Upturns the whitening surface of the deep;
In such a tempest, borne to deeds of death,
The wild-weird sisters scour the blasted heath.”
The black clouds which hovered in the western horizon last evening, hung their banners of darkness over the descending sun, as if impatient of the presence of that orb in the frightful work which they purposed. Before his level rays had left the ocean, their waiting squadrons began to rally. One black cohort after another filed into the ranks, till they presented a solid mass of impetuous strength. Thus compact, they moved down upon the plane of the trembling sea. When opening to the right and left, a tempest rushed forth, which seemingly nothing but the stable mountains could withstand.
Our ship had been put under storm-sails for the encounter; and yet, even with this precaution, she rolled down before its force like a crushed foe; while the crested waves howled over her as savages in a death-dance over their victim. It was some minutes before she could recover herself. She was overpowered, but her courage was not broken. At every pause in the storm she came up, and then plunged into it as if for life or death. The conflict closed about midnight, and our ship won another laurel for steadiness and strength. This was the most violent gale that we have experienced.
Wednesday, Feb. 25. We had this evening one of the most beautiful phenomena connected with sunset at sea. The flaming orb had been for more than an hour below the horizon, when the long, dark bank of clouds, beneath which he had disappeared, lifted, disclosing a lake of golden light, which poured its melting radiance far and wide over the sea. It seemed as a rosy morn rising out of the bosom of night.
Not a star lit the blue vault, and yet the spars and tracery of our ship became visible in the soft effulgence of the departed sun. When the beautiful of earth die, they carry their pale charms with them to the shroud; but when the brilliant orbs of the sky depart, they light their very pall with their surviving splendors. The light even of the Pleiad, lost in the infant world, still circles around her choiring sisters, who have poured for ages her sweet melodious dirge.
Our long-lost, little bark peered to light this morning on our lee-beam. We had parted with her in a storm off the Cape, and had relinquished all expectation of falling in with her again. But here she is, within three miles of us, with the American ensign flying at her peak, in answer to ours. We may yet speak her. She is, we conjecture, the Charles, which sailed from Boston on the first of November, bound to the Sandwich Islands. If she stops at Valparaiso she will probably find us there. We outsail her, though she has managed, by keeping close in, to double the Horn with us.
Thursday, Feb. 26. Our west wind continued through yesterday and carried us some eight knots the hour towards our port; but this morning it has veered into the north and compelled us to go upon our starboard tack. This steering due west, when our port lies due north, is reaching our destination by right angles. But there is no angle, that ever yet shaped itself in the wildest mathematical dream, which is not described by a ship at sea. The path of the boa constrictor is not further from a right line.
Our nights are beginning to lengthen as we approach the sun. Off the Cape we had only a brief dip of darkness. The day was sixteen hours, twilight three, and the night five. Our fowls lost their reckoning, and were clucking and crowing when they should have been asleep. What could be done in our country with only five hours of night? Before the élite of our city got to a party it would be daylight; and as for the rural swain, who does all his courting on Sunday night, the sun would be up before he had got half way to the all-important, yet very awkward question. He would have to begin anew each Sabbath eve, and stop where he left off before. A sailor would settle the whole business in fifteen minutes, and what is more, he would then stick to his bargain for better or worse. He never troubles a court or legislature for a divorce. If he cannot make good weather on one tack he tries another; but he never throws his mate overboard, nor scuttles his own ship. But let that pass.