Of the sun.”
Saturday, Dec. 13. A booby was seen last evening, at sunset, circling around our masts. He was looking where he should light when it should become sufficiently dark. He lives on what he can find in the sea, but prefers a spar to a wave on which to roost. He has sense enough to know that when asleep, the fish may avenge upon him some of the wrongs which he inflicts. But he is, after all, a very stupid fellow. He secures his prey often at the expense of his life, and that, too, when there is no necessity for it. If a little billow casts a dead fish on a rock, he poises over it for a moment to be sure of his mark, and then plunging down, head first, dashes his own brains out; very much like a politician who rushes so hard upon an office that he destroys himself in its attainment. The senate is, in this case, the rock on which his little craft splits.
We are now approaching the region of dolphins, porpoises, sharks, and small whales. Our sailors are rigging their hooks and harpoons. It will be difficult for any thing that comes near us to escape their glittering steel. Their hostility falls mostly on the shark. They regard him as a graver robber. He can expect no mercy. The loudest note of exultation I ever heard on board a man-of-war, was when one of these fellows was brought on board. “There,” said a rough salt, “you have been prowling about here to get a nab at us, and have got nabbed yourself—you old blood-sucker!” There are three beings that can expect no mercy in misfortune,—a rat, a tyrant, and a shark. Of the three I would soonest spare the rat; I always associated something respectable with his long tail. But let that pass.
Sunday, Dec. 14. We have had the awning spread, and have held divine service. All joined in, and sung Old Hundred to the hymn commencing with the lines—
“God of the seas, thine awful voice
Bids all the rolling waves rejoice.”
The impressiveness of a service at sea is owing, in part, to the isolation of those on board. There is nothing around to distract the attention, or win a diverted thought. Around rolls or rests the melancholy main—above stretches the blue heaven, and over all reigns that Supreme Intelligence, at whose fiat resplendent worlds rolled from chaotic night. All is vast and awful, like that state of being into which we are ushered at death. It is this that makes the sailor religious, and inspires him with respect for all the great truths which throw their light through the night of the grave.
The errors and vices of the sailor seldom result from skepticism. I never met with one who denied or doubted the existence of a God, the wickedness of the human heart, or the realities of a future state. They attach a much higher offence to a disrespect to the Bible, than the use of profane language. They seem to think a man’s impulses may be wrong, while in the main he is good. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. They have a law in their members warring against the law of their mind, and bringing them into captivity to Satan; and yet they are free to denounce that captivity, and brand it as the source of all their degredation and misery. Their loathing spirits, touched with a diviner life, often exclaim, “Who shall deliver us from this body of sin and death?”
Monday, Dec. 15. We were to-day, at 12 o’clock, in lat. 15° 46′ S., long. 36° 58′ W. We have run within the last five days a thousand miles, and are now within six hundred and sixty miles of Rio. Three or four days more, and we shall probably be at rest in one of the most magnificent bays in the world. Our ship is in prime condition for displaying her symmetry and strength. She is indebted for this to the experience and activity of our captain and first lieutenant. They are thorough in the details of ship duty, and are sustained by efficient officers. To keep a man-of-war trig, taxes the profoundest patience and energy. It requires an eye that sees every thing, and a fidelity that neglects nothing.
I saw this morning, at daybreak, an old tar standing alone on the forecastle. His stalwart form rose in bold relief on the brightening sky. His dark locks flowed out from under his tarpaulin upon the wind. His large deep eye was fastened on the sun as it came whirling up in splendor out of the sea. His large sinewy arms were extended, as if to welcome some being that inspired reverence and love; when Milton’s sublime apostrophe to light rolled in solemn emphasis from his lips:—