The twenty-fifth of November was a beautiful day in contrast to the
probable state of the climate at home, and calling us all on deck.
One of the passengers sat plying her needle on the chief signal flag,
another writing, one enjoying the soothing influences of the day in
his hammock, the captain fixing his signals with a contrivance for
keeping them separate and easily handled. Soft airs were about us. The
clouds showed that we were in the trade wind region. Instead of banks
of clouds and thunderheads there were innumerable fleecy clouds, mostly
small, giving a calm look to the heavens. We seldom see this for a
long time on land. We are in all respects the larger part of the time
as if we were in a pleasure boat. No doubt other ships would awaken as
agreeable sensations, but we are much of the time impressed with the
gracefulness of our ship’s motions. We are instructed that this is
owing in part to the stowage. She is not too much “by the head” nor
“by the stern;” yet, after all, there is sometimes an indescribable
air of beauty in a craft which the wisest builder will fail to define
or to account for, while every one sees and feels it. Wholly ignorant
of niceties in the art of steering, I soon learned by the action of
the ship that it made a difference in her behavior whether one man or
another were at the wheel. Many a time have I been so impressed with
the way in which the ship rode the waves that I have left my seat to
see who was steering, and have found that Nelson was having his trick
at the wheel. Nelson is a tall sailor, about fifty years of age, an
American, not always as exemplary on shore for his temperate habits as
at sea he is skillful in his profession. He has the eye and hand of
a marksman in encountering groundswells, running through chop seas;
making me think of the gallant manner in which some policemen help
ladies cross the thoroughfares.