Alexandria Gazette & Daily Advertiser

From the Pittsburg Gazette.

EXTRACTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A
VOYAGE TO THE MEDITERRANEAN.

CHAPTER IV.

"Where now, ye lying vanities of life,
Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train!
Where are ye now?"

THOMPSON

Where are ye?—Not in the angry waves that lash our little bark, nor in those surly clouds that menace in the horizon. All here is reality—the works of God alone are seen, unembellished by art and unadorned by fancy. The sun—the only object I could recognize, seemed now my only friend; his beams spread over the foaming billow, illuminated the agitated surface, and gave it a thousand varied hues.

We were now in what is called the gulf stream, which is a current that rises in the gulf of Mexico and sets along the coast in a northerly direction, deviating gradually to the eastward, until its whole course forms the segment of a circle, which extends nearly to the Azores or Western Islands, where it is lost. Vessels bound from Europe to America, generally run to the northward of the Gulf, to avoid its current which is against them, but in going to Europe they frequently take advantage of it. Navigators ascertain when they are in the Gulf by the temperature of the water, which is much warmer than the ocean near it, and increases in heat as you approach towards its centre. There is also a strong current, which when opposed or crossed by the wind, causes an irregular bubbling sea. In fact, it appears at all times to be in a state of agitation, either from adverse currents within itself, or from the continual squalls of wind to which it is subject. I leave it to philosophers to account for the phenomenon—the fact is certain, that an entirely different climate prevails in the gulf stream from that which is experienced in the ocean near it. From the moment of entering it, the horizon is constantly obscured with thick clouds, and heavy squalls of wind and rain follow each other in quick succession. This was now the kind of weather we experienced, and our only compensation was, that it was carrying us fast to our destined port.

Aug. 1st. During the next four days we met with no incidents worth recording, except those common to our situation. We were now completely in the Squall manufactory, as the sailors term the Gulf stream, and if variety is pleasing, we ought certainly to have been highly gratified. At one moment the sky was obscured with black and heavy clouds, in the next they were dissipated by a brilliant sun and a gentle breeze, which were as soon succeeded by a tremendous gust of wind or a heavy shower of rain. The squalls generally came from the Northward and Westward, and it was not uncommon to have five or six of them in an hour. Besides this, we had other inconveniences to suffer;—The Enterprise, besides being very deeply laden, is what is termed a very wet vessel, and ships a great deal of water over the deck—so that besides the constant rains, we had the water ankle-deep on the deck from the commencement of the voyage. This was peculiarly disagreeable, as it obliged us either to remain below in a small hot wardroom, of which the smell was by no means agreeable, or to stand on deck with our feet in the water, and with the spray continually dashing over us.— I was never in a much more disagreeable situation; but it was still harder for the men, and I was much amused to overhear the serio-comic manner in which they bewailed their hard fate.—"I wish," said one, "that my master had sold rum, and kept me at home to bottle it off!"— "If ever I get back," said another, "I'll ship for a soldier aboard of some fort!" They little thought that the difficulties which they complain of are trifles, compared with the hardships and deprivations to which the soldier is subject. If the romances of Dibdin, which have turned the brains of half the world, were exploded, there would be found to be as little real danger or hardship at sea as in almost any other capacity in life. The sailor who receives his regular allowance of grog and provision, and who, when his watch is over, can turn in to a dry hammock, is a nabob compared with a soldier, who after marching all day, must frequently starve all night: and who must often put up with the cold ground for his bed, with little other covering than "the curtain of night," of which the poets speak—but which in my opinion is but a flimsy kind of drapery.

There is perhaps no species of music which has excited so much enthusiasm as what are termed sea-songs. There is a fascination in these compositions, arising out of the strange medley which they exhibit, of noble sentiment, blunt honesty, fine feeling and low humour—boldness of metaphor and technical quaintness, the scene too, where the fiction is laid, is admirably calculated to display the powers of the poet, and to excite the feeling of the hearer.—"The angry aspect of the raging deep," and "brooding terrors of the storm," have all afforded more fine allusions than any other object in creation. Thus the seaman has become identified with the element on which he rides, and is only seen by the poet's eye, when sitting calmly aloft enveloped in darkness, or plunging fearlessly through the foaming billow. In this way these gentlemen, having all that is "awfully vast" at their command, can make up a very pretty story: the dangers, which the visions of fancy, and the dreams of ignorance and imbecility have suggested; the bravery—the careless self-devoted bravery—with which those dangers are said to be surmounted, and above all the munificent generosity with which the wealth earned by such exertions is disposed of, are all minutely detailed. But still the picture is not complete without the mellow tints of love—and our hero must have a sweetheart. The parting scene is depicted as full of tender emotion, suppressed anguish and manly fortitude. Then we see Jack rocking on the billow, heaving the deep drawn sigh, or dashing a tear from his cheek as he thinks of his home, his friends or his faithful Sue. During his voyage he is encompassed by many dangers by which "his valor, skill and worth," become "renowned," and at his return home laden with riches and to complete the sum total of his happiness, he pours the guineas into his mistress' lap, and the kind soul consents to receive himself there also.

All this is very pretty as a fiction. but if he has been told over and over, it begins at last to be received as truth; and we are told of the blunt honesty and generosity of a sailor, until we believe that it is so—while in fact there is no class of men who less deserve those epithets. A drunken sailor just returned from a long voyage is profuse—not from liberality or generosity with his pocket full of money but because he scarcely knows whether he puts his hand in his pocket or his hat. Others feel vain of the character they have acquired. and throw their money away, to prove their title to it.

How different is the reality! at sea the sailor is a mere slave: habituated to bear the harshest and most ignominious treatment with apathy—he toils careless of the curses or condemnation of his captain and sleeps unconscious of having heard them. Separated from the wholesome restraints of society, custom, and even law. and accustomed to the lowest scenes of dissipation and impiety, their minds become callous to the feelings of honor or honesty, and almost dead to the ties of nature. What can we expect from uneducated men, without pride, law, or religion, and exposed to the worst examples? An old sailor is considered as a privileged person: he is at liberty to cheat whom he can, and his villanies are all called "man of war tricks." He will rob his messmate of the only shirt he has in the world...plunder a dying companion... or arrest the last morsel from his lips —and if detected will answer, "Sir. I'm an old sailor!" His life at sea is one round of sleep and slavery. and on shore, of intoxication and indolence; and in old age he boasts of the profusion which has reduced him to poverty, exults in the follies that have ruined, and the vices that degrade him.

These remarks apply only to the mere sailor; among the navy officers and in that respectable class of citizens commonly called sea captains, are many gentlemen of intelligence, information and liberal ideas.

(To be continued)