Our worship, at sunset, was commenced, after an air of sacred music from the band, by the reading of Addison’s beautiful hymn—
“How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!
Eternal Wisdom is their guide,
Their help, Omnipotence.”
To-day we are crossing the gulf stream under a fresh breeze amounting almost to a gale: a “smoky southwester” with a short and high sea, into which the frigate plunges deeply, taking in large quantities of water forward. This rushing aft, as the ship rises, makes the gun as well as the spar-deck wet and uncomfortable. The wardroom, with all the stern and air-ports closed, is dark and stifling in its atmosphere, and every thing on board partakes largely of the disagreeable at sea. The motion is so great that nothing can be left by itself; and, at breakfast, each of us secured, as best he could, the very indifferent fare that came in his way: bread like so much lead; biscuits which, bagged and netted, might have passed inspection as grape-shot; rancid butter; addled eggs; and execrable stuff under the names of tea and coffee! As I cast my eyes over the mess-table and its surroundings, in the gloomy twilight falling from the hatchway above, and upon a disconsolate-looking and silent set of companions, I could not avoid contrasting the whole, involuntarily, with a breakfast room in my mind, on shore, in the fresh beauty of a morning in June—with a brightly gleaming lawn in front; the mingled bloom of the rose and the honeysuckle at the windows; the cheerful family group; and the varied fare fresh from the garden, the farm-house, and the dairy—and sigh at the difference in the pictures. Such a day as this, on shipboard in the gulf stream, with its discomfort in almost every form, would be enough to make a landsman content, for the rest of his life, with the blessings of the shore.
Apropos of our steward. We have been sadly imposed on by the professed qualifications of this important functionary. Claiming to be perfect in all, we find he knows nothing of any of his appropriate duties. The day we left Norfolk he gave a characteristic proof of his fitness for the office. It was at dinner, our guest Mr. B—— being of the number. Among the courses was a salad dressed by our maitre d’hôte. Mr. B—— was first served with it. I was the next to take from the dish, and in doing so, happening to look towards the visitor, was struck by a very peculiar expression of the eye and countenance as he tasted it—a blending of surprise, comical inquiry, and effort at self-command, while the fork was very quietly returned to his plate, as if he were done with it. Suspecting the salad to be the origin of all this, and hastily testing the point by a mouthful, I found to my utter disgust, that, in obedience to the direction of the caterer to use plenty of oil in the dressing, he had, in ignorance of any other, dashed the whole most copiously with the vilest lamp oil! The effect upon the palate can be more readily imagined than described.
June 12th.—A breeze from the north-east, which set in last night, promises to prove a regular trade-wind, and we are running rapidly before it on our course. You may easily follow our track, by marking, on a map, a pretty straight line from the mouth of the Chesapeake to the channel of the sea, between the Islands of St. Domingo and Porto Rico. It is our intention to pass between these, by what is named on the charts of the West Indies, the Mona Passage, and then lay a course by the south side of Cuba to Havana. Should it be asked why we go, seemingly, so much out of our way and so far round; I answer, that for a large ship, it is not only the safest, but, in point of time, the shortest route. The strong and adverse current of the gulf stream, and the intricate and hazardous navigation of the Florida channel, are the objections to the direct course along the coast. The weather is now fine—in strong contrast with that last described; and, at night, we have a splendid moon, enticing to constant visits in thought and affection to Riverside. Beautiful as moonlight is at sea, I must confess to a preference, in the enjoyment of it in the month of June, for the south-west corner of a verandah on the banks of the Hudson.
I have, thus far, been giving my time chiefly to visits through my floating parish—from the quarters of the Commodore to those of “Jemmy Ducks,” and “Jack of the dust,” as the feeder of the pigs and poultry, and the sweeper of the Purser’s store-rooms, in shipboard nomenclature, are respectively styled. Almost every day, since coming on board, I have discovered here and there a shipmate of some former cruise; and perceive hourly evidence of having through these—in part at least—already gained the marked good will of the crew. I am quite at home in all my walks among them; and have every reason to be more than satisfied—to be truly thankful—in my official relation with them.
The Congress, a fifty-gun ship, is one of the finest vessels of her class. She is a model of strength and symmetry in hull and spars, and of imposing and effective equipment in her batteries and armament; never failing to attract the notice of all who have an eye to appreciate a chef d’œuvre in naval architecture. She is, too, a swift messenger over the waters, as well as a tower of strength and beauty on the sea.