I knew very little of the sea when I determined to emigrate. Like most
emigrants, I thought beforehand more of the dangers than of the
disagreeables of this voyage; but found, when actually at sea, that its
disagreeables seemed more formidable than its dangers. I shall describe
the voyage, in order that those who follow me may know precisely what it
is that they have to encounter, satisfied as I am, that nothing will
tend more to conduce to the comforts of the emigrant at sea, than his
being able to take a full and accurate measure of its disagreeable as
well as its agreeable accompaniments, before stepping on board.
It was late in the afternoon of a bright May day, when the Seagull, 480
tons register, and bound for Quebec, spread her wings to the wind, after
having been towed out of the harbour of Greenock. A gentle breeze
carried her smoothly by the point of Gourock, the Holy Loch, Dunoon, and
other places familiar to the tourist on the noble Frith of Clyde. We
were off the neat little town of Largs, when the shadows of evening
thickened around us. I was one of more than a hundred steerage
passengers, most of whom soon afterwards went below for the night, many
with heavy hearts, thinking that they had seen the last glimpses of
their native land.
I remained long enough on deck to perceive the approach of a marked
change in the weather. We were still landlocked, when the wind veered
round to the west, directly ahead of us. It increased so rapidly in
violence, that by the time we were off Brodick, in the Island of Arran,
it was blowing more than half a gale. As we tacked to and fro to gain
the open sea, the vessel laboured heavily, and I soon felt sufficiently
squeamish to descend and seek refuge in my berth. Here a scene awaited
me for which I was but little prepared. With very few exceptions, all
below were far advanced in sea-sickness. Some were groaning in their
berths; others were lying upon the floor, in a semi-torpid state; and
others, again, were retching incessantly. What a contrast was the
Seagull then, to the neat, tempting picture she presented when lying
quietly in dock, and when, as I paced her white, dry, warm, sunny decks,
visions filled my mind of the pleasant days at sea before me, when,
reclining on the cordage, beneath the shelter of the bulwarks, I could
read the live-long day, whilst the stout ship sped merrily on her
voyage. Delightful anticipations! Let no one be extravagant in forming
them, unless he has a preference for disappointment. My faith in the
romance of the sea was greatly shaken by my first night’s experiences on
board, and it soon received a fatal blow from the commotion which was
being gradually engendered within my own frame, and which, at length,
resulted in a catastrophe. I could not sleep, for as the gale increased,
so did the noises within and without. I could hear the heavy wind
whistling mournfully through the damp, tight-drawn cordage, and the
waves breaking in successive showers on the deck overhead. It made my
flesh creep, too, to hear the water trickling by my very ear, as it
rushed along outside the two-inch plank which (pleasing thought) was all
that separated me from destruction. As the storm gained upon us, the
ship laboured more and more heavily, until, at length, with each lurch
which she made, everything moveable in the steerage rolled about from
side to side on the floor. Pots and pans, trunks, boxes, and pieces of
crockery kept up a most noisy dance for the entire night, their
respective owners being so ill as to be utterly indifferent to the fate
of their property. In the midst of the horrid din, I could distinguish
the distressing groan of the strong man prostrated by sea-sickness, the
long-drawn sigh and scarcely audible complaint of the woman, and the
sickly wail of the neglected child; and, that nothing might be wanting
to heighten the horrors of the scene, we were all this time in perfect
darkness, every light on board having been extinguished for hours.
Morning was far advanced as I fell into a fitful and feverish sleep. On
awaking, I found all as still as before leaving port. My
fellow-passengers were all on deck; and I hurried up after them to
ascertain the cause of the change. It was soon explained. The gale had,
at length, become so violent, that the ship had put back for shelter,
and was now lying quietly at anchor in the beautiful bay of Rothesay.
But what a change had, in the meantime, taken place in the appearance of
my fellow-passengers. The buoyant air of yesterday had disappeared; and
those who were then in ruddy health, now looked pale and woebegone. Such
was the effect of our night’s prostration.
For my own part, I began to feel that I had already had enough of the
sea, and heartily wished myself safe ashore on the banks of the St.
Lawrence. I had formerly experienced a sort of enthusiasm in listening
to such songs, as “The sea, the sea, the open sea!” “A life on the ocean
wave!” &c., &c. But had anyone on board now struck up either of them, I
should assuredly have set him down for a maniac. We remained for two
days in Rothesay Bay, waiting for a change of wind, during which time we
recruited our spirits—and water, a fresh stock of which we shipped. It
was not, therefore, without some of the lightness of heart, which had
characterised our first start, that, on the morning of the third day, we
made way again for the New World. But it seemed as if we were never to
get rid of the coast, for we were overtaken by a dead calm off Ailsa,
causing delay for ten days more sweltering under a hot sun, within half
a mile of that lonely and stupendous rock. On the evening of the second
day a gentle breeze from the northeast carried us out of the Channel,
and next morning found us with all sail set, speeding westward, with the
Irish coast on our lee.
We were a very mixed company in the steerage. Some had been farmers, and
were going out to try their hands at agriculture in the wilds of Canada.
Others had been servants, predial and domestic, and were on their way in
search of better fortunes in the New World, although they had not yet
made up their minds as to the precise manner in which they were to woo
the fickle dame. We had a brace of wives on board who were proceeding to
join their husbands in Canada, who had prudently preceded their
families, and prepared for their advent, by constructing a home for them
in the woods. There was an old man with a slender capital, who was
emigrating at an advanced period of life, that he might make a better
provision for his grandson, a lusty youth of about seventeen, of whom he
seemed doatingly fond. We had also amongst us a large family from
Edinburgh, of that class of people who have “seen better days,” who were
hurrying across the Atlantic in the hope of at least catching a glimpse
of them again. Besides the father and mother, there were several sons
and two daughters, the eldest son having duly qualified himself for the
honour of writing W. S. after his name—a nominal appendage which he
would find of far less value to him than a good axe in the woods. We had
a clergyman, too, of the poorer class, in worldly circumstances, who had
been accredited as a missionary to the Canadian wilds. I must not
overlook four or five infants, the precise ownership of which I never
thoroughly traced, they were so tumbled about from one to another; and
which generally of nights favoured us with prolonged choruses of the
most enlivening description.
Thus mixed and assorted, the first few days passed off agreeably enough
to such as were proof against a relapse of sea-sickness. When it was not
blowing too strong, the deck was a pleasant place for exercise, which is
necessary to comfort, as it is generally cold and disagreeable at sea,
except when calm, and then one is annoyed, whilst being broiled, at the
thought of making no progress. The chief occupation on board, seemed to
be that of cooking and eating. The cooking apparatus for the steerage
was on deck; each family, and each individual who had no family, was
continually cooking for themselves. As the accommodation for cooking was
not very ample for upwards of a hundred passengers, there was scarcely
an hour of the day between sunrise and sunset, that was not witness to
the progress of some culinary operations—men, women, and children were
constantly appearing and disappearing at the hatchways with pots,
saucepans, kettles, and other utensils; and it was not long ere some
began to fear, having made but little account of the voracity of
appetite engendered by convalescence after sea-sickness, that their
stock of provisions would prove rather scanty for the voyage.
Perhaps the greatest privation to which the poor steerage passenger is
subjected, is in connection with the water which he uses for drinking
and in some of his cooking processes. As the voyage may be protracted
beyond reasonable calculation, an extra supply of fresh water is or
should be laid in to meet such an emergency. To preserve this extra
stock from becoming impure, different devices are resorted to,—such as
impregnating it with lime, large quantities of which are thrown into
each cask. Were this the case only with the extra stock, the comfort of
the passenger might, for a time at least, be unimpaired in this respect;
but the misfortune is, that all the water for steerage consumption,
immediate and contingent, is treated in the same way; so that the
emigrant is scarcely out of harbour, when he finds the water of which he
makes use not only extremely unpalatable to drink, but in such a state
as to spoil every decoction into which it enters. Fancy a cup of tea
without cream, but with sugar and coarse lime, in about equal
proportions, to flavour it. The most unquestionable sloe leaves might,
under such circumstances, pass for young hyson, and the worst of chicory
for the best of coffee. This sorely discomfited the more elderly of the
females on board, whose cup of life was poisoned by very thin mortar.
On the fifth day out, after gaining the open sea, we were overtaken by a
tremendous gale, which did us considerable damage. I was standing near
the forecastle, when a heavy block dropped from aloft with terrific
force at my feet. I had scarcely recovered from my fright, when crash
after crash over head, making me run under the jolly boat in terror. For
a moment afterwards all was still, and then arose a tremendous uproar on
board, officers giving all sorts of directions at once, and sailors
running about, and jumping over each other to obey them. When I ventured
to peep out from my place of safety, a sad spectacle of wreck and ruin
presented itself to me. On our lee, masts, ropes, spars, and sails were
floating alongside on the uneasy waters. Our fore-top-mast had given
way, and in falling overboard, had dragged the maintop-gallant mast and
the greater part of our bowsprit along with it. Sails and rigging went
of course with the wreck, which was provoking, as the wind was a-beam
and so far favourable. We soon hauled the wreck on board, however, and
in the course of two or three days, with the aid of the carpenter, the
dismantled ship was re-rigged in a very creditable manner.
We had scarcely yet put to rights, when a vessel made up to us bound
westward like ourselves. What a sight to the lonely wanderers on the
ocean is a ship at sea!—it seems like a herald coming to you from the
world, from which you are seemingly cut off for ever. It is a sight
which must be seen to be appreciated. She was labouring heavily on our
lee, and every now and then her whole keel became visible to us. To
this, one of the passengers very innocently directed attention, much to
the horror of the second mate, who smartly rebuked the offender; it
being, he said, not only indelicate, but perilous to own having seen the
keel of any ship under canvas. We all, of course, admitted the
reasonableness of this caution, and strictly observed it.
The ship was no sooner repaired, than the wind, which had abated a
little, seemed to redouble its fury. We were now in the midst of a
terrible storm, and great was the commotion in the steerage. Some moaned
in pain—others screamed occasionally in terror—whilst one old lady was
constantly inquiring in a most piteous voice, if there was not one good
man on board, for whose sake the rest might be saved. On making the
inquiry of a rough, but good-natured tar, he rebuked her scepticism, and
referred her to the minister. We had two sailors on board, named Peter.
One was an ordinary looking mortal, from whom the other was
distinguished by the appellation of Peter the Leerer, a name having
reference to the extraordinary facial phenomena which he exhibited. On
the point of his nose was an enormous wart, the counterpart of which had
taken possession of his chin. He had likewise one, but of smaller
dimensions, on either cheek, only wanting one on his forehead, to
complete the diagram; a want, which, for most of the voyage, was
providentially made up by a large pimple, which underlay his bump of
benevolence. Add to this an enormous quantity of wiry red hair, and a
portentous squint, and you may form some conception of the goblin in
question. He was the terror of all the children on board, and came
regularly into the steerage in the morning, begging a “toothful” from
the passengers. We never saw his tooth, but it must have been very
large, as what he meant by the term was a glass of raw spirits, to the
strength of which he was stoically indifferent, so that it was above
proof. It appeared that he now thought that the time had come for making
some sort of return for sundry gifts of this nature. He appeared amongst
us, as the storm was at its height, and confidentially informed us that,
unless some of the “canvas” were immediately taken down, the ship “had
not another hour’s life in her.” To describe the confusion and dismay
occasioned by this announcement is impossible. Nobody questioned Peter’s
judgment, who stood looking at us as if he thought that one good turn
deserved another. But every one was too much frightened to think of
rewarding him for his kindness. Some ran at once upon deck to take
immediate advantage of the boats—the women all screamed together—and we
had a pretty tolerable taste of the horrors to be witnessed on the eve
of a shipwreck. The hubbub at length ended in the appointment of a
deputation to wait upon the captain, and solicit him to shorten sail.
The deputation went upon its mission, but soon afterwards returned from
the cabin to their constituents with the report that they had been
politely requested by the functionary in question to mind their own
business. The storm, however, gradually abated, and things and persons
resumed their ordinary aspect.
Great was the anxiety evinced every time the log was thrown, to
ascertain our rate of sailing, and at noon of each day, to know our
daily run, and our precise locality on the terraqueous globe. It is
difficult for an emigrant to reconcile himself to less than eight or
nine knots an hour. He may put up with seven, or even six, provided the
ship is in her direct course, but he regards everything below that as a
justifiable ground of murmuring and complaint. Sometimes it is the ship
that is wrong, and sometimes the captain, sometimes the rigging, and at
other times, all is wrong together. But to do the emigrant justice, if
he is in the surly mood when he is making but little progress, he makes
amends for his ill-humour when the vessel is making a good run. We, one
day, made but about twenty miles, and I apprehended a mutiny. On another
we made two hundred, and nothing could exceed the hilarity and
good-humour of those on board. At one time, the Seagull was the merest
tub, a disgrace to her owners, and to the mercantile navy of the
kingdom. At another, she was one of the best vessels afloat; the captain
one of the best sailors on the sea; and the crew the cleverest set of
fellows in the world. But all this time it was the same ship, the same
captain, and the same crew. The diversity of opinion was the result of
extraneous circumstances which caused us at different times to take
different points of view. If the weather was favourable, and we made
good way, the ship, captain, and crew, got all the honour and glory; if
it was adverse and our progress was retarded, the ship, captain, and
crew, had to bear all our sinister glances and ill humours. One morning,
after we had been about ten days out, our minds were all made up that we
were pretty near the banks of Newfoundland, when a fellow-passenger,
evidently not very deeply versed in human nature, had the hardihood to
inform us that he had, but the day before, seen the mate’s log book,
from which it appeared that we were as yet but five hundred miles to the
westward of the Irish coast. I can scarcely understand to this day, how
it was that he escaped being thrown overboard.
We had two men on board, the very antipodes of each other. The one was a
colossal bachelor, who was never ill; the other a diminutive member of a
large family, who was never well. They resembled each other only in one
point—that they both ate prodigiously. The only account the bachelor
could give of himself was that he was going out to Canada to saw the big
trees. He had, in fact, been engaged as a sawyer to proceed to the banks
of the Ottawa, there to prosecute his avocation in connection with some
of the large timber establishments, which are situated far up that noble
river. He was so powerful a fellow, that a Yankee passenger declared “he
would have only to look at a tree to bring it down.” He lived, whilst on
board, on nothing but oatmeal porridge, a large goblet-full of which,
after first making it himself, he devoured regularly on deck four times
a day. As to the little man, he lived, as regularly, on mashed potatoes,
enriched with butter and melted cheese; and his meals were invariably
followed by fits of sea-sickness which he considered quite
unaccountable. His habits became at length such a scandal to all on
board, that the doctor was compelled, by the force of public opinion, to
order him to eat less. He had remained below from our time of starting,
until the day we made land, when he appeared on deck for the first time,
and was for the first time seen without his nightcap.
When we had been about three weeks at sea an incident occurred which
appalled us all, and elicited the sympathies of everyone for one of the
unfortunate sufferers. I have already alluded to the old man, who was
emigrating with his only grandson, whom he wished to see comfortably
settled in life, ere his eyes were sealed in death. The youth was one of
several on board who were fond, after having been a few days at sea, of
climbing the rigging, and exposing themselves to a variety of
unnecessary risks. He had been frequently warned, with the rest, against
the consequences which might ensue, but disregarded the advice. One day,
whilst out upon the bowsprit, he missed his hold and dropped into the
water. The alarm of “man overboard” was instantly raised, and, to save
him, the ship was immediately hove to; but he had disappeared, and
although we remained for an hour upon the spot, we never caught a
glimpse of him again. One of the men near him at the time said that, on
reaching the water, he was struck on the head by the cut-water of the
ship, which was then running about eight knots an hour. The blow stunned
him, and he sank like a stone. The poor old man was inconsolable, and
gradually sank into a state of vacant imbecility; and, on landing, found
a home in the Lunatic Asylum at Quebec.
Let no one dream that the sea, particularly on board an emigrant ship,
is the place for reading or study. It is either too cold, when there is
the slightest breeze, or too hot when it is calm: it is too noisy at all
times. Happy is he who, under such circumstances, has a resource against
_ennui_ in his own reflections. Having a clergyman on board, we had
divine service regularly on the Sundays. When it was rough, the
assemblage took place between decks in the steerage; but when fine we
were convened upon deck. Sailors have a dread, not exactly of clergymen
in the abstract, but of clergymen on board. A blackbird on the rigging
as the ship is about to start, or a clergyman on board, is equally, in
their estimation, a token of ill luck; and some of the crew pitied us
for anticipating anything else, under the circumstances.
If there is one thing more disagreeable than a storm at sea, it is a
calm. It is all very well for a steamer, which can then make her way
nobly over the waters; but, the annoyance and tedium on board a sailing
vessel are indescribable. In all our calms we were surrounded by
sea-gulls and other marine birds. Some of them ventured so close as to
be shot; others we endeavoured to catch by means of baited hooks tied to
a stick, which was attached to a long cord; but they were too wary for
us, for, after closely examining it, they fought shy of the temptation.
On nearing the banks of Newfoundland we were constantly immersed in
fogs. One morning, whilst thus situated, the temperature of the sea
suddenly lowered, which the captain interpreted into an indication of
icebergs not being far off, and a sharp look out was ordered to be kept.
It was scarcely noon ere we were in imminent peril of running at full
speed against one. We owed our escape to a passenger, who was on the
lookout, and who called the attention of one of the sailors to something
ahead of us. “Starboard—starboard hard!”—cried he at once to the man at
the wheel. The helm was scarcely turned ere we glided rapidly by the
frozen mass, which gleamed like a huge emerald in the faint and
struggling sunlight. We passed so close to it that I could have leaped
upon it with ease. We might as well have run against a whinstone rock as
encountered this floating peril, at the rate at which we were then
gliding through the water.
Whilst crossing the banks the ship was frequently hove to for soundings.
We took advantage of such occasions to fish for cod; nor were we
unsuccessful, for we, altogether, hauled on board several dozen fish of
a large size. The delight with which we feasted upon our prey, after
some weeks’ experience of nothing but salt meat, I leave the reader to
imagine. It was during one of our angling attempts that an incident
occurred, which would have seemed as incredible to me as it may now do
the reader, had I not been an eye-witness of it. One of the crew, whilst
fishing for a few minutes, with a line belonging to a passenger, hooked
a very large fish, which dropped into the water in the act of being
hauled on board. The man, determined on securing his prize, without a
moment’s hesitation, leaped overboard after it; and, seizing the half
insensible fish in his arms, held it there until he was hauled on board,
with his extraordinary booty. In explanation of this, it should be known
that the gills of a cod-fish, when out of the water, swell considerably,
so as to prevent it from properly performing their functions when
restored, even alive, to its native element. It was whilst the fish in
question was in the act of thus “coming to” that the man seized and
secured it.
On the banks, when the night was clear, we witnessed magnificent
exhibitions of the aurora-borealis. It was generally between midnight
and ten in the morning that the phenomenon attained the greatest
splendour. When the whole northern sky was enveloped in a trellis-work
of flashing wavy light, of a mingled golden, silvery pink, and blood-red
hue.
The first land we made, was Cape Breton, an island off the northern
extremity of Nova Scotia; and between which and Newfoundland, is the
entrance to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The bold shore of the island was
more picturesque than inviting; but for the live-long day every
passenger strained his eyes upon this, the first positive revelation of
the New World to him. The delight imparted by the first sight of land,
can only be appreciated by those who have been for weeks at sea, with
nothing to meet the eye, day after day, but the same monotonous and
dreary circle of waters, in the midst of which the ship seems to rest
immoveable. From Cape Breton we stood up the Gulf, and being favoured by
the wind, soon made the Island of Anticosti, not far from the mouth of
the St. Lawrence. It looked like a mass of petrified guano; an illusion
which was not disturbed by the myriads of water-fowl which hovered about
its precipices.
The Gulf of St. Lawrence has not been inaptly designated, the “vilest of
seas.” It was our lot to have ample experience of its capricious
humours. When almost at the mouth of the river, which expands into a
magnificent estuary of from seventy to ninety miles in width, we were
becalmed for two whole days. Between us and the rocky shore on our left,
to which we were very close, lay a vessel from Belfast, crowded with
emigrants. There was music and dancing on board; and so near were we to
each other, that we, too, sometimes danced to the sound of her solitary
violin. On the evening of the second day, we were suddenly overtaken by
a furious squall, which descending the river, came upon us so
unprepared, that much of our canvas was cut to pieces ere it could be
taken in. In about half an hour all was comparatively tranquil again,
but on looking for our comrade, not a vestige of her was to be seen. It
was not for three weeks afterwards, when we heard of her total loss,
with upwards of three hundred and fifty souls on board, that our
dreadful suspicions respecting her, were confirmed. Next morning it blew
very fresh; and although it was the 3rd of June, we had several heavy
falls of snow.
After beating about for two days longer in the mouth of the river, we
were boarded by a pilot, and made way for Quebec, about four hundred
miles up. The ascent of the stream is sometimes exceedingly tedious; as,
when the wind is adverse, it is necessary to come to anchor at every
turn of the tide. Thus as much time is sometimes consumed in ascending
the river, as in crossing the Atlantic. We were more fortunate, for we
made the quarantine ground, thirty miles below the city, in ten days.
Under such circumstances, the sail up the river is interesting and
agreeable. For the first hundred miles or so, it is so wide, that land
on either side is but dimly visible. But, as the estuary narrows,
objects on either side become more distinct. The northern shore, which
is bold and mountainous, is replete with scenes of the most romantic
grandeur. The southern bank being much tamer in its character, and more
adapted for human habitations. The channel too, some distance up, is
occasionally studded with islands, which add greatly to the interest of
the sail.
The quarantine ground of Canada is Gros Isle, between which and Quebec
stretches the long Island of Orleans. We had scarcely dropped anchor
when we were boarded by an officer of the Board of Health. Whilst
ascending the river, the ship had been thoroughly cleaned, and the
berths in the steerage white-washed. We were all passed in review before
the functionary in question, and could have been at once permitted to
proceed to our destination, but for one old lady, who was not exactly
ill, but ailing; on her account we were detained until every piece of
clothing on board had undergone a thorough ablution. We landed
immediately in boats, and, after having been for about six weeks at sea,
it was with inexpressible joy that I sprang ashore, for the first time,
in the New World.
Gros Isle! With what melancholy associations have the events of 1847
encircled the name of the Canadian lazaretto! On our arrival, in a year
when the tide of emigration was not strong, there was a little fleet
anchored along side of it. Some of the vessels (they were all from
Ireland), with their overloaded cargoes of human beings, had been
already there for a month, nor was there any prospect of their being
relieved for some weeks to come. There was an hospital for the sick; the
accommodation ashore for such as were well, consisted of several large
open sheds, tolerably well covered and floored. In these, meals were
taken during the day, and beds were made for the night. Outside, the
scene presented was picturesque, and even gay; there were nearly three
thousand people ashore, and a universal washing of clothes of all kinds
was going on; the water being heated by hundreds of wood fires, which
were blazing and smoking amongst the rocks in the open air. When there
were families, the families belonging to them washed for them; such as
were alone had to hire the services of professional washerwomen. The
appliances of washing are rather peculiar. Between high and low
water-mark the island was very rocky, and the action of the water had
here and there scooped out bowls of various sizes from the rock. Into
them, for the most part, the hot water was poured, and in them, between
tides, the clothes were washed. They were then spread upon the rocks, or
hung upon the trees to dry, which gave the island a holiday look. It was
anything, however, but a holiday time for hundreds, who were forced to
tenant it.
To our great satisfaction, we were permitted, after but one day’s
detention, to resume our course. With wind and tide in our favour, we
soon dropped up to the city. It was a clear and brilliant morning in
June when we left Gros Isle, and as we made our way up the narrow
channel between the Island of Orleans and the southern bank of the
river, nothing could exceed the beauty of the scene, the great basin,
into which the city juts, being visible in the distance, directly ahead
of us, whilst the precipitous bank on either side, particularly that on
our left, was covered with the most luxuriant vegetation, in the shade
of which we could, every here and there, discover foaming torrents,
dashing headlong from the country above into the river, like those
which, after heavy rains, rush with such fury down the western bank of
Loch Ness. On opening one of the points of the Isle Orleans, the
cataract of Montmorency burst suddenly upon our view, looking in the
distance like a long streak of snow amid the rich green foliage which
imbedded it. Considerably higher up, Point Levy still projected between
us and the city, but long before we turned it, we could see over it the
British flag floating in the distance from the lofty battlements of Cape
Diamond. On turning the point, the change of scene was as sudden and
complete as any ever effected by the scenic contrivances of the stage.
The city was at once disclosed to view, skirting the fort and crowning
the summit of the bold rocky promontory on which it stands, its tinned
roofs and steeples gleaming in the sunlight, as if they were cased in
silver. Very few vessels were at the wharves, but abreast of the city
hundreds were anchored in the middle of the stream, some getting rid of
their ballast, and others surrounded by islands of timber, with which
they were being loaded. The clearness of the air, the brightness of the
sky, the merry tumble of the water, slightly ruffled by a fresh easterly
breeze, the singular position and quaint appearance of the town, with
its massive battlements, its glistening turrets, and its break-neck
looking streets, zigzagging up the precipice, with the rich greenery of
the Heights of Abraham beyond, and that of Point Levy right opposite,
and with hundreds of vessels lying quietly at anchor on the broad
expanse of the river, whilst the echoes reverberated to the merry
choruses of their busy crews,—all conspired to form a picture calculated
to make an impression upon the imagination too deep to be ever effaced.
The anchor had scarcely dropped, terminating our long and weary voyage,
when we were boarded by a Custom-House officer, and by an officer of the
Board of Health. After another inspection, we were permitted to land;
and it was not without many anxious reflections upon the novelty of my
situation, that I found myself retiring that night to rest within a
stone’s throw of the monument raised to the joint memories of Wolf and
Montcalm.
Such were the incidents of my voyage. I have set them down simply, and
exactly as they occurred, for the purpose of presenting a true picture
of the emigrant’s life afloat. I have since learned that, in all
respects, ours was an average journey across the wide waste. Intending
emigrants, therefore, who picture to themselves in bright colours the
glories of a sea voyage, will, by reading these pages, have their dreams
modified by some touches of reality and truth, if not entirely
dispelled. If, however, they are adapted for success in the other
hemisphere, they will not be daunted by the trials and inconveniences I
have pictured.