CHAPTER IV.

O'er the stormy, wide, and billowy deep,
Where the whale, the shark, and the sword-fish sleep;
And amidst the plashing and feathery foam,
Where the stormy-petrel finds a home.

"GEORGE is to open this meeting, by reciting some lines written by Mrs. Howitt, which are very clever, and will most appropriately introduce our subject." So saying, Mrs. Wilton proceeded to arrange the members in their various places; and, seating herself, she turned to her son, who by virtue of his office was allowed to remain near Grandy's chair until the great work was accomplished. George was hesitating, but an encouraging smile from this kind mother inspired him with confidence, and he commenced without further ceremony:—

"The earth is large,' said one of twain;
'The earth is large and wide;

But it is filled with misery

And death on every side!'
Said the other, 'Deep as it is wide
Is the sea within all climes,
And it is fuller of misery

And of death, a thousand times!
The land has peaceful flocks and herds,
And sweet birds singing round;

But a myriad monstrous, hideous things
Within the sea are found-
Things all misshapen, slimy, cold,
Writhing, and strong, and thin,
And waterspouts, and whirlpools wild,
That draw the fair ship in.

I've heard of the diver to the depths

Of the ocean forced to go,

To bring up the pearl and the twisted shell
From the fathomless caves below;

I've heard of the things in those dismal gulfs,
Like fiends that hemm'd him round-

I would not lead a diver's life

For every pearl that's found.

And I've heard how the sea-snake, huge and dark,

In the arctic flood doth roll;

He hath coil'd his tail, like a cable strong,

All round and round the pole:

And they say, when he stirs in the sea below,
The ice-rocks split asunder-

The mountains huge of the ribbed ice-
With a deafening crack like thunder.
There's many an isle man wots not of,
Where the air is heavy with groans;
And the bottom o' th' sea, the wisest say,
Is covered with dead men's bones.
I'll tell thee what: there's many a ship
In the wild North Ocean frore,

That has lain in the ice a thousand years,
And will lie a thousand more;

And the men-each one is frozen there
In the place where he did stand;

The oar he pull'd, the rope he threw,

Is frozen in his hand.

The sun shines there, but it warms them not;
Their bodies are wintry cold:

They are wrapp'd in ice that grows and grows,
Solid, and white, and old!

And there's many a haunted desert rock,
Where seldom ship doth go-

Where unburied men, with fleshless limbs,
Are moving to and fro:

They people the cliffs, they people the caves,—

A ghastly company!—

I never sail'd there in a ship myself,

But I know that such there be.
And oh the hot and horrid track
Of the Ocean of the Line!
There are millions of the negro men

Under that burning brine.

The ocean sea doth moan and moan,

Like an uneasy sprite;

And the waves are white with a fiendish fire

That burneth all the night.

'Tis a frightful thing to sail along,

Though a pleasant wind may blow,
When we think what a host of misery

Lies down in the sea below!

Didst ever hear of a little boat,

And in her there were three;

They had nothing to eat, and nothing to drink,
Adrift on the desert sea.

For seven days they bore their pain;

Then two men on the other

Did fix their longing, hungry eyes,

And that one was their brother!

And him they killed, and ate, and drank—
Oh me! 'twas a horrid thing!

For the dead should lie in a churchyard green,
Where the pleasant flowers do spring.

And think'st thou but for mortal sin
Such frightful things would be?
In the land of the New Jerusalem

There will be no more sea!"