Journal of a Residence in America - Fanny Kemble

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      The captain brought me to-day a land-swallow, which, having flown out so far, came hovering exhausted over the ship, and suffered itself to be caught. Poor little creature! how very much more I do love all things than men and women! I felt sad to death for its weary little wings and frightened heart, which beat against my hand, without its having strength to struggle. I made a cage in a basket for it, and gave it some seed, which it will not eat—little carnivorous wretch! I must catch some flies for it.

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      My poor little bird is dead. I am sorry! I could mourn almost as much over the death of a soulless animal, as I would rejoice at that of a brute with a soul. Life is to these winged things a pure enjoyment; and to see the rapid pinions folded, and the bright eye filmed, conveys sadness to the heart, for 'tis almost like looking on—what indeed is not—utter cessation of existence. Poor little creature! I wished it had not died—I would but have borne it tenderly and carefully to shore, and given it back to the air again!

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      I sat down stairs in my cabin all day; the very spirit of doggerel possessed me, and I poured forth rhymes as rapidly as possible, and they were as bad as possible.—Wrote journal; in looking over my papers, fell in with the Star of Seville—some of it is very good. I'll write an English tragedy next. Dined at table—our heroes have drunk wine, and are amicable. After dinner, went on deck, and took a short walk; saw the sun set, which he did like a god, as he is, leaving the sky like a geranium curtain, which overshadowed the sea with rosy light—beautiful! Came down and sat on the floor like a Turkish woman, stitching, singing, and talking, till midnight; supped—and to bed. My appetite seems like the Danaïdes' tub, of credible memory.

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      On soundings. A fog and a calm. Sky yellow, sea grey, dripping, damp, dingy, dark, and very disagreeable. Sat working, reading, and talking in our own cabin all day. Read part of a book called Adventures of a Younger Son. The gentlemen amused themselves with fishing, and brought up sundry hake and dog-fish. I examined the heart of one of the fish, and was surprised at the long continuance of pulsation after the cessation of existence. In the evening, sang, talked, and played French blind man's buff;—sat working till near one o'clock, and reading Moore's Fudge Family—which is good fun. It's too hard to be becalmed within thirty hours of our destination.

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      Why art thou weeping

      Over the happy, happy dead,

      Who are gone away

      From this life of clay,

      From this fount of tears,

      From this burthen of years,

      From sin, from sorrow,

      From sad "to-morrow,"

      From struggling and creeping:

      Why art thou weeping,

      Oh fool, for the dead?

      Why art thou weeping

      Over the steadfast faithful dead,

      Who can never change,

      Nor grow cold and strange,

      Nor turn away,

      In a single day,

      From the love they bore,

      And the faith they swore;

      Who are true for ever,

      Will slight thee never,

      But love thee still,

      Through good and ill,

      With the constancy

      Of eternity:

      Why art thou weeping,

      Oh fool, for the dead?

      They are your only friends;

      For where this foul life ends,

      Alone beginneth truth, and love, and faith;

      All which sweet blossoms are preserved by death.

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      Becalmed again till about two o'clock, when a fair wind sprang up, and we set to rolling before it like mad. How curious it is to see the ship, like a drunken man, reel through the waters, pursued by that shrill scold the wind! Worked at my handkerchief, and read aloud to them Mrs. Jameson's book.

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      Set my foot half into a discussion about Portia, but withdrew it in time. Lord bless us! what foul nonsense people do talk, and what much fouler nonsense it is to answer them. Got very sick, and lay on the ground till dinner-time; went to table, but withdrew again while it was yet in my power to do so gracefully. Lay on the floor all the evening, singing for very sea-sickness; suddenly it occurred to me, that it was our last Saturday night on board; whereupon I indited a song to the tune of "To Ladies' eyes a round, boys,"—and having duly instructed Mr. ——how to "speak the speech," we went to supper. Last—last—dear, what is there in that word! I don't know one of this ship's company, don't care for some of them—I have led a loathsome life in it for a month past, and yet the last Saturday night seemed half sad to me. Mr. ——sang my song and kept my secret: the song was encored, and my father innocently demanded the author; I gave him a tremendous pinch, and looked very silly. Merit, like murder, will out; so I fancy that when they drank the health of the author, the whole table was aware of the genius that sat among them. They afterwards sang a clever parody of "To all ye ladies now on land," by Mr. ——, the "canny Scot," who has kept himself so quiet all the way. Came to bed at about half-past twelve: while undressing, I heard the captain come down stairs, and announce that we were clear of Nantucket shoal, and within one hundred and fifty miles of New York, which intelligence was received with three cheers. They continued to sing and shout till very late.

      SATURDAY NIGHT SONG.

      Come, fill the can again, boys,

      One parting glass, one parting glass;

      Ere we shall meet again, boys,

      Long years may pass, long years may pass.

      We'll drink the gallant bark, boys,

      That's borne us through, that's borne us through,

      Bright waves and billows dark, boys,

      Our ship and crew, our ship and crew.

      We'll drink those eyes that bright, boys,

      With smiling ray, with smiling ray,

      Have shone like stars to light, boys,

      Our watery way, our watery way.

      We'll drink our English home, boys,

      Our father land, our father land,

      And the shores to which we're come, boys,

      A sister strand, a sister strand.

      

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