And how calmly beautiful is the close of day! What nameless charms cluster around a sunset at sea! The heavens and light clouds are not clad in purple and gold; but the western sky is attractive and lovely in the richness of its sober brilliancy. The sun, with undivided glory, goes down in the west, sinking gently and gradually beneath the well-defined horizon, like the spirit of a good man in the evening of life, departing for a better world.
Night drops her curtain only to change the scene and invest it with holier attributes. The moon sheds her light on the surface of the ocean. No sounds break the stillness of the hour as the ship, urged by the favored breeze, quietly, yet perseveringly, pursues her course, save the murmuring ripple of the waves, the measured tread of the officer of the watch as he walks the deck, the low, half-stifled creaking of a block as if impatient of inactivity, the occasional flap of a sail awakened out of its sleep, and the stroke of the bell every half hour to mark the lapse of time, sending its musical, ringing notes far over the water. What a time is this for study, for contemplation, for enjoyment! The poet Gilfillan, in describing a lovely night at sea, says, with true poetic warmth and energy,
"Night closed around the ship; no sound
Save of the splashing sea
Was heard. The waters all around
Murmured so pleasantly,
You would have thought the mermaids sung
Down in their coral caves,
So softly and so sweetly rang
The music of the waves!"
Were such scenes always met with at sea, was its surface always smooth, the winds favorable and the sky unclouded, little resolution or physical endurance would be required to navigate the ocean; the energies which call THE SAILOR into life would no longer be necessary; the sea would be covered with pleasure yachts of the most fanciful description, manned by exquisites in snow-white gloves, propelled with silken sails, and decked with streamers, perhaps with flowers, while their broad decks would be thronged with a gay and happy bevy, of both sexes and every age, bent on pleasure and eager to enjoy the beauties of the sea.
But this attractive spectacle is sometimes changed with magical rapidity! The scene shifts; and instead of gentle zephyrs and smooth seas, the elements pour forth all their pent-up wrath on the devoted ship, and events are conjured into being which rouse into action the noblest faculties of man. If the records of the sea were truly kept, they would tell of hurricanes, shipwrecks, sufferings, and perils too numerous and appalling to be imagined, to struggle successfully against which demands those manifestations of courage and energy, that, when witnessed on the land, elicit the admiration of mankind. These chronicles, if faithfully kept, would tell of desperate encounters, of piracies where whole crews were massacred, of dark deeds of cruelty and oppression, of pestilence on shipboard, without medical aid and with no Florence Nightingale to soothe the pains and whisper comfort and peace to the dying!
And what may be said of the mariners, the life-long actors on this strange, eventful theatre, the sea, who perform their unwritten and unrecorded parts, face danger and death in every shape, and are heard and seen no more? Is it remarkable that, estranged from the enjoyments which cluster around the most humble fireside, and familiar with scenes differing so widely from those met with on the land, they should acquire habits peculiar to themselves and form a character of their own?
The failings of this isolated class of men are well known; a catalogue of their imperfections is scattered abroad by every wind that blows; they are acknowledged, even by themselves, and enlarged upon and exaggerated by those who know them not. True are the words of the poet,
"Men's evil manners live in brass;
Their virtues we write in water."
Those who are familiar with a seafaring life, and have had opportunities for analyzing the character of the sailor, know that it possesses many brilliant spots as well as blemishes, and that it would be cruel and unjust on the part of those more favored with the smiles of fortune, to steel their hearts against sympathy for his sufferings, or respect for his intrinsic worth.
The sailor is said to be rough and unpolished, as well as addicted to vices. It is true he is seldom a proficient in classical studies, or versed in the logic of the schools. But he is conversant with men and manners in various parts of the globe, and his habits of life, and opportunities for observation, supply him with a fund of worldly wisdom and practical knowledge, which qualify him to render good service when strong hands and bold hearts are in demand on the land as well as on the sea. It should be remembered, also, that the sailor has few opportunities of receiving instruction in polite literature, of learning lessons of moral culture, and of sharing the pleasures and refinements of domestic life. The many temptations to which he is exposed should also be remembered, and it will be found that, with his generous heart and noble spirit, he is far more worthy of confidence and respect than the thousands we meet with in society, who, in spite of words of warning and the example of good men, with every inducement to pursue the path of rectitude, voluntarily embrace a life of dissipation, consume their substance in riotous living, and become slaves to habits of a degrading character.