I RECEIVED your last kind letter, my dearest mother, only a few hours
before we set sail from Greenock. As you express a wish that I should
give you a minute detail of our voyage, I shall take up my subject from
the time of our embarkation, and write as inclination prompts me.
Instead of having reason to complain of short letters, you will, I fear,
find mine only too prolix.
After many delays and disappointments, we succeeded at last in obtaining
a passage in a fast-sailing brig, the _Laurel_, of Greenock; and
favourable winds are now rapidly carrying us across the Atlantic.
The _Laurel_ is not a regular passenger-ship, which I consider an
advantage, for what we lose in amusement and variety we assuredly gain
in comfort. The cabin is neatly fitted up, and I enjoy the luxury (for
such it is, compared with the narrow berths of the state cabin) of a
handsome sofa, with crimson draperies, in the great cabin. The state
cabin is also ours. We paid fifteen pounds each for our passage to
Montreal. This was high, but it includes every expense; and, in fact, we
had no choice. The only vessel in the river bound for Canada, was a
passenger-ship, literally swarming with emigrants, chiefly of the lower
class of Highlanders.
The only passengers besides ourselves in the _Laurel_ are the captain's
nephew, a pretty yellow-haired lad, about fifteen years of age, who
works his passage out, and a young gentleman who is going out as clerk
in a merchant's house in Quebec. He seems too much wrapped up in his own
affairs to be very communicative to others; he walks much, talks little,
and reads less, but often amuses himself by singing as he paces the
deck, "Home, sweet home," and that delightful song by Camoens, "Isle of
beauty." It is a sweet song, and I can easily imagine the charm it has
for a home-sick heart.
I was much pleased with the scenery of the Clyde; the day we set sail
was a lovely one, and I remained on deck till nightfall. The morning
light found our vessel dashing gallantly along, with a favourable
breeze, through the north channel; that day we saw the last of the
Hebrides, and before night lost sight of the north coast of Ireland. A
wide expanse of water and sky is now our only prospect, unvaried by any
object save the distant and scarcely to be traced outline of some vessel
just seen at the verge of the horizon, a speck in the immensity of
space, or sometimes a few sea-fowl. I love to watch these wanderers of
the ocean, as they rise and fall with the rocking billows, or flit about
our vessel; and often I wonder whence they came, to what distant shore
they are bound, and if they make the rude wave their home and resting-
place during the long day and dark night; and then I recall to mind the
words of the American poet, Bryant,--
"He who from zone to zone
Guides through the boundless air their certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Wilt guide my steps aright."
Though we have been little more than a week on board, I am getting weary
of the voyage. I can only compare the monotony of it to being weather-
bound in some country inn. I have already made myself acquainted with
all the books worth reading in the ship's library; unfortunately, it is
chiefly made up with old novels and musty romances.
When the weather is fine I sit on a bench on the deck, wrapped in my
cloak, and sew, or pace the deck with my husband, and talk over plans
for the future, which in all probability will never be realized. I
really do pity men who are not actively employed: women have always
their needle as a resource against the overwhelming weariness of an idle
life; but where a man is confined to a small space, such as the deck and
cabin of a trading vessel, with nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing
to do, and nothing to read, he is really a very pitiable creature.
There is one passenger on board that seems perfectly happy, if one may
judge from the liveliness of the songs with which he greets us whenever
we approach his cage. It is "Harry," the captain's goldfinch--"the
_captain's mate_," as the sailors term him. This pretty creature has
made no fewer than twelve voyages in the _Laurel_. "It is all one to him
whether his cage is at sea or on land, he is still at home," said the
captain, regarding his little favourite with an air of great affection,
and evidently gratified by the attention I bestowed on his bird.
I have already formed a friendship with the little captive. He never
fails to greet my approach with one of his sweetest songs, and will take
from my fingers a bit of biscuit, which he holds in his claws till he
has thanked me with a few of his clearest notes. This mark of
acknowledgment is termed by the steward, "saying-grace."
If the wind still continues to favour us, the captain tells us we shall
be on the banks of Newfoundland in another week. Farewell for the
present.