Life in India or Madras, the Neilgherries, and Calcutta

Front matter

Preaching in the Village.

OR,

MADRAS, THE NEILGHERRIES, AND CALCUTTA.

The Departure

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The hour for embarkation came. Having received our instructions from the officers of the society which sent us forth, and a farewell from the churches, with hearts filled with mingled emotions of sorrow and joy, we repaired to the vessel that was to bear us to our home among the heathen of far-distant India.

Here all was activity and confusion: officers and crew were busy with preparations for casting off from the wharf, the owners of the ship were exchanging last words with the captain, fresh provisions were arriving for the voyage, while a thronging crowd of friends clustered around those with whom they were so soon to part, it might be, forever.

At length all was ready, and missionaries and friends gathered around an aged minister who had laboured thirty-three years in the land to which we were bound, listened to a last ad- dress, joined in a last prayer, and then turned to take a last embrace. Mothers did not venture there. In the privacy of home they had wept their parting tears and given the parting kiss; but dear friends, fathers and brothers pressed for the last time to their hearts the objects of their love, then left us, and took their station upon the wharf to witness our departure. Hawsers were cleared away, sails set, the single plank that united us to our native land thrown off, and with a favouring wind, we were under weigh. Cheers from the wharf were answered from the ship, the crowd of gazers dispersed, and only some few warm-hearted ones remained in the cold October wind to watch the receding and lessening form of the ship, until, like a white-winged bird, it was lost in the distant horizon.

But we had still a connecting link with America. It was the pilot, who guided our ship down the harbour of Boston through rocks and islets to the open bay. Hurrying below, amid the confusion of boxes, trunks, baskets, bags, and luggage in all its forms, we found places on which to lay our paper, that we might once more write our farewells to dear friends whom we left,—left not because we loved them not, but because we heard the voice of God crying in our ears, “Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature !"

And now the pilot has gone. He has borne with him our last words; friends will hear no more from us until oceans have been crossed by us, and re-crossed by some vessel bearing the news. The pilot in his little dancing craft glides lightly up the bay, and leaves us to plough our slow course through fourteen thousand miles of rolling ocean—the last bond to America is severed, and now—for India ho!

“The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to bear us from our native home; And fast the brown rocks faded from our view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam.”

The Ocean

“The sea! the sea! the open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free, Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide region round; It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.”

Often had I thus sung when little dreaming of ever making my home for months upon the rolling deep. Indeed, I had supposed that poetry, rather than reality, gave birth to these bright visions of a "life on the ocean wave;" but a few days of sea life, to me all novelty, fulfilled what the poet promised. It was a glorious thing to see the huge billows come rolling from the distant horizon, wave following wave in ceaseless succession, each threatening to engulf us, and yet to feel the deep-laden ship beneath our feet mount to the summit of each as it passed onward in its unchecked course.

The unbounded view of sea and sky, except as each was limited by the other; the loneliness of our ship as it ploughed its way through the trackless expanse of waters; the beauty of the waves, sparkling and glittering in the sunlight, changing from the deep blue of the gulfs from which they rose to green and fleecy white, like hillocks of emerald crested with pearls starting from sapphire beds; sun-risings and sun-settings; the moon obscured by clouds or shining full and mellow on the watery world around, with a thousand changing lights and shades,—are all so full of beauty, that he must be dull indeed who can look on these forms of loveliness and power, and find no gushings of joy and wonder within his soul. How fair must be the mind of Him who devised and framed this ever-varying scene! How loving, to spread them before the eyes of man! How mighty, to hold the seas in the hollow of his hand!

Within a week of leaving America, favouring breezes had borne us more than a thousand miles up on our way. Steering to the south and east, we daily entered a warmer climate, and left farther and farther behind us the winter that was stealing upon our friends at home. As I suffered very little from sea-sickness, I was able to enjoy the fresh breeze that filled our sails and pressed our ship through the white-capped waves that tossed their heads before, behind, and on every side of us, seeming to long to enter, and now and then succeeding in pitching their crests headlong over our bulwarks. Of our company of fourteen, some sat upon the bulwarks wrapped in their cloaks and basking in the sunshine, too sick to enjoy the romance of ocean life; others walked the deck for exercise; while a few, unequal to any effort, sought deliverance from the horrible nausea of sea-sickness by lying quietly on their backs in their berths.

Our first Sabbath at sea was by no means a quiet one. The weather was squally and the wind high. Our ship rolled from side to side in a way that was far from agreeable to voyagers so inexperienced as we were. We had a service in the morning, however, conducted by the senior member of our company. The motion of the ship was so great that we dispensed with many of the formalities of more stable churches, the preacher firmly holding to an upright post, while the audience braced themselves against cleeted chests and table-legs.

That night we had our first experience of a gale at sea. We turned into our berths, but not to sleep. The roar of the wind in the rigging, the furious pitching of the ship, the crash of boxes and trunks, thrown from their places and dashed from side to side of our state-rooms, the rush and tramp of men overhead, the quick, fierce orders of the captain, the cries of the sailors, and the swashing of water as it rolled in over the sides and down the deck of our ship, conspired to impress with a feeling of terror all who were not quite insensible to fear. Happy they who in such an hour rejoice to know that a Father's hand controls the winds and waves, making all things work together for their good!

A few weeks at sea made us feel quite at home in our new residence. Our ship was an ordinary merchantman of six hundred and fifty tons burden. Her deck, extending from the bow to the stern in one unbroken level, gave a walk of nearly a hundred and forty feet; but passengers are not expected on ordinary occasions to go forward of the mainmast, so that only the after half of the ship was ours. Below, we had a series of little cabins against each side of the vessel, separated from each other by partitions of white pine, and a central cabin common to all. The little rooms, appropriated one to each family, were but six feet six inches square, giving just space enough for berths, a trunk, and washstand, both firmly secured. They were lighted, each by a single thick glass bull's eye, let into the deck overhead. But close as were our quarters, we were a cheerful and happy company. Many a pleasant evening did we pass around our pine table, and many a pleasant walk did we have up and down the quarter deck.

Our ship was manned by a captain, two officers, and fourteen men and boys. The officers live aft with the passengers; the men forward in a small cabin in the bow of the ship called the forecastle. Supreme authority is vested in the captain; from his will there can be no appeal at sea. It is the sailor's part to obey. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the sailor's life is an idle or an easy one. When on deck he is always at work, (except at night,) either on the rigging or hull of the ship. Shifting the sails is but a fraction of his duty. In a long voyage scarcely a rope or thread is left untouched. The wear and tear of sunshine and storm call for a constant overhauling and repairing. Scraping, scrubbing, painting, tightening, tarring, bracing, furling, and loosening, are continually going on, and there is always something still to be done.

With many of the young there is a passion for sea life. They have read of its stirring scenes of adventure, and dwelt on its excitements till their minds are filled with eagerness for a sailor's berth. How many a lad, captivated by the poetic idea of being a “sailor boy," has left his parents' roof to seek his fortune on the ocean! And oh how wofully are they disappointed! It sounds well; but what is a sailor boy, and what are his duties? They are as truly and really work as the duties of the plough boy. His duty is to sweep the deck when dry, and swab it when wet; to feed and water the fowls and hogs, and keep their pens clean; to carry, fetch, and run on errands be- tween the forecastle and the cabin, the deck and the masthead; to do every dirty job, and be sworn at, and called fool and blockhead, by captain, mates, and men; and through it all to be civil and cheerful, and jump and run with a ready “ay! ay! sir !" at every call.

Across the Line

Our forty-second day at sea found us crossing the line. To most of our company this was a new era, as few had seen land or water south of the equator. We were not subjected, however, to the ceremonies formerly attendant on a first passage of the equatorial line at sea; we thus escaped the lathering with grease, and shaving with an iron hoop, the sousing in brine, and other penalties which, in old times, were inflicted upon “green horns,” to the amusement and delight of the "old salts," who were wont to enjoy a short season of license on such occasions.

This practice is passing into disuse, nor would it have been relished by our captain, who was himself making his first India voyage. Some new hand may have been told to stand, by to push the line under the bows; but beyond a joke or two, the event was as unmarked as the line itself.

We had by this time seen the usual sea sights, so important a variety in life to those who for months plough the endless succession of ocean billows without a change of scene or company. Among these were flying-fish in shoals; like glittering arrows darting from the water, they skim through the air for a hundred yards or so, and drop into the wave that meets them; their enemy, the dolphin, swift as lightning in the pursuit of his prey, arrested by our vessel, stops to play about the moving island, shows us his glittering form, and perhaps tempted by a rag dangling from a hook, falls a victim to his blind rapacity; and porpoises, round-bodied, black, and whale-like in form and nature, come bounding and leaping almost with the regularity of a battalion of cavalry in ranks of four or six, now curving so as just to show their backs, and now springing from the water into the air. These poor creatures, too, fall victims to the hand of man. Our captain twice harpooned a porpoise, and gave us the privilege of tasting fresh steaks at sea. The flesh is red, (for the porpoise is a red-blooded sea-animal rather than a fish,) and not unlike beef in appearance and in taste.

Quite often the stirring cry of “Sail ho!" called all hands on deck, and sent every eye glancing over the waters to catch a glimpse of the stranger. Nothing so breaks the solitude of the vast ocean, with its limitless plains of tossing water, as the sight of fellow-travellers upon its bosom. When the stranger barque bears down upon you, and the little birdlike thing, that in the distance was but a speck upon the horizon, swelling as it approaches to a cloud of canvas overhanging the narrow hull, lies side by side with your own sea home, you feel that you are not alone. The voice of the commander, as he hails you with his bluff "Ship ahoy! what ship is that?" and exchanges question and answer, seems like the voice of a friend or brother. This intercourse, however, usually lasts but for a few moments; and the two ships, bowing and curvetting as they rise and fall upon the waves, go each upon its own way, until, losing each other in the distance, each is once more alone upon the deep.

In the North Atlantic we had the usual alternations of winds, fair and foul, blowing from every quarter of the compass. Passing farther south we entered the wide belt of ocean over which the north-east trade wind blows. These almost unchanging winds, on both sides of the equator, known as “the trades,” are remarkable evidences of the goodness and wisdom of God. The beauty of this arrangement cannot but strike a thoughtful voyager most deeply. Without dwelling upon the fact that these and their partner winds are the great regulators of airs, clouds, and rains over the whole earth, we cannot but notice their great importance to commerce. Every seaman knows that for twelve hundred or fifteen hundred miles north of the line he may look for a fresh breeze from the north-east during the whole year; again, south of the equator he will have some two thousand miles of ocean in which a south-east wind always blows. Often for two or three weeks scarce a sail will be shifted. The balminess of the air, and the beauty of the fleecy clouds, make the trades a most delightful part of an East India voyage.

On either side of the equator, and between these two broad belts of easterly wind, lies the region of calms and squalls. It was through this region of light winds, squalls, and calms, that Columbus made his slow way to America, when he might (had he known this arrangement of the air-currents) have sailed down on the track of the trade wind. Returning, he committed an equal error by working his weary way to Europe against this steady north-east wind. In the equatorial region the atmosphere—impelled sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, and often almost without motion in the equilibrium of a calm, loaded with vapour, and heated by a torrid sun—oppresses both body and spirit. Drenching showers, gusts of wind, and waterspouts are frequent. The latter, in the distance, are interesting enough; but when too near, are viewed by the mariner with great dread. A whirlwind creating a vacuum in its centre, the water of the ocean rushes up to fill it, while the cloud above descends to meet the ascending column. It passes over the face of the ocean with a rotary motion, and at times crossing the track of a vessel, tears its sails and spars to pieces.

The squalls, or sudden gusts of wind and rain, though less romantic than the waterspout, are more useful, as they afford the voyager an opportunity to fill his empty water-casks. During a heavy shower, the lee scuppers, by which the water makes its escape, would be stopped till the rain was ankle-deep upon the deck; our fat second mate, then, coolly seating himself on the deck, with the water flowing around him, and washing the tar out of his blue jean pants, bailed it up with a bucket and handed it to the bare-footed men who passed it to the watercask. Although the first gush of the shower had been suffered to wash the deck and run off by the scuppers, yet, when our “fresh water” was served to us at the table, there was a flavour of salt, tar, and various other elements, that made it plainly a different thing from that which is known as fresh water on shore. In a few days its smell, colour, and taste became so odious, that it was unanimously banished from our cabin.

Our days and weeks were not passed in idleness. Sometimes the motion of the ship was so violent, that it was as much as we could do to hold on to the rail and watch the waves; but in ordinary weather we found a variety of occupations with which pleasantly and profitably to fill up our time. After our morning devotions and breakfast, we turned to our grammars to make a beginning in the languages in which we were to teach the Hindus. The afternoons were spent in reading, writing, singing, and walking; then came tea, evening prayers in our cabin, and a closing walk on deck.

Yet we had one great trial: our voyage went on; days not to be recalled were passing; we felt that we were fellow-travellers to eternity with all on board; but we were permitted to do nothing for the seamen. On Sunday morning one-half of their number—that is, the watch off duty—had the privilege of attending worship with us in our cabin, if they chose to do so. But we were forbidden to invite them to come, or to speak to them at any time, whether they were on duty or off duty. Nor were we permitted to have services on deck, as is customary in such voyages. Permission for only one of our number to organize a Bible class for them was refused by the captain, on the ground that it would produce insubordination.

As we had every reason to believe that, from the captain to the cook, not one of the ship's crew feared God, we could not but grieve that the door was thus shut against us. Yet we submitted to the authority of the commander of the vessel. One door he could not close against us, for “the eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous; his ears are open to their cry." To him we could cry, and no man hinder us.

High Latitudes

Our ship pressed on in her southward course, battling with wind and wave, until the equator had been left two thousand miles behind us. We had now made southing enough, and turning eastward, varied our course but little for four thousand miles. The most southern point of Africa was far to the north of us, and there was no land to stop our progress to the east.

With the tropics we had left tropical heat and languor, and in these higher latitudes found cool air, high winds, and rough seas. We were again glad to be clothed warmly, and to walk the deck briskly, wrapped in coat and cloak. This seemed appropriate to December and the Christmas holidays; but it must be borne in mind that we were in the southern hemisphere, where December and January are midsummer months, and July and August winter months. We were really experiencing a summer in the south temperate zone, in a latitude corresponding to that of South Carolina, or Gibraltar, in the north. These seas, however, some hundreds of miles to the south of the Cape of Good Hope, are cool, if not cold, in summer as well as in winter.

The wind in these latitudes generally blows freshly from the west; hence those who would go to the east give the Cape a wide berth, and favoured by these west winds sail rapidly on their course. The rough seas we here meet are, to those sensitive to sea-sickness, a drawback from the satisfaction of rapid progress. But the hardy seaman thinks not of this. As he looks aloft at the swelling canvas filled by a favouring breeze, with every backstay, brace, and sheet strained to its utmost tension, and glances over the side at the foaming waters through which his vessel ploughs her way, a smile steals over the most grim countenance, while its owner speculates as to how many knots she makes an hour, and how many degrees of longitude she will have passed when the daily reckoning is cast at noon.

Our captain seemed ill at ease. At times he was cross-grained and surly; but these “spanking breezes” that furled our royals, and sent us foaming through the waters with bending masts and snapping cordage, often charmed the evil spirit away; they were as David's harp to the uneasy soul of Saul.

Christmas week was a stormy one. We now had an opportunity to see the ocean in its angrier moods. On December 23d, we were running at our greatest speed before a fresh breeze; the ship, a pyramid of canvas, dashed proudly through the water. The wind increasing, the captain furled three studding-sails, and went below to breakfast. Before the meal was over, a wave came rolling in at our stern-windows, flooding the cabin, and at the same instant, a boom, unable to bear the strain, snapped asunder, one fragment dropping into the sea. The lighter sails were soon got in, but still every thing creaked and strained. The flying-jib was then furled, and the spanker brailed up; the fore topgallant-sail, main royal, and main topgallant-sails soon followed. Still the wind was not satisfied; order followed order; the courses were got in; the sailors rushed aloft, and lying out upon the yards, took reef after reef in the top-sails, until at noon we were dashing ahead with a few narrow strips of canvas stretched to the gale, and the waves tossing us on their broad brawny backs, or flinging over us their foaming tops.

During the whole day an India-bound ship was in full view, keeping pace with all our movements. In the heaving sea, she rolled and righted, and rolled and righted, and rolled again, while the brave seamen, cheeriest when work is hardest and danger greatest, were stripping her of her white vesture. At last she was like ourselves, stripped and girt for the battle with wind and wave. It was a gallant and a goodly sight.

Evening came, but not the still quiet of the closing day on shore. The bulkheads and partitions creaked and groaned as if a thousand tortured spirits were writhing in their close seams; the ship leaped as though smitten by rolling hills, and then pitched into yawning gulfs. The wind whistled through the cordage and roared around the sturdy masts, while the dash of waters upon the deck added to this dismal concert.

I had often wished to see the ocean in a rage, but now felt nearly satisfied; a few days later, when, in a much fiercer gale, the ship was hove-to, unable to run on account of the violence of the sea, and rolling her yards and bulwarks into the waves, I should have felt well content if I were never to see a wave again. The driving rain and fierce winds, that seemed tearing mountain masses from the ocean, and hurling them with intense malignity at us, drove us from the deck to the cabin. Here the only practicable employment was holding on to some fixed object.

At night it seemed still worse, for the violent rolling of the ship loosened all things moveable, sending them rushing across the cabins. The noise beggared description. You might have imagined that all things had long since gone to destruction; but still the crash and clatter went on. At one time the steward's pantry-door was jerked open, and out flew a cheese, a keg of pickles, and other articles; with the next roll of the ship, back they went, entering our room, and tearing down our curtain; another roll, and they are off again, and so on, till captured and secured by the poor distracted steward. Our captain felt this weather sorely; angry with the winds, the waves, and all about him, he chafed, and fretted, and scolded, and swore. A stranger to the wellspring of peace, he attributed his unhappiness to his situation, rather than to its proper source—his want of trust in God. Discontented and grumbling, he declared that he would “buy a monkey, and turn music-grinder," if ever he got to America again, rather than go to sea.

But day dawned, and with it brighter scenes. The wind had abated, and the sea, though still high, was not so violent as to forbid our enjoying its grandeur and sympathizing with the little storm-petrels that joyously skimmed its surface, or admiring the majestic albatross, soaring around us with its sail-like wings (twelve feet from tip to tip) spread to the wind, or settling in easy repose upon the tossing waves.

About this time we began to see some signs of encouragement to persevere in prayer and efforts to benefit our fellow-voyagers. The captain, though often harsh and discontented, frequently came to our religious services. He was evidently ill at ease. A copy of Pilgrim's Progress, which had been lent him, was often in his hands; and his Bible was not unread. One of the crew also, (an English lad of respectable and pious parentage,) was very seriously impressed with divine things. He told our doctor, who daily went to the forecastle to visit a poor sick sailor, that he had resolved to be a Christian.

One Sunday evening, when George was at the wheel, (by which the rudder is turned, and the ship guided, the ladies seated near him commenced singing hymns. They were singing,

"Guide me, O thou great Jehovah!"

when suddenly he began to turn the wheel rapidly to bring the ship up to her course, from which she had slid off while his attention was diverted by the hymn. This brought a rough reproof from the captain. The poor boy's heart was full. Darkness had come on, but as he stood silent at his post, with his eye upon the compass, we could follow the motion of his hand as with its brown back, from time to time, he brushed away the falling tear.

New-Year's day rose fair and lovely. The waters, so lately tossed in all the fury of the storm, now sparkled gayly in the bright sunlight. It was the day set apart by many Christians in America for prayers for the conversion of the world to Christ, and we resolved to unite our supplications to theirs. Well might we turn to God for aid, when, after eighty-three days at sea, the forecastle was still closed against us, and so little had been done for the precious souls sailing with us in that little barque over the sea of life to the eternal world. It proved a solemn and a profitable day.

A new year was opening upon us, and, with it, new events. The next Sunday, the first Sabbath of the year, was a marked one in our little community. A solemn stillness rested on all things. Even the winds and waves seemed to respond to our morning song—

“Welcome, sweet day of rest That saw the Lord arise!”

In the afternoon our services had commenced, when the captain came in and took his armchair in the corner. The sermon was full of plain earnest truths; and when, at its close, the speaker called upon a brother missionary to add a word of exhortation, all felt that it was a solemn season. The truth was plainly brought home to all, that no effort was needed to ruin the soul of man; that he was on the road to death; and that to make his destruction sure, it was only needful that he should do nothing. A ship is under sail, the wind blows fresh, and she is bearing down upon a rock: let her alone, and her destruction is certain. Or a squall suddenly arises: let her alone, shorten no sail, do not put the vessel before the wind, and no effort is needed to insure her ruin. Or she springs a leak: the water gains upon her; only do nothing, and she will soon sink to the bottom of the sea, and carry with her to destruction her rich freight of souls. So, sinner, is it with you. Do nothing, and your ruin is as certain as it is fearful. Hell gapes for you, and if you turn not, you are lost!

The captain's uneasiness was excessive. He could not sit still. His handkerchief was constantly in his hands or at his eyes. In the evening, a tract headed, “The door was shut," which was given to him, seemed to affect him deeply.

The following Saturday we were called together by one of our number to read a note, put into his hands by the steward. It was from the captain, and ran as follows:—

“Dear Sir:—In the early part of the voyage, you asked my permission to go into the forecastle and talk with the seamen. Permission was then refused you. It is to be hoped that three-fourths of the voyage is past; and as it is never too late to do good, you now have my free permission, for yourself and the other servants of God in your company, to visit the seamen in the forecastle, to warn them to flee from the wrath of God, and to seek their souls' salvation through the intercession of the Lord Jesus. As the men are in the habit of sleeping on deck in the night, I think the watch off duty could spare an hour in the morning to be in- structed in the way of everlasting life. If you are received by the men, you can arrange with them on the hour of your visits. Your visits must be with the watch below, and not interfere with ship's duty.