CHAPTER XLI.
A MAN-OF-WAR LIBRARY.
Nowhere does time pass more heavily than with most men-of-war's-men onboard their craft in harbour.
One of my principal antidotes against _ennui_ in Rio, was reading.There was a public library on board, paid for by government, andintrusted to the custody of one of the marine corporals, a little,dried-up man, of a somewhat literary turn. He had once been a clerk ina post-office ashore; and, having been long accustomed to hand overletters when called for, he was now just the man to hand over books. Hekept them in a large cask on the berth-deck, and, when seeking aparticular volume, had to capsize it like a barrel of potatoes. Thismade him very cross and irritable, as most all librarians are. Who hadthe selection of these books, I do not know, but some of them must havebeen selected by our Chaplain, who so pranced on Coleridge's "_HighGerman horse_."
Mason Good's Book of Nature--a very good book, to be sure, but notprecisely adapted to tarry tastes--was one of these volumes; andMachiavel's Art of War--which was very dry fighting; and a folio ofTillotson's Sermons--the best of reading for divines, indeed, but withlittle relish for a main-top-man; and Locke's Essays--incomparableessays, everybody knows, but miserable reading at sea; and Plutarch'sLives--super-excellent biographies, which pit Greek against Roman inbeautiful style, but then, in a sailor's estimation, not to bementioned with the _Lives of the Admirals_; and Blair's Lectures,University Edition--a fine treatise on rhetoric, but having nothing tosay about nautical phrases, such as "_splicing the main-brace_,""_passing a gammoning_," "_puddinging the dolphin_," and "_making aCarrick-bend_;" besides numerous invaluable but unreadable tomes, thatmight have been purchased cheap at the auction of somecollege-professor's library.
But I found ample entertainment in a few choice old authors, whom Istumbled upon in various parts of the ship, among the inferiorofficers. One was "_Morgan's History of Algiers_," a famous old quarto,abounding in picturesque narratives of corsairs, captives, dungeons,and sea-fights; and making mention of a cruel old Dey, who, toward thelatter part of his life, was so filled with remorse for his crueltiesand crimes that he could not stay in bed after four o'clock in themorning, but had to rise in great trepidation and walk off his badfeelings till breakfast time. And another venerable octavo, containinga certificate from Sir Christopher Wren to its authenticity, entitled"_Knox's Captivity in Ceylon, 1681_"--abounding in stories about theDevil, who was superstitiously supposed to tyrannise over thatunfortunate land: to mollify him, the priests offered up buttermilk,red cocks, and sausages; and the Devil ran roaring about in the woods,frightening travellers out of their wits; insomuch that the Islandersbitterly lamented to Knox that their country was full of devils, andconsequently, there was no hope for their eventual well-being. Knoxswears that he himself heard the Devil roar, though he did not see hishorns; it was a terrible noise, he says, like the baying of a hungrymastiff.
Then there was Walpole's Letters--very witty, pert, and polite--andsome odd volumes of plays, each of which was a precious casket ofjewels of good things, shaming the trash nowadays passed off fordramas, containing "The Jew of Malta," "Old Fortunatus," "The CityMadam." "Volpone," "The Alchymist," and other glorious old dramas ofthe age of Marlow and Jonson, and that literary Damon and Pythias, themagnificent, mellow old Beaumont and Fletcher, who have sent the longshadow of their reputation, side by side with Shakspeare's, far downthe endless vale of posterity. And may that shadow never be less! butas for St. Shakspeare may his never be more, lest the commentatorsarise, and settling upon his sacred text like unto locusts, devour itclean up, leaving never a dot over an I.
I diversified this reading of mine, by borrowing Moore's "_Loves of theAngels_" from Rose-water, who recommended it as "_de charmingest ofvolumes;_" and a Negro Song-book, containing _Sittin' on a Rail_,_Gumbo Squash_, and _Jim along Josey_, from Broadbit, asheet-anchor-man. The sad taste of this old tar, in admiring suchvulgar stuff, was much denounced by Rose-water, whose own predilectionswere of a more elegant nature, as evinced by his exalted opinion of theliterary merits of the "_Loves of the Angels_."
I was by no means the only reader of books on board the Neversink.Several other sailors were diligent readers, though their studies didnot lie in the way of belles-lettres. Their favourite authors were suchas you may find at the book-stalls around Fulton Market; they wereslightly physiological in their nature. My book experiences on board ofthe frigate proved an example of a fact which every book-lover musthave experienced before me, namely, that though public libraries havean imposing air, and doubtless contain invaluable volumes, yet,somehow, the books that prove most agreeable, grateful, andcompanionable, are those we pick up by chance here and there; thosewhich seem put into our hands by Providence; those which pretend tolittle, but abound in much.