Mr. Stone, Col. Stewart, Miss Warde, Mr. Still, and Mr. Hutton, of Sheffield, and his daughter. We have 134 passengers, only, on board—a slack muster, caused by the evil times in America—and all were at dinner on Saturday, the day we sailed, but the wind, rain, mist, and misery of the next three days sent many of them below, and for those days we had plenty of elbow-room. The weather, however, improved, the sun got now and then out, though it has, so far, been anything but warm, and out came the sick people again in renovated appetite—some epicurean and dainty, many others with a ravenous, all- devouring maw, reminding one of the 'worm that never dieth.'
"Now, Col. Preston is the late U.S. Ambassador to Madrid, where he has resided officially, and with his family, for the four years of the Buchanan Presidency. He is now replaced, I think, by a Mr. Falkner. He is a tall, stout, gentlemanly man, but, while a perfect gentleman in his conversation, and having less of the American accent than most Americans, his manner is somewhat ungainly—perhaps owing to his make, which is large and a little inclining to the unwieldy.
"Mrs. Preston has an Americo-Grecian face, and is a 'grand-dame.' She talks of the blessings of slavery, and of the vain and self-recoiling efforts of her mother, who liberated many slaves and educated more, to reduce the evil; and is full of the troubles and robberies of foreign house-keeping and of the gossip of the diplomatic circle.
"Her daughters are high-spirited, good-humoured, large-sized girls— fresh, natural and charming. One of them has a fine face with eyes of blue, just like those Bradley liked to paint—and the other two are good looking enough. They have, however, no conversation—lots of talk and gossip; much of it, too, amusing and quick witted, but it wants thought. They all come from Kentucky, where they are now going. Colonel Stewart is, I think, from Louisiana. He talks little, and does not interest me. Mr. Stone is a voluble high-spirited Northern man, with Southern tendencies. He says that the men who started this secession, and have made it what it is, ought (on both sides) to be hung, and he 'would go home on purpose.' It seems that a house in which he had a large sum has failed, and, to use a phrase I have heard both Mr. Preston and himself make use of, the civil war has 'shocked' his property above one half, i.e. has reduced its value above one half. They all agree, in fact, that the value of all property has gone down at least half, a loss, if the nation had to sell up—which it has not, but has only to 'liquidate'—of a sum greater than required to buy up all the slaves and set them free. Credit is gone—the faith of the people in their Government is weakened, and thousands are ruined in every city in the land. Sad civil war! Our passengers comprise all sorts of people—from all sorts of places, clothed in all sorts of dresses: anything will do at sea. We have, too, a good many old stagers of the Atlantic, who think nothing of 'going across.' This will console you—as you have to go 'across' next spring—to know that one man has been across 57 times, another 31, another 18, and another 13; and one lady has been 6—while the fat buxom stewardess has done a hundred, and is alive and well, and quite as ready to receive a half crown from a passenger, of any country, as ever!
"But I must give over writing for a little, till this breeze of wind is over.
"We have now only 1,000 miles to go, and shall be in New York on
Wednesday.
"Monday.
"We had a bad night, and I could not sleep for the row and the motion. We have now got it over, and are going merrily along with a smart breeze, bright sun, and sparkling sea. It will be late on Wednesday, however, when we get in.
"A rough night at sea has its features. On board these ships there are strict rules and strict discipline. We breakfast, lunch, dine, and tea at hours which are kept to a moment. The bell rings, and down we sit. Then the bar closes at 11, and all lights are put out at 12. The lights in the cabins are placed inside a partition, glazed with ground glass, so that there is no glare, and you cannot get at them. No loose lights are allowed, and a passenger who struck a light would be severely handled. These are proper precautions against fire, and should be obeyed. But at 12 we are in total darkness—the ship rolls and pitches —every now and then a sea strikes her, and burr—hush—swish—goes the water over her sides or bows, and along her decks.
Then the men above run about, ropes are pulled, sails set or taken in, and a general hullabaloo goes on—no doubt in the interest of the passengers—but very disagreeable. Then the boatswain's whistle—Pee- ee-ee ah! Pee-ee-ee ah-h-h!—every now and then wakes you up. Light is a comfort, and darkness at sea seems to aggravate the strange feeling which now and then affects you, as you think you are following a great road without track or guide—save that which the stars, if visible, and the previous day's observations afford.