Letters From High Latitudes | Page 9

the darkness at those black liquid walls of water,
mounting above you in ceaseless agitation, or tumbling over in
cataracts of gleaming foam,--the wind roaring through the
rigging,--timbers creaking as if the ship would break its heart,--the
spray and rain beating in your face,--everything around in
tumult,--suddenly to descend into the quiet of a snug, well-lighted little
cabin, with the firelight dancing on the white rosebud chintz, the
well-furnished book-shelves, and all the innumerable nick-nacks that
decorate its walls,--little Edith's portrait looking so serene,--everything
about you as bright and fresh as a lady's boudoir in May Fair,--the
certainty of being a good three hundred miles from any troublesome
shore,--all combine to inspire a feeling of comfort and security difficult
to describe.
These pleasures, indeed, for the first days of our voyage, the Icelander
had pretty much to himself. I was laid up with a severe bout of illness I
had long felt coming on, and Fitz was sea-sick. I must say, however, I
never saw any one behave with more pluck and resolution; and when
we return, the first thing you do must be to thank him for his kindness
to me on that occasion. Though himself almost prostrate, he looked
after me as indefatigably as if he had already found his sea legs; and,
sitting down on the cabin floor, with a basin on one side of him, and a

pestle and mortar on the other, used to manufacture my pills, between
the paroxysms of his malady, with a decorous pertinacity that could not
be too much admired.
Strangely enough, too, his state of unhappiness lasted a few days longer
than the eight-and-forty hours which are generally sufficient to set
people on their feet again. I tried to console him by representing what
an occasion it was for observing the phenomena of sea-sickness from a
scientific point of view; and I must say he set to work most
conscientiously to discover some remedy. Brandy, prussic acid, opium,
champagne, ginger, mutton- chops, and tumblers of salt-water, were
successively exhibited; but, I regret to say, after a few minutes, each in
turn re-exhibited itself with monotonous punctuality. Indeed, at one
time we thought he would never get over it; and the following
conversation, which I overheard one morning between him and my
servant, did not brighten his hopes of recovery.
This person's name is Wilson, and of all men I ever met he is the most
desponding. Whatever is to be done, he is sure to see a lion in the path.
Life in his eyes is a perpetual filling of leaky buckets, and a rolling of
stones up hill. He is amazed when the bucket holds water, or the stone
perches on the summit. He professes but a limited belief in his
star,--and success with him is almost a disappointment. His
countenance corresponds with the prevailing character of his thoughts,
always hopelessly chapfallen; his voice is as of the tomb. He brushes
my clothes, lays the cloth, opens the champagne, with the air of one
advancing to his execution. I have never seen him smile but once, when
he came to report to me that a sea had nearly swept his colleague, the
steward, overboard. The son of a gardener at Chiswick, he first took to
horticulture; then emigrated as a settler to the Cape, where he acquired
his present complexion, which is of a grass-green; and finally served as
a steward on board an Australian steam-packet.
Thinking to draw consolation from his professional experiences, I
heard Fitz's voice, now very weak, say in a tone of coaxing
cheerfulness,--
"Well, Wilson, I suppose this kind of thing does not last long?"

The Voice, as of the tomb. "I don't know, Sir."
Fitz.--"But you must have often seen passengers sick."
The Voice.--"Often, Sir; very sick."
Fitz.--"Well; and on an average, how soon did they recover?"
The Voice.--"Some of them didn't recover, Sir."
Fitz.--"Well, but those that did?"
The Voice.--"I know'd a clergyman and his wife as were, ill all the
voyage; five months, Sir."
Fitz.--(Quite silent.)
The Voice; now become sepulchral.--"They sometimes dies, Sir."
Fitz.--"Ugh!"
Before the end of the voyage, however, this Job's comforter himself fell
ill, and the Doctor amply revenged himself by prescribing for him.
Shortly after this, a very melancholy occurrence took place. I had
observed for some days past, as we proceeded north, and the nights
became shorter, that the cock we shipped at Stornaway had become
quite bewildered on the subject of that meteorological phenomenon
called the Dawn of Day. In fact, I doubt whether he ever slept for more
than five minutes at a stretch, without waking up in a state of nervous
agitation, lest it should be cock-crow. At last, when night ceased
altogether, his constitution could no longer stand the shock. He crowed
once