I like to begin at the beginning; it's a good old fashion, not
sufficiently adhered to in these modern times. I recollect a young
gentleman who said he was thinking of going to America; on my asking
him, "how he intended to go?" he replied, "I don't exactly know; but I
think I shall take the fast coach." I wished him a safe passage, and
said, "I was afraid he would find it very dusty." As I could not find
the office to book myself by this young gentleman's conveyance, I walked
down to St Katherine's Docks; went on board a packet; was shewn into a
superb cabin, fitted up with bird's-eye maple, mahogany, and
looking-glasses, and communicating with certain small cabins, where
there was a sleeping berth for each passenger, about as big as that
allowed to a pointer in a dog-kennel. I thought that there was more
finery than comfort; but it ended in my promising the captain to meet
him at Portsmouth. He was to sail from London on the 1st of April, and
I did not choose to sail on that day--it was ominous; so I embarked at
Portsmouth on the 3rd. It is not my intention to give a description of
crossing the Atlantic; but as the reader may be disappointed if I do not
tell him how I got over, I shall first inform him that we were
thirty-eight in the cabin, and 160 men, women, and children, literally
stowed in bulk in the steerage. I shall describe what took place from
the time I first went up the side at Spithead, until the ship was under
weigh, and then make a very short passage of it.
At 9:30 a.m.--Embarked on board the good ship Quebec; and a good ship
she proved to be, repeatedly going nine and a-half knots on a bowling,
sails lifting. Captain H---quite delighted to see me--all captains of
packets are to see passengers: I believed him when he said so.
At 9:50.--Sheriff's officer, as usual, came on board. Observed several
of the cabin passengers hasten down below, and one who requested the
captain to stow him away. But it was not a pen-and-ink affair; it was a
case of burglary. The officer has found his man in the steerage--the
handcuffs are on his wrists, and they are rowing him ashore. His wife
and two children are on board; her lips quiver as she collects her
baggage to follow her husband. One half-hour more, and he would have
escaped from justice, and probably have led a better life in a far
country, where his crimes were unknown. By the bye, Greenacre, the man
who cut the woman up, was taken out of the ship as she went down the
river: he had very nearly escaped. What cargoes of crime, folly, and
recklessness do we yearly ship off to America! America ought to be very
much obliged to us.
The women of the steerage are persuading the wife of the burglar not to
go on shore; their arguments are strong, but not strong enough against
the devoted love of a woman.--"Your husband is certain to be hung;
what's the use of following him? Your passage is paid, and you will
have no difficulty in supporting your children in America." But she
rejects the advice--goes down the side, and presses her children to her
breast, as, overcome with the agony of her feelings, she drops into the
boat; and, now that she is away from the ship, you hear the sobs, which
can no longer be controlled.