20 August 1832 – 26 August 1832

Calm—utter calm—a roasting August sun, a waveless sea, the sails flapping idly against the mast, and our black cradle rocking to and fro without progressing a step. They lowered the boat, and went out rowing—I wanted to go, but they would not let me! A brig was standing some four miles off us, which, by the by, I was the first to see, except our mate, in my morning watch, which began at five o'clock, when I saw the moon set and the sun rise, and feel more than ever convinced that absolute reality is away from the purpose of works of art. The sky this morning was as like the sea shore as ever sand and shingle were, the clouds lying along the horizon in pale dusky yellow layers, and higher up, floating in light brown ribbed masses, like the sands which grow wrinkled under the eternal smiling of the sea. Against the dim horizon, which blended with the violet-coloured sky, the mate then showed me, through the glass, the brig standing on the sea's edge, for all the world like one of the tiny birds who were wheeling and chirping round our ship's stern. I have done more in the shape of work to-day than any since the two first I spent on board; translated a German fable without much trouble, read a canto in Dante, ending with a valuation of fame. "O spirito gentil!" how lived fair wisdom in your soul—how shines she in your lays!—Wrote journal, walked about, worked at my cap, in the evening danced merrily enough, quadrilles, country dances, La Boulangère, and the monaco; fairly danced myself tired. Came to bed. But oh! not to sleep—mercy, what a night! The wind blowing like mad, the sea rolling, the ship pitching, bouncing, shuddering, and reeling, like a thing possessed. I lay awake, listening to her creaking and groaning, till two o'clock, when, sick of my sleepless berth, I got up and was going up stairs, to see, at least, how near drowning we were, when D——, who was lying awake too, implored me to lie down again. I did so for the hundred and eleventh time, complaining bitterly that I should be stuffed down in a loathsome berth, cabined, cribbed, confined, while the sea was boiling below, and the wind bellowing above us. Lay till daylight, the gale increasing furiously; boxes, chairs, beds, and their contents, wooden valuables, and human invaluables, rolling about and clinging to one another in glorious confusion. At about eight o'clock, a tremendous sea took the ship in the waist, and, rushing over the deck, banged against our sky-light, and bounced into our cabin. Three women were immediately apparent from their respective cribs, and poor H—— appeared in all her lengthy full-length, and came and took refuge with me. As I held her in my arms, and put my cloak round her, she shook from head to foot, poor child!—I was not the least frightened, but rather excited by this invasion of Dan Neptune's; but I wish to goodness I had been on deck.—Oh, how I wish I had seen that spoonful of salt water flung from the sea's boiling bowl! I heard afterwards, that it had nearly washed away poor Mr. ——, besides handsomely ducking and frightening our military man. Lay all day on my back, most wretched, the ship heaving like any earthquake; in fact, there is something irresistibly funny in the way in which people seem dispossessed of their power of volition by this motion, rushing hither and thither in all directions but the one they purpose going, and making as many angles, fetches, and sidelong deviations from the point they aim at, as if the devil had tied a string to their legs and jerked it every now and then in spite—by the by, not a bad illustration of our mental and moral struggles towards their legitimate aims. Another horrible night! oh horror!

A fair wind—a fine day—though very very cold and damp. It seems, in our squall last night, we had also a small piece of mutiny. During the mate's watch, and while the storm was at the worst, the man who was steering left the helm, and refused to obey orders; whereupon Mr. Curtis took up a hatchet, and assured him he would knock his brains out,—which the captain said, had it been his watch, he should have done on the spot, and without further warning. We are upon the Newfoundland banks, though not yet on soundings. Stitched my gown—worked at my nightcap—walked about:—Mr. —— read Quentin Durward to us while we worked. The extreme cold made us take refuge in our cabin, where I sat working and singing till dinner-time. Dined at table again; afterwards came back to our cabin—began writing journal, and was interrupted by hearing a bustle in the dinner-room. The gentlemen were all standing up, and presently I heard Walter Scott's name passed round:—it made me lay down my pen. Oh! how pleasant it sounded—that unanimous blessing of strangers upon a great and good man, thus far from him—from all but our own small community. The genuine and spontaneous tribute to moral worth and mental power! Poor, poor Sir Walter! And yet no prayer that can be breathed to bless, no grateful and soul felt invocation, can snatch him from the common doom of earth-born flesh, or buy away one hour's anguish and prostration of body and spirit, before the triumphant infirmities of our miserable nature. I thought of Dante's lines, that I read but a day ago; and yet—and yet—fame is something. His fame is good—is great—is glorious. To be enshrined in the hearts of all virtuous and wise men, as the friend of virtue and the teacher of wisdom; to have freely given pleasure, happiness, forgetfulness, to millions of his fellow-creatures; to have made excellence lovely, and enjoyment pure and salutary; to have taught none but lessons of honour and integrity; to have surrounded his memory, and filled the minds of all men with images fair, and bright, and wonderful, yet left around his name no halo, and in the hearts of others no slightest cloud to blot these enchanting creations; to have done nothing but good with God's good gifts—is not this fame worth something? 'Tis worth man's love, and God's approval—'tis worth toiling for, living for, and dying for. He has earned it fairly—he is a great and good man—peace be with him in his hour of mortal sorrow, and eternal peace hereafter in the heaven to which he surely goes. They then drank Washington Irving,—a gentle spirit, too. After working for some time more, came on deck, where we danced with infinite glee, disturbed only by the surpassing uproar of Colonel ——. * * * * * * * * * * The only of our crew whom I cotton to fairly, are the ——, and that good-natured lad, Mr. ——: though the former rather distress me by their abundant admiration, and the latter by his inveterate Yorkshire, and never opening his mouth when he sings, which, as he has a very sweet voice, is a cruel piece of selfishness, keeping half his tones, and all his words, for his own private satisfaction.

On soundings, and nearly off them again—a fine day;—worked at my nightcap—another, by the by, having finished one—exemplary!—Walked about, ate, drank, wrote journal—read some of it to the ——, who seemed much gratified by my doing so. I go on with Byron's life. He is loo much of an egotist. I do not like him a bit the better for knowing his prose mind;—far from thinking it redeems any of the errors of his poetical man, I think I never read any thing professing to be a person's undisguised feelings and opinions, with so much heartlessness—so little goodness in it. His views of society are like his views of human nature; or rather, by the by, reverse the sentence, to prove the fallacy in judgment; and though his satire is keen and true, yet he is nothing but satirical—never, never serious and earnest, even with himself. Oh! I have a horror of that sneering devil of Goethe's; and he seems to me to have possessed Byron utterly. A curious thought, or rather a fantastical shadow of a thought, occurred to me to-day in reading a chapter in the Corinthians about the resurrection. I mean to be buried with H——'s ring on my finger; will it be there when I rise again?—What a question for the discussers of the needle's point controversy! My father read to us, this afternoon, part of one of Webster's speeches. It was very eloquent, but yet it did not fulfil my idea of perfect oratory—inasmuch as I thought it too pictorial:—there was too much scenery and decoration about it, to use the cant of my own trade;—there was too much effect, theatrical effect in it, from which Heaven defend me, for I do loathe it in its place, and fifty times worse out of it. Perhaps Webster's speaking is a good sample, in its own line, of the leaven wherewith these times are leavened. I mean only in its defects—for its merits are sterling, and therefore of all time. But this oil and canvass style of thinking, writing, and speaking, is bad. I wish our age were more sculptural in its genius—though I have not the power in any thing to conform thereto, I have the grace to perceive its higher excellence: yet Milton was a sculptor, Shakspeare a painter. How do we get through that?—My reason for objecting to Webster's style—though the tears were in my eyes several times while my father read—is precisely the same as my reason for not altogether liking my father's reading—'tis slightly theatrical—something too much of passion, something too much of effect—but perhaps I am mistaken; for I do so abhor the slightest approach to the lamps and orange peel, that I had almost rather hear a "brazen candlestick turned on a wheel," than all the music of due emphasis and inflection, if allied to a theatrical manner.—Dined at table again. They abound in toasts, and, among others, gave "The friends we have left, and those we are going to!" My heart sank. I am going to no friend; and the "stranger," with which the Americans salute wayfarers through their land, is the only title I can claim amongst them. After dinner, walked about—danced—saw the sun sink in a bed of gorgeous stormy clouds;—worked and walked till bed-time.—I was considerably amused, and my English blood a little roused at a very good-natured and well-meant caution of Mr. ——, to avoid making an enemy of Colonel ——. He is, they say, a party man, having influence which he may exert to our detriment.

Rose late after a fair night's sleep—came up to the round-house. After breakfast, worked and walked for an immense time. Read a canto in Dante: just as I had finished it, "A sail! a sail!" was cried from all quarters. Remembering my promise to dear H——, I got together my writing-materials, and scrawled her a few incoherent lines full of my very heart. The vessel bore rapidly down upon us, but as there was no prospect of either her or our lying-to, Mr. —— tied my missive, together with one Mr. —— had just scribbled, to a lump of lead, and presently we all rushed on deck to see the ship pass us. She was an English packet, from Valparaiso, bound to London; her foremast had been carried away, but she was going gallantly before the wind. As she passed us, Mr. —— got up into the boat, to have a better chance of throwing. I saw him fling powerfully,—the little packet whizzed through the air, but the distance was impossible, and the dark waters received it within twenty feet of the ship, which sailed rapidly on, and had soon left us far behind. I believe I screamed, as the black sea closed over my poor letter. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Came down to my cabin and cried like a wretch—came up again, and found them all at lunch. Went and lay on the bowsprit, watching the fair ship courtesying through the bright sea with all her sail set, a gallant and graceful sight. Came in—wrote journal—translated a German fable. Worked at my cap, while my father went on with Webster's speech. I am still of the same mind about it, though some of the passages he read to-day were finer than any I had heard before. He gets over a shallow descent with admirable plausibility—and yet I think I would rather be descended from a half heathen Saxon giant, than from William Penn himself. We dined at table again; D—— could not: she was ill. After dinner, sat working for some time;—I had a horrid sick headach,—walked on deck. The wind and sea were both rising; we stood by the side of the ship, and watched the inky waters swelling themselves, and rolling sullenly towards us, till they broke in silver clouds against the ship, and sprang above her sides, covering us with spray. The sky had grown mirk as midnight, and the wind that came rushing over the sea was hot from the south. We staid out till it grew dark. At ten, the crazy old ship, in one of her headlong bounces, flung my whole supper in my lap; the wind and water were riotous; the ship plunged and shuddered. After screwing my courage to a game of speculation, I was obliged to leave it, and my companions. Came down and went to bed.—Oh horror! loathsome life!—