I did not hear this myself, but it is said of one clergyman on board that amid the fierceness of the storm he became exceedingly uneasy. Wringing his hands, and approaching the chief officer, he exclaimed: “O Captain, Captain, is there any danger of d-e-a-t-h?” The captain replied: “Would that I could give you some encouragement; but, my Reverend Sir, in five minutes we shall all be in Heaven.” At this, the distressed preacher clasped his hands and cried aloud, “God forbid!” A United States Minister on board said that any one who would cross the ocean for pleasure, would go to hell for amusement.
For five days the sea rages, and the vessel rolls and labors and groans. Looking out over the waters, I see ten thousand hills and mountains, each crowned with white surf, which in the distance looks like melting snow. Between these mountains there are deep gorges and broad valleys. A moment later the mountains and valleys exchange places. Now on the crest of a wave, the vessel is borne high in the air, and now she drops into a yawning gulf below, coming down first on one side then on the other. Now and then she pitches head-foremost, reeling and staggering like a drunken man.
But, as usual, calm and quiet follow the storm. The sea is now as placid as a lake. The sun is going down, apparently to bathe himself in a sea of glory. In a few minutes the gleaming stars will look down to see their bright faces reflected in the water. The sick are restored to health, the staggering walk is gone, and “Richard is himself again.”
We were in sight of land almost the whole of yesterday. About twilight last evening, we viewed the western coast of “bonnie Scotland.” I arose at an early hour this morning, to find our stately craft smoothly gliding on the placid waters of the river Clyde. It is a picture worthy of the artist’s brush—a scene well calculated to inspire every emotion of the poet’s soul.
On the north side of the majestic river, there is a sodded plain, broad and unbroken, gradually rising from the water’s edge. As we view this wooded landscape o’er, we see, here and there, farmhouses, which are as picturesque and beautiful as they are quaint and old, with the smoke from their ivy-covered chimneys coiling up and ascending on high like incense from the altar of burnt offering. Turning our eyes southward, we behold, hard by the stream, a long chain of towering mountains, whose gently sloping sides are carpeted with green grass, and girt around with budding trees. The heavy rain-drops on the grass and leaves are sparkling in the light of the new-risen sun. The mountains are echoing the merry tune which comes from the whistling plowman on the opposite shore. Now, between these two prospects, on the broad and unruffled bosom of this flowing river, our heavily-laden vessel, as though she were weary because of her long journey, moves slowly, gracefully, noiselessly, with the stars and the stripes proudly streaming from her mast-head. Indeed so motionless and queenly is our goodly vessel in her onward course, that she is apparently standing still while the mountains and plains are passing in review before her.
A little farther up the stream, we see Dumbarton Castle standing in the river. This historic rock measures a mile in circumference, and rises three hundred feet above the water. This castle was at one time the prison of Sir William Wallace, and afterwards the stronghold of Robert Bruce. From here on to Glasgow the Clyde is lined on both sides with iron-foundries and ship-building yards.
The voyage ends at Glasgow. The passengers are glad once more to press terra firma under their feet. I would write something about Glasgow, but I am like the more hopeful one of two Irishmen who went to America. Landing in New York, they started up town. They had gone only a few paces, when one of them saw a ten dollar gold piece lying on the sidewalk, and stooped to pick it up. The other said: “Oh, don’t bother to get that little coin; we will foind plenty of pieces larger than that.”