They go
round the small circle of their duties like a blind horse in a mill.
Their faculties are rocked by the waves and lulled by the winds; and
when they come ashore, they can see and understand nothing for the
swimming of their heads. Drink makes them feel as if at sea again; and
when the tankard is out, they return on board, and exchange one state
of stupefaction for another. Well, I _was_ a sailor, and the dullest
of the tribe. No wonder, for I was at it when a young boy. I was never
startled by the sights or sounds of the sea. The moaning of the wind,
the rush of the waves, the silence of the calm, were parts of my own
existence; and in the wildest storm, my mind never took a wider tack
than just to think what the poor devils on shore would do now.
I was a handy lad, however. I could go aloft with any man on board,
and never troubled the shrouds in coming down when a rope was within
springing distance. But this was instinct or habit: thought was not
concerned in it--I had not found the principle. One day, it blew what
sailors call great guns; our bulwarks were stove in pieces, and the
sea swept the deck, crashing and roaring like a whole herd of tigers.
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