On the following morning he embarked upon the Moravian, belonging to the Allan Line of Steamships, plying at that time of the season between Liverpool and Portland, in Maine, U.S.
The steam is up; anchors are weighed; and the vessel is soon riding out from the harbor towards mid-ocean. Although the air is cold, the deck is crowded with persons, among whom is Frederick Charlston, viewing the receding objects, and at length taking their farewell view of the dimly distant shores of their native land.
Day passed,—and the shadows of the night came down. The vessel was dashing over the foaming billows. The winds were whistling dolefully amid the sails. A feeling of loneliness crept over the soul of poor Fred, and he retired to his hammock. Visions of the past and future floated across his mind, and under the poetic mantle of inspiration he gave vent to his feelings in the following verses:
Farewell to thee, England, the land of my birth,
The dearest, the fairest of countries on earth,
I love thee, yet leave thee, perhaps to deplore,
Alas, it may be to behold thee no more.
If at home I've a friend, yet true friends are but few,
In duty to friendship I breathe him adieu,
But joy to this bosom no friends can restore.
I love them, yet leave them, I may see them no more.
Old London, farewell,—my birth-place and home,
Far distant from thee I am destined to roam,
On the home I once loved a fond wish too I'll pour,
Tho' its household and hearth I may visit no more.
Sweet child of my love! Ah! the thought breaks my heart,
To know that thy mother hath caused us to part,
I love thee, yet leave thee, nor can she restore
A joy to this soul that may see thee no more.
To the land of the stranger I go—yes—I go,
In search of those blessings which it can bestow,
Its forests, its lakes, I shall proudly explore,
Far, far from that home I may visit no more.
Thus sang the young poet. But before morning had dawned upon the billows of the ocean all the poetic fancy that was flickering in his half-phrenzied brain was driven out by a serious attack of sea-sickness. His emanations were then of a much grosser sort of material than the etherial-essence of poetic sentiment. During three long and wearied nights he continued in a most pitiable condition; his thoughts bewildered and fluctuating; at times, half regretting the course he had taken. The weather was tempestuous during the voyage; but, at length, in the afternoon of the twelfth day the vessel and all the passengers were safely landed at Portland. That evening Fred went on board the train for Montreal, but did not reach his destination until late in the afternoon of the second day, the journey having been prolonged by a severe snow storm. The cold was very intense. It was then that the words of Charles Holstrom occurred to his mind about the Canadian mountains of snow and the cold at 150 degrees of temperature below zero. He, however, arrived safely at Montreal, yet, cold, hungry and exhausted, and immediately engaged lodgings at the St. James' Hotel, where after a warm and hearty meal he soon experienced a more comfortable state of feelings.
Night's shadows had settled down over the fair city. The great bell of the cathedral of Notre Dame was scattering its solemn tones over the dim air. The city-lamps were sending forth their mellow radiance. Throngs of pedestrians were moving to and fro. Sleigh after sleigh was hurrying along, filled with joyous souls, and drawn by sprightly steeds dancing as if it were to the sounds of the merry-tinkling sleigh-bells. Fred looked out upon the gay panorama of Canadian city life. It was a new and attractive sight to him, and he felt an itching desire to try the novel experiment of taking a sleigh ride; but his spirit recoiled within itself when the fact was brought forcibly to his mind that it was "Christmas' Night." He thought of the many happy Christmas evenings which he had enjoyed amid the society of his friends in the good old city of London. A thousand associations flashed across his memory, filling his solitary mind with sadness and regrets. Around him everywhere he beheld gay crowds flickering with joyous excitement. More keenly than ever he then felt that he was only a stranger in a strange land, isolated from congenial society, and far removed from his friends and his once happy home. Conscience awakened his mind to the reality of his past folly, and his heart was wounded by its own stings. A heavy weight of sorrow pressed deeply upon his bosom. A deep sigh rolled out heavily upon his lips. Tears glistened in his eyes; and alas, poor Frederick Charlston again wished himself back to London.