All around was life and motion; ours had not been the only ship that had taken advantage of a favorable wind to put out from Cuxhaven to the open sea. Four or five other ships were sailing along side, and as they spread their snowy sails, on which the bright rays of the summer sun was playing, they skimmed like white-winged sea-mews over the dark green waters.
And now one of the pilot boats that lie here at anchor, yet tossed year in and year out by the restless waves, sending 166 on board both, to the homeward and outward bound a skilful guide, to steer the ship through the perilous shoals and sand banks that lie on this coast, approached, to take up the pilot that had steered us safely into the open sea. He took charge of all our letters––from those written to parent, friend, or lady love left behind, to the tender lines penned by the least shipboy, taking a long farewell of the mother who standing on the pier, waved her hand to her child whose home was henceforward to be on the deep, until long after we sailed. The pilot thrust them all into his great leathern bag, held out his sea-hardened hand to bid each one farewell and gave us his sailor-like greeting: “Farewell, and a lucky voyage to you.” He jumped into the boat, four lusty rowers sat on the benches, and it flew over the glancing waters with the speed of a bird until it reached the one-sailed craft he called his pilot ship. This was our final adieu to the homes we had left, for with the departure of the pilot from on board, the last link that unites the sailor to his native land is broken, and it is then the traveller feels how really every rolling wave increases the distance between him and the fireside joys he has left behind.
Light winds soon drove us into the English channel, where we saw the chalk cliffs of Dover shimmering in the bright sunshine on one side––the coast of France like a soft blue cloud dipping into the sea on the other. We approached so near to the British shore, that we could distinguish the buildings and light-houses plainly. Near to Dover, and on a rocky precipice, stands an old fortress of the middle ages, looking out threateningly with bristling canon 167 on the town and over the sea that breaks and murmurs at its rocky base.
As it became dark, numerous beacon lights blazed from the watch-towers, some speedily vanishing, others twinkling and glancing like meteors that beguile the wanderer from his way, but many with clear and steady ray, shone brightly over the face of the deep and guided the sailor on his adventurous course. The first were the so-called fire drakes, covered partly by metallic plates which turn, and thus is caused the appearing and vanishing of the light so speedily, the latter is the steady beacon of the light-house, which distinguishable from all others by its brilliancy and the color of its flame, enables the seaman to direct his craft safely through the channel. Hundreds of other lights were glancing everywhere, like the fire flies of the tropics upon the face of night, those were the burning lanterns carried at the prow of the steamboats, warning each other of approaching too near, and giving the same intelligence to ships.
On the following morning we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of the Isle of Wight, and vainly looked out for some compassionate fisher boat, that for a flask of brandy or some salted fish, would carry our last letters to some port, from whence they might be forwarded to our homes. A few days later, and we lost sight of the English coast; and with it the last land in Europe faded from our eyes. We found ourselves on the open sea, and with lightly swelling sails, steering for the Cape de Verd Islands. Of the many vessels which we hailed or passed in the British channel, not one was to be seen; here every ship held 168 silently on her own monotonous way, without troubling herself about the fate of another; and here instead of the life and bustle to be met with on a coasting voyage, nothing was to be seen, but the dark blue waves of the broad Atlantic and the bright resplendent sky.
To enjoy a sea-voyage one must have entirely overcome the severe ordeal of sea-sickness, and then with the high health that generally follows the departure of this disagreeable visitant, life on the ocean is not without a beauty and variety of its own. In a fortnight one becomes sufficiently versed in the laws of equilibrium to maintain his place in his hammock from a sudden lurching of the ship in a squall or night of tempest, or so skilfully to balance himself and his plate at table, that neither shall be thrown to the right or left. By degrees, too, one becomes accustomed to the slovenliness of the cabin servants, and the dusky appearance of stained and soiled table cloths, and at last even ceases to miss the newspapers and the absence of cream in his coffee.
During the first part of our voyage we had most beautiful weather; the deep blue sea upon which the foam-crested waves chased each other as if at play, and the bright heavens where thin and transparent clouds were floating like veils of gossamer, filled the heart with gladness and disposed it to profitable musings. Light winds filled the sails that swelled beautifully on their masts and drove the ship, that under a cloud of white canvass looked like a stately queen, onward. Sometimes she would lie motionless on the waves for a time, then urged by the breeze she would glide forth like a capricious beauty, cutting 169 the water at the rate of more than four miles an hour. So gentle was the motion, that in the cabin one could scarce hear the murmur of the waves as the ship kissed them with her bowsprit, or raised a track of foam as she divided them with her sharp keel or directing rudder.
It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true, that on the land, the Sabbath never speaks to man with such solemn voice as it does in beautiful weather on the deep blue sea. Then it seems as if wind and wave and sun and sky were all holding sacred festival, and Nature, such as she appears on that wide and wonderful expanse, invited man, the favored creature, to worship with her in her grand and sacred temple. On week days, with the perpetual industry usual on board a ship, the bustling of the sailors as they pursue their several avocations, the call of the boatswain, the noise of the carpenters’ hammer that cannot be excluded from the cabin, contrasts vividly with the calm brought by the solemn stillness of the Sabbath,––its influence is visible on all. No tar-bucket is seen on deck, no paint-pot stands in the way, the sailor intermits his weekly task of mending the sails, and the ropes that are to be repaired are laid aside. The deck is scoured white and smooth with sand; everything is clean, even the cabin-boy and the table-cloth, two articles that on weekdays seem to hold themselves privileged to be dirty.
The sailors indeed, that is only some of them, take advantage of the time bestowed by the Sabbath, to mend their jackets and stockings, or patch up old boots and shoes; others lie stretched out on the deck with a book in their 170 hands or a cigar in their mouths, murmuring something to which the waves are the only listeners; others are down in the forecastle looking over their chests and coffers, the sight of their humble effects, or perhaps some cherished keepsake, recalling thoughts of loved ones at home. But in whatever business engaged, the influence of the Sabbath is seen on all, for there is no countenance but speaks the calm and quiet content, which this blessed day, so wisely ordered as a respite from toil and care, brings to all, whether on land or sea.
We were out four weeks without having seen anything but sky and water, when one day we saw the rugged crest of a high mountain rising above a pile of thick gray clouds. It was the high hill of the island of St. Anthony, the most westerly of the Cape de Verd group. Little by little the low-lying clouds ascend like a drawn up curtain, and the whole island lay spread out, a living panorama, to our view. But alas! we passengers were not permitted to leave the ship, and as soon as we had taken in provisions and water, the anchor was lifted and we held on our way towards the south.