Chapter II: Cape Horn

All places that the eye of Heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus:
There is no virtue like necessity.

SHAKSPEARE: _Richard II_.

At six o’clock, A. M., Dec. 20, a man at the mast-head cried, “Land, ho!” We saw the highlands of Tierra del Fuego, about a hundred miles from Cape Horn. We lay on the water motionless. About a mile from us was a brig apparently bound the same way. The captain ordered a boat to be made ready; and the mate, one of the boatswains, and three sailors, rowed to her. She proved to be the brig “Hazard,” Capt. Lewis, of Boston, belonging to Messrs. Baker and Morrill, eighty days from Malaga, bound to San Francisco, with raisins and lemons. The visitors received much information, and gave papers,--which, though fifty-seven days old, were gladly received,--some buckwheat, and other things; and received kind tokens in return. The swell would often hide the boat from the ship and the ship from the boat, except the upper sails. In the afternoon the wind sprung up fair; soon we came close to, and the captains had conversation.

Tierra del Fuego lies south of Patagonia, separated by the Straits of Magellan. It has high hills, which, at a distance, look like domes. Many bays indent the coast, causing it to bend frequently. Between this district of country and Staten Land or Island, are the Straits of Le Maire, twelve miles broad. Entering the Straits with a fair wind and a strong current, on the morning of a bright, cool day, Dec. 21, we went at the rate of thirteen knots. We came alongside of a great patch of seaweed and kelp on which were eleven large birds. We had tacked or had been becalmed for almost a week, losing nearly five days. We therefore enjoyed our speed the more. The hills were picturesque in the variety of their shapes; their jaggedness and grouping were beyond imagination. One cluster was surmounted by an enormous stone, fluted like a sea-shell, looking as if it were placed there for a memorial purpose. There was another hill which terminated in the appearance of a man’s head, the face upward, the features regular, and so much resembling one of the sailors that it received his name. Flocks of wild ducks, twenty or thirty in each, albatrosses, cape hens, cape pigeons, penguins or divers, were abundant. These penguins float with only the head above water, and dive often; they all made the scene most lively. We sat or stood three or four hours enjoying the wild enchantment. It was worth to any one a voyage from New York. We saw no trace of an inhabitant. They are said to be of large stature, almost naked, their skin and flesh toughened by the climate. They do no tillage, but live on shell-fish and game. I shall always remember this region for its wild beauty and seemingly intense barrenness.

We came up with a New-Bedford whaler; the name “Selah” was on her quarter, whaleboats over her side, and men at the mast-head, looking for whales or seals. We also descried a large ship ahead of us which we overtook. She proved to be the “Cambrian,” Liverpool, seventy days out. We enjoyed the sight of her, an iron vessel, with wire rigging, neat and handsome.

CAPE HORN. Page 84.
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At length we saw Cape Horn Island, the object of our desire, and at 7, P. M., were abreast of it. Some high rocks stood about like sentinels. We were within a mile of the Cape.

Cape Horn Island is the southernmost extremity of Tierra del Fuego, in south latitude 55° 58´. It is the southern termination of a group of rocky islands surmounted with a dome-like hill, out of which is a projection like a straight horn. But Schouten, the Dutch discoverer, is said to have named Cape Horn from _Hoorn_, in the Netherlands, his native place. The whole hill is a bare rock; indeed, how could anything, even the lowest forms of vegetable life, find root on a place smitten as this is by the waves? Only the lichens, stealing with seeming compassion over every form in nature doomed to barrenness, succeed in holding on to these rocks. The hill is about eight hundred feet high, its base environed by low, black rocks, with not a sign even of marine vegetation. One line of these rocks looks like a fort, the seeming gateway, higher than the rest of the wall, being composed of perpendicular fragments. All along the base of the rough hill, low, irregular piles, like a growth of thorns and brambles around a bowlder in a field, constitute a fringe, as though Nature felt that the place needed some appropriate decoration; and what could be more so than that which she has here given? For a long space toward the termination of the Cape, sharp rocks stand up in groups, and some apart, making a gradual ending of the scene, all in agreement with the wildness which marks the region.

The sight of this spot, one landmark of our continent, can never fade from the memory of the beholder. Like many a distinguished object it is of moderate size, its impressiveness being due not to its bulk or height, but to its position. At first you are disappointed in not seeing at such a place something colossal; you would have it mountainous; at least, you would have thought that it would be columnar. Nothing of this; you have the disappointment which you feel on seeing for the first time a distinguished man, whom you find to be of low stature, whereas you would have had him of imposing appearance. But soon, however, you feel that you are at one of the ends of the earth. Here the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans begin, the great deep dividing itself into those two principal features of our globe. Anything monumental, any thing statuesque, or even picturesque, here, you feel would be trifling. Like silence, more expressive at times than speech, the total absence of all display here is sublimity itself; you would not have it otherwise than an infinite solitude, unpretentious, without form, almost chaotic. Around this point it is as though there were a contest to which ocean each billow shall divide; here the winds and waters make incessant war; the sea always roars and the fulness thereof. The rocks which finally terminate the Cape stand apart, as you sometimes see corners of blocks of buildings where an extensive fire has raged and the most of the walls have fallen in; but here and there a shoulder of a wall overhangs the ruins.

We stood together as we passed the last landmarks, and sang,

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.”

It had been a day from beginning to end of constant pleasure, from the moment that we entered the Straits of Le Maire. We had accomplished one great design in our voyage. Would that the pleasant theory that musical sounds leave their vibration in the air might have reality given to it, and praise to God break forth from all of every language who navigate the Cape!

We had reason to feel that we were not a great way from circumpolar regions; for at a quarter before eleven, the night previous, there were lingering streaks of pink light in the west. We never before read out of doors so late in the evening as we did that 21st of December on deck.

We had been steering south, going five degrees below the Cape; then we needed to turn and go northward; but the fierce winds made no account of our plan. You may be several weeks trying in vain, as a ship belonging to our firm was, to double the Cape; but by favoring winds, we were only six days. Once only during this time had we a full view of the Horn; our captain had been here six times, and now for the second time only saw the Cape. Nothing lay between us and the Antarctic Circle and the South Pole. The waves were Cape-Horn swells, peculiar to that region. The sight of the ocean there was wild beyond description. Now and then the sun would come out, but his smile seemed sarcastic. Going on deck to view the tempest you are made to feel, as the ship goes down into deep places, that you would be more surprised at her coming up than if she should disappear. It is a good time and place for faith. One of the Latin fathers said, “Qui discat orare, discat navigare;” Let him who would learn to pray go to sea. It is to be doubted whether there are many places on the globe where one feels the power of solitude precisely as here. In the depth of a wilderness, or among mountains, solitude is more like death; but here it seems to have consciousness; you are spell-bound by some awful power; there is an infinitude about these watery realms; it seems like being in eternity. In the ascent of Mont Blanc, while gazing from the Mer de Glace on those needles of granite, inaccessible except to the eagle, I once felt that nothing could exceed the sense of desolateness there inspired; but to be at the end of a continent, with two oceans separating and forming a wild race-way where they go asunder, all the winds and storms being summoned to witness the inauguration of two oceans, their frantic uproar seemingly designed for the great occasion, Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego with their stupendous solitudes listening to the clamor; and then the feeling that the next place recorded on the map is the Antarctic Circle, with its barriers of cold and ice, you are warranted in the conviction that you are as near the confines of unearthly dimensions as you can be on this planet. You think of home, and the thought of your separation from friends and country and your consignment to these awful wilds, gives you a feeling of littleness, of nothingness, seldom if ever experienced elsewhere. And here is the proud ship that stretched her length in the pier at New York so far as to hold her spar over the passing drays, reaching almost to the opposite ware-rooms, now less than an egg-shell in these waters,--a tiny nautilus, a bubble, whose destruction any moment, unseen by any human eye, could not detain any of these proud waters to be so much as a mound over her grave.

One day, before we entered the Straits and reached Cape Horn, along the neighborhood of Patagonia, the sea was more than usually disturbed, a ground-swell succeeding a gale lifting the waves higher than we had seen them, so that the motion of the ship had no uniformity for any two consecutive moments during the larger part of the day,--a cold, cheerless day, the sun now and then shining faintly, the wind ahead, no chance for a nautical observation, everything to the last degree forlorn. A bird came in all this turmoil and lighted in the water near the ship, and swam about us. The sight suggested the following lines:--

THE CAPE-HORN ALBATROSS.

The ship lay tossing on the stormy ocean,
A head wind challenging her right of way;
Sail after sail she furled; in exultation
The waves accounted her their yielding prey.

On her lee beam the Patagonia coast line
Keeps ambushed reefs to snare the drifting keel;
We fancied breakers in the dying sunshine,
And questioned what the daybreak would reveal.

No cities, towns, nor quiet rural village
Gladden the heart along this lonely way;
But cannibals may lurk with death and pillage
For all whom winds and currents force astray.

The Falkland Isles, Tierra del Fuego,
Straits of Le Maire, the near Antarctic Zone,
The stormy Horn, whose rocks the tempest echo,
Can faith and courage there maintain their throne?

Watching the swell from out the cabin windows,
The towering waves piled high and steep appear;
But what is riding on those mighty billows?
An albatross. The sight allays my fear.

Her snow-white breast she settles on the water,
Her dark wings fluttering while she trims her form,
Then calmly rides; nor can the great waves daunt her,
Nor will she heed the menace of the storm.

She spreads her wings, flies low across the vessel,
She scans the wake, then sails around the bows,
Not moving either pinion; much I marvel
How like one flying in a dream she goes.

She craves the presence of no other sea-bird;
She revels in the power to go at will;
The ocean solitudes, the wandering seaward,
The distant sail, her daring spirit thrill.

Behold, this fowl hath neither barn nor storehouse;
An unseen Hand assists her search for food;
Storms bring her up deep things of ocean’s produce,
Prized the more highly in the storm pursued.

With joy each day I’ll take the wings of morning,
Dwell in the utmost parts of this lone sea;
E’en there thy hand shall lead me, still adoring,
And thy right hand shall hold who trust in Thee.

ROUND THE HORN.

It became stormy in the afternoon of December 21st, with rain. We were driven off our course. The sea came over the sides of the main deck. The motion of the ship was that of a rocking horse. She was so full of a cantering spirit that I knew it would be useless to expect sleep in my berth, so I lay upon a cabin sofa and had rest. The waves were Cape Horn swells. We are directly at the foot of the American continent inclining upwards toward the North. Should we do as well the rest of the way as the preceding, we shall be a hundred and twelve days only from New York to San Francisco. We were all on deck this afternoon enjoying the Cape Horn scenery. The captain and I talked of an event in our family history when he was eight years old, which made this day memorable. We did not then dream of going round Cape Horn twenty-one years from that day. “O how great is thy goodness which thou hast laid up for them that fear thee, which thou hast wrought for them which trust in thee before the sons of men.”

DANGERS IN THE CABIN.

Dec. 24. The gale to-day exceeded anything which we have had. The sight of the ocean was wild beyond description. I went on deck and held on, to see the tempest. The ship went down into deep places, more profound, seemingly, than ever before. But she is a noble sea boat. We have understood how men become enthusiastically attached to the vessel which they are ready to think has consciously borne them around the globe.

You soon are so much used to the wild behavior of the sea that you lose all apprehension of danger. Some experiences in the cabin, in bad weather, make you feel that you are more safe on deck where you seem to have more ‘sea room.’ It is hard to walk in the cabin; the walls are so near you that your eye is more affected with the motion than on deck. You must watch for a windward roll, which does not let you down so low or so violently as a lee roll; then you run to your seat or to a side of the cabin, where you grasp something till the lee lurch has spent itself, when you make for the next point, like runners in playing ball. The difficulty of lifting your feet is marvellous. You are as really cumbered as though you had weights on your feet, or wore heavy clothing. It is amusing to see even the captain pause in the middle of the cabin, unable to move, his feet judiciously wide apart, waiting for the back roll to restore the level. He retorts by expressing the wish that the congregation at home could see their pastor in his efforts to get across the cabin.

But it is not all fun. I was sitting about six feet from the stove in the dining-room, in the forward cabin, in the low easy-chair which we brought from home. The back legs were inside a closet, the threshold of which it was hoped would serve for a stay against sliding; when the ship gave a lurch, and I went head first into the low wooden box, in which the stove, a very heavy one, stood, my weight pushing the stove out of place, and bringing me down on my knees and wrists, the chair following me on my back. The steward ran and helped me up. After a few moments I was well, but I record this as a merciful preservation. Feeling strong and able-bodied, I have no trouble from such mishaps, but I would not advise a feeble person to go to sea, certainly not round Cape Horn; but if he must go, to be as careful in the cabin as he can see that he must be on deck.

CHRISTMAS AT SEA.

It would have been pleasant to our friends to see stockings on our door handles and to witness the contents. Mine had a colored-letter drawing of the words, “The Lord is my Shepherd;” a long shoe-case made of duck, bound with green; a small muslin bag filled with lumps of white sugar, marked, Cape Horn confectionary. The captain had a green necktie, made in a region where neckties are not often devised, the materials, however, unquestionably from “Chandler’s” or “Hovey’s;” also a pen-wiper; the mates had some articles of needle work, and chains made in part of bloom raisins which came the other day from the brig Hazard. Fresh raisins off Cape Horn are a greater curiosity and luxury than friends at home can suppose. The captain’s presents to the donors of these gifts were, a jar of pickles and a bottle of olives; mine were destined to be for some time useless, there being no shops in this region; but the small pieces of gold expressed a good intention. The afternoon was spent by a party, including the captain and first mate, around the stove in the forward cabin listening to one of Dickens’ Christmas Carols, they having already enjoyed six volumes of his works in beguiling some dreary afternoons; also, in amusing themselves with the exercise of “bean bags,” on deck. When it was dark we were entertained with narratives of expedients which were used in preparing the presents, the emptying of the rag bag and the search among its contents for materials, the difficulty of standing, of going about and even of sitting at work while the ship was playing her antics of position; the devices by the principal actors in hanging up the presents so as to elude detection, pretending unusual wakefulness in sitting up beyond midnight and trying to persuade the captain that he needed sleep; and especially the attempt to keep awake beyond the hour when the mate would come down to the pantry to refresh himself with a bite of salt beef and pie. The amusements of the day ended with putting down the cabin light and standing at the window to see and hear the boatswain perform his Christmas Carol, sitting in his little room, his feet on his bunk level with his head, he singing, “Shall we gather at the river?” his pipe in his hand lifted to his mouth for a few whiffs at the end of each verse, the pipe seemingly performing the part of the customary interlude on the musical instrument at church. So we had our Christmas presents where a year ago we little expected. Last evening we observed our custom of having Milton’s Christmas Hymn read to us, the captain being appointed the reader. It was very dark and stormy at noon, but we had a merry Christmas.

* * * * *

Dec. 26. It rains, and there is the thickest fog which it seems to me I ever saw. I groped my way into the bows, to look, as a transcendentalist would say, “into the invisible.” A sailor was in the bows alone, leaning against the forestay, wrapped in his oil-cloth coat, looking out for any vessel which might be passing. His watch was for two hours, a dreary, uninteresting service. He was a young man, full of zeal to go aloft, among the first to venture out to the weather earring, to leap upon the swinging board over the side or stern in painting. None seem so happy as the boys of the crew; but this duty of watching in a fog, of a cold day, has as little excitement in it as any thing in a sailor’s routine.

A YOUNG SAILOR’S EXPERIENCE.

One who had been several years before the mast and afterwards successively third, second, first mate, lately said to me, “When a young man, standing on the top gallant forecastle, leaning against the forestay, in a foggy day or dark night, the ship rushing into the dark unknown beyond, I sometimes thought, What if there should be an end to the sea, a precipice over which we should plunge, an undiscovered continent against which we should run! How did Columbus feel on his first voyage in a fog or in darkness? What a picture of life, its unknown future! so little the sailor knows what may be ahead of the ship; but the captain, confident in his chart, compass and reckoning, knows the way that he takes.”

I have been much affected by what the young sailor told me of his first months before the mast; how he parted with members of his family circle, the ship just taken in tow by the tug, the last line which held them to the shore cast off, he standing with his arm on the rail, his head on his hand, looking at those he loved best on earth, and thinking what scenes he should pass through in the sixteen months before he should see them, if ever, again; when he was roused from his reverie by the mate’s calling to him, “Boy, what are you standing there for? go forward and tie up those cabbages.” He saw one of his family waving a handkerchief to him; but he was ashamed to be seen answering it; the hour of sentiment had passed; he must go and tie up the cabbages. The first few nights at sea the profane, vile talk of some of the sailors at night used to keep him awake, astonished and terrified. He used to say to himself, “My God! have I come to this? Did I once have a christian home? Why did I leave it? The physician said that I must go to sea, but he could not have known what life in a forecastle is. An old sailor said to me, ‘Boy, do you know that you stepped into hell afloat, when you came here?’ Soon I managed to stop up my ears when I turned in, so as not to hear the dreadful talk.”

I said to him, “How did you help using their language and practising their wicked ways?”

He replied, “So far from corrupting me you will think it strange, perhaps, if I say that it made me more pure. I left off some things which I used to practise without compunction. But the behavior of the men showed me what I should become, if I practised any kind of wickedness. When I heard the men swear and talk ribaldry, I repeated passages of Scripture as fast as I could, said all the hymns I could remember, and I knew a good many. My sister once promised me a half dollar if I would learn the Wesminster Assembly’s Shorter Catechism; I said it to her, and she gave me the money, and I used to say that Catechism over and over in bed; Effectual Calling, Justification by faith, and, What is required, and What is forbidden in each of the commandments, used to be to me in that forecastle like a cloth dipped in some aromatic liquid and pressed to my face.”

I told the young man that if he would write and publish his experience he might find, by the good that he would do, why providence led him into that bitter experience in the forecastle.

“I often think,” said he, “of those words: ‘His way is in the sea,’ for I am sure it has been so with me.”

The recollection of this narrative was forced upon me in looking into the fog as I lay in the knightheads and looked over and watched the cutwater breaking the way for the ship. But it grew cold, and I retreated to the stove.

We had a lively time in the middle of the night. The jib could not stand the gale, part of it was blown to tatters, much of it was blown away. It is a three-cornered sail, sixty feet in its extreme length. The men said that the noise of the wind among the loose sails was as though the forward part of the ship was breaking up. The watch below had turned in half an hour before, but now all hands were ordered on deck. Twenty-four men were on the main yard taking in the sail. It makes a landsman dizzy to see them standing aloft on a foot rope, the wind filling the sail and keeping it stiffly bent from them; yet they must clutch it, bring it in against the wind, holding on by the little slack which they must contrive to gather, their feet meanwhile with nothing under them but a rope. I could liken the noise of the wind and the roar of the sea only to the noise made by an express train when you are standing on a platform at a railway station. The sound sleep into which I fell was not disturbed by this uproar, but it yielded to so slight a cause as the dropping of water upon my bed. The hot weather of previous weeks had made the chinks open, and now the rain had found its way through the deck. There was no more sleep in the premises for that night. An alarm of fire is hardly less effectual in its power to wake you than the slow, measured, dripping water. The captain brought his india rubber coat, spread it over the bed, and made a place for a pool, which in the morning was filled, the tenant having been obliged to beat a retreat for the remainder of the night to a cabin sofa.

Dec. 26. We are almost round the Cape. From Lat. 50° South in the Atlantic to 50° South in the Pacific is called “round the Cape.” We are getting into the longitude of Boston, 71° W., so that time with us will be the same as with those at home, for a while.

THE SHIP’S TRACK.

Dec. 27. We came within twenty-five miles of Tierra del Fuego again, on its western side, the wind setting us that way, so that we had to tack and run W. instead of S. E. The captain, after he has taken an observation, draws a line on his chart with his pen, showing the distance run and the direction for the last twenty-four hours. It is described for the last three days thus, (the line representing the number of degrees, according to an arbitrary measurement, and each day indicated by a cipher:)

Sometimes the course is deflected by contrary winds; for example, thus:

which is a loss. We have a chart with the tracks of several vessels printed on it. One vessel was sixty days in getting round the Cape; the winds let us pass in twelve. The vessel referred to made several squares in her course, with other geometrical figures, sailing a part of the time thus:

You hereby see one cause of long passages. One day we made only eight miles out of one hundred and twenty sailed; a few days before we went two hundred and forty miles. One day while going round the Cape we gained so little that we should be, at that rate, one thousand days in getting to San Francisco.

MAKING LAND ROUND THE HORN.

Dec. 29. Saturday afternoon the captain said, “We shall see land before dark.” At sunset our hope was fulfilled. We saw, fifteen miles off, a high hill in New Chili, formerly a part of Patagonia. We tacked and ran S. W. instead of N. W. To-day the head wind beat us within twelve miles of land, and again we had to tack. We must do it once more this evening. The captain evidently has a great strain on his mind, though he says but little. He keeps on deck a large part of the time of late, leaving little or nothing to the mates.

THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.

A year ago to-day I should have anticipated being anywhere as here. Never have I had so much cause for wonder and joy at the close of a year. Blessed sickness! which prepared the way into the wilderness of waters. It would not be easy to trace the connection of the following lines which occurred to me about this time, with the meditations suggested by the close of the year; but I had been thinking of our Omnipresent Saviour as once living in a house; a humble dwelling, no doubt, in “a city called Nazareth.” It was good to think of Him who has now gone up on high that he might fill all things, as once tabernacled with men. The train of thought will serve for an illustration of the liberty which the mind will sometimes take of being independent of situation and circumstances:

“And the two disciples heard him speak, and they followed Jesus.
Then Jesus turned and saw them following, and saith unto them,
What seek ye? They said unto him, Rabbi, (which is to say, being
interpreted, Master,) where dwellest thou? He saith unto them, Come
and see. They came and saw where he dwelt and abode with him that
day; for it was about the tenth hour.” John I. 37, 39.

This roof once covered him who built the sky;
A room inclosed him who now fills all space
With thousand thousands rendering ministry;
He led the way to this His dwelling place,
And two disciples shared his courtesies,
Had friendly talk and brake their privacies,
Nor once withdrew from him their wondering eyes.

Sleep soothed him here whose eyes are flames of fire;
Here waked he at the crowing of the cock;
Hunger and thirst his daily thoughts require
Who now feeds worlds, as one would feed a flock.
Here would he kneel in prayer; dominions own
Him sovereign, bide his orders; round his throne
Prayers ceaseless rise, urged in his name alone.

Not far from this abode the wild gazelle
Cropped the red lilies and would venture near.
The devils knew him, cried, foreboding ill,
Fell down before him with tormenting fear.
Diseases fled; he stayed the expiring breath,
Bade the blind see; he brake the bars of death,
His home, the while, despised Nazareth.

By night upon this housetop oft he sat;
He watched the young moon as the light of day
Grew dim from east to west; he tarrying yet
Her crescent sank; on snow crowned Hermon lay
The lingering twilight, with a roseate hue
Tinging the snow, the small hills lost to view.
He formed that light; he framed the darkness too.

Let me believe that on this humble floor
His mother sought a piece of money lost,
And swept the house; his young eyes counting o’er
The pieces nine, she craved the stray piece most.
He wandering o’er these hills of Galilee
Beheld a flock all shepherdless and free,
The shepherd searching one through brake and lea.

Faith loves the mystery which it cannot read,
How he a child once in a manger lay,
Yet prayed he thus: The glory which I had
With Thee ere time was now repeat in me.
The eastern wise men to his cradle came,
Yet said this child; “Ere Abraham was, I am;”
He made the star which did their zeal inflame.

All which the twelve possessed by faith I have;
I live by faith of thee, thou Son of God!
Yet would I this my tabernacle leave
And look upon my Lord in his abode.
When in the lonesome valley praying thee,
“Master, where dwelleth thou?” do thou on me
Let fall the whisper, saying, ‘Come and see’.

NEW YEAR’S DIVERSIONS.

The serious and ludicrous are near akin in emotional relationship, for we often pass without a shock from the one to the other, and it matters not which takes precedence. Some of our company younger than the rest yearned for sport. So the captain said that they might have a candy scrape. Accordingly some molasses was sent to the galley to be boiled, while the chief agents in the enterprise shelled some nuts to be put into a part of it, the rest being intended to be pulled and therefore was kept clear. The molasses proved to be old and fermented, therefore it did not boil well and so could not harden. The result was, instead of nut candy, a pan of sour molasses mixed with nuts, which was offered to us as a second course at supper. The other half of the molasses was sentenced to be boiled over again. The steward appeared with it and laid it before the adepts in candy frolics; but it looked like a mass of kelp; he had vainly tried to work it into a state which would tempt the appetite; but it was too stiff to be pulled, so he had chopped it into a likeness to sticks. Though it tasted burnt and sour, it was pronounced as good as could be expected.--At sundown one of the mates found some fire crackers which had escaped discovery in some former voyage. The sailors were allowed to celebrate the advent of New Year, so they borrowed of the steward some tin vessels and as soon as eight bells were struck, forward and aft, they set up a fearful din and the crackers were fired, to welcome the incoming year. The noise resembled that with which, as we afterwards observed, the Chinese prelude their fights. In the midst of the tumult the stentorian voice of the boatswain was heard resounding some admonitory strain, ending with his favorite canticle, “On Canaan’s happy shore.”

FAIR WEATHER PAST THE HORN.

After beating about the Horn for eight days, going only from forty to eighty miles day after day, a fine breeze sprung up and we have for twenty-four hours been going at the rate of ten knots an hour, sometimes faster. To look out of the cabin windows and see the water racing by makes one dizzy, and you hasten on deck to gratify the eye with a longer range of sight.

12 M., we have made two hundred and fifty-nine miles the last twenty-four hours, the best day’s run of the voyage thus far. In the Gulf we made two hundred and fifty miles, and once nearly as much off the River Plate.

One of the tiniest little fishes which we have seen was found on deck. It was washed over the side yesterday when every twenty minutes a sea came over the rail. The little thing shows us what the birds pick up at sea. “The small and the great are there.” We are glad to see the smallest thing in this region of wonders in the deep.

We are now fully round the Horn, having passed beyond 50° S., which completed the semicircle. At 12 M. one day lately we had gone beyond 50° to 43°. Patches of blue sky appear. Our spirits are revived. The ship seems to partake of our joy. Toward evening to-day she seemed to the captain to be exerting herself beyond her strength, having on a crowd of canvas. He ordered the royals to be taken down, to our regret; but it relieved her. We are promised another race at daybreak should the weather be fair.

CHANGE OF SEASONS AT SEA.

One of the pleasant things about this voyage is, the frequent change of seasons. Leaving New York late in October we were in a few days in the warm region of the Gulf; then came spring and summer in the tropics, then fall and winter with severe blasts round the Horn. To-day, Jan. 6th, spring seems to have dawned. By Jan. 20th, we shall have premonitions of summer heat. I took my old seat on the house under the mizzenmast, a mild air about me yet strong enough to bear the ship along at the rate of eight or nine knots, the sky clear, the water smooth, the horizon distinct, everything indicating our approach to the tropics.

THE MORNING HOUR.

If I were asked, “What recurs to you most frequently with pleasure in your experience at sea thus far”, I should say, The hour under the mizzen mast, morning after morning. The solitude there was unrivalled. In the depths of a forest you are not sure of being alone; for you yourself have come thither, and what hinders the approach of others? Half of the ship’s company are asleep; those who are up are busily occupied; before you left your bed you heard the tramp of feet overhead. The dash of buckets of water, the noise of brooms, the holy-stone drawn backwards and forwards and athwart ship, and then the perfect quiet, made you feel that everything was ready for any one who wished to be alone on deck. Behind you, but hidden from view by the spanker, is the man at the wheel; the rudder-head jounces monotonously at every turn; a sailor here and there creeps about barefooted; the steward makes his official visits to the galley; these, and the few others who are stirring, only seem to make you feel that you are isolated. The depths are around you; the distant sail tells you that yonder is a company of human beings shut out like you from the world; you understand how solitary you are, by musing on them; you fancy how lonesome you would be sailing away, as they seem to be, from human fellowship, not considering that you are also. I had made an index to the book of Psalms, easily drawn up, and had written it on paper the size of a small ‘Testament and Psalms,’ twelve pages, and had pasted it in my small Testament. I did not need De Wette, nor Rosenmuller, nor any other commentator to remind me that a word of David was in Hiphil or Hophal, Piel or Pual; the index, looked over, beginning; A, As the hart panteth, 42. B, Behold, bless ye, 134. D, Deliver me from, 59, would each day suggest a Psalm which seemed to have the same key note with the feelings with which I had awaked. No song of bird, no wheels, nor hum of labor disturbed the exceeding peace which all nature seemed to have concentrated, in this morning hour in the solitude of ocean. I could not refrain from thinking how it would have been wholly broken up by paddle wheels or propeller, and by the sympathy which the jaded mind would have with the incessant walking beam, the alternating pistons; and by the column of black smoke, the imprisoned steam. Let trade, and strong nerves, and economy of time, and imperative engagements gratefully avail themselves of machinery in passing from one side of the sea to the other, but let some sailing vessels be spared, with their poetry of motion, and architecture of canvas, mystery of rigging, habits, usages, phraseology, modes of life, the tar and slush, the going aloft instead of down into the furnace room, the laying becalmed instead of driving ahead impetuously, reckless of wind and weather. In our desire for the advancement of mankind, we do not calculate for indisposition. It is out of place. But these clipper ships could not be better contrived for comfort, had they been arranged expressly for invalids.

CLEANING SHIP.

We are having the first premonition of port. The sailors are employed washing the white paint with potash in the way of spring cleaning. Every rope in the standing rigging is to be tarred and the ship is to be painted inside and outside, so that when she enters port she will look as new as when she left home. You may wonder how a vessel can be painted outside at sea. Here in the Pacific there are days when the weather and the swell of the sea allow staging to be lashed to the side, stern, and bows, and men move safely from point to point with brushes.

THROWING MANUSCRIPTS OVERBOARD.

When first I began to throw writings overboard I was careful to tear them into small pieces, supposing that they might be picked up. I soon learned that this was useless. The captain seeing me do it told me that he would be willing to throw any writing into the sea fearless of its being found and read. In a very little while the water would reduce it to pulp, the incessant motion would destroy it, and even if it did not, the chance of its being picked up or washed ashore would be many millions to one of its ever coming into anybody’s hand. Among the countless things which we had seen afloat we never saw at sea a piece of writing. After this I took some old manuscripts on deck and threw them overboard, leaf by leaf. A sermon which one of the children at home had written for me in pencil from dictation I had copied in ink and the original was now useless. Mother Cary’s chickens flew down upon the pages as they one after another settled on the water, and finally a large albatross came, lighted on the water, watched the leaves as they floated along and tried to eat one. We little imagined, that rainy afternoon as we sat on the piazza at Milton, that the leaves which one who may read this held in her hand would pass under the eye of a Cape Horn albatross on the Pacific Ocean.

BURNING TAR BARRELS.

When the sailors have used up a barrel of tar, they have sport in putting kerosene in the barrel, lighting it, and dropping it to leeward. It blazes, vehemently, and while we sail away from it we cannot persuade ourselves that it is not moving rapidly from us. The swell of the sea causes it to disappear now and then, rising up occasionally very far astern. Some on shore have thought that this might be a false light to vessels. Sailors are too well accustomed to the practice to be deceived by it; but apart from this, in mid ocean there is no danger of mistaking it for a light house.--Having spoken of dropping the barrel to leeward rather than to windward where it might be blown against the ship, I am reminded of a prudential maxim at sea: Never throw anything overboard to windward but 1. Ashes; 2. Hot water.

TEN THOUSAND MILES FROM HOME.

We have sailed over ten thousand miles, and have five thousand more to sail before we come to “Frisco.” It seems strange to think of arriving there by land in ten days from home, while we have been from Oct. 26th to Jan. 12th, seventy-eight days, on our way. If we were in haste to reach our port this difference of speed would try our patience. As it is we are grateful; it seems painful to be whirled along in ten days, night and day, instead of coming at our leisure unmindful of time, willing to be where we are, indefinitely, except that we sympathize with the captain’s desire to make a short voyage, and feeling willing also to shorten this part of our way knowing that we shall have sufficient experience of the sea by the time that we have belted the globe.

A SAILOR AT HIS MEAL.

Seeing a sailor go to the galley with his tin pan, receive his allowance from the cook, take it out on deck, seat himself on a spar, I was reminded of his limited supply of table cutlery. But in the first place he has no table. He holds his pan in his hand, lays his biscuit on the spar, his drink along side of it, takes his piece of potato, turnip, cabbage with his finger, serves his bone in the same way, and if the piece of meat which has fallen to his lot needs to be divided he feels for his sheath knife which he carries all the time in its sheath behind him, holds the meat with one hand and makes the sheath knife play the part both of knife and fork. He wipes his fingers on his pants. Artificial and useless do many things appear at sea, as, for example, forks, napkins, and, of course, napkin rings, doilies, sugar bowls, slop bowls, saucers, ladles, dessert spoons; in short the things absolutely indispensable at a sailor’s meal could be counted on the fingers of one hand, omitting the thumb and little finger. Yet there are frequently young men in a crew who have been used to the numberless luxuries of life. I had a talk yesterday with the son of a minister; early in the voyage his fine face attracted me. He has eleven brothers and sisters at home. He had a desire to see the world; was weary of the shop, of the few associates in a country village. This is his first long voyage. He makes light of privations and dangers; says that almost all the things which he used to have on the table at home would now seem superfluities. He would need experience to make them necessary. He would feel toward some of them, no doubt, as a sailor did in a boarding house who spit on the floor, which the waiter perceiving kept pushing a spittoon nearer to him; till at last the sailor annoyed by it said, “If you keep pushing that thing so near to me I shall be in danger of spitting in it.”

BRILLIANT NIGHT.

The moon set at half past nine, and left the heavens aglow. Imagine the milky way, without its milky appearance, all the haze gone, the stars in it in crowds. The nebulous light dissolves in brilliant worlds, the Southern Cross at one end,

just above the Southern horizon, Orion at the other end in the zenith, and several of the bright constellations full in view.[2]

THE SOUTH EAST TRADE WINDS.

We celebrated a birthday a few days since, (Jan. 8th,) by having the South East Trades set in, blowing us on our direct course to San Francisco. Rose at six and sat on deck, the ship going at the rate of eleven knots, the foam flying before us in sheets. These S. E. Trade winds blow from 25° S. to the Equator, both in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The N. E. Trades blow from Lat. 30° N. to lat. 5° N.[3]

RELIGIOUS INTEREST.

My colleague, the captain, spoke to the crew on the Prodigal Son. We have conversed with several of the men, and have found that there are among them those who make a practice of secret prayer. We concluded to have a meeting in the evening, when we would explain the way to be saved. Twenty-four of the crew were present; indeed all who could be spared from duty. I spoke from the words, “Ho, every one that thirsteth,” &c., (Is. 55,) and the captain followed. Some of them showed a tearful interest. I advised them to begin and act as believers in the Saviour of men, to give up the long, wearisome endeavor which some of them had confessed to me they had been pursuing for years, to find if they were christians, or when and how they became such. Several of them are members of christian families, all of them have heard the gospel, understand the way of acceptance with God, are respectful in their attendance on religious service, show at times that they are impressed with the truths which they hear. It is deeply affecting to speak to these men. Soon they will be scattered to the four winds. Few of them shall we meet again in this world. This thought cannot fail to make one affectionate and earnest in preaching to them. It may be stated here that I never felt more deeply the privilege of declaring the gospel to men, nor did I in my congregation ever feel more the need of carefulness in my statement of christian truth. These men weighed everything which was spoken, did not care for excellency of speech, nor man’s wisdom; loved simplicity, felt nothing compared with the representations of Christ, his words, his treatment by men, his claims on them, his present and future glory, and his coming to judge the world.

SCRIPTURE PROMISES.

These have been a great, I may truly say, constant source of delight: “Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.” Jos. I, 9. This was so impressed on my mind before leaving home, that I ventured to take it for my sailing orders. I feel that I have not come to sea of my own motion. I tried every other method of recovery, had many other plans of travel; but one after another was frustrated, and I was shut up to this, which, like a certain iron gate before a prisoner and his angel, is beautifully said to have “opened to them of his own accord.” I have no expectation other than that all will be well. Everything has proceeded so much better than I could have expected that there seems to be nothing to do but to receive trustfully every day’s experience. Words of Scripture have had a wonderfully sedative effect. When the sea rises I remember, “The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.” Ps. 93. One day in the Gulf Stream, when all around was in confusion, I thought of these words: “The waters saw thee, O God, the waters saw thee; they were afraid; the depths also were troubled.” Ps. 77:10. It was a comfort to know that there is One of whom the sea is afraid. If my heart can say, “O God, thou art my God,” why should I fear the sea? I may even say, “Lord, if it be thou, bid me come to thee on the water;” I may even come down out of the ship to go to Jesus. I was glad that the sea was afraid; it gave me a feeling of superiority to the sea. Paul says, “And in nothing terrified by your adversaries, which,” that is, your not being terrified, “is to them an evident token of perdition, but to you of salvation, and that of God.” One morning, lately, at home, as I was rising, my eye was caught by these words in the “Scripture Promises” which hung in my room: “When thou passest through the waters I will be with thee.” Is. 43:2. This, and the passage above quoted from Joshua, are most frequently in my thoughts. If those at home could look in upon us, they would give thanks. The day before we left New York, a clergyman who came on board said, “Probably the history of navigation contains no instance more remarkable than this: A father and daughters going to sea with a son and brother for captain, with everything combining to make them happy.” We said with thankful hearts, “The Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we are glad.”

SUNRISE ON DECK.

On hearing eight bells last night I supposed it to be twelve o’clock. Having gone to bed at half past eight I felt rested, looked out of my window and thought I saw “The Dipper,” not knowing but that the ship was tacking and going North. Wishing to salute our old friend, the north star, I put on my wrapper and went on deck and was told by the man at the wheel that it was five o’clock. The eight bells were for four o’clock instead of twelve, so soundly had I slept. I staid up to see the sunrise, wishing to correct the impression which I had long cherished that there is more to be enjoyed in the idea of sunrise than in its actual beauty. This I was willing to attribute to the want of disposition when drowsy to appreciate the morning. We are prejudiced in favor of a departing day, look kindly on the advancing darkness; we have pleasant associations with the season of repose; it awakens no apprehensions of care, nor of labor; each step of coming night is associated with quiet, while the opening day is the signal for noise; we are not so much disposed to welcome an untried day with its liabilities, as a finished day which can make no new demands upon us. The valedictory of sundown implies less responsibility than the salutatory of a new day. The progressive development of evening with the softening, fading colors, its pathos, finds us more disposed to sympathize with it than we are with a day yet to be tested. But morning has it votaries and its poetry. Therefore,

“Now while the Heaven by the sun’s team untrod
Hath took no print of the approaching light,”

let me see once more if the beauty of morning is real or wholly ideal. There are no birds in our tops to herald its coming; no living things to make it appear that they welcome the return of light, the flying fish are no more of them on the wing than when the ship at night breaks in among them, nor do the porpoises gambol more at day break than at noon. There is a touch of pathos in seeing the stars pale in the growing light; but they cannot awaken much sentiment in us; we find it, if at all, in the victories of light over darkness; the imprint of beauty on monotony; the responses of the zenith and then of the west to the first outgoings of the morning in the east, the crimson bars, the purpling cloud, the snowy top of a pile whose base is yet black. But do we not yield a ready response to these oft quoted words, or do we pass them over as the desponding language of a decaying race: “Let others hail the rising sun,” and count it as merely an act of resistless sympathy to “bow to him whose course is run?” It must be acknowledged that sitting on deck three quarters of an hour in a dishabille dress in the middle of January to see day break, required the temperature of Pacific latitudes to make the experience pleasant. I could not decide which to choose, abstractly. “The day is Thine, the night also is Thine.”

LOW TONES OF NATURE.

One cannot but be impressed with the same thing at sea which meets us everywhere on the land, the low pitch of natural tones, in the wind, the thunder, the waves in mid ocean. If the thunder made the same indiscreet noises as some of our locomotives, thunder storms would be more appalling than they ever are now. May we not see the benevolence of God in this? As one sits for a long time soothed by the wind blowing through the grass, so in listening to the waves around the ship he is not agitated but composed. Even in a tempest the key note of the wind through the cordage has a low pitch; “strong without rage,” much of the time. So with the roar of the sea. Men’s voices in a multitude met for conversation partake of the same quality. I remember that some years ago several gentlemen were in the Exchange in an English metropolis on some ordinary business day, and on going upstairs they noticed the uniform pitch which the voices below naturally assumed. One or two of these gentlemen were musical men, who, on being appealed to, gave it as their opinion that the pitch was on F, and there being no excitement the hum or droning sound continued uniform on that low note. One may catch that note much of the time at sea; yet there is no painful monotone in nature. There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification; yet a wonderful harmony prevails, without any artificial arrangement to keep the ruling pitch at F.

THE SHIP’S GUNS.

Our two guns, nine pounders, have been raised from the hold and painted black. They have been in the hold much of the time, and unless we meet a pirate they will not be needed, except in case of their being required to announce an astounding passage. A hundred and twelve days is the ship’s shortest passage. We are only twenty-five hundred miles from San Francisco, which is small compared to the fifteen thousand five hundred with which we began.

THE SHIP PUT IN PERFECT ORDER.

Every thing about the ship, outside as well as inside, is in beautiful order. Even the belaying pins, of which there are about forty, including all on each side of the deck and about the masts, have been scraped and varnished. No house on shore is in a more creditable state of neatness. No idleness is allowed, but we are not so much at a loss to find employment for the sailors as was one captain, who, when everything about his ship was in perfect order, still kept his men occupied by setting them to scrape the anchors.

CROSSING THE LINE AGAIN.

Jan. 22. We crossed the line to-day. Nov. 22d we crossed it in the Atlantic. By land over the continent where we then were is four thousand miles; but we have sailed thirteen thousand. We are two days behind the ship’s shortest passage, and we watch the winds. To sit on deck in a summer suit, listening to the music of the water as the ship glides along, and watching the light and shadows, is perfect enjoyment to an invalid feeling that this medicine is accomplishing a cure.

BONITOS.

To-day one of the boatswains caught with a hook two bonitos. They are as large as the largest mackerel; the flesh hard. We are to dine upon them to-morrow; but what shall we do for lettuce? Every now and then we are made to feel that there are some good things on land. But we are as often reminded what a barren region these deep waters are. They evidently were not designed to support human life. Instead of abounding in articles of food, we do not find any, except by accident, till we draw near to rocks, or run upon soundings.

WHALE FEED.

Yet the Creator “opens his hand” even here, and ‘satisfies the desires of every living thing.’ At night we were startled by a bright light around the ship. We were in a patch of whale feed, a kind of skid, myriads of little creatures who give out a phosphorescent light. It seemed like a patch of the milky way. The mate lowered a bucket, hoping to bring some of the animalculæ on deck; but they either eluded us, or were too minute for observation apart.

A MARINE ARTIST ON BOARD.

If sailors are kept in good condition by being furnished with something to do, instead of being suffered to be idle, it is so with all of us. While one of the female passengers is sitting by me on deck, writing, the other has been furnished by the mate with a small paint brush, and is painting blue the brass hoops of the twelve deck water buckets. They are to stand in a row, each with a letter of the name of the ship, Golden Fleece, the name furnishing a letter for each of the buckets.

THE END OF THE NORTH EAST TRADES.

Having been almost becalmed for several days, the doldrum weather ended with a heavy rain last night. Going on deck after breakfast, we found the ship driving ahead nine knots instead of three. It was a merry sight. I betook myself to the hammock, and lay there till twelve, the captain and one of his sisters sitting by, writing home, and the other reciting Virgil to me, and learning, at my request, Hannah’s song (I Sam. II.) It was one of the choice forenoons of the voyage. We gained a half day on the ship’s best passage, and by one o’clock the wind increased, so that we are now only one day and a half behind the enviable time. Pleasant as rest is, one cannot suppress the desire to be at work.

BOSONS.

Six or eight bosons have flown above and around the ship all day. Unlike the Albatross, they keep their wings in constant motion; the Albatross has none, after rising a little from the surface. They are white. The tail feathers terminate in a long sharp point, in resemblance of a marlinspike, which has led sailors to call the bird after the boatswain.

THE CAPTAIN’S CLOSING ADDRESS.

Feb. 6. This evening the captain invited the sailors to a valedictory religious service. He spoke to them from the words, “God is love,” which he judiciously explained in consistency with the other attributes. He told the men that he never sailed with a crew with whom he was more pleased. He would be willing to have them all sail with him again, which he had never before been able to say to a crew. Of the various groups of laboring men with which I have been connected, I have never seen among them a greater proportion of faithful men, of good dispositions, civil behavior, pleasant manners, intelligent, and fully deserving the encomium of the captain. Some of them were from Northern European nations, and proverbially there are no better sailors than they, Danes, Swedes, Norwegians. Some of them were from highly respectable family circles; for all of them I formed a strong personal attachment. It is with sorrow that I think of their leaving us, as of course they will soon after reaching port; for after the manner of these citizens of the world, they will, the most of them, ship at once for sea again. Some of them came with us for the round voyage; these will remain with us; the rest will soon be like the gulf weed which falls into the many ocean currents. It was gratifying to think that for nearly four months they have been under christian influences, have listened to the word of salvation, have joined in christian worship, have had abundant opportunities to read the Bible, listen to moral advice and religious instruction. I will record the names of the whole company.[4]

Feb. 10. The captain called all hands into the forward cabin, and gave them a Temperance address, warning against the evil men who drug sailors, ship them on board a vessel just sailing, securing to themselves the sailor’s advance wages, and thrusting him on board stupefied, leaving him to come to himself at sea, perhaps bound on a long voyage, with but a pittance coming to him at the close. It was a capital lecture, full of anecdotes; it put the sailors in good spirits, affected them with its kindness, while it impressed them with its good sense.[5]

As I must be much absorbed on arriving at anchorage, and shall wish to get my journal and letters into the mail at once, I will finish the journal now.

In one sense God has kept my eyes from tears; but as it regards tears of joy, I have never felt like shedding so many. My principal reading, (I will say again,) for the pleasure to my taste, if I were to mention no other reason, has been in the Old Testament. I know not why I should specify the book of Deuteronomy, only it is noticeable in the account in Matthew of the Saviour’s temptation in the wilderness, it appears that of his four quotations from the Old Testament prefaced by “It is written,” thereby foiling the suggestions of Satan, three of them are in the Book of Deuteronomy. In the Old Testament I have seen and heard God talking with men, which I have felt more at sea than on land. Whenever they prayed, there was sure to be an answer, excepting to the ungrateful, godless Saul. It has deeply moved me to think of God as always at hand when one prays. This has comforted me on the ocean. When I have heard the gale at night, or have seen the ocean lashed to fury, I could not resist the feeling: It is God, not nature; God is doing something. This has kept down every feeling of fear, for I knew that the wind could not blow longer nor stronger than he should let it out. Nor was the ocean more than a little water in the hollow of his hand. The voyage has made permanent impressions, I trust, upon me, concerning the personality of God, his intimate knowledge, his personal love, all having their most perfect expression and seal in the life, and, above all, in the atoning death of Jesus Christ.

Of course I have had thoughts of home which but for this would have agitated me. But why should I fear future events, with such experience as this voyage has given me? How little I had to do about this voyage; how manifestly it has been the work of God. Not according to my works, but of his mercy he saves me. Had I done some great service for God, He could not make me feel his goodness more. Now it is all of grace, not earned, but for nothing. Far better this than though I felt that it was of works; for his grace is a better foundation than our deserts. If he has done so much for me for nothing, I may confidently ask Him for all that I need. As I told the sailors one Sabbath, God never sells anything; He never lets a man give him an equivalent; He will receive as much grateful love as we will give, but nothing in the light of payment.

Let me never feel on shore that if I were at sea I could have more vivid impressions of God’s presence. The following lines I wrote to rebuke this feeling:

PRIVATE WORSHIP IN THE CAMP OF ISRAEL.

My God, how good to be
In the wilderness with Thee
When Israel’s tribes pursued their desert way.
Leaving the Red Sea strand
To find the Promised Land,
Thou shepherdest thy flock by night and day.
So great a change in that one night!
Pharaoh no more, the God of gods was then their risen light.

Treading the deep sea floor,
Dry shod from shore to shore,
The wall of waters piled on either hand;
Hearing the rushing waves
Fill up the Egyptians’ graves,
The foremost vainly struggling for the land,
Thee would I love with all my soul,
My heart should rove no more; God should possess the whole.

Encamped where Elim spread
Her palm-trees overhead,
With wells of water springing all around,
Not the new-found fruit
Would so my longings suit,
Nor the cold water from the pebbly ground
Could so revive my spirit there,
As when in some still place I sought my God in prayer.

Now moves the ransomed host
Far from the sea-washed coast,
And plunges deep where foot hath seldom trod;
And see that cloud by day
Marking out their way,
Guiding them safe as by a royal road.
My God, I could not see that sign,
And not with rapture cry, My soul, this God is thine!

And when the night came on,
The fading twilight gone,
Or whether storms or stars should fill the sphere,
That pillared cloud grew bright
With more than earthly light;
No need of words to whisper, God is here.
Finding some place beneath the sky,
My God, my very present God! nightly I’d cry.

When manna strews the ground,
And quails the camp surround,
And when the rock breaks forth in living streams,
And cities walled to heaven
To them are freely given,
Wonders of grace, exceeding all their dreams,
My God! each day and hour I’d be,
With heart and soul, a living sacrifice to thee.

To see the words in stone
Graven by God alone,
To hear the voice which from the darkness spake,
To see the man of God
Trail his princely rod,
And cry, “Forbear! my soul doth fear and quake.”
Oh, could I ever sin again!
Would not my soul become thy living temple then?

Behold the priest-borne ark
Resting in Jordan; mark!
It tarries till the host are all passed o’er,
Then slowly leaves the stream;
The friendly waters seem
Listing till every foot has reached the shore.
How sweet to live, how safe to die,
That wondrous ark of God before me passing by!

But pause, my soul! and see
If Israel’s God to thee
Hath not approached in loving-kindness nigher;
What place like Bethlehem!
The Saviour’s footprints deem
Steps leading up to God, ascending higher.
Hast thou forgot Gethsemane?
The world’s four thousand years had not a Calvary.

How hast thou loved and prayed?
How feared, adored, obeyed?
Is God in Christ less than a pillared cloud?
Are words he wrote in stone
More than the Word, his Son?
Is not “the living way” the better road?
Surely, whate’er thine eyes can see
In Israel’s favored lot, falls far this side of thee.

Awake! awake! my powers,
And Israel’s God and ours
Love, serve, and worship with a double flame;
God’s ancient methods learn;
The elder Scripture turn,
Tracing therein the great Immanuel’s name.
So shall thy worship perfect be,
And both the Testaments shall shine full orbed o’er thee.