Saturday, June 5th, 1852.—Latitude 20° 43' N., longitude 47° 40' W. Yesterday knocked off two hundred and forty miles, averaging ten miles per hour; best run yet; only about 2200 miles distant to-day; made two hundred and twenty-four miles the last twenty-four hours.

Sixth of June.—Twelve o'clock just reported, and latitude 15° 14', and have run two hundred and twenty-two miles since meridian yesterday; making six hundred and eighty-six miles in three days, an average of two hundred and twenty-eight and two third miles per diem. Have passed the Windward Islands; are getting anxious now, and even if we do make good runs, yet this practice of killing time by half hours (the bell is struck every half hour), is becoming tedious, as we draw near home.

CHAPTER XXX.

Classic Ground​—​Hispaniola​—​Romance of the Western Waters​—​Extracts from Diary​—​On a Wind​—​Newsboats wanted​—​The Bermudas​—​Target practice.

We are now upon what might be called with poetical license, "classic ground." Over these seas the small caravels of Columbus sought the land, which had appeared to him in dreams, which we can now hardly look upon as less than inspired. To-day, the eighth of June, we are in the latitude of the south side of Cuba, along the shores of which he coasted, mistaking them for Cipango, beyond which he was to reach the magnificent country of Kathay, as described in the glowing pages of Marco Polo, and Mandeville.

We have passed the parallel of the Isle of St. Domingo, his beloved and heart-breaking Hispaniola. How blackened now its history, and how inapposite its name! Obliquely we run past the Lucayan Isles, looking out almost as anxiously as he did for the "promised land." But how opposite our situations! We, with all the certain aids of science and experience, steer for a well-known country; whilst he, thinking to make the far distant land from which we now return, his own mind his chart, his inspiration his guide, pointed his prow to uncertain ports in unknown seas.

Talk of the Mediterranean, its Islands and its romance, why there is more of the wonderful and romantic connected with the first voyages to the western Archipelago, and the continent of America, than is comprised in the history of the travel-stained Levant.

Would you have the story of the Argonauts, enlarged and improved, follow the track of any of those Portuguese, Spanish, or even English adventurers in search of gold, to these lands, and amongst these keys, and see how the expedition for the "golden fleece" dwindles into insignificance. But what does my poor pen with what our own wizard of the west, Washington Irving, has made immortal? Turn to the pages of his Columbus, but not before you have laid aside these.

Tuesday, June 8th.—Each day decreases our distance, and we were, at meridian, but 1600 miles from our port. The 20th is put down as the time of our arrival now. Have been busy in preparing things for debarkation. A barque came near running into us the night before last. To-day saw two sail, a bark and brig. Sea-weed is floating by; like ourselves, returning to the Gulf from strange seas.

Thursday, June 10th.—Lat. 24° 21' north. Made 218 miles the last twenty-four hours: about 180 the day previous, which leaves only 1200 miles to run, and going nine knots. Trade still strong.

Friday, June 11th.—Passed an English barque bound to the eastward. She showed her longitude on a black board. Did not hail. Showed our longitude, still keeping on. She was a degree out of her reckoning.

At meridian had made 225 miles, and were in lat. 26° 47'; long. 63° 15' west. Ten days more ought to bring us in easily.

Sunday, June 13th.—Lost the trades yesterday, in lat. 28° 44', long. 65° 42'; and from nine and ten knots, have come down to three and four. Made only 176 miles yesterday. To-day nearly calm; made but 80 miles since meridian yesterday. Most beautiful weather; could not be more pleasant, only have no wind. Are now in the "horse latitudes," but cannot complain; the trade has pushed us along bravely, and served us well. Only 720 miles from our port at meridian.

June 14th.—On coming on deck this morning, found the wind had come out nearly dead ahead, and the ship barely heading her course under a topsail breeze, with her yards braced sharp.

It is a pretty sight, or rather Would be a pleasant thing, as the Epicurean Lucretius expresses it, "to stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed at sea." At least I imagined so this morning, with our craft "upon a wind," whilst standing in the weather gangway, and watching her plunge and curvet, held up to her course by the helm, as a steed by a curb, obeying its rider; but I did not think the motion as agreeable as that derived from equestrian exercise. Motion quite disagreeable; and I made strange work at dotting i's and crossing t's. Hyphens also will connect words more closely than intended,—confounding too all compound terms. Showed our colors to a brig standing to the southward and eastward. Impossible to speak a vessel just now; but if we could only have gotten near one yesterday, might have communicated by boat, obtained newspapers, and learned the nominations, and general state of the country. By this time, two poor men, pitted against each other for the Presidency, have doubtless been made out more miserable characters than their most intimate acquaintance ever supposed them to be. And if either were elected, with the charges brought against him fully proved, it would be a disgrace to the Republic!

Twelve o'clock, and latitude just reported 30° 24'—the parallel of New-Orleans; longitude 68° 01'. Are getting past the Bermudas,—as usual, the "still vexed Bermoothes," though what continues to keep Bermoothes out of temper I cannot imagine.

Tuesday, June 15th.—Longitude, by chronometer, 70° 47' west; latitude observed, 32° 12' north: are barely making a northwest course, with a westerly variation. Have the wind steady at northeast by east. This makes it quite cold, and flannels and thick coats are comfortable.

June 16th.—In turning out this morning at four bells, found it quite calm; and on looking at the log slate, found that the wind had gone down within the past hour. Took advantage of the calm to practice at a target. Fired both batteries,—very good shooting; but the target escaped until the last shot, which knocked off the bull's eye, and dismounted the gun.

Whilst exercising, a clipper ship passed at some distance from us, bound to southward and eastward.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The Gulf Stream​—​Darby's Theory​—​Its ingenuity​—​The Coasts of America​—​John Cabot, the Venetian​—​"Terra Primum Visa"​—​Completion of Cruise​—​Conclusion.

Thursday, June 17th.—Have at last got amongst the variable winds, for we struck a breeze yesterday immediately after exercising, and went pitching along at the rate of eight knots before dark. Sea quite rough. This morning calm again. Have touched the edge of the Gulf Stream, judging from the temperature of the water, and general appearance of the weather. Darby's theory of this current is so learned and philosophical, that I may be excused giving place to it here. In his theme, The Earth, he touches upon this phenomena, and explains it thus: "The earth turns round upon its axis once in twenty-four hours, and consequently fifteen degrees of its meridians revolve hourly; therefore, by multiplying the breadth of any number of degrees of longitude by fifteen, we have the hourly motion of that part of the earth's surface round the axis; as, for example, in lat. 45°, a degree of long. is 48¾ English miles wide, within a trifling fraction. From these elements, it results that particles of matter on lat. 45° on the surface of the earth, revolve about 630 miles hourly: this is nearly the mean motion, as the maximum at the equator is a fraction less than 1,040 miles hourly, and decreasing along the meridians, until it becomes 0 at either pole."

From this hypothesis he reasons that atmospheric and oceanic masses are moved along with the decumbent nucleus with a velocity decreasing from the equator to the poles; and if the least retardation operates on the atmospheric and oceanic waters, a counter-current will be formed, flowing with the greatest rapidity where the retardation is greatest. This, he says, occurs along the equator, where the horary motion is at its maximum; and thus the tropic current is formed. This current receives volume and velocity from another cause, which is thus explained: "Immediately under the sun, or where the beams of that luminary are direct, a vacuum is produced, into which the circumambient air rushes; and as this vacuity is carried westward along the equator, upwards of 1,035 miles hourly, an atmospheric current follows, which, acting on the ocean waters, impels them westward, and adds force and mass to the tropic current. In the Atlantic Ocean, from the peculiar structure of its shores, a very remarkable phenomenon—the Gulf Stream—is produced. South America, in form an immense triangle, is based on the Pacific, and protrudes its perpendicular angle into the Atlantic at south latitude 6°. This salient point is Cape St. Roque, from which the continent extends to the northwest, crosses the equator, and stretches beyond the northern tropic, forming in the Gulf of Mexico an immense reservoir. Here the continent again turns at right angles, and continues northeast into the northern polar circle. The very deep indenting of the American Continent in the Gulf of Mexico, and the long line of coast from its recesses into the southern section of the torrid zone, is in a peculiar manner calculated to produce that very reflux, which constitutes the largest whirlpool on the globe."

Much more does this ingenious writer advance, but my limits prevent its insertion here, and the subject is not exactly in accordance with the tenor of my task. Suffice it for the present, that upon this day, the 18th of June, we have passed over this equatorial current, and are now heading for our native shores, and are in the waters made classic by the glorious endeavors of the early navigators. Strange is it that of all those who sought this coast, the name of John Cabot, the first adventurer who landed upon it, should be so seldom mentioned: and History, called by a philosopher a Splendid Lie, should prove its title to mendacity, by giving all the glory of the land, "primum visa" to his son, Sebastian. To John Cabot, a Venetian, then a merchant of Bristol, England, in the reign of the Seventh Henry, is all the honor to be ascribed of setting the first European foot upon the then desert wilds that now bloom, the Garden of the United States; and if a name must be derived from the discoverer, without reference to its euphony, to descend as a patronymic, by such a rule, we should be called Cabotians, instead of Yankees, United Staters, or by the Vespucian title of Americans.

But to Columbus attaches all the fame of the original idea of navigating the Western Seas, and if he did not set foot upon the shores towards which we are now sailing, his voyage incited others to undertake what perhaps would never otherwise have been dreamed of, and the tropics would long after have remained painted in their imaginations as a circle of fire in which the Salamander sported. About a year after the Genoese had returned from his first voyage—I quote from an Italian, Tiraboschi—the merchant of Bristol appears to have embraced the idea that new lands might be discovered in the North West, and a passage to India might be brought to light by this course. And, in answer to his application, on the 5th of March, 1495, King Henry the Seventh granted a commission to John Cabot and his three sons, Louis, Sebastian, and Sanchez. And on the 24th of June, 1497, he discovered that part of this Continent, which he called "Terra primum Visa" nearly a year previous to the discovery of the country south of the Isthmus of Darien. But, satis superque, we have had almost enough of ships and the sea. Our prow is directed towards our own loved shores; the southern gales waft us propitiously on them; with each swell of the ocean, our bosoms heave in unison, our hearts leap forwards with our gallant barque, over every obstructing wave:

It is evening, and yon setting sun, whose course we have tracked from the lonely anchorage in the Typa, down the China Seas, across the Indian Ocean, and over the wide expanse of the Atlantic, sinks slowly to night behind the mountains of our own broad and beautiful land. They gild the spire of an ancient village church, beneath which, in the days that are no more, our youthful ears drank in the kindly teachings of the gray-headed and venerable man, now forming one of the congregation that sleeps beneath the green sod surrounding it. They gild, with a golden tint, the attic windows of an old homestead, behind the small panes of which, there came to us once, more golden, but equally unsubstantial, visions, when our hearts, untravelled, sank to slumbers light and sweet. Ere its next setting, have hopes that the telegraph wires will convey thither the glad news of our safe return.

We have taken a pilot on board; the chain cables are ranged forward on either gangway, bent to the anchors, ready for letting go; the changing color of the water denotes soundings, and every thing indicates we shall soon be in.

Patient reader, my Cruise is completed. Its preparation has beguiled me of many a monotonous hour at sea. If either at sea or on shore it be, in this manner beneficial to you, I shall be satisfied. We must part. I bid you adieu, with a feeling towards you as if you had been my compagnon du voyage; and fervently wish that your Cruise of Life may be over placid seas, to pleasant ports, and always in company with kind and generous friends.

THE END.

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