The young Irishman was a warm hearted being. His constant amusement was humming tunes and writing poetry. For the latter he had an unconquerable passion. He expressed himself as being confidently assured, that he possessed the true spirit of poetry; and that, at some time not far distant, he should distinguish himself above the herd of mankind. He was greatly encouraged to devote his time to the muses, by having heard it repeatedly said in his family, that his great grandfather was a poet—that is, that he had written something that had pleased somebody. From this, it appears, that the poor young man, supposing poetry to be like the gout, hereditary, and like that distemper, would sleep in the blood for generations, and descending from father to son, would break out after the lapse of a century—concluded hypothetically, that the fire of poetry would some day blaze out from him, and astonish the world.
Poets, like other authors, and some say authoresses, are reported as never being satisfied without large draughts of unqualified praise. From his teasing the gentlemen with his verses, it seems he possessed this unfortunate propension; and I must admit, that if his poetry deserved as much praise as it produced merriment, it was excellent!
The American merchant was a gentleman of a quiet disposition, and rather reserved. Although both countrymen, the captain and he appeared most cordially to detest each other.
There was a youth on board, about twenty years of age, whom the captain called “James,” and who described himself as an Englishman. He was ostensibly under the protection of the captain, who appeared to be somewhat ashamed of his charge. He surpassed all, of whom I have ever heard or read, in the vicious practice of telling falsehoods. For the first few days he led us all into a labyrinth of misunderstandings. His tales were so perplexingly mischievous, and their fallacy at the same time so easy of detection, that it was truly astonishing for what purpose he gave them utterance. The gentlemen appeared determined to convince him by forcible arguments, that such conduct would not be tolerated with impunity. On a particular occasion, his presence of mind happily suggested absence of body, as the best means to avoid the result of a discovery likely to prove unpleasant to his feelings: and, as fear drove him to the forward part of the vessel, shame kept him there—a place, no doubt far better suited to his taste than the one he had evacuated. How the captain would account for this to his friends, I cannot imagine; but they must know the propensity of this James too well to believe his assertions, even if called forth by a dispute respecting the certainty of his own existence! He said he was an Englishman, and that we considered conclusive evidence that he was not.
After we had been a few hours under weigh, one of the crew jumped over board, under the influence of intoxication; a boat was immediately lowered, and the poor foolish fellow was rescued from a watery grave. The passengers, from a mistaken notion of good nature, had furnished this man with what might have proved his destruction. On this occasion, the captain exerted his prerogative in a judicious manner, by compelling all on board to surrender their stores of spirits, &c. and not a single glass was allowed to either officers or men during the whole of the voyage. This caused some murmuring, particularly among the passengers, but they soon became reconciled to what was unavoidable; and although several declared they should perish if deprived of their daily drops, yet incredible as it may appear, there was not a single death registered on the ship’s books from such a cause!
The steerage of the vessel was occupied by upwards of a hundred passengers, almost the whole of whom were Irish: they behaved exceedingly well. Perhaps the absence of the circulating medium of friendship (whiskey) was the principal cause of their good conduct. The following circumstance, which fell under my immediate notice, I confess, inclines me to adopt this opinion. Shortly after we arrived at New York, a vessel, freighted in a similar manner to this in which we were, discharged its living cargo on the north side of the city. The passengers leaped joyfully on shore, vociferating cheers for the Land of Liberty, and rushed into the neighbouring spirit stores to regale themselves. The liquor they imbibed so effectually blinded their minds to all distinction of meum and tuum, that they proceeded to select shillaleighs from a cargo of hickory wood just landed, that was sawn into lengths of four feet, and of various degrees of thickness. With these they furiously assailed each other—the police were ordered out—and nearly all of them were allowed, for the space of a month (I think,) to sing praises to the “land of liberty” within the walls of a prison. Disorderly characters are much more severely punished in the United States than here. With us, misconduct, proceeding from intoxication, is too frequently treated as a joke—there, it is no joke.
After the distressing nausea had ceased to torment us, we found some few enjoyments of which we had entertained no previous expectation. Those who have not passed a moon-light evening at sea, are unacquainted with one of the principal pleasures of life. The solemn, yet placid moaning of the ocean—the rich variety of light and shade, produced by the falling of the moon-beams on the waves—the boundless expanse that lies open to the view—the peaceful grandeur that reigns, broken only by sounds that harmonize with the majesty of the scene—all unite to present an association of the peaceful, the splendid, and the sublime, of which the pencil can convey no adequate idea.
With the converse of a friend, on these delightful evenings, when the vessel was darting over the mighty waters with the celerity of a swallow, I seemed to enjoy more than fabled Elysian pleasures. Or when all was still, and the ship calmly reposing on the bosom of the ocean, I could send my thoughts eastward, over the surrounding world of waters, and indulge in a rapturous retrospect. At these seasons, the home of my youthful days appeared invested with its most captivating attractions. The village green—the grove, with the distant mill—the surrounding landscape—
And every stump,—familiar to my sight
Recalled some fond idea of delight.
These scenes of my childhood, as if abounding with the delights of Paradise, would excite emotions exquisitely sublime, yet slightly tinctured with a pleasing sadness. Wherever, through this wide world, my wandering feet may turn; my country, and particularly the place of my nativity, will never cease to attract my affections with a cord—fine, indeed, and tensile as the slightest gossamer, yet strong as the stoutest cable.