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 terrific in the full-grown storm.
It is an incomparably finer spectacle when beheld on shore,
where the waving trees, the wild flight of the birds, the
dark shadows and bright lights, the rushing of the torrents
all proclaim the strife of the unloosed elements. At sea
the albatross and little petrel fly as if the storm were their
proper sphere, the water rises and sinks as if fulfilling its
usual task, the ship alone and its inhabitants seem the objects
of wrath. On a forlorn and weather-beaten coast, the scene
is indeed different, but the feelings partake more of horror
than of wild delight.
Let us now look at the brighter side of the past time. The
pleasure derived from beholding the scenery and the general
aspect of the various countries we have visited, has decidedly
been the most constant and highest source of enjoyment. It
is probable that the picturesque beauty of many parts of
Europe exceeds anything which we beheld. But there is a
growing pleasure in comparing the character of the scenery
in different countries, which to a certain degree is distinct
from merely admiring its beauty. It depends chiefly on an
acquaintance with the individual parts of each view. I am
strongly induced to believe that as in music, the person who
understands every note will, if he also possesses a proper
taste, more thoroughly enjoy the whole, so he who examines
each part of a fine view, may also thoroughly comprehend
the full and combined effect. Hence, a traveller should be
a botanist, for in all views plants form the chief
embellishment. Group masses of naked rock, even in the wildest
forms, and they may for a time afford a sublime spectacle,
but they will soon grow monotonous. Paint them with bright
and varied colours, as in Northern Chile, they will become
fantastic; clothe them with vegetation, they must form a
decent, if not a beautiful picture.
When I say that the scenery of parts of Europe is probably
superior to anything which we beheld, I except, as a class by
itself, that of the intertropical zones. The two classes cannot
be compared together; but I have already often enlarged on
the grandeur of those regions. As the force of impressions
generally depends on preconceived ideas, I may add, that
mine were taken from the vivid descriptions in the Personal
Narrative of Humboldt, which far exceed in merit anything
else which I have read. Yet with these high-wrought ideas,
my feelings were far from partaking of a tinge of disappointment
on my first and final landing on the shores of Brazil.
Among the scenes which are deeply impressed on my mind,
none exceed in sublimity the primeval forests undefaced by
the hand of man; whether those of Brazil, where the powers
of Life are predominant, or those of Tierra del Fuego,
where Death and decay prevail. Both are temples filled with
the varied productions of the God of Nature: - no one can
stand in these solitudes unmoved, and not feel that there is
more in man than the mere breath of his body. In calling
up images of the past, I find that the plains of Patagonia
frequently cross before my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced
by all wretched and useless. They can be described
only by negative characters; without habitations, without
water, without trees, without mountains, they support merely
a few dwarf plants. Why, then, and the case is not peculiar
to myself, have these arid wastes taken so firm a hold on
my memory? Why have not the still more level, the greener
and more fertile Pampas, which are serviceable to mankind,
produced an equal impression? I can scarcely analyze these
feelings: but it must be partly owing to the free scope given
to the imagination. The plains of Patagonia are boundless,
for they are scarcely passable, and hence unknown: they
bear the stamp of having lasted, as they are now, for ages,
and there appears no limit to their duration through future
time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth was
surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts
heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these
last boundaries to man's knowledge with deep but ill-defined
sensations?
Lastly, of natural scenery, the views from lofty mountains,
through certainly in one sense not beautiful, are very
memorable. When looking down from the highest crest of the
Cordillera, the mind, undisturbed by minute details, was
filled with the stupendous dimensions of the surrounding masses.
Of individual objects, perhaps nothing is more certain to
create astonishment than the first sight in his native haunt of
a barbarian - of man in his lowest and most savage state.
One's mind hurries back over past centuries, and then asks,
could our progenitors have been men like these?
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