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Mind-Blowing Joy

It’s hard to deny that, since I’ve relaunched the site, I’ve done little more than complain. Most of you should be used to that by now, but I told myself that I wanted to do more with this new site than merely vent my frustration about things that, in large part, make me quite angry at the time I’m ranting but evaporate quickly. For instance, I forgot I even wrote anything about Glee, because I stopped caring almost immediately after I hit the “Publish” button. (To that end, though, I do still think Murphy’s comments point in the direction of him being a terrible human being, and I’d have started boycotting his show even if I didn’t already find it unwatchable.)

So I’ve decided to devote today’s post to things that I love. Because, you see, even as I was bitching about Glee, I was in the process of binge-watching movies I hadn’t seen in awhile: Galaxy Quest, Moon (an unintentional Sam Rockwell sci-fi double feature!), The China Syndrome, Giant, and Rabbit Hole. Watching all these films in the span of a single weekend reminded me of something quite wonderful: I fucking love movies. It’s quite easy to lose sight of that when mired in draining pursuits designed to rob people of their love of the artistic power of a film. It’s really nice to just let a movie wash over you like a warm ocean wave, without having to analyze its artistic merits or commercial prospects, or thinking about how it fits into the current spate of releases, or thinking about anything other than what the film is offering.

I loved Rabbit Hole the first time I saw it. I couldn’t be sure whether or not I overvalued it, because I’d been mired in a sea of shit at the time I saw it. My viewing of it was surrounded by a handful of other theatrical releases—Casino Jack, Somewhere, Black Swan, and All Good Things—that were fucking awful, and I generally can’t stand Nicole Kidman. I had zero interest in seeing it, but I was the only one who could review it (being that it was released around Christmas), so I took the plunge, and I fucking loved it.

I watched it again, and I still fucking love it. It comes out on DVD/Blu-Ray on April 15th, and it requires your immediate attention. It got largely (and undeservedly) ignored at the Oscars, barely got a theatrical release, and was mostly dismissed, even by critics who liked it, as a dour, 21 Grams-esque film about grief. But that’s not what it is. Read the review I linked above if you want more information. My second viewing reaffirmed everything I felt the first time I saw it.

Let’s turn to music now. I wrote occasionally about music on the old blog. In fact, I’m going to repost a handful of articles this week—instead of the usual one—for entirely selfish reasons: I don’t want my Google ranks to plummet because everything redirects to the main page. So you’ll see some of those later this week (with an exciting preview below).

I don’t generally like writing about music, though, because it’s very difficult to do so without sounding incredibly pretentious, using bizarre adjectives and nonsense words to try to describe what something sounds like without saying, “Cool horn section!” But, with the new site, a new outlook, and the majority of the old content gone, let me tell you about Kathryn Musilek, because I happen to believe she’s the finest songwriter of the past decade.

I’m not a big believer in Manos, the Hands of Fate, but his owlish, mustachioed visage and big-kneed assistant might have brought me to Ms. Musilek. In 2002, I set out to see Juliana Hatfield at the Double Door in Chicago. She was touring with her new band, Some Girls (which featured another underrated songwriter who drifted into obscurity—Heidi Gluck, also of Indianapolis’s The Pieces), and I was pretty excited to see what this whole “side project” was all about.

I didn’t find out, because I got turned away at the (double) door on account of being just a few months shy of 21. Since I lacked a fake ID and an attractive date, I had no way of getting in to see the show. But that didn’t stop me—Ms. Hatfield played a solo show the following night in Iowa City, a scant 250 miles west, so I hopped on the Interstate and met up with Lucy (who had recently moved there and knew pertinent information like where the shitty dive bar was).

Ms. Hatfield had two opening acts that night. The first was some hipster guy who was literally playing music off sheets of notebook paper at his feet. Kathryn Musilek played second, and she blew me the fuck away. I usually don’t care much about opening acts, but the venue was so cramped (“intimate”) that it would have been weird to talk through their sets. I’m sort of glad we didn’t, because Kathryn’s songs are quite rare in my book. Insightful, honest, and emotionally evocative—but frequently featuring the acerbic wit that, apparently, defines the Midwest. I’d never heard anything like it. I’d never seen anyone play like her—she just played a solo acoustic set, strumming out chords, but her innate rhythm was something I’ve honestly never seen before or since. She’d also embellish basic chord structures to give them an alternately prettier and weightier feel—an added sixth here, a major seventh there.

(As a weird side-note, Ms. Hatfield documented this show in her memoir, When I Grow Up, which alternates between documenting the often depressing minutiae of a low-budget club tour and reminiscence on her rise and “fall.” I’m not sure why, but she documents the 2002, and it felt very strange to read about moments I personally experienced seen through the eyes of someone else. It was especially sad to hear about how frustrated and irritable this particular stop on the tour made her—justifiably—but I thought the show was great, and I found myself haunted by one of her new songs—which, if I remember right, she called “Red Light, Green Light” at the time; it later showed up on In Exile Deo with the title “Forever” and remains that album’s standout track. The codependent in me regrets not sticking around to shower her with compliments after the show.)

Several hours and one panic attack later, I was back in Illinois, and I couldn’t remember Ms. Musilek’s name. It took some frantic web searching before I found the official website of The Green Room in Iowa City and found their performance schedule. Ms. Musilek had been hyping her newest release—a live album—during the performance, but they’d inexplicably closed the merch tables before the show ended, and like I said, the bar was extremely small. It would have been weird to squeeze through all the people, mere inches from the beloved artist I actually came to see, to get back to a merch table. Just like the time I had to take a shit during the ACT but didn’t want to do the walk of foul-smelling shame in the pin-drop silence, I told myself, “I’ll do it later.”

Thanks to the magic of the Internet, I found Ms. Musilek’s label, found her two albums, Ballerina in a Box and Everyone’s Tired of Hearing About It, and bought them immediately. I’ll admit I wasn’t terribly impressed—granted, she was on a tiny label and undoubtedly had a miniscule recording budget, but Ballerina… wasn’t much more than her playing through her live, solo set in an empty studio, and Everyone… featured mostly the same songs, played live with somewhat poor recording quality. The songs were as good as they had been at The Green Room, but the Beach Boys fan in me had hoped for lush, intricate arrangements to match her unusual chord phrasings and rhythm.

I played the albums a handful of times, but I didn’t exactly wear them out. Once in awhile, I’d think about Ms. Musilek. I knew she was destined for greater things, but whenever I did a Google search, I never found much in the way of information on new releases or tour dates. Maybe because she was just a regular person, working her way through college, playing local clubs. In my mind, though, she was a genius waiting to be discovered by jubilant throngs of adoring fans.

Then, in the summer of 2004, I discovered she’d signed with a new, tiny label, and she’d put out her second studio album, Every Window in My House. Sight unseen, I bought it. It showed up in the mail a few days later. This was the summer I spent in Seattle at my sister’s house, and although I don’t recall if I hadn’t yet found a job or if I just had the day off, but I remember being at home alone and blasting it about 15 frantic seconds after getting the mail.

It was the Green Room experience all over again. This was the album I’d hoped Ballerina in a Box would be, and then some. Even better, her songwriting had matured—more complex chord progressions, more compelling melodies, and still some of the best lyrics I’ve ever heard. The production was a bit raw, but a significant improvement over her previous albums, and she incorporated her talents as pianist and trombonist to add additional layers to most songs.

In short, she realized the potential of her 2002 live act and gave me some hope for independent music. Because, just like independent film, record labels had been co-opted by The Man, and the music had become a distinctive genre unto itself. It sounded different from top-40 pop or heavy metal or rap, but it all sounded the same as every other “independent” artist. And some bands work really well within that homogenous context, so I don’t mean to totally slight all contemporary indie music. But I hear something like Every Window in My House and wish every album could be that fucking good.

That’s why I’m always so chronically dissatisfied with “art” others like or even love. When you have the pleasure of absorbing something so fucking monumentally great, why would anyone settle for something less than that? I didn’t set my standards high—my standards got set by towering achievements that realize not only the potential of the artist but the potential of their chosen medium. I have the capacity to appreciate what an artist—or group of artists—wants to achieve and measure their success based on their own implicit goal. (In other words, I’m not going to compare Death Wish 3 to The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.) But, to paraphrase a line from Charles Bukowski’s Hollywood (which I recently read in anticipation of reviewing Barfly), things have gotten so terrible that nobody knows what’s good anymore—not even critics.

Fantastic. What started as a personalized sales pitch for one of my all-time favorite albums, one I still play at least once a day (admittedly, part of that is my obsessiveness at work), has devolved into a rant about why 90% of the art I consume is a waste of fucking time. (Even if I like a film, the crotchety old man within me is asking, “What’s the point?” Because isn’t something I merely “like” a waste of time when I should be seeking out things I’ll love? But how does one find what he loves without experimenting with something that may suck ass or may merely be good instead of transcendent? And how does one determine the greatness of something without contextualizing it with other examples of the medium?) This is not how I wanted this post to go, and I’m throwing around a lot of haughty, pretentious words.

Let’s get back on course…

This week, as promised, a whole slew of “flashback” posts:

“Adult World”—A delightful story from the summer of 2003, in which I went to a local porn shop to buy two blow-up dolls for “The Love Switch” (spoiler alert?).

“The Worst Song Ever Recorded”—The tragic tale of Brian Wilson’s rap oddity “Smart Girls,” in which he apologizes for the ’60s sexism of early Beach Boys songs in the most misguided possible way.

“I Stand Corrected”—An extended rant on Gwen Stefani’s song “The Sweet Escape,” which managed to surpass “Smart Girls” in badness a mere eleven days later.

“The Mountains of Indiana: A Story of Disdain”—This story from the fall of 2007 chronicles the tumultuous love-hate relationship I had with a screenwriter who likely never knew of my existence—but I, thanks to my script-reading duties, knew him well. (I’m going to throw this one in the “screenwriting articles” category because, while it’s not directly an article on the topic of screenwriting, I think it does a nice job of capturing the dyspeptic, antisocial mindset of many screenwriters. (Seriously, it’s really not just me.)

“Ethical Lapse?”—This week’s “main” screenwriting article, from February of 2008, is another dalliance in the mind of the screenwriter. It primarily tackles the subject of plagiarism, and how a writer wrestles with the knowledge that a script idea is really fucking good when the execution is lacking. Is it wrong to take the idea and do justice to it? (Answer: Yes.)

I’m going to leave you all today with a reprinting of the very thing that blew my mind last week. I’ve been reading David Copperfield over the past few months, and I just got to its most pivotal chapter, 55. It’s laden with spoilers—being that it contains the single most important event of the book—so be warned, all those who might actually read the book. However, this chapter boasts some intense, amazing writing that I have the luxury of sharing on account of it being public domain.

For those of you who will never read the book, here’s a little bit of backstory (but not too much): After David’s mother died, he was cared for by his former nurse, Peggotty, who lives in the fishing village of Yarmouth. Years later, David returns to Yarmouth with his best friend, James Steerforth, who ingratiates himself on its citizens. Before long, Steerforth runs off with Emily—a niece in the care of Peggotty’s brother and the object of David’s childhood crush—which throws nearly every character’s life into upheaval. Mr. Peggotty devotes his life to finding Emily, if only to tell her she has brought no disgrace to the family. He treks across most of Europe in search of her, before finally reuniting in a London brothel, where she’s hiding in shame because Steerforth has abandoned her. Although Mr. Peggotty is in a forgiving mood, she’s still been dishonored (it’s all very Victorian), so David arranges to have the entire Peggotty brood—plus his old, debt-ridden friends, the Micawbers—move to Australia to start over.

Then there’s Ham, to whom Emily was betrothed at the time she and Steerforth ran off together. A broad-shouldered sailor and cousin of Emily, they seem perfectly suited until, of course, she leaves. He’s heartbroken, but he carries it like a brawny sailor would. Upon her return, Ham asks David to write a letter on his behalf—he can’t write—expressing his feelings. He does so, and Emily sends a literally tear-stained apology in reply. This is the letter referred to early in the chapter.

Chapter 55: Tempest

I now approach an event in my life, so indelible, so awful, so bound by an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it, in these pages, that, from the beginning of my narrative, I have seen it growing larger and larger as I advanced, like a great tower in a plain, and throwing its fore-cast shadow even on the incidents of my childish days.

For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often. I have started up so vividly impressed by it, that its fury has yet seemed raging in my quiet room, in the still night. I dream of it sometimes, though at lengthened and uncertain intervals, to this hour. I have an association between it and a stormy wind, or the lightest mention of a sea-shore, as strong as any of which my mind is conscious. As plainly as I behold what happened, I will try to write it down. I do not recall it, but see it done; for it happens again before me.

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emigrant-ship, my good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for me, when we first met) came up to London. I was constantly with her, and her brother, and the Micawbers (they being very much together); but Emily I never saw.

One evening when the time was close at hand, I was alone with Peggotty and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. She described to us how tenderly he had taken leave of her, and how manfully and quietly he had borne himself. Most of all, of late, when she believed he was most tried. It was a subject of which the affectionate creature never tired; and our interest in hearing the many examples which she, who was so much with him, had to relate, was equal to hers in relating them.

My aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cottages at Highgate; I intending to go abroad, and she to return to her house at Dover. We had a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. As I walked home to it, after this evening’s conversation, reflecting on what had passed between Ham and myself when I was last at Yarmouth, I wavered in the original purpose I had formed, of leaving a letter for Emily when I should take leave of her uncle on board the ship, and thought it would be better to write to her now. She might desire, I thought, after receiving my communication, to send some parting word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give her the opportunity.

I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed, and wrote to her. I told her that I had seen him, and that he had requested me to tell her what I have already written in its place in these sheets. I faithfully repeated it. I had no need to enlarge upon it, if I had had the right. Its deep fidelity and goodness were not to be adorned by me or any man. I left it out, to be sent round in the morning; with a line to Mr. Peggotty, requesting him to give it to her; and went to bed at daybreak.

I was weaker than I knew then; and, not falling asleep until the sun was up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I was roused by the silent presence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my sleep, as I suppose we all do feel such things.

‘Trot, my dear,’ she said, when I opened my eyes, ‘I couldn’t make up my mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come up?’

I replied yes, and he soon appeared.

‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, when we had shaken hands, ‘I giv Em’ly your letter, sir, and she writ this heer; and begged of me fur to ask you to read it, and if you see no hurt in’t, to be so kind as take charge on’t.’

‘Have you read it?’ said I.

He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and read as follows:

‘I have got your message. Oh, what can I write, to thank you for your good and blessed kindness to me!

‘I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them till I die. They are sharp thorns, but they are such comfort. I have prayed over them, oh, I have prayed so much. When I find what you are, and what uncle is, I think what God must be, and can cry to him.

‘Good-bye for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye for ever in this world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I may wake a child and come to you. All thanks and blessings. Farewell, evermore.’

This, blotted with tears, was the letter.

‘May I tell her as you doen’t see no hurt in’t, and as you’ll be so kind as take charge on’t, Mas’r Davy?’ said Mr. Peggotty, when I had read it. ‘Unquestionably,’ said I—‘but I am thinking—‘

‘Yes, Mas’r Davy?’

‘I am thinking,’ said I, ‘that I’ll go down again to Yarmouth. There’s time, and to spare, for me to go and come back before the ship sails. My mind is constantly running on him, in his solitude; to put this letter of her writing in his hand at this time, and to enable you to tell her, in the moment of parting, that he has got it, will be a kindness to both of them. I solemnly accepted his commission, dear good fellow, and cannot discharge it too completely. The journey is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall be better in motion. I’ll go down tonight.’

Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade me, I saw that he was of my mind; and this, if I had required to be confirmed in my intention, would have had the effect. He went round to the coach office, at my request, and took the box-seat for me on the mail. In the evening I started, by that conveyance, down the road I had traversed under so many vicissitudes.

‘Don’t you think that,’ I asked the coachman, in the first stage out of London, ‘a very remarkable sky? I don’t remember to have seen one like it.’

‘Nor I—not equal to it,’ he replied. ‘That’s wind, sir. There’ll be mischief done at sea, I expect, before long.’

It was a murky confusion—here and there blotted with a colour like the colour of the smoke from damp fuel—of flying clouds, tossed up into most remarkable heaps, suggesting greater heights in the clouds than there were depths below them to the bottom of the deepest hollows in the earth, through which the wild moon seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the laws of nature, she had lost her way and were frightened. There had been a wind all day; and it was rising then, with an extraordinary great sound. In another hour it had much increased, and the sky was more overcast, and blew hard.

But, as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and densely over-spreading the whole sky, then very dark, it came on to blow, harder and harder. It still increased, until our horses could scarcely face the wind. Many times, in the dark part of the night (it was then late in September, when the nights were not short), the leaders turned about, or came to a dead stop; and we were often in serious apprehension that the coach would be blown over. Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this storm, like showers of steel; and, at those times, when there was any shelter of trees or lee walls to be got, we were fain to stop, in a sheer impossibility of continuing the struggle.

When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I had been in Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew great guns, but I had never known the like of this, or anything approaching to it. We came to Ipswich—very late, having had to fight every inch of ground since we were ten miles out of London; and found a cluster of people in the market-place, who had risen from their beds in the night, fearful of falling chimneys. Some of these, congregating about the inn-yard while we changed horses, told us of great sheets of lead having been ripped off a high church-tower, and flung into a by-street, which they then blocked up. Others had to tell of country people, coming in from neighbouring villages, who had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and whole ricks scattered about the roads and fields. Still, there was no abatement in the storm, but it blew harder.

As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from which this mighty wind was blowing dead on shore, its force became more and more terrific. Long before we saw the sea, its spray was on our lips, and showered salt rain upon us. The water was out, over miles and miles of the flat country adjacent to Yarmouth; and every sheet and puddle lashed its banks, and had its stress of little breakers setting heavily towards us. When we came within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with towers and buildings. When at last we got into the town, the people came out to their doors, all aslant, and with streaming hair, making a wonder of the mail that had come through such a night.

I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea; staggering along the street, which was strewn with sand and seaweed, and with flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid of falling slates and tiles; and holding by people I met, at angry corners. Coming near the beach, I saw, not only the boatmen, but half the people of the town, lurking behind buildings; some, now and then braving the fury of the storm to look away to sea, and blown sheer out of their course in trying to get zigzag back.

joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose husbands were away in herring or oyster boats, which there was too much reason to think might have foundered before they could run in anywhere for safety. Grizzled old sailors were among the people, shaking their heads, as they looked from water to sky, and muttering to one another; ship-owners, excited and uneasy; children, huddling together, and peering into older faces; even stout mariners, disturbed and anxious, levelling their glasses at the sea from behind places of shelter, as if they were surveying an enemy.

The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls came rolling in, and, at their highest, tumbled into surf, they looked as if the least would engulf the town. As the receding wave swept back with a hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deep caves in the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine the earth. When some white-headed billows thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces before they reached the land, every fragment of the late whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the composition of another monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys (with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through them) were lifted up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a booming sound; every shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made, to change its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away; the ideal shore on the horizon, with its towers and buildings, rose and fell; the clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of all nature.

Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable wind—for it is still remembered down there, as the greatest ever known to blow upon that coast—had brought together, I made my way to his house. It was shut; and as no one answered to my knocking, I went, by back ways and by-lanes, to the yard where he worked. I learned, there, that he had gone to Lowestoft, to meet some sudden exigency of ship-repairing in which his skill was required; but that he would be back tomorrow morning, in good time.

I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and dressed, and tried to sleep, but in vain, it was five o’clock in the afternoon. I had not sat five minutes by the coffee-room fire, when the waiter, coming to stir it, as an excuse for talking, told me that two colliers had gone down, with all hands, a few miles away; and that some other ships had been seen labouring hard in the Roads, and trying, in great distress, to keep off shore. Mercy on them, and on all poor sailors, said he, if we had another night like the last!

I was very much depressed in spirits; very solitary; and felt an uneasiness in Ham’s not being there, disproportionate to the occasion. I was seriously affected, without knowing how much, by late events; and my long exposure to the fierce wind had confused me. There was that jumble in my thoughts and recollections, that I had lost the clear arrangement of time and distance. Thus, if I had gone out into the town, I should not have been surprised, I think, to encounter someone who I knew must be then in London. So to speak, there was in these respects a curious inattention in my mind. Yet it was busy, too, with all the remembrances the place naturally awakened; and they were particularly distinct and vivid.

In this state, the waiter’s dismal intelligence about the ships immediately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, with my uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an apprehension of his returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being lost. This grew so strong with me, that I resolved to go back to the yard before I took my dinner, and ask the boat-builder if he thought his attempting to return by sea at all likely? If he gave me the least reason to think so, I would go over to Lowestoft and prevent it by bringing him with me.

I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. I was none too soon; for the boat-builder, with a lantern in his hand, was locking the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the question, and said there was no fear; no man in his senses, or out of them, would put off in such a gale of wind, least of all Ham Peggotty, who had been born to seafaring.

So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed of doing what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to the inn. If such a wind could rise, I think it was rising. The howl and roar, the rattling of the doors and windows, the rumbling in the chimneys, the apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered me, and the prodigious tumult of the sea, were more fearful than in the morning. But there was now a great darkness besides; and that invested the storm with new terrors, real and fanciful.

I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue steadfast to anything. Something within me, faintly answering to the storm without, tossed up the depths of my memory and made a tumult in them. Yet, in all the hurry of my thoughts, wild running with the thundering sea,—the storm, and my uneasiness regarding Ham were always in the fore-ground.

My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh myself with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull slumber before the fire, without losing my consciousness, either of the uproar out of doors, or of the place in which I was. Both became overshadowed by a new and indefinable horror; and when I awoke—or rather when I shook off the lethargy that bound me in my chair- my whole frame thrilled with objectless and unintelligible fear.

I walked to and fro, tried to read an old gazetteer, listened to the awful noises: looked at faces, scenes, and figures in the fire. At length, the steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall tormented me to that degree that I resolved to go to bed.

It was reassuring, on such a night, to be told that some of the inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went to bed, exceedingly weary and heavy; but, on my lying down, all such sensations vanished, as if by magic, and I was broad awake, with every sense refined.

For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water; imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at sea; now, that I distinctly heard the firing of signal guns; and now, the fall of houses in the town. I got up, several times, and looked out; but could see nothing, except the reflection in the window-panes of the faint candle I had left burning, and of my own haggard face looking in at me from the black void.

At length, my restlessness attained to such a pitch, that I hurried on my clothes, and went downstairs. In the large kitchen, where I dimly saw bacon and ropes of onions hanging from the beams, the watchers were clustered together, in various attitudes, about a table, purposely moved away from the great chimney, and brought near the door. A pretty girl, who had her ears stopped with her apron, and her eyes upon the door, screamed when I appeared, supposing me to be a spirit; but the others had more presence of mind, and were glad of an addition to their company. One man, referring to the topic they had been discussing, asked me whether I thought the souls of the collier-crews who had gone down, were out in the storm?

I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, I opened the yard-gate, and looked into the empty street. The sand, the sea-weed, and the flakes of foam, were driving by; and I was obliged to call for assistance before I could shut the gate again, and make it fast against the wind.

There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber, when I at length returned to it; but I was tired now, and, getting into bed again, fell—off a tower and down a precipice—into the depths of sleep. I have an impression that for a long time, though I dreamed of being elsewhere and in a variety of scenes, it was always blowing in my dream. At length, I lost that feeble hold upon reality, and was engaged with two dear friends, but who they were I don’t know, at the siege of some town in a roar of cannonading.

The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant, that I could not hear something I much desired to hear, until I made a great exertion and awoke. It was broad day—eight or nine o’clock; the storm raging, in lieu of the batteries; and someone knocking and calling at my door.

‘What is the matter?’ I cried.

‘A wreck! Close by!’

I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck?

‘A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. Make haste, sir, if you want to see her! It’s thought, down on the beach, she’ll go to pieces every moment.’

The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I could, and ran into the street.

Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one direction, to the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good many, and soon came facing the wild sea.

The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not more sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of, had been diminished by the silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds. But the sea, having upon it the additional agitation of the whole night, was infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. Every appearance it had then presented, bore the expression of being swelled; and the height to which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another, bore one another down, and rolled in, in interminable hosts, was most appalling. In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves, and in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breathless efforts to stand against the weather, I was so confused that I looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing next me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattoo’d arrow on it, pointing in the same direction) to the left. Then, O great Heaven, I saw it, close in upon us!

One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck, and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and all that ruin, as the ship rolled and beat—which she did without a moment’s pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable—beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being made, to cut this portion of the wreck away; for, as the ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her people at work with axes, especially one active figure with long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. But a great cry, which was audible even above the wind and water, rose from the shore at this moment; the sea, sweeping over the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars, casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such toys, into the boiling surge.

The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail, and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship had struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, and then lifted in and struck again. I understood him to add that she was parting amidships, and I could readily suppose so, for the rolling and beating were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long. As he spoke, there was another great cry of pity from the beach; four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, clinging to the rigging of the remaining mast; uppermost, the active figure with the curling hair.

There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and dashed, like a desperate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole sweep of her deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the shore, now nothing but her keel, as she sprung wildly over and turned towards the sea, the bell rang; and its sound, the knell of those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the wind. Again we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony on the shore increased. Men groaned, and clasped their hands; women shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I found myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knew, not to let those two lost creatures perish before our eyes.

They were making out to me, in an agitated way—I don’t know how, for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to understand—that the lifeboat had been bravely manned an hour ago, and could do nothing; and that as no man would be so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and establish a communication with the shore, there was nothing left to try; when I noticed that some new sensation moved the people on the beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking through them to the front.

I ran to him—as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. But, distracted though I was, by a sight so new to me and terrible, the determination in his face, and his look out to sea—exactly the same look as I remembered in connexion with the morning after Emily’s flight—awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him back with both arms; and implored the men with whom I had been speaking, not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let him stir from off that sand!

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreck, we saw the cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and fly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast.

Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of the calmly desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the people present, I might as hopefully have entreated the wind. ‘Mas’r Davy,’ he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, ‘if my time is come, ’tis come. If ‘tan’t, I’ll bide it. Lord above bless you, and bless all! Mates, make me ready! I’m a-going off!’

I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where the people around me made me stay; urging, as I confusedly perceived, that he was bent on going, with help or without, and that I should endanger the precautions for his safety by troubling those with whom they rested. I don’t know what I answered, or what they rejoined; but I saw hurry on the beach, and men running with ropes from a capstan that was there, and penetrating into a circle of figures that hid him from me. Then, I saw him standing alone, in a seaman’s frock and trousers: a rope in his hand, or slung to his wrist: another round his body: and several of the best men holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid out himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet.

The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up. I saw that she was parting in the middle, and that the life of the solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to it. He had a singular red cap on,—not like a sailor’s cap, but of a finer colour; and as the few yielding planks between him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his anticipative death-knell rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I saw him do it now, and thought I was going distracted, when his action brought an old remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend.

Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, until there was a great retiring wave, when, with a backward glance at those who held the rope which was made fast round his body, he dashed in after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the water; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam; then drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily.

He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; but he took no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some directions for leaving him more free—or so I judged from the motion of his arm—and was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards the shore, borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. The distance was nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made the strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. He was so near, that with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to it,—when a high, green, vast hill-side of water, moving on shoreward, from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a mighty bound, and the ship was gone!

Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had been broken, in running to the spot where they were hauling in. Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet—insensible—dead. He was carried to the nearest house; and, no one preventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every means of restoration were tried; but he had been beaten to death by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever.

As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door.

‘Sir,’ said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, ‘will you come over yonder?’

The old remembrance that had been recalled to me, was in his look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held out to support me:

‘Has a body come ashore?’

He said, ‘Yes.’

‘Do I know it?’ I asked then.

He answered nothing.

But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she and I had looked for shells, two children—on that part of it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had been scattered by the wind—among the ruins of the home he had wronged—I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

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