Many of the losses which must be experienced are obvious; such as that
of the society of every old friend, and of the sight of those places
with which every dearest remembrance is so intimately connected. These
losses, however, are at the time partly relieved by the exhaustless
delight of anticipating the long wished-for day of return. If, as
poets say, life is a dream, I am sure in a voyage these are the visions
which best serve to pass away the long night. Other losses, although
not at first felt, tell heavily after a period: these are the want of
room, of seclusion, of rest; the jading feeling of constant hurry; the
privation of small luxuries, the loss of domestic society and even of
music and the other pleasures of imagination. When such trifles are
mentioned, it is evident that the real grievances, excepting from
accidents, of a sea-life are at an end. The short space of sixty years
has made an astonishing difference in the facility of distant
navigation. Even in the time of Cook, a man who left his fireside for
such expeditions underwent severe privations. A yacht now, with every
luxury of life, can circumnavigate the globe. Besides the vast
improvements in ships and naval resources, the whole western shores of
America are thrown open, and Australia has become the capital of a
rising continent. How different are the circumstances to a man
shipwrecked at the present day in the Pacific, to what they were in the
time of Cook! Since his voyage a hemisphere has been added to the
civilized world.
If a person suffer much from sea-sickness, let him weigh it heavily in
the balance. I speak from experience: it is no trifling evil, cured in
a week. If, on the other hand, he take pleasure in naval tactics, he
will assuredly have full scope for his taste. But it must be borne in
mind, how large a proportion of the time, during a long voyage, is
spent on the water, as compared with the days in harbour. And what are
the boasted glories of the illimitable ocean. A tedious waste, a
desert of water, as the Arabian calls it. No doubt there are some
delightful scenes. A moonlight night, with the clear heavens and the
dark glittering sea, and the white sails filled by the soft air of a
gently blowing trade-wind, a dead calm, with the heaving surface
polished like a mirror, and all still except the occasional flapping of
the canvas. It is well once to behold a squall with its rising arch and
coming fury, or the heavy gale of wind and mountainous waves. I
confess, however, my imagination had painted something more grand, more
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