"Life's like a ship in constant motion,
Sometimes high and sometimes low,
Where every man must plough the ocean,
Whatsoever winds may blow."
The striking analogy has been more beautifully expressed by better poets, though hardly with more force. And if we are like wind-tossed vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds may be compared to the building of a ship. And it was this thought which often attracted my notice to the labors of the shipwright.
First, the long keel is laid—then the huge ribs go up the sides; then the rail-way runs around the top. Then commences the boarding or timbering of the sides; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is heard, as he pounds in the huge trunnels which fasten all together. Then there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and, after all, the launching.
The first that I ever saw was a large and noble ship. It had been long in building, and I had watched its progress with much interest. The morning it was to be launched I played truant to witness the scene. It was a fine sunshiny day, Sept. 21, 1832; and I almost wished I was a boy, that I might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined upon a ride. The blocks which supported the ship were severally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. When that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased planks, which descended to the water. It must have been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the huge vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. But it was done, and swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an impetus which sunk her almost to her deck, and carried her nearly to the middle of the river. Then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and finally righted herself, and stood motionless. But while the dashing foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new element, and the loud cheers from the deck were ringing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and she was named the Walter Scott. It will be remembered that this was the very day on which the Great Magician died—a fact noticed in the Saturday Courier about that time.
Several years after this, I was attending school in a neighboring town. I happened one evening to take up a newspaper. I think it was a Portsmouth paper; and I saw the statement that a fine new ship had been burnt at sea, called the Walter Scott. The particulars were so minutely given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful vessel which I had seen launched, upon the banks of the Merrimac.
Annette.