Page images
PDF
EPUB

THE

CRESCENT AND THE CROSS.

CHAPTER 1.

THE OUTWARD BOUND.

And, oh! when the glad waves foam around,
And the wind blows fair and free,

The health that we drank to the Outward-bound
Will come back to their memory.

Old friends will still seem near them,

In their ocean-cradled sleep;

And that dreaming thought will cheer them,
Far away on the lonely deep.

Then fill, while the mid-watch passes,
Fill, the toast let it circle round,
From full hearts and brimming glasses,

And, hurrah! for the Outward-bound!

MRS. NORTON:

WE took leave of Old England and the Old Year together. New Year's daylight found us standing on Southampton Pier, in front of an avalanche of sun-gilt mist, through which a few spires shot up, by way of signal that a town lay buried beneath it. The Oriental steam-ship lay about a gun-shot from the shore, sucking in a mingled mass of passengers and luggage through a cavernous mouth in her cliff-like sides; boatload after boatload was swallowed like mere spoonfuls, and it seemed marvellous how even her aldermanic bulk could find "stomach for them all." I had the Polyphemian boon of being devoured last,

and was thus a mere observer of the partings and departings of the "Outward bound."

Mrs. Norton's noble song has given a definite form of poetry to what many a rugged heart has felt that phrase imply. One cannot look upon a hundred people, leaving their native country for years, if not for ever, and think of it as an indifferent event. One knows that all these queer-looking externals of dress and feature are rude hieroglyphics, containing as deep a meaning of exile, adventure, dangers, and self-sacrificing love, as ever agitated the heart of a Tancred, a Columbus, or the pilgrim fathers, and that's a pretty wide range. Nor are such the only cares that distract those pea-jacketed bosoms at a time like this: many a parting pang is shared by solicitude about a portmanteau, and many an exile starts from a home-sick reverie-to wonder "what the deuce they've done with his carpet-bag."

On mounting the ship's side, I found the lower deck one vast pile of luggage, vainly endeavoring to be identified by its distracted owners. It seemed as if some village of valises and boxes had been overthrown by an earthquake, and the surviving inhabitants were rushing about among the ruins, vainly seeking for their dead. No one seemed to find anything they wanted; cyclopean portmanteaus, "to be opened at Calcutta," presented themselves freely; saddlery and bullock-trucks were quite ob. trusive; but little "indispensables" for the voyage were nowhere to be found-night garments were invisible, and remedies for sea-sickness reserved themselves for the overland journey.

Search and suspense were soon terminated by the sinking of the whole chaotic mass into the yawning depths of the hold, and the tomb-like hatches closed over our "loved and lost." After this bereavement, we all assembled on the upper-deck, in involuntary and unconscious muster, each inspecting and inspected by his fellow-travellers.

With the exception of two or three families, every one seemed to be a stranger to every one, and each walked the deck in a solitude of his own. There were old men, with complexions as yellow as the gold for which they had sold their youth, returning to India in search of the health which their native country, longed for through life, denied them. There were young cadets,

all eagerness and hope, though these, their predecessors, stood before them, like the mummies at Egyptian banquets, mementoes of the end of their young life's festival. There were missionary clergymen, with Ruth-like wives; merchants, with portfolios that never left their hands; young widows, with eyes black as their mourning, and sparkling as their useless marriage-ringand one or two fair girls, Heaven knows what sorrow sent them. straying from their English homes of peace and purity, over the ocean and the desert, to encounter the worse danger of Indian society. Then there were little cadets, in whom the pride of new-born independence and uniform contended with the thoughts of home; there were sailors, with the blunt, manly bearing, and free and open speech of their profession: and, lastly, there were two or three vague wanderers, like myself, who were only leaving England, as men leave a crowded room, to breathe awhile freely in the open East.

All these, in various groups, were scattered over the spacious upper deck, where there was no stain, or interruption to the lady's walk or the sailor's rush; flush, smooth, and level, except for the graceful and almost imperceptible swell and rise towards the bows.

Below, the busy, bustling scene was very different. Miss Mitford herself might recognize the lower deck as a complete village. It was a street of cabins, over whose doors you read the names of the doctor, the baker, the butcher, the confectioner, the carpenter, and many others; besides the "quality at the west end," in the shape of officers' quarters. This street terminated in a rural scene, where the smell of new-mown hay, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, and the crowing of cocks, produced quite a pastoral effect. It is true, however, that the dairy-maid wore moustaches, boathooks stood for shepherds' crooks, and the only swains were the boatswain and coxswain, the former of whom was more given to whistling than to sing. ing. Among these signs of peace and plenty, four carronades. frowned rather gloomily; but a lamb tethered to one, and an unfortunate cat picketed to another, detracted from their awful. ness. Beneath the farm-yard throbbed the iron heart of the gigantic engine; and the "village tree" was represented by a

copper funnel, up which the steam went sighing as if that heart would break.

About noon the last boat shoved off, the gangway curled itself up, a voice from the paddle-boxes said quietly-"Go on!"and the vast vessel glided away as smoothly as a gondola.

Within the ship was at work the convulsive energy of four hundred and fifty horse-power, that was to know no rest for three thousand miles; but without, all was so calm and undisturbed, that she might have seemed still at anchor but for the villas and villages, and woods and lawns, that went scampering by, as if running a steeple-chase to Salisbury. The beautiful Southampton Water, grim-looking Portsmouth, and the gentle Isle of Wight, fled rapidly away behind us, and then the shores of Old England began to fade from our view.

The first day of our voyage passed very silently away: many were sea-sick, and more were sick at heart; but in the evening there was a startling eruption of writing-desks, and a perfect flutter of pens preparing for the Falmouth post-bag. I think I see those eager scribes before me now: the man of business, with his swift and steady quill; women, gracefully bending over their twice-crossed notes (not the more legible, lady, for that tear); and lonely little boys, biting their bran-new pen-holders, and looking up to the ceiling in search of pleasant things to say to some bereaved mother. Her only comfort, perhaps, was to be that little scrawl, till her self-sacrificing heart was at rest for ever, or success had gilded her child's far distant career.

While one end of the saloon was looking like a countinghouse, the other was occupied by a set of old stagers, whose long-smothered conversation broke out with vehemence over their brandy-and-water. These jolly old fellows seemed as if no one had any claims upon their correspondence; they were father and mother, brother and sister, to themselves, and their capacious waistcoats comprised their whole domestic circle. The following day we were at Falmouth, and then we were at

sea.

CHAPTER II.

LIFE AT SEA.

Come! Let's on, where waters soothe us;
Where all winds can whistle free;
Come! once more we'll mate our spirit

With the spirit of the sea.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Et, n'est-ce pas, en effet, une seconde patrie pour un Anglais, que les vaisseaux et la mer!

MADAME DE STAEL.

By the bright goddess who sprang from ocean's foam, there is something glorious in this, her native element! Every heart dilates, and every pulse beats high, as, with favoring breezes in a cloud of sail, we sweep along our "mountain path" over the Bay of Biscay. Philosophers tell us that we are composed of these same elements of air and ocean and surely there is strong sympathy between us; for every wave we bound over, every breeze we breathe, is full of life and health, and energy and hope. There is no such remedy for drooping frame or pining spirit as the sea-I read it in every voice, and every eye, so changed within the last few days: color is come back to the pale cheek, courage to the sinking heart, and health of mind and body to every voyager on board.

The joyous and light-hearted yet gallant bearing of the sailor is no accident; it issues naturally from his stirring and eventful career, from the exhilarating air that he breathes, the freedom from petty cares that he enjoys, and from the almost unconscious pride of a chivalrous profession, which there are no town-bred coxcombs to laugh down. His life is passed in perpetual activity upon the ocean-that one great battlefield of England,

« PreviousContinue »