‘Thin you’re a gintilman intirely, for is’nt it thim as bees the authors of poetry? Arrah, and hav’nt we a gintilmen in our mess?’
But to the reader, let Marling’s verses show that the forecastle is not entirely devoid of taste, and that many a hardy son of the ocean carries within him a fund of wit, aye, and genius too, that only needs the occasion to call it forth.
As if by common consent, all now turned upon Terrence Moony and charged him with the heinous offence of not having spun one yarn since the commencement of the voyage. Terrence had no faculty for story telling, and therefore rather fidgeted under the sallies and jokes of his messmates. But at length his eyes brightened up, and his features were really handsome with the look of intelligence and enthasiasm that lit them up as he said: ‘I hav’nt any turn that way you see, friends, but there’s a bit of a circumstance happinid to meself not long ago, I’ll tell yes.’
And Terrence related in his own peculiar way, the kindness that Capt. Channing had shown his dying mother. He had never mentioned thus in detail before, though his messmates knew that the captain had once served Terrence by some needed charity. You should have seen the tears start from the eyes of those rough sea-dogs as Terrence told his tale with a feeling that could not be mistaken. It showed that the forecastle covered up as truly kind and sensitive hearts as did the quarter-deck.
There was no open applause after Terrence’s tale, but it produced its effect, and one or two rough but honest slaps upon the shoulder showed him that the mess wished him to understand that he was altogether a particularly clever fellow, these very blows being designed to express the indelible character of their regard.
As to Captain Channing, there was a vote taken on the spot that there never was such another, though it hardly needed this fresh proof of goodness in their commander to incite them to such a declaration, inasmuch as they had long entertained this feeling toward him; and they might well do so, for their every comfort was cared for, and their good constantly considered by him who commanded them. How easy a matter it is to gain the affection and regard of those dependant upon us, by treating them as we ourselves would wish to be treated in a like situation. There is a golden rule touching this point.
I do not know why it is, but it is a well known fact, that sailors are notorious for story-telling, or as they term it, for spinning yarns. They are driven to it in part for recreation, as there is no duty so monotonous than that of a foremast man aboard ship. Confined within the narrow limits of the vessel, he sees but few faces and those perhaps he is associated with for months, without once landing. Thus the inhabitants of the forecastle, seldom possessing books, are thrown much upon their own resources for amusement during such time as they may find their own. Story-telling is a very natural as well as fascinating mode of amusement; and this they universally adopt, on all occasions. I have sometimes heard landsmen remark that the nicely told stories put in print as coming from seamen while spinning a yarn to their messmates, were all moonshine; that foremast men could not talk like that. This is a mistake—the constant habit renders them very perfect, and I have listened through a whole watch to as well a told story from one of the crew of a merchantship, as I have ever read; told too with a degree of refinement entirely unlooked for. Thus the crew of the Constance were now engaged, and we cannot refrain from transcribing one more yarn that was spun in the forecastle on this occasion. The song seemed to have inspired them all, and they were vociferous, among themselves for another yarn immediately.
‘Come, Jennings, it’s your turn, there’s no mistake about that,’ said two or three of the men to one of their companions, sitting by the chest.
‘Ay, ay, messmates, wait a bit till I overhaul my reckoning.’
‘That’s it, a yarn from Jennings, a yarn from Jennings!’ they all cried.