- end_line
- 11598
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.843Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11531
- text
- from a visit to an only brother in London. She had no friend or
relative on board, hence, as there is little mourning for a stranger
dying among strangers, her memory had been buried with her body.
But the thing most worthy of note among these now light-hearted people
in feathers, was the gay way in which some of them bantered others,
upon the panic into which nearly all had been thrown.
And since, if the extremest fear of a crowd in a panic of peril, proves
grounded on causes sufficient, they must then indeed come to
perish;—therefore it is, that at such times they must make up their
minds either to die, or else survive to be taunted by their fellow-men
with their fear. For except in extraordinary instances of exposure,
there are few living men, who, at bottom, are not very slow to admit
that any other living men have ever been very much nearer death than
themselves. Accordingly, _craven_ is the phrase too often applied to
any one who, with however good reason, has been appalled at the
prospect of sudden death, and yet lived to escape it. Though, should he
have perished in conformity with his fears, not a syllable of _craven_
would you hear. This is the language of one, who more than once has
beheld the scenes, whence these principles have been deduced. The
subject invites much subtle speculation; for in every being’s ideas of
death, and his behavior when it suddenly menaces him, lies the best
index to his life and his faith. Though the Christian era had not then
begun, Socrates died the death of the Christian; and though Hume was
not a Christian in theory, yet he, too, died the death of the
Christian,—humble, composed, without bravado; and though the most
skeptical of philosophical skeptics, yet full of that firm, creedless
faith, that embraces the spheres. Seneca died dictating to posterity;
Petronius lightly discoursing of essences and love-songs; and Addison,
calling upon Christendom to behold how calmly a Christian could die;
but not even the last of these three, perhaps, died the best death of
the Christian.
The cabin passenger who had used to read prayers while the rest kneeled
against the transoms and settees, was one of the merry young sparks,
who had occasioned such agonies of jealousy to the poor tailor, now no
more. In his rakish vest, and dangling watch-chain, this same youth,
with all the awfulness of fear, had led the earnest petitions of his
companions; supplicating mercy, where before he had never solicited the
slightest favor. More than once had he been seen thus engaged by the
observant steersman at the helm: who looked through the little glass in
the cabin bulk-head.
But this youth was an April man; the storm had departed; and now he
shone in the sun, none braver than he.
One of his jovial companions ironically advised him to enter into holy
orders upon his arrival in New York.
“Why so?” said the other, “have I such an orotund voice?”
“No;” profanely returned his friend—“but you are a coward—just the man
to be a parson, and pray.”
However this narrative of the circumstances attending the fever among
the emigrants on the Highland may appear; and though these things
happened so long ago; yet just such events, nevertheless, are perhaps
taking place to-day. But the only account you obtain of such events, is
generally contained in a newspaper paragraph, under the shipping-head.
_There_ is the obituary of the destitute dead, who die on the sea. They
die, like the billows that break on the shore, and no more are heard or
seen. But in the events, thus merely initialized in the catalogue of
passing occurrences, and but glanced at by the readers of news, who are
more taken up with paragraphs of fuller flavor; what a world of life
and death, what a world of humanity and its woes, lies shrunk into a
three-worded sentence!
- title
- Chunk 6