“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven, first born
Or of the eternal co-eternal beam!
May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light,
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,
Bright affluence of bright essence increate.”
Tuesday, Dec. 16. This is beautiful sailing; a soft, balmy atmosphere, a smooth sea, and a breeze that carries us seven and eight knots the hour. We have not taken in our studding-sails for several days; while our royals seemed to have entered into an agreement with our broad pennant to stand or come down together. The day is not darkened by clouds, and the night is filled with the soft light of the moon. The stars come out from the blue vault of heaven, and blaze with a distinctness and force that makes each one seem some central source of exhaustless and unquenchable splendor. Of this high host Jupiter leads the way; to him the eye of the sailor turns as that of the Moslem to the crescent that glows on the minaret of his prophet.
An officer to-day, after reprimanding a sailor for some alleged neglect of duty, told him to go forward; that he was such a perfect nondescript that he did not know what to do with him. So forward Jack went, muttering to himself nondescript—what does that mean? “Here, Wilkins,” said he, “can you tell me what nondescript means? the officer of the deck called me a nondescript, and I want to know what it means—something bad, I suppose, for he was mighty angry.” “No,” said Wilkins, “I don’t know what it means; call Tim Shades, he can tell you.” Now this latter person was a sort of ship’s dictionary, and though perhaps as ignorant as any on board, had a meaning for every thing, and a reason for it besides. So Tim Shades came. “What does nondescript mean?” inquired the aggrieved sailor. Our lexicographer seemed at first a little puzzled; but soon settling his features into oracular solemnity, replied:—“Nondescript means one who gets into heaven without being regularly entered on the books.” “Is that all it means?” ejaculated the offended sailor; “well, well, I shall be glad to get there any way, poor sinner as I am.” Were there more of the spirit of this sailor among sectarians, there would be less altercation about the right road, and quite as much speed.
Wednesday, Dec. 17. Another hundred miles of the distance that separated us from Rio has been left behind. Four hundred miles more remain to be traversed. The breeze is extremely light, directly aft, and our studding-sails on both sides, below and aloft, are out. We are under a cloud of canvas, which hangs over our frigate like the brooding wings of the cherubim over the sanctuary of the ark. But here I fear the parallel must stop. We have the sacred tables, it is true, and the commandments inscribed on them, but where is the soul-absorbing reverence they should inspire?
All hands are at work getting our ship ready for port. She is being scoured from stem to stern, outside and in. Every soil on her paint is obliged to yield to soap and clean water; and every weather-stain on her rigging is removed. She will look neat as a bride approaching the nuptial altar. What is there more beautiful on earth than a young and guileless being thus timidly intrusting her destiny to the hands of another,—leaving her home, her father, mother, brothers and sisters, for a hearth which another love has lighted, and where other hopes are to bud and bloom? He who can betray the confidence thus reposed in him, and break the heart that has treasured its last trust in his, is callous alike to crime and shame. But this is digression.