This morning, in spite of the rolling of the ship, Masses were said
and several of the pilgrims received Holy Communion. There are but
few English pilgrims; including cleric and lay, not more than a dozen
out of the ninety-two. I say English rather than English-speaking,
and in contradistinction to French, as many of the French pilgrims
speak English fluently.
There is little to break the monotony of a sea voyage. One day is
just like another. You wake in the morning, rise, go through the
same little round, turn in at night. Each day you seem to be just
where you were the day before. The same voices call out to you "from
the vasty deep." The same sea-waves lift their crested heads, shake
their flowing manes, and sport and gambol in all the wild abandon of
their unbridled freedom. And your vision is ever bounded by the same
narrow horizon. Anything is welcome that breaks this sameness, the
passing ship, or even the seagull that wings its way over the water.
We have met few ships. The smoke of a steamer--of two of them,
indeed,--was descried yesterday morning, and about sundown a big ship
under shortened sail was seen beating her way to windward.
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