He comes — the Flying Dutchman comes, o'er the lofty spray.
Preceded by the tempest dire; he makes for Table Bay.
With bird-like speed he's borne before the wind and howling blast,
But ere he can cast anchor there, the Bay, alas! is past.
He scuds along too rapidly to mark the eagle's flight,
And, lightning-like, the Dutchman's sail full soon is out of sight.
The crews of ships far distant, now shudder at the breeze
That bears the Flying Dutchman in fury o'er the seas.
Then mourn for Vanderdecken, for terrible's his doom —
The ocean round the stormy Cape, it is his living tomb;
There the Dutchman beats about, for ever, night and day.
And tries in vain his oath to keep, by entering Table Bay.
Legends of phantom ships are not confined to the latitudes near the Cape of Good Hope. The spectral craft of the Baron Falkenberg, the murderer of his brother at his wedding-feast, haunted the German Ocean, and was occasionally seen, heading for the north, without helm or helmsman, the Baron sitting alone on deck playing dice for his soul. Phantom ships sailed the seas in the region of Cape Horn, to the dismay of early mariners. Block Island, on our New England shore, was haunted from early colonial times by the "ghost of the Palatine'' a ship lured to destruction, during a wild and stormy night, by the false lights of wreckers. The story of the loss of the fishing fleet, homeward bound from the Grand Banks, and driven by stress of weather into St. Mary's Bay, is one of modern day disaster; but, already, it has a place in myth and legend. In August, 1862, upwards of one hundred boats went down in the storm-tossed waters of the Bay; but many sturdy New England fishermen will affirm that, at this day, they have seen the phantom fisher-fleet, steering for St. Mary's, in the storm and the fog. Longfellow, Whittier and Bret Harte, have woven into exquisite verse some of these myths of the New England sailors and fisher-folk; and, by the frequent mention in his poems of the old sea legends and superstitions, they, apparently, possessed a great fascination for the poet Longfellow.
The St. Elmo Light, for centuries, was a fateful sign; its patronymic saint was St. Erasmus, whose favor was invoked by sailors voyaging in the Mediterranean. It bears a strong resemblance to the land myth of Will-o'-the-Wisp, just as the legend of the Phantom Ship may be braced with the story of the Wandering Jew. The light was seen floating about the masts and rigging of a ship, burning brightly in the disturbed and heavy atmosphere before a storm, or it appeared upon the approach of fair weather. Sailors believed that the lights were the luminous eyes of a spirit which had the power of working good or evil to the beholder. The first appearance of St. Elmo's Light was during the voyage of the Argonauts, as an assuring sign, in answer to the prayers of Orpheus. Pliny says the light would "settle on the yardarms and other parts of ships while sailing, producing a kind of vocal sound, like that of birds flitting about." Seen singly it portended the destruction of the vessel. "When there are two of them they are considered auspicious, and are thought to predict a prosperous voyage, and it is said they drive away the dreadful and terrific meteor named Helena. On this account their efficacy is ascribed to Castor and Pollux, and they are invoked as gods." In the "Anatomy of Melancholy," Burton refers to the lights: "They signifie some mischief or other to come unto men, though some again will have them to portend good, and victory to that side they come towards in sea-fights. St. Elmo's fires they commonly call them, and they do likewise appear after a sea-storm. Radzovillius, the Polonian duke, calls this apparition Santo Germani Sidius (Holy German Star), and saith, moreover, that he saw the same often in a storm as he in his sailing, 1582, came from Alexander to Rhodes."
The Spaniards called the meteor Cuerpo Santa. The light was believed by early Italian sailors to be a luminous emanation from Christ's body. The companions of Columbus, on his second voyage, said the light was "the body of St. Elmo," and the great navigator records that the seamen affirmed that the saint was sitting in the top, "with seven lighted candles."
Magellan mentions the appearance of the light. Camoens, in the "Lusiad," makes frequent reference to the superstitions of the sailors of the middle ages; and through his hero, Da Gama, he calls the light:
That living fire, by seamen held divine,
Of Heaven's own care in storms the holy sign,
Which midst the horrors of the tempest plays.
And on the beast's dark wings would gaily blaze.
Falconer, in his poem, "The Shipwreck," mentions the supernatural character of the light:
Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars,
With their glimmering lanterns all at play,
On the tops of the masts, and the tips of the spars,
And I knew we should have foul weather to-day.
The Chinese say the light is the "queen of heaven," their sea-goddess. Many sailors believed that the light presaged death by drowning; but a light floating over the water was generally regarded as a death omen. The St. Elmo Light, under a variety of names, has a place in the folk-tales of sailors of all nations.
Certain animals figure conspicuously in the folk-lore of the ancient sea-farers. The cat was not a favorite with them; "she's got a gale in her tail, is a well-known nautical proverb. Cats, being able to see at night, were said to be connected with the moon, and sailors thought they were used by witches to provoke bad weather. Once embarked, however, a cat was safe from molestation, as to throw it overboard would surely bring a tempest. Indeed, one learns from a comparative study of this branch of sea-lore, that almost all living creatures (with few exceptions) were safe from injury on shipboard, it being regarded both unlucky and sacrilegious to needlessly destroy them; certainly, a pleasing trait in the dispositions of the old time shipmen. A dead hare was regarded with aversion on board ship. Dogs also were believed to hasten storms. Rats deserting a vessel previous to its sailing foretold of wreck or disaster, and perhaps the belief was not entirely erroneous. Shakespeare, in "The Tempest," says:
They prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it.
The inhabitants of the ocean were linked with many singular beliefs. A shoal of porpoises or dolphins sporting in the sea, proclaimed an impending gale, and the superstition yet lingers among seamen. Plutarch says: "When porpoises sport and chase one another about ships, expect then some stormy weather. Dolphins, in fair and calm weather, pursuing one another in one of their waterish pastimes, foreshow wind, and from that part whence they fetch their tricks; but if they play thus when the seas are high and tumbled, it is a sign of fair and calm weather." It was believed that cuttle fish swimming on top of the water presaged a storm. Other fish had magical powers. In the "Magick of Kirami," 1685, "a work much sought by the learned," we read of a fish called the remora checking the progress of a vessel under full sail. "If you sew a little of the bones of the fish remora in a horse's hide, and have it with you when you take shipping, the ship will not budge in the water at hoisting sail, unless what is put there be taken away, or you go out of the ship." Spencer in one of his poems, 1591, alludes to the superstition:
A little fish that men call remora.
Which stopped her course,
That wind nor tide could move her.
Birds of the ocean, too, were connected with many strange beliefs and superstitions. The idea of birds portending the approach of weather changes has been contradicted by certain scientific writers; but it was an article of faith with the ancients. Why cannot birds have the power of recognizing atmospheric changes? Those close observers of bird life, who write of their migratory and other habits, record wonderful instances which confirm the ancient belief; and, until good evidence is produced to the contrary, many will indulge the fancy of wild fowl being so gifted. In ancient times the weather was foretold from the flight of birds, and the old sea folks believed they had dealings also with the storm spirits. Without a doubt, there is a line where superstition ends and verity begins. The fisher-folk, this day, affirm that bad weather is predicted when sea-gulls gather in large and noisy flocks, and make low flight about the sea shore. Gulls collected on the rocks, cleaning their feathers, announce the coming storm. These movements of the common gull, recognizing, in effect, the approach of weather changes, have been verified by careful observations: and they form the simple beginning of an interesting study.