Chapter V: Part 5

When Elfonzo read the above letter, he became so much depressed in spirits, that many of his friends thought it advisable to use other means to bring about the happy union. ‘Strange,’ said he, ‘that the contents of this diminutive letter should cause me to have such depressed feelings; but there is a nobler theme than this. I know not why my _military title_ is not as great as that of _Squire Valeer_. For my life I cannot see that my ancestors are inferior to those who are so bitterly opposed to my marriage with Ambulinia. I know I have seen huge mountains before me; yet, when I think that I know gentlemen will insult me upon this delicate matter, should I become angry at fools and babblers who pride themselves in their impudence and ignorance? No. My equals! I know not where to find them. My inferiors! I think it beneath me: and my superiors! I think it presumption: therefore, if this youthful heart is protected by any of the divine rights, I never will betray my trust.’

He was aware that Ambulinia had a confidence that was, indeed, as firm and as resolute as she was beautiful and interesting. He hastened to the cottage of Louisa, who received him in her usual mode of pleasantness, and informed him that Ambulinia had just that moment left. ‘Is it possible?’ said Elfonzo. ‘Oh, murdered hour! Why did she not remain and be the guardian of my secrets? But hasten and tell me how she has stood this trying scene, and what are her future determinations.’ ‘You know,’ said Louisa, ‘Major Elfonzo, that you have Ambulinia’s first love, which is of no small consequence. She came here about twilight, and shed many precious tears in consequence of her own fate with yours. We walked silently in yon little valley, you see, where we spent a momentary repose. She seemed to be quite as determined as ever, and before we left that beautiful spot she offered up a prayer to Heaven for thee.’ ‘I will see her, then,’ replied Elfonzo, ‘though legions of enemies may oppose. She is mine by foreordination—she is mine by prophecy—she is mine by her own free will, and I will rescue her from the hands of her oppressors. Will you not, Miss Louisa, assist me in my capture?’ ‘I will certainly, by the aid of Divine Providence,’ answered Louisa, ‘endeavour to break those slavish chains that bind the richest of prizes; though allow me, Major, to entreat you to use no harsh means on this important occasion; take a decided stand, and write freely to Ambulinia upon this subject, and I will see that no intervening cause hinders its passage to her. God alone will save a mourning people. Now is the day, and now is the hour to obey a command of such valuable worth.’ The Major felt himself grow stronger after this short interview with Louisa. He felt as if he could whip his weight in wild-cats—he knew he was master of his own feelings, and could now write a letter that would bring this litigation to _an issue_.

‘Cumming, January 24, 1844.

‘DEAR AMBULINIA,—

‘We have now reached the most trying moment of our lives; we are
pledged not to forsake our trust; we have waited for a favourable
hour to come, thinking your friends would settle the matter
agreeably among themselves, and finally be reconciled to our
marriage; but as I have waited in vain, and looked in vain, I have
determined in my own mind to make a proposition to you, though you
may think it not in accordance with your station, or compatible with
your rank; yet, “sub hoc signo vinces.” You know I cannot resume my
visits, in consequence of the utter hostility that your father has
to me; therefore the consummation of our union will have to be
sought for in a more sublime sphere, at the residence of a
respectable friend of this village. You cannot have any scruples
upon this mode of proceeding, if you will but remember it emanates
from one who loves you better than his own life—who is more than
anxious to bid you welcome to a new and a happy home. Your warmest
associates say, come; the talented, the learned, the wise and the
experienced say, come;—all these with their friends say, come.
Viewing these, with many other inducements, I flatter myself that
you will come to the embraces of your Elfonzo; for now is the time
of your acceptance and the day of your liberation. You cannot be
ignorant, Ambulinia, that thou art the desire of my heart; its
thoughts are too noble, and too pure, to conceal themselves from
you. I shall wait for your answer to this impatiently, expecting
that you will set the time to make your departure, and to be in
readiness at a moment’s warning to share the joys of a more
preferable life. This will be handed you by Louisa, who will take a
pleasure in communicating anything to you that may relieve your
dejected spirits, and will assure you that I now stand ready,
willing and waiting to make good my vows.

‘I am, dear Ambulinia,
‘Yours truly and for ever,
‘J. I. ELFONZO.’

Louisa made it convenient to visit Mr. Valeer’s, though they did not suspect her in the least the bearer of love epistles: consequently, she was invited in the room to console Ambulinia, where they were left alone. Ambulinia was seated by a small table—her head resting on her hand—her brilliant eyes were bathed in tears. Louisa handed her the letter of Elfonzo, when another spirit animated her features—the spirit of renewed confidence that never fails to strengthen the female character in an hour of grief and sorrow like this; and as she pronounced the last accent of his name, she exclaimed, ‘And does he love me yet? I never will forget your generosity, Louisa. Oh, unhappy and yet blessed Louisa! may you never feel what I have felt—may you never know the pangs of love! Had I never loved, I never would have been unhappy; but I turn to Him who can save, and if His wisdom does not will my expected union, I know He will give me strength to bear my lot. Amuse yourself with this little book, and take it as an apology for my silence,’ said Ambulinia, ‘while I attempt to answer this volume of consolation.’ ‘Thank you,’ said Louisa, ‘you are excusable upon this occasion; but I pray you, Ambulinia, to be expert upon this momentous subject, that there may be nothing mistrustful upon my part.’ ‘I will,’ said Ambulinia, and immediately resumed her seat and addressed the following to Elfonzo:—

‘Cumming, Ga., January 28,1844.

‘DEVOTED ELFONZO,—

‘I hail your letter as a welcome messenger of faith, and can now say
truly and firmly, that my feelings correspond with yours. Nothing
shall be wanting on my part to make my obedience your fidelity.
Courage and perseverance will accomplish success. Receive this as my
oath, that while I grasp your hand in my own imagination, we stand
united before a higher tribunal than any on earth. All the powers of
my life, soul, and body, I devote to thee. Whatever dangers may
threaten me, I fear not to encounter them. Perhaps I have determined
upon my own destruction, by leaving the house of the best of
parents; be it so, I flee to you, I share your destiny, faithful to
the end. The day that I have concluded upon for this task is
_Sabbath_ next, when the family with the citizens are generally at
church. For Heaven’s sake let not that day pass unimproved: trust
not till to-morrow, it is the cheat of life—the future that never
comes—the grave of many noble births—the cavern of ruined
enterprise: which like the lightning’s flash is born, and dies, and
perishes, ere the voice of him who sees can cry, _Behold! behold!!_
You may trust to what I say; no power shall tempt me to betray
confidence. Suffer me to add one word more.

I will soothe thee, in all thy grief,
Beside the gloomy river:
And though thy love may yet be brief,
Mine is fixed for ever.

Receive the deepest emotions of my heart for thy constant love, and may the power of inspiration be thy guide, thy portion, and thy all. In great haste,

‘Yours faithfully,
‘AMBULINIA.’

‘I now take my leave of you, sweet girl,’ said Louisa, ‘sincerely wishing you success on Sabbath next.’ When Ambulinia’s letter was handed to Elfonzo, he perused it without doubting its contents. Louisa charged him to make but few confidants; but, like most young men who happened to win the heart of a beautiful girl, he was so elated with the idea, that he felt as a commanding general on parade, who had confidence in all, consequently gave orders to all. The appointed Sabbath, with a delicious breeze and cloudless sky, made its appearance. The people gathered in crowds to the church—the streets were filled with the neighbouring citizens, all marching to the house of worship. It is entirely useless for me to attempt to describe the feelings of Elfonzo and Ambulinia, who were silently watching the movements of the multitude, apparently counting them as they entered the house of God, looking for the last one to darken the door. The impatience and anxiety with which they waited, and the bliss they anticipated on the eventful day, is altogether indescribable. Those that have been so fortunate as to embark in such a noble enterprise, know all its realities; and those who have not had this inestimable privilege, will have to taste its sweets, before they can tell to others its joys, its comforts, and its Heaven-born worth. Immediately after Ambulinia had assisted the family off to church, she took the advantage of that opportunity to make good her promises. She left a home of enjoyment to be wedded to one whose love had been justifiable. A few short steps brought her to the presence of Louisa, who urged her to make good use of her time, and not to delay a moment, but to go with her to her brother’s house, where Elfonzo would for ever make her happy. With lively speed, and yet a graceful air, she entered the door and found herself protected by the champion of her confidence. The necessary arrangements were fast making to have the two lovers united—everything was in readiness except the Parson; and as they are generally very sanctimonious on such occasions, the news got to the parents of Ambulinia before the everlasting knot was tied, and they both came running, with uplifted hands and injured feelings, to arrest their daughter from an unguarded and hasty resolution. Elfonzo desired to maintain his ground, but Ambulinia thought it best for him to leave, to prepare for a greater contest. He accordingly obeyed, as it would have been a vain endeavour for him to have battled against a man who was armed with deadly weapons; and, besides, he could not resist the request of such a pure heart. Ambulinia concealed herself in the upper story of the house, fearing the rebuke of her father; the door was locked, and no chastisement was now expected. Squire Valeer, whose pride was already touched, resolved to preserve the dignity of his family. He entered the house almost exhausted, looking wildly for Ambulinia. ‘Amazed and astonished indeed I am,’ said he, ‘at a people who call themselves civilised, to allow such behaviour as this. Ambulinia, Ambulinia!’ he cried, ‘come to the calls of your first, your best, and your only friend. I appeal to you, sir,’ turning to the gentleman of the house, ‘to know where Ambulinia has gone, or where is she?’ ‘Do you mean to insult me, sir, in my own house?’ inquired the confounded gentleman. ‘I will burst,’ said Mr. V., ‘asunder every door in your dwelling, in search of my daughter, if you do not speak quickly, and tell me where she is. I care nothing about that outcast rubbish of creation, that mean, low-lived Elfonzo, if I can but obtain Ambulinia! Are you not going to open this door?’ said he. ‘By the Eternal that made heaven and earth! I will go about the work instantly, if it is not done.’ The confused citizens gathered from all parts of the village to know the cause of this commotion. Some rushed into the house; the door that was locked flew open, and there stood Ambulinia, weeping. ‘Father, be still,’ said she, ‘and I will follow thee home.’ But the agitated man seized her, and bore her off through the gazing multitude. ‘Father,’ she exclaimed, ‘I humbly beg your pardon—I will be dutiful—I will obey thy commands. Let the sixteen years I have lived in obedience to thee be my future security.’ ‘I don’t like to be always giving credit, when the old score is not paid up, madam,’ said the father. The mother followed almost in a state of derangement, crying and imploring her to think beforehand, and ask advice from experienced persons, and they would tell her it was a rash undertaking. ‘Oh!’ said she, ‘Ambulinia, my daughter, did you know what I have suffered—did you know how many nights I have whiled away in agony, in pain, and in fear, you would pity the sorrows of a heartbroken mother.’

‘Well, mother,’ replied Ambulinia, ‘I know I have been disobedient; I am aware that what I have done might have been done much better; but oh! what shall I do with my honour? it is so dear to me; I am pledged to Elfonzo. His high moral worth is certainly worth some attention; moreover, my vows, I have no doubt, are recorded in the book of life, and must I give these all up? must my fair hopes be for ever blasted? Forbid it, father; oh! forbid it, mother; forbid it, heaven.’ ‘I have seen so many beautiful skies overclouded,’ replied the mother, ‘so many blossoms nipped by the frost, that I am afraid to trust you to the care of those fair days, which may be interrupted by thundering and tempestuous nights. You no doubt think as I did—life’s devious ways were strewed with sweet-scented flowers; but ah! how long they have lingered around me and took their flight in the vivid hope that laughs at the drooping victims it has murdered.’ Elfonzo was moved at this sight. The people followed on to see what was going to become of Ambulinia, while he, with downcast looks, kept at a distance, until he saw them enter the abode of the father, thrusting her, that was the sigh of his soul, out of his presence into a solitary apartment, when she exclaimed, ‘Elfonzo! Elfonzo! oh, Elfonzo! where art thou, with all thy heroes? haste, oh! haste, come thou to my relief. Ride on the wings of the wind! Turn thy force loose like a tempest, and roll on thy army like a whirlwind over this mountain of trouble and confusion. Oh, friends! if any pity me, let your last efforts throng upon the green hills, and come to the relief of Ambulinia, who is guilty of nothing but innocent love.’ Elfonzo called out with a loud voice, ‘My God, can I stand this? Arouse up, I beseech you, and put an end to this tyranny. Come, my brave boys,’ said he, ‘are you ready to go forth to your duty?’ They stood around him. ‘Who,’ said he, ‘will call us to arms? Where are my thunderbolts of war? Speak ye, the first who will meet the foe! Who will go forward with me in this ocean of grievous temptation? If there is one who desires to go, let him come and shake hands upon the altar of devotion, and swear that he will be a hero; yes, a Hector in a cause like this, which calls aloud for a speedy remedy.’ ‘Mine be the deed,’ said a young lawyer, ‘and mine alone; Venus alone shall quit her station before I will forsake one jot or tittle of my promise to you; what is death to me? what is all this warlike army, if it is not to win a victory? I love the sleep of the lover and the mighty; nor would I give it over till the blood of my enemies should wreak with that of my own. But God forbid that our fame should soar on the blood of the slumberer.’ Mr. Valeer stands at his door with the frown of a demon upon his brow, with his dangerous weapon ready to strike the first man who should enter his door. ‘Who will arise and go forward through blood and carnage to the rescue of my Ambulinia?’ said Elfonzo. ‘All,’ exclaimed the multitude; and onward they went, with their implements of battle. Others, of a more timid nature, stood among the distant hills to see the result of the contest.

Elfonzo took the lead of his band. Night arose in clouds; darkness concealed the heavens; but the blazing hopes that stimulated them gleamed in every bosom. All approached the anxious spot; they rushed to the front of the house, and with one exclamation demanded Ambulinia. ‘Away, begone, and disturb my peace no more,’ said Mr. Valeer. ‘You are a set of base, insolent, and infernal rascals. Go, the northern star points your path through the dim twilight of the night; go, and vent your spite upon the lonely hills; pour forth your love, you poor, weak-minded wretch, upon your idleness and upon your guitar, and your fiddle; they are fit subjects for your admiration, for, let me assure you, though this sword and iron lever are cankered, yet they frown in sleep, and let one of you dare to enter my house this night and you shall have the contents and the weight of these instruments.’ ‘Never yet did base dishonour blur my name,’ said Elfonzo; ‘mine is a cause of renown; here are my warriors, fear and tremble, for this night, though hell itself should oppose, I will endeavour to avenge her whom thou hast banished in solitude. The voice of Ambulinia shall be heard from that dark dungeon.’ At that moment Ambulinia appeared at the window above, and with a tremulous voice said, ‘Live, Elfonzo! oh! live to raise my stone of moss! why should such language enter your heart? why should thy voice rend the air with such agitation? I bid thee live, once more remembering these tears of mine are shed alone for thee, in this dark and gloomy vault, and should I perish under this load of trouble, join the song of thrilling accents with the raven above my grave, and lay this tattered frame beside the banks of the Chattahoochee, or the stream of Sawney’s brook; sweet will be the song of death to your Ambulinia. My ghost shall visit you in the smiles of Paradise, and tell your high fame to the minds of that region, which is far more preferable than this lonely cell. My heart shall speak for thee till the latest hour; I know faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow, yet our souls, Elfonzo, shall hear the peaceful songs together. One bright name shall be ours on high, if we are not permitted to be united here; bear in mind that I still cherish my old sentiments, and the poet will mingle the names of Elfonzo and Ambulinia in the tide of other days.’ ‘Fly, Elfonzo,’ said the voices of his united band, ‘to the wounded heart of your beloved. All enemies shall fall beneath thy sword. Fly through the clefts, and the dim spark shall sleep in death.’ Elfonzo rushes forward and strikes his shield against the door, which was barricaded, to prevent any intercourse. His brave sons throng round him. The people pour along the streets, both male and female, to prevent or witness the melancholy scene.

‘To arms, to arms!’ cried Elfonzo, ‘here is a victory to be won, a prize to be gained, that is more to me than the whole world beside.’ ‘It cannot be done to-night,’ said Mr. Valeer. ‘I bear the clang of death; my strength and armour shall prevail. My Ambulinia shall rest in this hall until the break of another day, and if we fall, we fall together. If we die, we die clinging to our tattered rights, and our blood alone shall tell the mournful tale of a murdered daughter and a ruined father.’ Sure enough, he kept watch all night, and was successful in defending his house and family. The bright morning gleamed upon the hills, night vanished away, the Major and his associates felt somewhat ashamed that they had not been as fortunate as they expected to have been; however, they still leaned upon their arms in dispersed groups; some were walking the streets, others were talking in the Major’s behalf. Many of the citizens suspended business, as the town presented nothing but consternation. A novelty that might end in the destruction of some worthy and respectable citizens. Mr. Valeer ventured in the streets, though not without being well armed. Some of his friends congratulated him on the decided stand he had taken, and hoped he would settle the matter amicably with Elfonzo, without any serious injury.

‘Me,’ he replied, ‘what, me, condescend to fellowship with a coward, and a low-lived, lazy, undermining villain? No, gentlemen, this cannot be; I had rather be borne off, like the bubble upon the dark blue ocean, with Ambulinia by my side, than to have him in the ascending or descending line of relationship. Gentlemen,’ continued he, ‘if Elfonzo is so much of a distinguished character, and is so learned in the fine arts, why do you not patronise such men? why not introduce him into your families as a gentleman of taste and of unequalled magnanimity? why are you so very anxious that he should become a relative of mine? Oh, gentlemen, I fear you yet are tainted with the curiosity of our first parents, who were beguiled by the poisonous kiss of an old ugly serpent, and who, for one _apple, damned_ all mankind. I wish to divest myself, as far as possible, of that untutored custom. I have long since learned that the perfection of wisdom and the end of true philosophy is to proportion our wants to our possessions, our ambition to our capacities; we will then be a happy and a virtuous people.’ Ambulinia was sent off to prepare for a long and tedious journey. Her new acquaintances had been instructed by her father how to treat her, and in what manner, and to keep the anticipated visit entirely secret. Elfonzo was watching the movements of everybody; some friends had told him of the plot that was laid to carry off Ambulinia. At night, he rallied some two or three of his forces, and went silently along to the stately mansion; a faint and glimmering light showed through the windows; lightly he steps to the door, there were many voices rallying fresh in fancy’s eye; he tapped the shutter, it was opened instantly, and he beheld once more, seated beside several ladies, the hope of all his toils; he rushed towards her, she rose from her seat, rejoicing: he made one mighty grasp, when Ambulinia exclaimed, ‘Huzza for Major Elfonzo! I will defend myself and you, too, with this conquering instrument I hold in my hand; huzza, I say, I now invoke time’s broad wing to shed around us some dewdrops of verdant spring.’

But the hour had not come for this joyous reunion; her friends struggled with Elfonzo for some time, and finally succeeded in arresting her from his hands. He dared not injure them, because they were matrons whose courage needed no spur; she was snatched from the arms of Elfonzo, with so much eagerness and yet with such expressive signification, that he calmly withdrew from this lovely enterprise, with an ardent hope that he should be lulled to repose by the zephyrs which whispered peace to his soul. Several long days and nights passed unmolested, all seemed to have grounded their arms of rebellion, and no callidity appeared to be going on with any of the parties. Other arrangements were made by Ambulinia; she feigned herself to be entirely the votary of a mother’s care, and said, by her graceful smiles, that manhood might claim his stern dominion in some other region, where such boisterous love was not so prevalent. This gave the parents a confidence that yielded some hours of sober joy; they believed that Ambulinia would now cease to love Elfonzo, and that her stolen affections would now expire with her misguided opinions. They therefore declined the idea of sending her to a distant land. But oh! they dreamed not of the rapture that dazzled the fancy of Ambulinia, who would say, when alone, youth should not fly away on his rosy pinions, and leave her to grapple in the conflict with unknown admirers.

No frowning age shall control
The constant current of my soul,
Nor a tear from pity’s eye
Shall check my sympathetic sigh.

With this resolution fixed in her mind, one dark and dreary night, when the winds whistled and the tempest roared, she received intelligence that Elfonzo was then waiting, and every preparation was then ready, at the residence of Dr. Tully, and for her to make a quick escape while the family were reposing. Accordingly she gathered her books, went to the wardrobe supplied with a variety of ornamental dressing, and ventured alone in the streets to make her way to Elfonzo, who was near at hand, impatiently looking and watching her arrival. ‘What forms,’ said she, ‘are those rising before me? What is that dark spot on the clouds? I do wonder what frightful ghost that is, gleaming on the red tempest? Oh, be merciful and tell me what region you are from. Oh tell me, ye strong spirits, or ye dark and fleeting clouds, that I yet have a friend.’ ‘A friend,’ said a low, whispering voice. ‘I am thy unchanging, thy aged, and thy disappointed mother. Oh, Ambulinia, why hast thou deceived me? Why brandish in that hand of thine a javelin of pointed steel? Why suffer that lip I have kissed a thousand times, to equivocate? My daughter, let these tears sink deep into thy soul, and no longer persist in that which may be your destruction and ruin. Come, my dear child, retrace your steps, and bear me company to your welcome home.’ Without one retorting word, or frown from her brow, she yielded to the entreaties of her mother, and with all the mildness of her former character she went along with the silver lamp of age, to the home of candour and benevolence. Her father received her with cold and formal politeness—‘Where has Ambulinia been, this blustering evening, Mrs. Valeer?’ inquired he. ‘Oh, she and I have been taking a solitary walk,’ said the mother; ‘all things, I presume, are now working for the best.’

Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened. ‘What,’ said he, ‘has heaven and earth turned against me? I have been disappointed times without number. Shall I despair? Must I give it over? Heaven’s decrees will not fade; I will write again—I will try again; and if it traverses a gory field, I pray forgiveness at the altar of justice.’

‘Desolate Hill, Cumming, Geo., 1844.

‘UNCONQUERED AND BELOVED AMBULINIA,—

‘I have only time to say to you, not to despair; thy fame shall not
perish; my visions are brightening before me. The whirlwind’s rage
is past, and we now shall subdue our enemies without doubt. On
Monday morning, when your friends are at breakfast, they will not
suspect your departure, or even mistrust me being in town, as it has
been reported advantageously that I have left for the west. You walk
carelessly towards the academy grove, where you will find me with a
lightning steed, elegantly equipped to bear you off where we shall
be joined in wedlock with the first connubial rights. Fail not to do
this—think not of the tedious relations of our wrongs—be invincible.
You alone occupy all my ambition, and I alone will make you my happy
spouse, with the same unimpeached veracity. I remain, for ever, your
devoted friend and admirer,

‘J. I. ELFONZO.’

The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds; nothing disturbed Ambulinia’s soft beauty. With serenity and loveliness she obeys the request of Elfonzo. The moment the family seated themselves at the table—‘Excuse my absence for a short time,’ said she, ‘while I attend to the placing of those flowers which should have been done a week ago.’ And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls that indicated her coming. Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow and his golden harp. They meet—Ambulinia’s countenance brightens—Elfonzo leads up his winged steed. ‘Mount,’ said he, ‘ye true-hearted, ye fearless soul—the day is ours.’ She sprang upon the back of the young thunderbolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch. ‘Lend thy aid, ye strong winds,’ they exclaimed; ‘ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.’ ‘Hold,’ said Elfonzo, ‘thy dashing steed.’ ‘Ride on,’ said Ambulinia, ‘the voice of thunder is behind us.’ And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities that usually attend such divine operations. They passed the day in thanksgiving and great rejoicing, and on that evening they visited their uncle, where many of their friends and acquaintances had gathered to congratulate them in the field of untainted bliss. The kind old gentleman met them in the yard: ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I wish I may die, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia haven’t tied a knot with your tongue that you can’t untie with your teeth. But come in, come in; never mind, all is right—the world still moves on, and no one has fallen in this great battle.’

Happy now is their lot! Unmoved by misfortune, they live among the fair beauties of the South. Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon the arch of the rainbow, and smiles propitiously at their triumph, _through the tears of the storm_.

_ABOUT ALL KINDS OF SHIPS_

THE MODERN STEAMER AND THE OBSOLETE STEAMER

We are victims of one common superstition—the superstition that we realise the changes that are daily taking place in the world because we read about them and know what they are. I should not have supposed that the modern ship could be a surprise to me, but it is. It seems to be as much of a surprise to me as it could have been if I had never read anything about it. I walk about this great vessel, the ‘Havel,’ as she ploughs her way through the Atlantic, and every detail that comes under my eye brings up the miniature counterpart of it as it existed in the little ships I crossed the ocean in, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen, and twenty years ago.

In the ‘Havel’ one can be in several respects more comfortable than he can be in the best hotels on the Continent of Europe. For instance, she has several bath-rooms, and they are as convenient and as nicely equipped as the bath-rooms in a fine private house in America; whereas in the hotels of the Continent one bath-room is considered sufficient, and it is generally shabby and located in some out-of-the-way corner of the house; moreover, you need to give notice so long beforehand that you get over wanting a bath by the time you get it. In the hotels there are a good many different kinds of noises, and they spoil sleep; in my room in the ship I hear no sounds. In the hotels they usually shut off the electric light at midnight; in the ship one may burn it in one’s room all night.

In the steamer ‘Batavia,’ twenty years ago, one candle set in the bulkhead between two state-rooms was there to light both rooms, but did not light either of them. It was extinguished at eleven at night, and so were all the saloon lamps, except one or two, which were left burning to help the passenger see how to break his neck trying to get around in the dark. The passengers sat at table on long benches made of the hardest kind of wood; in the ‘Havel’ one sits on a swivel chair with a cushioned back to it. In those old times the dinner bill of fare was always the same: a pint of some simple, homely soup or other, boiled codfish and potatoes, slab of boiled beef; stewed prunes for dessert—on Sundays ‘dog in a blanket,’ on Thursdays ‘plum duff.’ In the modern ship the _menu_ is choice and elaborate, and is changed daily. In the old times dinner was a sad occasion; in our day a concealed orchestra enlivens it with charming music. In the old days the decks were always wet; in our day they are usually dry, for the promenade-deck is roofed over, and a sea seldom comes aboard. In a moderately disturbed sea, in the old days, a landsman could hardly keep his legs, but in such a sea in our day, the decks are as level as a table. In the old days the inside of a ship was the plainest and barrenest thing, and the most dismal and uncomfortable, that ingenuity could devise; the modern ship is a marvel of rich and costly decoration and sumptuous appointment, and is equipped with every comfort and convenience that money can buy. The old ships had no place of assembly but the dining-room; the new ones have several spacious and beautiful drawing-rooms. The old ships offered the passenger no chance to smoke except in the place that was called the ‘fiddle.’ It was a repulsive den made of rough boards (full of cracks), and its office was to protect the main hatch. It was grimy and dirty; there were no seats; the only light was a lamp of the rancid-oil-and-rag kind; the place was very cold, and never dry, for the seas broke in through the cracks every little while and drenched the cavern thoroughly. In the modern ship there are three or four large smoking-rooms, and they have card tables and cushioned sofas, and are heated by steam and lighted by electricity. There are few European hotels with such smoking-rooms.

The former ships were built of wood, and had two or three water-tight compartments in the hold with doors in them, which were often left open, particularly when the ship was going to hit a rock. The modern leviathan is built of steel, and the water-tight bulkheads have no doors in them; they divide the ship into nine or ten water-tight compartments and endow her with as many lives as a cat. Their complete efficiency was established by the happy results following the memorable accident to the ‘City of Paris’ a year or two ago.

One curious thing which is at once noticeable in the great modern ship is the absence of hubbub, clatter, rush of feet, roaring of orders. That is all gone by. The elaborate manœuvres necessary in working the vessel into her dock are conducted without sound: one sees nothing of the processes, hears no commands. A Sabbath stillness and solemnity reign in place of the turmoil and racket of the earlier days. The modern ship has a spacious bridge, fenced chin-high with sail-cloth, and floored with wooden gratings; and this bridge, with its fenced fore-and-aft annexes, could accommodate a seated audience of a hundred and fifty men. There are three steering equipments, each competent if the others should break. From the bridge the ship is steered, and also handled. The handling is not done by shout or whistle, but by signalling with patent automatic gongs. There are three tell-tales with plainly lettered dials—for steering, handling the engines, and for communicating orders to the invisible mates who are conducting the landing of the ship or casting off. The officer who is astern is out of sight, and too far away to hear trumpet calls; but the gongs near him tell him to haul in, pay out, make fast, let go, and so on; he hears, but the passengers do not, and so the ship seems to land herself without human help.

This great bridge is thirty or forty feet above the water, but the sea climbs up there sometimes; so there is another bridge twelve or fifteen feet higher still, for use in these emergencies. The force of water is a strange thing. It slips between one’s fingers like air, but upon occasion it acts like a solid body, and will bend a thin iron rod. In the ‘Havel’ it has splintered a heavy oaken rail into broom-straws, instead of merely breaking it in two as would have been the seemingly natural thing for it to do. At the time of the awful Johnstown disaster, according to the testimony of several witnesses, rocks were carried some distance on the surface of the stupendous torrent; and at St. Helena, many years ago, a vast sea-wave carried a battery of cannon forty feet up a steep slope, and deposited the guns there in a row. But the water has done a still stranger thing, and it is one which is credibly vouched for. A marlinspike is an implement about a foot long which tapers from its butt to the other extremity, and ends in a sharp point. It is made of iron, and is heavy. A wave came aboard a ship in a storm and raged aft, breast high, carrying a marlinspike point-first with it, and with such lightning-like swiftness and force as to drive it three or four inches into a sailor’s body and kill him.

In all ways the ocean greyhound of to-day is imposing and impressive to one who carries in his head no ship-pictures of a recent date. In bulk she comes near to rivalling the Ark; yet this monstrous mass of steel is driven five hundred miles through the waves in twenty-four hours. I remember the brag run of a steamer which I travelled in once on the Pacific—it was two hundred and nine miles in twenty-four hours; a year or so later I was a passenger in the excursion-tub ‘Quaker City,’ and on one occasion, in a level and glassy sea, it was claimed that she reeled off two hundred and eleven miles between noon and noon, but it was probably a campaign lie. That little steamer had seventy passengers and a crew of forty men, and seemed a good deal of a beehive; but in this present ship we are living in a sort of solitude, these soft summer days, with sometimes a hundred passengers scattered about the spacious distances, and sometimes nobody in sight at all; yet, hidden somewhere in the vessel’s bulk, there are (including crew) near eleven hundred people.

The stateliest lines in the literature of the sea are these:

Britannia needs no bulwark, no towers along the steep—
Her march is o’er the mountain wave, her home is on the
deep!

There it is. In those old times the little ships climbed over the waves and wallowed down into the trough on the other side; the giant ship of our day does not climb over the waves, but crushes her way through them. Her formidable weight and mass and impetus give her mastery over any but extraordinary storm-waves.

The ingenuity of man! I mean in this passing generation. To-day I found in the chart-room a frame of removable wooden slats on the wall, and on the slats was painted uninforming information like this:

Trim-Tank Empty
Double-Bottom No. 1 Full
Double-Bottom No. 2 Full
Double-Bottom No. 3 Full
Double-Bottom No. 4 Full

While I was trying to think out what kind of a game this might be, and how a stranger might best go to work to beat it, a sailor came in and pulled out the ‘Empty’ end of the first slat and put it back with its reverse side to the front, marked ‘Full.’ He made some other change, I did not notice what. The slat-frame was soon explained. Its function was to indicate how the ballast in the ship was distributed. The striking thing was, that that ballast was water. I did not knew that a ship had ever been ballasted with water. I had merely read, some time or other, that such an experiment was to be tried. But that is the modern way; between the experimental trial of a new thing and its adoption there is no wasted time, if the trial proves its value.

On the wall, near the slat-frame, there was an outline drawing of the ship, and this betrayed the fact that this vessel has twenty-two considerable lakes of water in her. These lakes are in her bottom; they are imprisoned between her real bottom and a false bottom. They are separated from each other, thwartships, by water-tight bulkheads, and separated down the middle by a bulkhead running from the bow four-fifths of the way to the stern. It is a chain of lakes four hundred feet long and from five to seven feet deep. Fourteen of the lakes contain fresh water brought from shore, and the aggregate weight of it is four hundred tons. The rest of the lakes contain salt water—six hundred and eighteen tons. Upwards of a thousand tons of water altogether.

Think how handy this ballast is. The ship leaves port with the lakes all full. As she lightens forward, through consumption of coal, she loses trim—her head rises, her stern sinks down. Then they spill one of the sternward lakes into the sea, and the trim is restored. This can be repeated right along as occasion may require. Also, a lake at one end of the ship can be moved to the other end by pipes and steam pumps. When the sailor changed the slat-frame to-day, he was posting a transference of that kind. The seas had been increasing, and the vessel’s head needed more weighting, to keep it from rising on the waves instead of ploughing through them; therefore, twenty-five tons of water had been transferred to the bow from a lake situated well towards the stern.

A water compartment is kept either full or empty. The body of water must be compact, so that it cannot slosh around. A shifting ballast would not do, of course.

The modern ship is full of beautiful ingenuities, but it seems to me that this one is the king. I would rather be the originator of that idea than of any of the others. Perhaps the trim of a ship was never perfectly ordered and preserved until now. A vessel out of trim will not steer, her speed is maimed, she strains and labours in the seas. Poor creature! for six thousand years she has had no comfort until these latest days. For six thousand years she swam through the best and cheapest ballast in the world, the only perfect ballast, but she couldn’t tell her master, and he had not the wit to find it out for himself. It is odd to reflect that there is nearly as much water inside of this ship as there is outside, and yet there is no danger.

NOAH’S ARK

The progress made in the great art of ship-building since Noah’s time is quite noticeable. Also, the looseness of the navigation laws in the time of Noah is in quite striking contrast with the strictness of the navigation laws of our time. It would not be possible for Noah to do in our day what he was permitted to do in his own. Experience has taught us the necessity of being more particular, more conservative, more careful of human life. Noah would not be allowed to sail from Bremen in our day. The inspectors would come and examine the Ark, and make all sorts of objections. A person who knows Germany can imagine the scene and the conversation without difficulty and without missing a detail. The inspector would be in a beautiful military uniform; he would be respectful, dignified, kindly, the perfect gentleman, but steady as the north star to the last requirement of his duty. He would make Noah tell him where he was born, and how old he was, and what religious sect he belonged to, and the amount of his income, and the grade and position he claimed socially, and the name and style of his occupation, and how many wives and children he had, and how many servants, and the name, sex, and age of the whole of them; and if he hadn’t a passport he would be courteously required to get one right away. Then he would take up the matter of the Ark:

‘What is her length?’

‘Six hundred feet.’

‘Depth?’

‘Sixty-five.’

‘Beam?’

‘Fifty or sixty.’

‘Built of——’

‘Wood.’

‘What kind?’

‘Shittim and gopher.’

‘Interior and exterior decorations?’

‘Pitched within and without.’

‘Passengers?’

‘Eight.’

‘Sex?’

‘Half male, the others female.’

‘Ages?’

‘From a hundred years up.’

‘Up to where?’

‘Six hundred.’

‘Ah! going to Chicago; good idea, too. Surgeon’s name?’

‘We have no surgeon.’

‘Must provide a surgeon. Also an undertaker—particularly the undertaker. These people must not be left without the necessities of life at their age. Crew?’

‘The same eight.’

‘The same eight?’

‘The same eight.’

‘And half of them women?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have they ever served as seamen?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have the men?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Have any of you ever been to sea?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Where were you reared?’

‘On a farm—all of us.’

‘This vessel requires a crew of eight hundred men, she not being a steamer. You must provide them. She must have four mates and nine cooks. Who is captain?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘You must get a captain. Also a chambermaid. Also sick nurses for the old people. Who designed this vessel?’

‘I did, sir.’

‘Is it your first attempt?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I partly suspected it. Cargo?’

‘Animals.’

‘Kind?’

‘All kinds.’

‘Wild or tame?’

‘Mainly wild.’

‘Foreign or domestic?’

‘Mainly foreign.’

‘Principal wild ones?’

‘Megatherium, elephant, rhinoceros, lion, tiger, wolf, snakes—all the wild things of all climes—two of each.’

‘Securely caged?’

‘No, not caged.’

‘They must have iron cages. Who feeds and waters the menagerie?’

‘We do.’

‘The old people?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It is dangerous—for both. The animals must be cared for by a competent force. How many animals are there?’

‘Big ones, seven thousand; big and little together, ninety-eight thousand.’

‘You must provide twelve hundred keepers. How is the vessel lighted?’

‘By two windows.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Up under the eaves.’

‘Two windows for a tunnel six hundred feet long and sixty-five feet deep? You must put in the electric light—a few arc lights and fifteen hundred incandescents. What do you do in case of leaks? How many pumps have you?’

‘None, sir.’

‘You must provide pumps. How do you get water for the passengers and the animals?’

‘We let down the buckets from the windows.’

‘It is inadequate. What is your motive power?’

‘What is my which?’

‘Motive power. What power do you use in driving the ship?’

‘None.’

‘You must provide sails or steam. What is the nature of your steering apparatus?’

‘We haven’t any.’

‘Haven’t you a rudder?’

‘No, sir.’

‘How do you steer the vessel?’

‘We don’t.’

‘You must provide a rudder, and properly equip it. How many anchors have you?’

‘None.’

‘You must provide six. One is not permitted to sail a vessel like this without that protection. How many life-boats have you?’

‘None, sir.’

‘Provide twenty-five. How many life-preservers?’

‘None.’

‘You will provide two thousand. How long are you expecting your voyage to last?’

‘Eleven or twelve months.’

‘Eleven or twelve months. Pretty slow—but you will be in time for the Exposition. What is your ship sheathed with—copper?’

‘Her hull is bare—not sheathed at all.’

‘Dear man, the wood-boring creatures of the sea would riddle her like a sieve and send her to the bottom in three months. She _cannot_ be allowed to go away in this condition; she must be sheathed. Just a word more: Have you reflected that Chicago is an inland city, and not reachable with a vessel like this?’

‘Shecargo? What is Shecargo? I am not going to Shecargo.’

‘Indeed? Then may I ask what the animals are for?’

‘Just to breed others from.’

‘Others? Is it possible that you haven’t enough?’

‘For the present needs of civilisation, yes; but the rest are going to be drowned in a flood, and these are to renew the supply.’

‘A flood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

‘Perfectly sure. It is going to rain forty days and forty nights.’

‘Give yourself no concern about that, dear sir, it often does that here.’

‘Not this kind of rain. This is going to cover the mountain-tops, and the earth will pass from sight.’

‘Privately—but of course not officially—I am sorry you revealed this, for it compels me to withdraw the option I gave you as to sails or steam. I must require you to use steam. Your ship cannot carry the hundredth part of an eleven-months’ water-supply for the animals. You will have to have condensed water.’

‘But I tell you I am going to dip water from outside with buckets.’

‘It will not answer. Before the flood reaches the mountain-tops the fresh waters will have joined the salt seas, and it will all be salt. You must put in steam and condense your water. I will now bid you good-day, sir. Did I understand you to say that this was your very first attempt at ship-building?’

‘My very first, sir, I give you the honest truth. I built this Ark without having ever had the slightest training or experience or instruction in marine architecture.’

‘It is a remarkable work, sir, a most remarkable work. I consider that it contains more features that are new—absolutely new and unhackneyed—than are to be found in any other vessel that swims the seas.’

‘This compliment does me infinite honour, dear sir, infinite; and I shall cherish the memory of it while life shall last. Sir, I offer my duty, and most grateful thanks. Adieu.’

No, the German inspector would be limitlessly courteous to Noah, and would make him feel that he was among friends, but he wouldn’t let him go to sea with that Ark.

COLUMBUS’S CRAFT

Between Noah’s time and the time of Columbus naval architecture underwent some changes, and from being unspeakably bad was improved to a point which may be described as less unspeakably bad. I have read somewhere, some time or other, that one of Columbus’s ships was a ninety-ton vessel. By comparing that ship with the ocean greyhounds of our time one is able to get down to a comprehension of how small that Spanish bark was, and how little fitted she would be to run opposition in the Atlantic passenger trade to-day. It would take seventy-four of her to match the tonnage of the ‘Havel’ and carry the ‘Havel’s’ trip. If I remember rightly, it took her ten weeks to make the passage. With our ideas this would now be considered an objectionable gait. She probably had a captain, a mate, and a crew consisting of four seamen and a boy. The crew of a modern greyhound numbers two hundred and fifty persons.

Columbus’s ship being small and very old, we know that we may draw from these two facts several absolute certainties in the way of minor details which history has left unrecorded. For instance, being small, we know that she rolled and pitched and tumbled in any ordinary sea, and stood on her head or her tail, or lay down with her ear in the water, when storm-seas ran high; also, that she was used to having billows plunge aboard and wash her decks from stem to stern; also, that the storm-racks were on the table all the way over, and that, nevertheless, a man’s soup was oftener landed in his lap than in his stomach; also, that the dining-saloon was about ten feet by seven, dark, airless, and suffocating with oil-stench; also, that there was only about one state-room—the size of a grave—with a tier of two or three berths in it, of the dimensions and comfortableness of coffins, and that when the light was out, the darkness in there was so thick and real that you could bite into it and chew it like gum; also, that the only promenade was on the lofty poop-deck astern (for the ship was shaped like a high-quarter shoe)—a streak sixteen feet long by three feet wide, all the rest of the vessel being littered with ropes and flooded by the seas.

We know all these things to be true, from the mere fact that we know the vessel was small. As the vessel was old, certain other truths follow as matters of course. For instance, she was full of rats, she was full of cockroaches, the heavy seas made her seams open and shut like your fingers, and she leaked like a basket; where leakage is, there also, of necessity, is bilgewater; and where bilgewater is, only the dead can enjoy life. This is on account of the smell. In the presence of bilgewater, Limburger cheese becomes odourless and ashamed.