Fallacies About the Sea

Jvery man ought to cross the ocean at least once to find how many unwarranted things have been said about it. Those who on the land have never imperilled their veracity by mastodonic statements are so metamorphosed by the first stiff breeze off Newfoundland, that they become capable of the biggest stories. They see billows as high as the Alps, and whales long enough to supply a continent with spermaceti, and have perilous escapes from sudden annihilation, and see over the gunwales spectacles compared with which the “Flying Dutchman” is a North River clam-sloop.

We have not been able to find some things that we expected. We have very often heard that sea-sickness makes one feel that he would like to be thrown overboard. One day, on our ship, there were near a hundred passengers whose stomachs had turned sommersets; but not one of these people, as far as we could detect, would like to have been pitched overboard. Indeed, an effort to deposit these nauseated Jonahs on the “Fishing Banks” would have ended fatally to the perpetrator. We saw not one of the sickest patients looking at the sea as though he would like to get into it. Those who were most desperate and agonizing in looking over the taffrail for the lines of latitude and longitude, held tight fast, lest some sudden lurch of the ship should precipitate them into the Canaan of water for which the great army of the sea-sick are said to be longing.

We have also been told, in many well-rounded addresses, that the sails of British and American commerce ‘’whiten every seal’ But we have averaged during our voyage only about two vessels a day. The cry of ‘’ Sail — ho! “is so rare a sound that it brings all the passengers to their feet. The mere ghost of a shroud along the line of the sky calls up all the opera - glasses. The most entertaining scollops are dropped from the spoon when, during the dining-hour, it is announced that a ship passes. Let “Fourth of July” orators steer clear of the fallacy that the sails of our commerce whiten the sea. They make about as much impression upon it as a fly crossing the ceiling.

We have been told of the sense of loneliness, isolation, and almost desolation felt when out of sight of land. But we think that In a popular steamer such a feeling is Impossible. We leave a world behind, but we take a world with us. A Hamburg steamer is a portable Germany.

The ship in which we sail Is Berkley Square and Fifth Avenue. London ends at the prow, Broadway begins at the stern. We have on board Fulton Market, and Faneuil Hall, and Drury Lane Theatre, and Apsley House. We do not any more think of how far we are from the shore than we do how far the shore Is from us. Though mid-ocean, we are in the heart of a city, and hear feet shuffling, and hammers pounding, and wheels turning, and voices shouting.

We have not found any of the monotony of the deep. We have not seen an iceberg, nor a whale, nor a porpoise, nor a flying-fish, nor a water-spout; but in simply watching and thinking we have found each day so pleasantly occupied that we sorrowed at its speedy termination.

So many styles of character as come together on shipboard are a perpetual study. Men by the third day turn inside out. (I refer to their characters and not to their stomachs.) Their generosity or their selfishness, their opulence of resource or their paucity, their courage or their cowardice, are patent. What variety of mission! This one goes to claim a large estate; this one to culture his taste in foreign picture-galleries; that one to amass a fortune; this one to see what he can learn. On some the time hangs heavily, and they betake themselves to the “betting-room.” Since coming on board, some of them have lost all their money by unsuccessful wager. Two or three have won everything, and the others have lost. They have bet about the speed of the ship — bet that it would be over three hundred and thirty knots a day, bet that it would be less, bet that the number of miles run would be an even number, bet that It would be odd, bet that the pilot coming aboard would step on with his right foot, bet it would be his left, bet that gold will be up when we get to Queenstown, bet that it would be down, bet every week-day, bet on Sunday.

The surgeon, who read “prayers” for us in the Sabbath service, was one of the heaviest losers. I am informed, by a credible witness, that he took a bet while we were sinini.^ the psalm during the religious service which he was conductinor. God save us from the morals and the physic of such a doctor!

But take them all in all we never dwelt among men and women of finer culture, and better heart, and nobler life than our fellow passengers. We shall be glad forever that on this crystal path of nations we. met them.

The sailors have been to us a perpetual entertainment. They are always interesting, always cheerful, always helpful. Each one has a history. Sometimes his life has been a tragedy, interspersed with comedy. Our heart goes out toward him. In his laugh Is the freedom of the sea and the wildness of the wind. We can hardly keep from laying hold with these sailorboys, as they bend to their work singing a strange song of which we catch here and there a stanza such as:

Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe!

Away! Haul away! now we are sober.

Once I lived in Ireland, digging turf and tatoes,

But now I’m in a packet-ship a-hauling tacks and braces.

Once I was a waterman and lived at home at ease, But now I am a mariner to plough the angry seas. I thought I would like a seafaring life, so I bid my

love adieu.
And shipped as cook and steward on board the Kangaroo.
Then I never thought she would prove false,
Or ever prove untrue,
When we sailed away from Milfred Bay
On board the Kangaroo.
Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe!
Away! Haul away! Haul away, Joe!

We cannot tell the metre of the songs they sing by day and night, but we prefer to call it “peculiar metre.” We wish for these men a safe life-voyage, and a calm harbor at the last. Heaven give them a steady foot while running up the slippery ratlines to reef the topsail!