136 True Story of a Storm at Sea. [Aveusr, 
told it ; but, notwithstanding the information (for I felt it act upon me 
in the light of actual knowledge), I could not make up my mind to act 
upon zt. I felt that it would look so ridiculous not to go, now that I had 
determined to go, that I preferred risking my life (as I now unequivo- 
cally felt that I was doing) rather than appear to be afraid of risking it ; 
for I judged of what others would feel with respect to me by what I felt 
with respect to the person of whom I have been speaking. This may 
appear to some an instance of courage and determination; but to me it 
seems directly the reverse. I had probably as strong a feeling of the 
danger I was about to encounter as the other person, who had acquired 
what he considered to be positive knowledge’respecting it ; but I felt that, 
at all events, it was distant and uncertain ; whereas the ridicule that I 
felt I should be making myself the subject of, by changing my mind 
aud seeming to fear to go, was immediate and certain: and I therefore | 
chose to risk the one, rather than bear the other. Now the true courage; | 
if I mistake not, consisted in undergoing the certain evil, rather than 
risking the uncertain one ; just as, contrary to the common opinion, self- . 
destruction (when not committed under the influence of insanity) is the 
strongest possible proof of personal courage, ‘since it braves a certain 
evil, and that the most dreadful of all that is attendant on mortality, 
rather than risk what is at all events distant, and may possibly never be 
nearer: for I hold that self-destruction is never committed in order to 
escape from present pain, but only to avoid future. No man ever thought 
of destroying himself in order to get rid of the most acute bodily torture ; 
and no one can doubt that bodily torture, while it lasts, is infinitely | 
beyond mental——But I am departing from my intended course of mere 
narration, and am also anticipating that, in part. 
The Lord Melville was to start at midnight precisely ; but it was 
necessary to be on board much earlier than that time, in order to procure 
even a sitting in the cabin—as there were about eighty passengers expect- 
ed ; and the prospect of any of them passing the night on the deck was 
out of the question, as it had been raining and blowing the whole even- 
ing, and was “ pitch dark,” as the phrase is—so much so, that we could 
not find our way down to the quay without a lantern. I was on board 
by eleven, watching quietly, “ as is my wont,” all that was passing, with 
the feelings of a spectator, rather than a partaker in the scene ; and 
though I have been present at a great number of scenes of this kind, 
I never witnessed one that bore the least resemblance to this. It seemed 
as if the storm and confusion that took place afterwards were to be 
typified beforehand in this singular scene. After passing silently through 
the sleeping town, crossing the Grand Place, passing the gate and draw- 
bridge, all silently—tlistening, all the while, with a prospective ear, to 
the winds whistling through the narrow streets, and the rains beating 
upon the pavement—and thinking what a fool I must be to think of 
crossing the channel in such a night—and yet thinking, all the time 
that, if it were ten times worse, I should not have the resolution t 
change my mind, and not cross it,—I arrived at the spot where the ves; 
sel was moored, and found myself suddenly, and without knowing ho 
I had come there, in the midst of a scene, that put the winds and the . 
to silence in a moment, with its confusion of strange noises, and 
and sights ; for by the dim light of half-a-dozen lanterns, which 
to flit here and there of themselves, as if instinct with motion, 
