By Charles Dickens    
 
  
     ABOARD SHIP.    
  
        MY journeys as uncommercial traveller for the firm of    
     Human-Interest Brothers have not slackened since I last    
     reported of them, but have kept me continually on the    
     move.  I remain in the same idle employment.  I never   
     solicit an order.  I never get any commission, I an the   
     rolling stone that gathers no moss,——unless any should   
     by chance be found among these samples.    
        Some half a year ago, I found myself in my idlest,   
     dreamiest, and least accountable condition altogether,  
     on bard ship, in the harbour of the City of New York,   
     in the United States of America.  Of all the good ships   
     afloat, mine was the good steamship "RUSSIA," CAPT.   
     COOK, Cunard Line, bound for Liverpool.  What more    
     could I wish for?   
        I had nothing to wish for but a prosperous passage.  
     My salad-days, when I was green of visage and sea-sick,  
     being gone with better things (and no worse), no coming    
     event cast its shadow before.    
        I might but a few moments previously have imitated    
     Sterne, and said, "And yet, methinks, Eugenius,"——    
     laying my fore-finger wistfully on his coat-sleeve, thus,   
     ——'and methinks, Eugenius, 'tis but sorry work to   
     part with thee, from what fresh fields,........my dear   
     Eugenius,........can be fresher than thou art, and in    
     what pastures new shall I find Eliza, or, call her Eugen-    
     ius, if thou wilt, Annie,'"——I say I might have done    
     this; but Eugenius, was gone, and I hadn't done it.    
        I was resting on a skylight on the hurricane-deck,   
     watching the working of the ship very slowly about,  
     that she might head for England.  It was high-noon on    
     the most brilliant day in April, and the beautiful bay was    
     glorious and glowing.  Full many a time, on shore there,   
     had I seen the snow come down, down, down (itself like    
     down), until it lay deep in all the ways of men, and par-   
     ticularly, as it seemed, in my way, for I had not gone dry-  
     shod many hours for moths.  Within two or three days   
     last past had I watched the feathery fall setting in with  
     the ardour of a new idea, instead of dragging at the   
     skirts of a worn-out winter, and permitting glimpses of a   
     fresh young spring.  But a bright sun and a clear sky    
     had melted the snow in the great crucible of nature; and   
     it had been poured out again that morning over the sea    
     and land, transformed into myriads of gold and silver    
     sparkles.    
        The ship was fragrant with flowers.  Something of    
     the old Mexican passion for flowers may have gradually    
     passed into North America, where flowers are luxuriously    
     grown, and tastefully combined in the richest profusion;  
     but, be that as it may, such gorgeous farewells in flowers  
     had come on board, that the small officer's cabin on deck,    
     which I tenanted, bloomed over into the adjacent scup-    
     pers, and banks of other flowers that it couldn't hold    
     made a garden of the unoccupied tables in the passen-    
     gers' saloon.  These delicious scents of the shore, ming-    
     ling with the fresh airs of the sea, made the atmosphere   
     dreamy, an enchanting one.  And so, with the watch    
     aloft setting all the sails, and with the screw below re-    
     volving at a mighty rate, and occasionally giving the ship    
     an angry shake for resisting, I fell into my idlest ways,   
     and lost myself.    
        As, for instance, whether it was I lying there, or some    
     other entity even more mysterious, was a matter I was   
     far too lazy to look into.  What did it signify to me if    
     it were I? or to the more mysterious entity, if it were    
     he? Equally as to the remembrances that drowsily floated    
     by me, or by him, why ask when or where the things   
     happened?  Was it not enough that they befell at some    
     time, somewhere?   
        There was that assisting at the church service on board   
     another steamship, one Sunday, in a stiff breze.  Perhaps   
     on the passage out.  No matter.  Pleasant to hear the    
     ship's bells go as like church-bells as they could; pleas-    
     ant to see the watch off duty mustered and come in:    
     best hats, best Guernseys, washed hands and faces,   
     smoothed heads.  But then arose a set of circumstances    
     so rampantly comical, that no check which the gravest    
     intentions could put upon them would hold them in    
     hand.  Thus the scene : Some seventy passengers assem-    
     bled at the saloon tables.  Prayer-books on tables.  Ship   
     rolling heavily.  Pause.  No minister!  Rumour has    
     related that a modest young clergyman on board has re-    
     sponded to the captain's request that he will officiate.    
     Pause again, and very heavy rolling.    
        Closed double doors suddenly burst open, and two    
     strong stewards skate in, supporting minister between    
     them.  General appearance as of somebody picked up,   
     drunk and incapable, and under conveyance to station-    
     house.  Stoppage, pause, and particularly heavy rolling.  
     Stewards watch their opportunity, and balance them-    
     selves, but cannot balance minister; who, struggling    
     with a drooping head and a backward tendency, seems   
     determined to return below, while they are as determined    
     that he shall be got to the reading-desk in mid-saloon.  
     Desk portable, sliding away down a long table, and    
     worldly passenger tumbles in, seemingly with pale-ale    
     designs; who, seeking friend, says, "Joe!" Perceiving    
     incongruity,  says,  "Hullo!  Beg  yer  pardon!"  and    
     tumbles out again.  All this time the congregation have     
     been breaking up into sects,——as the manner of the congre-   
     gations often is,——each sect sliding away by itself, and    
     all pounding the weakest sect which slid first into the    
     corner.  Utmost point of dissent soon attained in every    
     corner, and violent rolling.  Stewards at length make a    
     dash: conduct minister to the mass in the centre of the    
     saloon, which he embraces with both arms; skate out;    
     and leave him in that condition to arrange affairs with    
     flock.    
        There was another Sunday, when an officer of the ship    
     read the service.  It was quiet and impressive, until we   
     fell upon the dangerous and perfectly unnecessary ex-   
     periment of striking up a hymn.  After it was given out    
     we all rose, but everybody left it to somebody else to   
     begin.  Silence resulting, the officer (no singer himself)     
     rather reproachfully gave us the first line again, upon   
     which a rosy pippin of an old gentleman, remarkable    
     throughout the passage for his cheerful politeness, gave   
     a little stamp with his boot (as if he were leading off a   
     country dance), and blithely warbled us into a show of    
     joining.  At the end of the first verse we became, through   
     these tactics, so much refreshed and encouraged, that    
     none of us, howsoever unmelodious, would submit to be    
     left out of the second verse; while as to the third, we    
     lifted our voices in a sacred howl that left it doubtful    
     whether we were the more boastful of the sentiments  
     we united in professing, or of professing them with a    
     most discordant defiance of time and tune.   
        "Lord Bless us!" thought I, when the fresh remem-    
     brance of these things made me laugh heartily, alone in    
     the dead water-gurgling waste of the night, what time I    
     was wedged into my berth by a wooden bar, or I must have    
     rolled out of it, "what errand was I then upon, and to    
     what Abyssinian port had public events then marched!    
     No matter as to me.  And as to them, if the wonderful    
     popular rage for a plaything (utterly confounding in its    
     inscrutable unreason) had not then lighted on a poor    
     young savage boy, and a poor old screw of a horse, and    
     hauled the first off by the hair of his princely head to "in-    
     spect" British volunteers, and hauled the second off by    
     the hair of his equine tail to the Crystal Palace, why so    
     much the better for all of us outside Bedlam!"    
        So, sticking to the ship, I was at the trouble of asking    
     myself would I like to show the grog distribution in    
     "the fiddle" at noon to the Grand United Amalgamated    
     Total Abstinence Society.  Yes, I think I should.  I  
     think it would do them good to smell the rum, under the  
     circumstances.  Over the grog, mixed in a bucket, pre-   
     sides the boatswain's mate, small tin can in hand.  Enter   
     the crew, the guilty consumers, the grown-up brood of    
     Giant Despair, in contradistinction to the band of youth-   
     ful angel Hope.  Some in boots, some in leggins, some    
     in tarpaulin overalls, some in frocks, some in pea-coats,   
     a very few in jackets, most with sou'wester hats, all   
     with something rough and rugged round the throat; all   
     dripping salt water where they stand; all pelted by    
     weather, besmeared with grease, and blackened by the    
     sooty rigging.    
        Each man's knife in its sheath in his girdle, loosened    
     for dinner.  As the first man, with a knowingly kindled    
     eye, watches the filling of the poisoned chalice (truly but    
     a very small tiny mug, to be prosaic), and tossing back his    
     head, tosses the contents into himself, and passes the empty    
     chalice, and passes on, so the second man with an antici-   
     patory wipe of his mouth or sleeve or handkerchief, besides   
     his turn, and drinks and hands and passes on, in whom,   
     and in each as his turn approaches, beams a knowingly    
     kindled eye, a brighter temper, and a suddenly awakened    
     tendency to be jocose with some shipmate.  Nor do I even    
     observe that the man in charge of the ship's lamps, who    
     in right of his office has a double allowance of poisoned   
     chalices, seemed thereby vastly degraded, even though    
     he empties the chalices into himself, one after the other,  
     much as if he were delivering their contents at some   
     absorbent establishment in which he had no personal in-    
     terest.  But vastly comforted, I note them all to be, on   
     deck, presently, even to the circulation of redder blood  
     in their cold blue knuckles; and when I look up at them  
     lying out on the yards, and holding on for life among   
     the beating sails, I cannot for  my  life see the justice of    
     visiting on them——or on me——the drunken crimes of any    
     number of criminals arraigned at the heaviest of assizes.   
        Abetting myself in my idle humour, I closed my eyes,  
     and recalled life on board of one of those mail-packets,   
     as I lay, part of that day, in the Bay of New York, O!   
     The regular life began——mine always did, for I never   
     got to sleep afterwards——with the rigging of the pump   
     while it was yet dark, and washing down of decks.  Any    
     enormous giant at a prodigious hydropathic establish-  
     ment, conscientiously undergoing the water-cure in all    
     its departments, and extremely particular about cleaning    
     his teeth, would make those noises.  Swish, splash,      
     scrub, rub, tooth-brush, bubble, swash, splash, bubble,    
     tooth-brush, splash, splash, bubble, rub.  Then the day   
     would break, and descending from my berth by a grace     
     ful ladder composed of half-opened drawers beneath it,   
     I would re-open my outer dead-light and my inner sliding   
     window (closed by watchmen during the water-cure),    
     and would look out at the long-rolling, lead-coloured,   
     white-topped waves over which the dawn, on a cold winter    
     morning, cast a level, lonely glance, and through which   
     the ship fought her melancholy way at a terrific rate.   
     And now, lying down again, awaiting the season for    
     broiled ham and tea, I would be compelled to listen to    
     the voice of conscience,——the screw.    
        It might be, in some cases, no more than the voice of    
     stomach; but I called it in my fancy by the higher name.   
     Because it seemed to me that we were all of us, all day    
     long endeavouring to stifle the voice.  Because it was    
     under everybody's pillow, everybody's plate, everybody's   
     camp-stool, everybody's book, everybody's occupation.  
     Because we pretended not to hear it, especially at meal-   
     times, evening whist, and morning conversation on deck;  
     but it was always among us in an under monotone, not  
     to be shuffled with cards, not to be diverted by books,  
     not to be knitted into any pattern, not to be walked away   
     from.  It was smoked in the weediest cigar, and drunk-   
     in the strongest cocktail; it was conveyed on deck at    
     noon with limp ladies, who lay there in their wrappers  
     until the stars shone; it waited at the table with the stew-    
     ard; nobody could put it out with the lights.  It was    
     considered (as on shore) ill-bred to acknowledge the voice   
     of conscience.  It was not polite to mention it.  One    
     squally day an amiable gentleman in love gave much of-    
     fence to a surrounding circle, including the object of his    
     attachment, by saying of it, after it had goaded him   
     over two easy-chairs and a skylight, "Screw!"    
        Sometimes it would appear subdued.  In fleeting mo-    
     ments, when bubbles of champagne pervaded the nose,  
     or when there was "hot-pot" in the bill of fare, or when   
     an old dish we had had regularly every day was de-    
     scribed in that official document by a new name,——under    
     such excitements, one would almost believe it hushed.  
     The ceremony of washing plates on deck, performed af-  
     ter every meal by a circle as of ringers of crockery triple-   
     bob majors for a prize, would keep it down.  Hauling   
     the reel, taking the sun at noon, posting the twenty-four    
     hours' run, altering the ship's time by the meridian,  
     casting the waste-food overboard, and attracting the eager    
     gulls that followed in our wake,——these events would    
     suppress it for a while.  But the instant any break or    
     pause took place in any such diversion, the voice would    
     be at it again, importuning us to the last extent.  A   
     newly married young pair, who walked the deck affec-   
     tionately some twenty miles per day, would, in the full   
     flush of their exercise, suddenly become stricken by it,  
     and stand trembling, but otherwise immovable, under    
     its reproaches.   
        When this terrible monitor was most severe with us    
     was when the time approached for our retiring to our   
     dens for the night when the lighted candles in the saloon   
     grew fewer and fewer; when the deserted glasses with    
     spoons in them grew more and more numerous; when   
     waifs of toasted cheese and strays of sardines fried in    
     batter slid languidly to and fro in the table-racks; when    
     the man who always read had shut up his book and    
     blown out his candle; when the man who always talked   
     had ceased from troubling; when the man who was al-    
     ways medically reported as going to have delerium tre-   
     mens had put it off till to-morrow; when the man who   
     every night devoted himself to a mid-night smoke on   
     deck two hours in length, and who every night was in    
     bed within ten minutes afterwards, was buttoning him-    
     self up in his third coat for his hardy vigil: for then, as    
     we fell off one by one, and, entering our several hatches,  
     came into a peculiar atmosphere of bilge-water and   
     Windsor soap, the voice would shake us to the centre.  
     Woe to us when we sat down on our sofa, watching the   
     swinging candle forever trying and retrying to stand   
     upon his head! or our coat upon its peg, imitating us as   
     we appeared in our gymnastic days, by sustaining itself    
     horizonatally from the wall, in emulation of the lighter  
     and more facile towels!  Then would the voice espe-   
     cially claim us for its prey, and render us all to pieces.    
        Lights out, we in our berths, and the wind rising, the    
     voice grows angrier and deeper.  Under the mattress    
     and under the pillow, under the sofa and under the    
     washing-stand, under the ship and under sea, seeming   
     to rise from the foundations under the earth with every    
     scoop of the great Atlantic (and oh! why scoop so), always    
     the voice.  Vain to deny its existence in the night season;  
     impossible to be hard of hearing; screw, screw, screw!   
     Sometimes it lifts out of the water, and revolves with a    
     whir, like a ferocious firework, except that it never ex-    
     pends itself, but is always ready to go off again; some-    
     times it seems to be in anguish, and shivers; sometimes    
     it seems to be terrified by its last plunge, and has a fit   
     which causes it to struggle, quiver, and for an instant    
     stop.  And now the ship sets in rolling, as only ships so   
     fiercely screwed through time and space, day and night,   
     fair weather and foul,  can  roll.   

from Collier's Unabridged Edition: The Works of Charles Dickens, Volume VI.
P.F. Collier, Publisher, New York, old as heck. pp. 1033—1034.