Part 10

1. This day I was gratified with what I had often desired to witness—the condition of the sea in a tempest. I had contemplated the ocean in all its other phases, and they are almost innumerable. At one time it is seen reposing in perfect stillness under the blue sky and bright sun. At another, slightly ruffled, and then its motion causes his rays to tremble and dance in broken fragments of silvery or golden light,—and the sight is dazzled by following the track from whence his beams are reflected,—while all besides seems to frown in the darkness of its ripple.

2. Again it may be seen somewhat more agitated and of a darker hue, under a clouded sky and a stronger and increasing wind. Then you see an occasional wave, rising a little above the rest, and crowning its summit with that crest of white, breaking from its top and tumbling over like liquid alabaster[352]. I had seen the ocean, too, by moonlight, and as much of it as may be seen in the darkness, when the moon and stars are veiled. But until to-day I had never seen it in correspondence with the TEMPEST.

3. After a breeze of some sixty hours from the north and north-west, the wind died away about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. The calm continued till about nine in the evening. The mercury in the barometer[353] fell, in the mean time, at an extraordinary rate; and the captain predicted that we should encounter a “gale” from the south-east. The “gale” came on, at about eleven o’clock; not violent at first, but increasing every moment. I awoke with a confused recollection of a good deal of rolling and thumping through the night, which was occasioned by the dashing of the waves against the ship.

4. Hurrying on my clothes, I found such of the passengers as could stand, at the doors of the hurricane-house[354], “holding on,” and looking out in the utmost consternation. It was still quite dark. Four of the sails were already in ribbons; the winds whistling through the cordage; the rain dashing furiously and in torrents; the noise and spray scarcely less than I found them under the great sheet at Niagara. And in the midst of all this, the captain with his speaking trumpet, the officers, and the sailors, screaming to each other in efforts to be heard,—this, all this, in the darkness which precedes the dawning of day, and with the fury of the hurricane, combined to form as much of the _terribly_ sublime as I ever wish to witness concentrated in one scene.

5. The passengers, though silent, were filled with apprehension. What the extent of the danger, and how all this would terminate, were questions which rose in my own mind, although I was unconscious of fear or trepidation.[355] But to such questions there are no answers, for this knowledge resides only with Him who “guides the storm and directs the whirlwind.” We had encountered, however, as yet, only the commencement of a gale, whose terrors had been heightened by its suddenness, by the darkness, and by the confusion. It continued to blow furiously for twenty-four hours; so that during the whole day I enjoyed a view, which, apart from its dangers, would be worth a voyage across the Atlantic.

6. The ship was driven madly through the raging waters, and when it was impossible to walk the decks without imminent risk of being lifted up and carried away by the winds, the poor sailors were kept aloft, tossing and swinging about the yards and in the tops, clinging by their bodies, feet, and arms, with mysterious tenacity, to the spars, while their hands were employed in taking in and securing sail.

7. On deck the officers and men made themselves safe by ropes; but how the gallant fellows aloft kept from being blown out of the rigging, was equally a matter of wonder and admiration. However, about seven o’clock they had taken in what canvas had not been blown away, except the sails, by means of which the vessel is kept steady. At nine o’clock the hurricane had acquired its full force. There was no more work to be done. The ship lay to[356], and those who had her in charge only remained on deck to be prepared for whatever of disaster might occur. The breakfast hour came, and passed, unheeded by most of the passengers.

8. By this time the sea was rolling up its hurricane waves; and that I might not lose the grandeur of such a view, I fortified myself against the rain and spray, and, in spite of the fierceness of the gale, planted myself in a position favorable for a survey of all around me, and in safety, so long as the ship’s strong works might hold together. I had often seen paintings of a storm at sea, but here was the original. These imitations are oftentimes graphic[357] and faithful, as far as they go, but they are necessarily deficient in accompaniments which paintings cannot supply, and are therefore feeble and ineffective.

9. You have, upon canvas, the ship and the sea, but, as they come from the hands of the artist, so they remain. The universal _motion_ of both is thus arrested and made stationary. There is no subject in which the pencil of the painter acknowledges more its indebtedness to the imagination than in its attempts to delineate[358] the sea storm.

10. It was not the least remarkable, and by far the most comfortable circumstance in this combination of all that is grand and terrible, that, furious as were the winds, towering and threatening as were the billows, our glorious bark preserved her equilibrium[359] against the fury of the one, and her buoyancy in despite of the alternate precipice and avalanche of the other. True it is, she was made to whistle through her cordage, to creak and moan through all her timbers, even to her masts. True it is, she was made to plunge and rear, to tremble and reel and stagger. Still, she continued to scale the watery mountain, and ride on its very summit, until, as it rolled onward from beneath her, she descended gently on her pathway, ready to triumph again and again over each succeeding wave.

11. At such a moment it was a matter of profound deliberation which most to admire, the majesty of God in the winds and waves or His goodness and wisdom in enabling His creatures to contend with and overcome the elements even in the fierceness of their anger! To cast one’s eye abroad on the scene that surrounded me at this moment, and to think man should have said to himself, “I will build myself an ark in the midst of you, and ye shall not prevent my passage; nay, ye indomitable waves shall bear me up, and ye winds shall waft me onward!” And yet there we were in the fullness of this fearful experiment.

12. I had never believed it possible for a vessel to encounter such a hurricane without being dashed or torn to pieces, at least in all her masts and rigging; for I am persuaded that had the same tempest passed as furiously over your town, during the same length of time, it would have left scarcely a house standing. The yielding character of the element in which the vessel is launched is the great secret of safety on such occasions. Hence, when gales occur upon the wide ocean, there is little danger; but when they drive you upon breakers on a lee shore[360], where the keel[361] comes in contact with “the too solid earth,” then it is impossible to escape shipwreck.

13. I never experienced a sensation of fear on the ocean; but this tempest has increased my confidence tenfold, not only in the sea but in the ship. It no longer surprises me that few vessels are lost at sea, for they and their element are made for each other. And the practical conclusion from this experience of a gale is encouraging for all my future navigation. I shall have confidence in my ship now, as I have ever had in the sea. Ever since my eyes first rested on the ocean, I have cherished an instinctive affection for it, as if it were something capable of sympathy and benevolence. When calm, it is to me a slumbering infant. How tranquilly it sleeps!

[352] ALˊ-A-BAS-TER, a white stone used for ornamental purposes.

[353] BA-ROMˊ-E-TER, an instrument used for measuring the weight or pressure of the atmosphere, and which gives warning of the approach of a storm by the falling of the mercury; a weather-glass.

[354] HURˊ-RI-CANE HOUSE, a house on the upper deck.

[355] TREP-I-DAˊ-TION, involuntary trembling; agitation of mind; alarm.

[356] LAY TO, had the progress stopped, as a vessel by bringing her head to the wind.

[357] GRAPHˊ-IC, well described; vivid.

[358] DE-LIN’ˊE-ATE, represent by drawing or by describing, so as to present a picture to the mind.

[359] E-QUI-LIBˊ-RI-UM, balance of power or weight; just poise or balance.

[360] LEE SHORE, a shore against which the wind blows.

[361] KEEL, the principal timber in a vessel, extending from stem to stern, at the bottom.

XLIV.—THE ATMOSPHERE.

1. The atmosphere rises above us, with its cathedral[362]-dome, arching towards the heavens, of which it is the most familiar synonym[363] and symbol. It floats around us like that grand object which the apostle John saw in his vision—“a sea of glass like unto crystal.” So massive is it, that, when it begins to stir, it tosses about great ships like playthings, and sweeps cities and forests to destruction before it. And yet it is so mobile[364], that we live years in it before we can be persuaded that it exists at all; and the great bulk of mankind never realize the truth that they are bathed in an ocean of air. Its weight is so enormous that iron shivers before it like glass; yet a soap bubble sails through it with impunity, and the tiniest insect waves it aside with its wing.

2. It ministers lavishly to all the senses. We touch it not; but it touches us. Its warm south wind brings back color to the pale face of the invalid; its cool west winds refresh the fevered brow, and make the blood mantle in our cheeks; even its northern blasts brace into new vigor the hardy children of our rugged clime.

3. The eye is indebted to it for all the magnificence of sunrise, the full brightness of midday, the chastened[365] radiance of the “gloaming[366],” and the “clouds that cradle near the setting sun.” But for it the rainbow would want its “triumphal arch,” and the winds would not send their fleecy messengers on errands round the heavens. The cold weather would not shed its snow feathers on the earth, nor would drops of dew gather on the flowers. The kindly rain would never fall, nor hailstorm, nor fog diversify[367] the face of the sky. Our naked globe would turn its tanned and unshadowed forehead to the sun, and one dreary, monotonous blaze of light and heat dazzle and burn up all things.

4. Were there no atmosphere, the evening sun would in a moment set, and without warning plunge the earth in darkness. But the air keeps in her hand a sheaf of his rays, and lets them slip slowly through her fingers; so that the shadows of evening gather by degrees, and the flowers have time to bow their heads, and each creature space to find a place of rest, and nestle to repose. In the morning, the gairish[368] sun would at once burst from the bosom of night, and blaze above the horizon; but the air watches for his coming, and sends at first one little ray to announce his approach, and then another, and by and by a handful; and so gently draws aside the curtain of night, and slowly lets the light fall on the face of the sleeping earth, till her eyelids open, and, like man, she “goeth forth again to her labor till the evening.”

[362] CA-THEˊ-DRAL, a large church, the term is properly applied to the church in which the bishop of the diocese usually officiates.

[363] SYNˊ-O-NYM, one of two or more words having the same or a similar meaning.

[364] MOBˊ-ILE, movable, light.

[365] CHASTˊ-ENED (chaˊ-snd), pure.

[366] GLOAMˊ-ING, twilight.

[367] DI-VERˊ-SI-FY, give variety to.

[368] GAIR-ISH, gaudy, brightly shining.

XLV.—THE CHERWELL WATER-LILY.

FABER.

1. How often doth a wild flower bring Fancies and thoughts that seem to spring From inmost depths of feeling! Nay, often they have power to bless With their uncultured loveliness, And far into the aching breast There goes a heavenly thought of rest With their soft influence stealing. How often, too, can ye unlock, Dear wild flowers, with a gentle shock, The wells of holy tears! While somewhat of a Christian light Breaks sweetly on the mourner’s sight, To calm unquiet fears! Ah! surely such strange power is given To lowly flowers like dew from heaven; For lessons oft by them are brought, Deeper than mortal sage hath taught, Lessons of wisdom pure, that rise From some clear fountains in the skies.

2. Fairest of Flora’s lovely daughters That bloom by stilly running waters, Fair lily! thou a type must be Of virgin love and purity! Fragrant thou art as any flower, That decks a lady’s garden-bower. But he who would thy sweetness know Must stoop and bend his loving brow To catch thy scent, so faint and rare, Scarce breathed upon the summer air. And all thy motions, too, how free, And yet how fraught with sympathy! So pale thy tint, so meek thy gleam, Shed on thy kindly father-stream! Still, as he swayeth to and fro, How true in all thy goings, As if thy very soul did know The secrets of his flowings.

3. And then that heart of living gold, Which thou dost modestly infold, And screen from man’s too searching view, Within thy robe of snowy hue! To careless man thou seem’st to roam Abroad upon the river, In all thy movements chain’d to home, Fast-rooted there forever: Link’d by a holy, hidden tie, Too subtle for a mortal eye, Nor riveted by mortal art, Deep down within thy father’s heart.

4. Emblem in truth thou art to me Of all a daughter ought to be! How shall I liken thee, sweet flower, That other men may feel thy power, May seek thee on some lovely night, And say how strong, how chaste the might, The tie of filial duty, How graceful, too, and angel bright, The pride of lowly beauty! Thou sittest on the varying tide As if thy spirit did preside, With a becoming, queenly grace, As mistress of this lonely place: A quiet magic hast thou now To smooth the river’s ruffled brow, And calm his rippling water, And yet, so delicate and airy, Thou art to him a very fairy. A widowed father’s only daughter.

XLVI.—DISCRETION.

ADDISON.

1. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion[369]; it is this indeed, which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them at work in their proper times and places, and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Though a man has all other perfections, and wants this one, he will be of no great consequence in the world; but if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. At the same time that I think discretion is the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment[370] of little, mean, ungenerous minds.

2. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable means of attaining[371] them; cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views, and, like a well formed eye, commands a whole horizon;[4] cunning is a sort of short-sightedness that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance.

3. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it; cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about those events which he might have done had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct that only looks after our immediate interest and welfare.

4. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understanding: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves, and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short cunning is only the mimic[372] of discretion, and may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.

5. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote.[373] He considers that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment, and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant.

6. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper business of his nature, and the ultimate[374] design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes[375] every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with the views of a hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality, his schemes are large and glorious, and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods.

7. I have, in this essay upon discretion, considered it both as an accomplishment and as a virtue, and have therefore described it in its full extent, not only as it is the guide of a mortal creature, but as it is in general the director of a reasonable being. It is in this light that discretion is represented by the wise man, who sometimes mentions it under the name of discretion, and sometimes under that of wisdom. It is, indeed, as described in the latter part of this paper, the greatest wisdom, but, at the same time, in the power of every one to attain. Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition[376] is easy.

[369] DIS-CREˊ-TION, prudence.

[370] AC-COMˊ-PLISH-MENTS, attainments.

[371] AT-TAINˊ-ING, reaching, obtaining.

[372] MIMˊ-IC, imitator, counterfeit.

[373] RE-MOTEˊ, distant.

[374] ULˊ-TI-MATE, final.

[375] SUˊ-PER-SEDE, to set aside.

[376] AC-QUI-SIˊ-TION, acquirement, attainment.

XLVII.—STABILITY OF CHARACTER.

ALISON.

1. Stability[377] of character is, in all pursuits, the surest foundation of success. It is a common error of the indolent[378] and the imprudent to attribute the success of others to some peculiar talents, or original superiority of mind, which is not to be found in the generality of men. Of the falseness of this opinion, the slightest observation of human life may satisfy us. The difference of talents, indeed, and the varieties of original character, may produce a difference in the aims and in the designs of men; and superior minds will naturally form to themselves superior objects of ambition. But the attainment of these ends, the accomplishment of these designs, is, in all cases, the consequence of one means alone—that of steadfastness and perseverance in pursuit.

2. “It is the hand of the diligent,” saith the wise man, “that maketh rich.” It is the same diligence, when directed to other ends, that maketh great. Every thing which we see with admiration in the world around us, or of which we read with delight in the annals of history—the acquisitions of knowledge, the discoveries of science, the powers of art, the glories of arms, the dignities of private, or the splendors of public virtue—all have sprung from the same fountain of mind, from that steady but unseen perseverance which has been exerted in their pursuit. The possession of genius alone, is, alas! no certain herald of success; and how many melancholy instances has the world afforded to us all, of how little avail mere natural talents are to the prosperity of their possessors, and of the frequency with which they have led to ruin and disgrace, when unaccompanied with firmness and energy of mind!

3. This stability of character is the surest promise of honor. It supposes, indeed, all the qualities of mind that are regarded by the world with respect; and which constitute the honorable and dignified in human character. It supposes that profound[379] sense of duty, which we every where look for as the foundation of virtue, and for the want of which no other attainments can ever compensate.[380] It supposes a chastened and regulated imagination, which looks ever to “the things that are excellent,” and which is incapable of being diverted from their pursuit, either by the intoxications[381] of prosperous, or the depressions of adverse fortune. It supposes, still more, a firm and intrepid[382] heart, which neither pleasure has been able to seduce, nor indolence to enervate,[383] nor danger to intimidate,[384] and which, in many a scene of trial, and under many severities of discipline, has hardened itself at last into the firmness and consistency of virtue.

4. A character of this kind can never be looked upon without admiration; and wherever we meet it, whether amid the splendors of prosperity, or the severities of adversity, we feel ourselves disposed to pay it a pure and an unbidden homage.[385] The display of wild and unregulated talents may sometimes, indeed, excite a temporary admiration; but it is the admiration we pay to the useless glare of the meteor, which is extinguished while it is beheld; while the sentiment we feel for the steady course of principled virtue, is the admiration with which we regard the majestic path of the sun, as he slowly pursues his way, to give light and life to nature.

5. This stability of character is, in another view, the surest foundation of happiness. There are, doubtless, many ways in which our happiness is dependent upon the conduct and the sentiments of others; but the great and perennial[386] source of every man’s happiness is in his own bosom—in that secret fountain of the heart, from which the “waters of joy or of bitterness” perpetually flow.

6. It is from this source, the man of steadfast and persevering virtue derives his peculiar happiness; and the slightest recurrence to our own experience, can tell us both its nature and its degree. It is pleasing, we all know, to review the day that is past, and to think that its duties have been done; to think that the purpose with which we rose, has been accomplished; that in the busy scene which surrounds us, we have done our part, and that no temptation has been able to subdue our firmness and our resolution.