gazing, he would look out upon the appalling sweep of sea and rock and sky, where the sombre wonder of the dusk was working more terribly than with thunder: clouds in embers, cliffs and mist and tumbling water turning to shadows, vanishing, as though they were not. In the place of a shining world, spread familiar and open, from its paths to the golden haze of its uttermost parts, there would come the cloud and mystery and straying noises of the night, wherein lurk and peer and restlessly move whatsoever may see in the dark.
Thus would he sit oppressed while night covered the world he knew by day. And there would come up from the sea its voice; and the sea has no voice, but mysteriously touches the strings within the soul of 28 a man, so that the soul speaks in its own way, each soul lifting its peculiar message. For me ’twas sweet to watch the tender shadows creep upon the western fire, to see the great gray rocks dissolve, to hear the sea’s melodious whispering; but to him (it seemed) the sea spoke harshly and the night came with foreboding. In the silence and failing light of the hour, looking upon the stupendous works of the Lord, he would repeat the words of the prophet of the Lord:
“For behold the Lord will come with fire, and with his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” And again, with his hand upon his forehead and his brows fallen hopelessly, “With his chariots like a whirlwind, to render his anger with fury, and his rebuke with the flames of fire.” Still repeating the awful words, his voice broken to a terrified whisper, “His rebuke with the flames of fire!” And in particular moods, when the prophets, however sonorous, were inadequate to his need, my uncle would have recourse to his own pithy vocabulary for terms with which to anathematize himself; but these, of course, may not be written in a book.
When the dusk was come my uncle would turn blithely from this melancholy contemplation and call for a lamp and his bottle. While I was about this business (our maid-servant would not handle the bottle lest she be damned for it), my uncle would stump the floor, making gallant efforts to whistle and trill: by this exhorting himself to a cheerful mood, so that when 29 I had moved his great chair to the table, with the lamp near and turned high, and had placed a stool for his wooden leg, and had set his bottle and glass and little brown jug of cold water conveniently at hand, his face would be pleasantly rippling and his eyes all a-twinkle.
“Up with un, Dannie!” says he.
’Twas his fancy that he had gout in the tip of his wooden leg. I must lift the ailing bit of timber to the stool with caution.
“Ouch!” groans he. “Easy, lad!”
’Twas now in place.
“All ship-shape an’ cheerful,” says he. “Pass the bottle.”
He would then stand me up for catechism; and to this task I would come with alacrity, and my heels would come together, and my shoulders square, and my hands go behind my back, as in the line at school. ’Twas a solemn game, whatever the form it took, whether dealing with my possessions, hopes, deportment, or what-not; and however grotesque an appearance the thing may wear, ’twas done in earnest by us both and with some real pains (when I was stupid or sleepy) to me. ’Twas the way he had, too, of teaching me that which he would have me conceive him to be––of fashioning in my heart and mind the character he would there wear. A clumsy, forecastle method, and most pathetically engaging, to be sure! but in effect unapproached: for to this day, when I know him as he was, the man he would appear to be sticks in my heart and will not be supplanted. Nor would I willingly 30 yield the wistful old dog’s place to a gentleman of more brilliant parts.
“Dannie, lad,” he would begin, in the manner of a visiting trustee, but yet with a little twitch and flush of embarrassment, which must be wiped away with his great bandanna handkerchief––“Dannie, lad,” he would begin, “is ol’ Nicholas Top a well-knowed figger in Newf’un’land?”
“He’s knowed,” was the response I had been taught, “from Cape Race t’ Chidley.”
“What for?”
“Standin’ by.”
So far so good; my uncle would beam upon me, as though the compliment were of my own devising, until ’twas necessary once more to wipe the smile and blush from his great wet countenance.
“Is it righteous,” says he, “t’ stand by?”
“ ’Tis that.”
He would now lean close with his poser: “Does it say so in the Bible? Ah ha, lad! Does it say so there?”
“ ’Twas left out,” says I, having to this been scandalously taught, “by mistake!”
’Twas my uncle’s sad habit thus to solve his ethical difficulties. To a gigantic, thumb-worn Bible he would turn, the which, having sought with unsuccess until his temper was hot, he would fling back to its place, growling: “Them ol’ prophets was dunderheads, anyhow; they left out more’n they put in. Why, Dannie,” in vast disgust, “you don’t find the mention of barratry 31 from jib-boom t’ taffrail! An’ you mean t’ set there an’ tell me them prophets didn’t make no mistake? No, sir! I ’low they was well rope’s-ended for neglect o’ dooty when the Skipper cotched un in the other Harbor.” But if by chance, in his impatient haste, he stumbled upon some confirmation of his own philosophy, he would crow: “There you got it, Dannie! Right under the thumb o’ me! Them ol’ bullies was wise as owls.” ’Twas largely a matter of words, no doubt (my uncle being self-taught in all things); and ’tis possible that the virtue of standing by, indirectly commended, to be sure, is not specifically and in terms enjoined upon the righteous. However––
“Come, now!” says my uncle; “would you say that ol’ Nicholas Top was famous for standin’ by?”
’Twas hard to remember the long response. “Well,” I must begin, in a doubtful drawl, every word and changing inflection his own, as I had been taught, “I wouldn’t go quite t’ the length o’ that. Ol’ Nicholas Top wouldn’t claim it hisself. Ol’ Nicholas Top on’y claims that he’s good at standin’ by. His cronies do ’low that he can’t be beat at it by ar a man in Newf’un’land; but Nicholas wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ sayin’ so hisself. ‘Ol’ Nick,’ says they, ‘would stand by if the ship was skippered by the devil and inbound on a fiery wind t’ the tickle t’ hell. Whatever Nick says he’ll do,’ says they, ‘is all the same as did; an’ if he says he’ll stand by, he’ll stick, blow high or blow low, fog, ice, or reefs. “Be jiggered t’ port an’ weather!” 32 says he.’[1] But sure,” I must conclude, “ol’ Nicholas wouldn’t say so hisself. An’ so I wouldn’t go t’ the length o’ holdin’ that he was famous for standin’ by. Take it by an’ all, if I was wantin’ sea room, I’d stick t’ well knowed an’ be done with it.”
“Co’-rect!” says my uncle, with a smack of satisfaction. “You got that long one right, Dannie. An’ now, lad,” says he, his voice turning soft and genuine in feeling, “what’s the ol’ sailorman tryin’ t’ make out o’ you?”
“A gentleman.”
“An’ why?”
Then this disquieting response:
“ ’Tis none o’ my business.”
’Twould have been logical had he asked me: “An’, Dannie, lad, what’s a gentleman?” But this he never did; and I think,
