“It’s a beautiful morning, and you ought to be up—the fog is gone, and the wind is down; won’t you come up and take the helm awhile—so that the boys and I may obtain a little sleep before reaching the fishing-ground, which will be about, ten o’clock?”

I was delighted to accept the invitation, and in a very short time the sailors were asleep, and I in my new station, proud as a king, and happy as a sinless boy. And, oh! that I could describe the scene that fascinated my eyes as I lay there upon the deck, with one arm reposing on the rudder, and my other hand grasping a Claude glass! I felt as I once felt before, when standing on the famous precipice of Niagara, that then, more than ever, I desired God to be my friend. I also felt, that if the world did not demand the feeble services of my life, I should wish to remain upon the ocean for ever, provided I could have “one fair being for my minister.” More earnestly than ever did I long for a complete mastery of my art. The fact of being out of sight of land, where the blue element announced that the ocean was soundless, filled my soul with that “lone, lost feeling,” which is supposed to be the eagle’s, when journeying to the zenith of the sky. The sun had just risen above the waves, and the whole eastern portion of the heavens was flooded with the most exquisite colouring I ever beheld—from the deepest crimson to the faintest and most delicate purple, from the darkest yellow to an almost invisible green; and all blended, too, in forms of marvellous loveliness. A reflection of this scene was also visible in the remaining quarters of the horizon. Around me the illimitable deep, whose bosom is studded with many a gallant and glittering ship,

The waves are lulling themselves to rest, and a balmy breeze is wandering by, as if seeking its old grandfather, who kicked up the grand “rumpus” last night; whereby I learn, that the offspring of a “rough and stormy sire,” are sometimes very beautiful and affectionate to the children of men. But look, even the dwellers in the sea and of the sea are participating in the hilarity of this bright morning! Here, a school of herrings are skipping along like a frolicsome party of vagabonds as they are—and yonder a shark has leaped out of the water, to display the symmetry of his form, and the largeness of his jaw, and looking as if he thought “that land-lubber would make me a first-rate breakfast;” there, a lot of porpoises are playing “leap-frog,” or some other outlandish game; and, a little beyond them, a gentleman sword-fish is swaggering along to parts unknown, to fight a duel in cold blood with some equally cold-blooded native of the Atlantic; and now, a flock of gulls are cleaving their course to the south, to the floating body, perhaps, of a drowned mariner, which their sagacity has discovered a league or two away—and now, again, I notice a flock of petrels, hastening onward to where the winds blow, and the waves are white. Such are the pictures I beheld in my brief period of command. It may have been but fancy, but I thought my little vessel was trying to eclipse her former beauty, and her former speed. One thing I know, that she “walked the water like a thing of life.”

I fancied, too, that I was the identical last man whom Campbell saw in his vision, and that I was then bound to the haven of eternal rest. But my shipmates returning from the land of Nod, and a certain clamour within my own body having caught my ear, I became convinced that to break my fast would make me happier than anything else just at that time, and I was soon as contented as an alderman at five P.M. About two hours after this, we reached our fishing-place, which was twenty miles east of Nantucket. We then lowered the jib and topsail, and having luffed, and fastened the main-sheet, so that the smack could easily float, we hauled out our lines, and commenced fishing, baiting our hooks with clams, of which we had some ten bushels on board. Cod fishing (for we were on a codding cruise) is rather dull sport; it is, in fact, what I would call hard labour. In six hours we had caught all the skipper wanted, or that the well would hold, so we made sail again, bound to New York; and at supper-time the deck of our smack was as clean and dry, as if it had never been pressed save by the feet of ladies. At sunset, however, a fierce southerly wind sprang up, so that we were compelled to make a harbour; and just as I am closing this record, we are anchoring at Nantucket, with a score of storm-beaten whales on our starboard bow.

Wednesday Evening. The weather to-day has been threatening, and the skipper thought it best to remain at our moorings; but with me the day has not been devoid of interest; for, in my sailor garb, I have been strolling about the town, studying the solemn drama of life, while playfully acting a subordinate part myself. This morning, as it happened, I went into the public cemetery, and spent an hour conning over the rude inscriptions to the memory of the departed. In that city of the dead, I saw a number of the living walking to and fro, but there was one who attracted my particular attention. He was a seaman of noble presence, seated upon an unmarked mound, with his feet resting upon a smaller one beside it, his head reclined upon one hand, while the other was occasionally passed across his face, as if wiping away a tear. I hailed him with a few kind questions, and my answer was the following brief tale.

“Yes, sir, four years ago, I shipped aboard that whaler yonder, leaving behind me, in a sweet little cottage of my own, a mother, a wife, and an only boy. They were all in the enjoyment of good health, and happy; and, when we were under sail, and I saw from the mast-head how kindly they waved their handkerchiefs beside my door, I too was happy, even in my hour of grief. Since that time I have circumnavigated the globe, and every rare curiosity I could obtain was intended for my darling ones at home. Last Saturday our ship returned. I asked no questions of the pilot for he was a stranger, but I landed, flew to my dwelling, and found it locked. The flagging in my yard attracted my notice, and I thought it strange that the rank grass had been suffered to grow over it so thickly. The old minister passed by my gate, and running to him with extended hand, I inquired for my family. ‘Oh Mr. B.,’ said he, ‘you must bless the Lord,—he gave them to you, and he hath taken them away.’ And as the thought stole into my brain, my suffering, sir, was intense, and I longed to die. And there they are, my wife and darling child, and, a step or two beyond, my dear old mother. Peace to their memories.”

Such was the simple story, and I have pondered much upon the world of woe which must be hidden in the breast of that old mariner.

After dinner, to-day, I got into company with some fishermen who were going after bass and bluefish, and in a short time I had captured, with my own hands, two big bass and some dozen bluefish,—which I packed in ice as a present to some New York friends.

At my present time of writing, which is near ten o’clock at night, we are weighing anchor, and the skipper tells me we shall be in New York by to-morrow’s sunset. An hour before coming on board this evening, I lounged into a sailor boarding-house, and mingled as freely with a company of whalemen there, as if I had been a bon fide member of the craft. I heard a great deal that interested me, and was sorry that I could not remain longer. There were some in that company lately arrived from every portion of the world, and yet they were engaged in the same business, and had journeyed on the same mighty highway of nations. One was descanting upon the coral islands of the Torrid zone, another upon the ice-mountains of the Arctic Sea, a third was describing the coast of California, and another the waters that lave the Eastern shore of Asia. The more I listened to these men, the more did the immensity of ocean expand before my mind, and in the same proportion was I led to wonder at the wisdom of the Creator.

I have just been on deck, and find that we are on the way to our desired haven, wafted by a steady and pleasant breeze. Our course is between Martha’s Vineyard and Rhode Island, a route studded with islands and seaports, that now appear in the cool starlight like the pictures of fairy land.

Thursday Evening. Instead of coming through the Sound last night, we headed our vessel outside of Long Island, and after a delightful sail have realized our skipper’s promise, for we are now floating beside the market in New York. The reason assigned for taking the outside course was, that the fish would keep better, on account of the greater coldness of the water. Nothing of peculiar interest has happened to us to-day, except the meeting with a wreck off Sandy Hook. It was the hull of a large ship, whose name we could not discern. It had a very old appearance, and from the moss and sea-weed that covered it, we supposed it must have been afloat for many months, the plaything of the waves. “Man marks the earth with ruin,” but who is it that scatters such splendid ruins upon the ocean? And a thousand remorseless surges echo back the answer: “To us, belong the glory of those deeds.” If that wreck had language, what a strange, eventful history would it reveal! Its themes would be,—home and all its treasures lost; the sea, and all its dangers; the soul, and all its agonies; the heart, and all its sufferings. But when we multiply all this as fast as time is multiplying it, we cannot but realize the idea, that human life is but a probationary state, and that sorrow and sighing are our earthly inheritance.

Friday Evening. After portioning out my fish this morning, and sending them to my friends, I put on my usual dress, and having obtained a six hours’ furlough, set off towards Broadway, where, between the reading rooms and the studios of a few artists, I managed to spend my time very pleasantly. At noon, we embarked for New London and had a delightful time, passing through the East River and that pleasing panorama from the city to the Sound, never before appeared more beautiful.

It is now late, and I have been on deck all the evening alone. In a thoughtful mood I fixed my eyes upon the stars, and my spirits were saddened by the continual murmur of the sea. Of what avail, thought I, is all this excitement? Why was I created, and what is my destiny? Is it to sail for a few brief years longer upon the ocean of life, and, when the death-tempest overtakes me, to pass away unloved and unremembered by a single human heart? If not an honoured name, can I not leave behind me an humble memory, that will be cherished by a few, to whom I have laid bare my innermost soul, when I was younger than I am, and a hundred-fold more happy? What! O night! what is my destiny?

Saturday Evening. We anchored off New London to-day, in time for me to take the evening steamer for Norwich. When I parted with my “shipmates,” I shook each one affectionately by the hand, and thought that I might travel many years without finding a brotherhood of nobler men. I reached home as the eight o’clock bells were ringing, and was reminded that another week of precious time was gone. That the past must be remembered as an unprofitable week, I cannot believe, for I feel that my soul has been enlarged, and my heart humbled by listening to the teachings of the mighty deep.