Saturday, Oct. 25, 1845. The poop-cabin being finished, commissioner, consul, and families, quartered in it, stores laid in, the commodore on board, an order was given to unmoor. In a few minutes our anchors were up and we were proceeding under a light land-breeze towards the sea. Passing the Pennsylvania, where she lay in her majesty and strength, we gave her a parting salute, which she returned in thunder from her frowning batteries. She frowned not on us; she seemed to grieve, “if aught inanimate e’er grieves,” that she must lie there and rot, and we be bounding over the billows. She seemed like a daring eagle that has never been permitted to soar into its element and unfurl its strong pinions on the storm. The Titan chained to the Caucasian rock stayed his proud heart on his past triumphs, but this noble ship perishes without a solitary achievement to relieve her indignant doom. On reaching Hampton Roads the wind came out ahead, and we were obliged to let go our anchors. An air of disappointment was visible among the crew. I once started on a journey in a splendid carriage, broke down in sight of my own home, and learned a lesson of submission that will never wholly desert me. Calamities are our best instructors.
Sunday, Oct. 26. The wind still ahead. This being the sabbath, we had divine service. The crew were attentive: not the rustle of a hand or foot disturbed the stillness; the speaker’s voice only broke the silence of the deck. The text was the injunction of the prophet, “Go up now, look towards the sea.” The object of the speaker was to sketch the stern magnificence of the ocean as illustrating the majesty of God; to exhibit the effects of an ocean life on the social and moral character of man; and to inculcate the great lesson, that into whatever climes we may penetrate, through whatever seas we may pass, we cannot escape from the presence of the Deity. The effects of our moral teachings may in many instances never be revealed in this life, but the time will come, when they will be fully recognised. They are like underground streams which will yet rush to the light.
Monday, Oct. 27. Still in Hampton Roads. The day has passed with scarce a breath of wind from any quarter. The sun has set in gorgeous splendor. Evening has spread its purple light over sea and land. Only here and there a cloud floats through the star-lit depths of heaven. The fortress of the old Rip-raps lifts its giant form in savage grandeur from the wave; and yet the moonlight sleeps upon it so lovingly, you half forget its chained thunder. It seems as some submarine monster that had shoved its head up through the sea, to glance at the wonders of earth. Gaze on, thou Titan of the deep! Thou hearest not the death-knell which shakes the heart of nations: thou seest only the verdure which waves in fragrant life and beauty over the dust of ages. Thou heedest not the sorrows of the millions that have sunk to the silent shroud. Earth is a charnel-house, but thou knowest it not. It is death’s empire. Go look into some world where sin hath not been, and where man has not marred the works of his Maker.
Tuesday, Oct. 28. Our ship still riding in the Roads, with forty sail around wind-bound like ourselves. We went to general quarters at ten o’clock, exercised the guns, passed powder, called away the boarders, and went through all the forms of a real engagement at sea. It is singular what an enthusiasm even a mimic battle can create; what then must be the excitement of the reality! The sailors are proud of our frigate; and well may they be; she is a splendid specimen of naval architecture. For capacity, strength, and harmony of proportions, she stands in her class without a rival in the world. She is so much a favorite in the service that one old sailor travelled all the way from Pensacola to Norfolk in the mail stage, and at his own expense, to join her. We had our complement of seamen, but his was so strong a case he could not be denied.
We number about five hundred souls, all told; have laid in provisions and fuel for five months, with fifty thousand gallons of water, and sails and rigging sufficient to replace what is now in use, should emergency demand. How such a mass of life and material can be brought within a frigate’s capacity, and yet leave “scope and verge” enough for action and repose, is a mystery which can be comprehended only by those who are versed in nautical economy. The housewife who grumbles over the intrusion of an additional piece of furniture, should look into a man-of-war, and she will go home with the conviction that she can sleep quite comfortably in the cradle with her infant. How beautiful is an infant waking out of its sweet slumber, and opening its soft blue eyes upon the face of its mother! But what has this to do with our getting under way?
Wednesday, Oct. 29. Our anchors still sleep in the sands of Hampton Roads—a slumber which we now think the morrow will break. The wind has been light and varying, but inclining towards the right quarter, though hesitatingly, as a diffident youth in his first declaration of love. How the words on such an occasion will stick in a man’s throat!—worse, indeed, than Macbeth’s prayer, trying to struggle up from the grasp of his guilty conscience.
I have been occupied to-day in arranging in suitable cases the library of the crew—a library comprising between three and four hundred volumes. For many of the miscellaneous and religious books in this library I am indebted to the Presbyterian Board of Publication, to the Sunday School Union, to the American Tract Society, and to the liberality of Commodore Stockton. My acknowledgments are also due to the American Bible Society for a donation of Bibles adequate to the wants of the crew. No national ship ever left a port of the United States more amply provided with books suited to the habits and capacities of those on board. This desideratum has been supplied, so far as the crew is concerned, with comparatively little aid from the department. The government furnishes the sailor with grog to burn up his body, a Christian liberality with books to save his soul. The whisky-ration is a curse to the service, and a damning blot on our national legislation.
Thursday, Oct. 30. The long looked for breeze came at last. It was a south wester; and at daylight this morning we weighed anchor and got under way. When we had cleared the capes of Old Virginia, all hands were called, and Commodore Stockton delivered the following brief and appropriate address to the officers and crew:—
“Captain Du Pont and officers—
“Your reputation in the service is a sufficient guaranty that the cruise before us will enlist your highest energies and zeal.”