There are many things disagreeable to a landsman in a voyage at sea. And in the first place, the rolling of the vessel. This is always disagreeable, but often it is so vehement that you cannot stand, walk or sit without much caution and trouble. While food is eaten, you must hold on to the plate with one hand, and wield the knife with the other, and this is often done at the imminent hazard of "marring the corners" of the mouth. Sometimes, in spite of all exertion, a sudden lurch will throw you off the balance, and you get a bowl of hot coffee in your lap. And then, at night, you are tossed to and fro in the berth, so that you cannot soundly sleep, and arise in the morning more fatigued than when you laid down.
And this motion of the vessel produces seasickness—an affliction exceedingly grievous to be borne. I had been seasick ten or a dozen times in my life, and this was the third time on my present tour; and I tried all the precautionary means I had ever heard of, but without any beneficial effect. Could any effectual remedy be discovered, it would save a vast amount of human distress.
The shoreless ocean, seen day after day, affords but a dull and barren prospect to a landsman. The only variety seems to be, when a storm arises; and then it puts on such a terrific form, that the sublimity of the scene cannot be fully enjoyed. We had a severe blow off the coast of Florida; but the shivering of sails, and the mountains of foam dashing over our frail bark, caused fear to predominate over every other sensation.
The complete and rapid change of the scene at sea, is sometimes very striking. We would be quietly sailing along with a gentle breeze, just enough to fill the sails, and keep the vessel in motion on her course; when all at once a violent squall arises, suddenly strikes the ship, whizzes through the rigging, fills the sails to bursting, and drives her rapidly on, through billows of foam. The captain stands upon the quarter-deck, gives his orders through the speaking trumpet—the sailors run aloft, cling to the yards and take in sail. The contrast is indeed great. One moment, all is calm and quiet; the next, all is uproar and confusion; and could one feel entirely at ease, it would be a great source of amusement, during a long voyage.
But a sailor's life is one of care, hardship, watchfulness and anxiety. Our captain would walk the deck for hours, anxiously watching the whole circle of the horizon—the appearance of the clouds and the direction of the wind. Of a sudden, he would stop short, call all hands, order the light sails taken in, and close-reefed those that remained; when to my unpractised eye, there was no cause of alarm, or appearance of a change of weather. But the result would invariably show the correctness of his opinion. In no one instance, did he prematurely take in sail, nor did the squall ever come and "catch him napping."
The third day out, from the mouth of the river, we saw the highlands of Cuba. On the fifth, the Sand Key lighthouse, on the Florida shore. We saw no other land on the voyage, except a small island on the Little Bahama Banks, until we came in full view of the village of Chatham, fifty miles south of Boston. The wind became fair, the weather thick and rainy. The next day, twenty miles out, the pilot came aboard, and we run safely into Boston harbor. We had been just twenty-five days from New-Orleans—a distance of twenty-five hundred miles. We had experienced all the varieties of a sea voyage—light winds, calms, strong breezes and storms—and now, with no small degree of pleasure, I again set my foot on terra firma.
The following day, I took the stage and arrived home at Exeter; having been absent about five months, and having travelled by land and water the distance of eight thousand miles. I passed over the whole route without arms, and at no time did I feel the need of any. I was uniformly well treated; and often received kind attentions, and formed many acquaintances whom I left with regret, and shall remember with gratitude.
The weather had generally been mild and pleasant. The greatest indication of cold weather I found on the whole trip, was a slight frost. On returning at once to the region of severe cold weather, I found it exceedingly oppressive. Our northern winters are indeed long, severe and crabbed; and were the people as crabbed as the climate, life would become altogether intolerable. But the southern and western climate is far more bland and mild, and much more grateful to the feelings, than ours; and this, together with the facility of obtaining all the necessaries and conveniences of life, induces me to believe that a much greater amount of comfort and happiness may there be enjoyed.