my kind friends at Petropolis, wherein the writer, with seeming gravity, discussed the question whether life is worth living. My first impression, as I well remember, was somewhat contemptuous pity for the man whose mind could be so profoundly diseased as even to ask such a question, as for a soldier who, with the trumpet-call sounding in his ear, should stop to inquire whether the battle was worth fighting. When one remembers how full life is of appeals to the active faculties of man, and how the exertion of each of these brings its correlative satisfaction; how the world, in the first place, needs the daily labour of the majority of our race; how much there is yet to be learned, and how much to be taught to the ignorant; what constant demand there is for the spirit of sympathy to alleviate suffering in our fellows; how much beauty exists to be enjoyed, and, it may be, to be brought home to others;—one is tempted to ask if the man who halts to discuss whether life is worth living can have a mind to care for truth, or a heart to feel for others, or a soul accessible to the sense of beauty.
Recurring to the subject, as I sometimes did during the homeward voyage, it seemed to me that I had perhaps treated the matter too seriously, and that the article I had read was an elaborate hoax, by which the writer, while in truth laughing at his readers, sought merely to astonish and to gain repute as an original thinker. However the fact may be, when taken in connection with the shallow pessimism which, through various channels, has of late filtered into much modern literature, there does appear to be some real danger that the disease may spread among the weaker portion of the young generation. A new fashion, however absurd or mischievous, is sure to have attractions for the feebler forms of human vanity. It is true that there is little danger that the genuine doctrine will spread widely, but the mere masquerade of pessimism may do unimagined mischief. The better instincts of man’s nature are not so firmly rooted that we should wish to see the spread of any influence that directly allies itself with his selfish and cowardly tendencies.
To any young man who has been touched by the contagion of such doctrines, I should recommend a journey long enough and distant enough to bring him into contact with new and varied aspects of nature and of human society. Removed from the daily round of monotonous occupation, or, far worse, of monotonous idleness, life is thus presented in larger and truer proportions, and in a nature not quite worthless some chord must be touched that will stir the springs of healthy action. If there be in truth such beings as genuine and incurable pessimists, the stern believer in progress will be tempted to say that the sooner they carry out their doctrine to its logical result the better it will be for the race. Their continued existence, where it is not merely useless, must be altogether a mischief to their fellow-creatures.