Round Cape Horn.
VOYAGE
OF THE
Passenger-Ship James W. Paige,
From Maine to California in the Year 1852.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1878, by

J. LAMSON,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, in Washington.

TO

AS A REMINDER OF MANY PLEASANT SCENES ENJOYED,

AND MANY ANNOYANCES ENDURED DURING OUR

VOYAGE, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED

PREFACE.

A voyage round Cape Horn in a passenger-ship is an event of the past. The necessity for performing this perilous voyage has been obviated by the introduction of railroads and steamships. Emigrants and travelers are no longer obliged to risk their lives and waste their time in passing round the Stormy Cape in order to arrive at a point, which may be reached in a week by a pleasant ride across the continent on the railroad; and Cape Horn is destined to become a terra incognita to all but the readers of ancient voyages.

I am not aware that a narrative of a voyage of this description has ever been published; and the hope that a truthful account of the perils, discomforts, and annoyances, as well as the pleasures and enjoyments attending it, may prove entertaining to the reader, has prompted me to send forth this little work to meet the fate or fortune which an enlightened public may award it.

The scenes and anecdotes recorded at the end of the voyage, are given in the hope that they may possess some slight value as conveying an idea—a vague and indistinct one, perhaps—of some of the characteristics and habits of a portion of the people of California in early times.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

Description of the Bark—She sets Sail—Uncomfortable Situation—Specimen of our Discomforts—A Squall—Escape from a Waterspout—Approach to the Cape Verde Islands—Religious Services—A School of Porpoises—A Dutch Vessel—A Flying-fish—Annoyances—Bad Cooking—A Practical Joke—Tropic of Cancer
13

CHAPTER II.

Consultations about Cape Verde Islands—Flying-fish—English Steamer—Tropical Showers—Disappointment—Capture of a Porpoise—May-Day at Sea—An English Bark—Letters for Home—Another Bark—Nautical Ceremonies—An Aquatic Bird—Crossing the Equator—Squalls—A Portuguese Brig—Captain J. engages to stop at Rio Janeiro—Land Seen—Cape Frio—Approach to Rio Janeiro—Beautiful Scenery—Disappointment
21

CHAPTER III.

A Mistake Discovered and Corrected—Ill Health—Scenery of the Coast and Harbor of Rio Janeiro—We cast Anchor—Going Ashore—Rambles in the City—Fountains—Markets—Parrots—Hammer-headed Sharks—Monkeys—Slaves—Tropical Trees—Visit to a Hotel—English Gentlemen—Public Gardens
29

CHAPTER IV.

Visit to the Botanical Garden—Description of the Garden—Dinner at the Hotel—Third Visit to the City—Impudence of the First Mate—Village of San Domingo—A Walk in the Country—Attacked by Dogs—Beautiful Plantations—Civility of a Planter—Elegant Mansion and Grounds—A Retreat—A Fine Road—Return to the Ship—Supply of Fruit—The North America—Mr. Kent, our Consul
36

CHAPTER V.

Weigh Anchor—Civility of the People of Rio—Temperance—An Altercation—Cold Weather—Cape Pigeons—Large Bird—Our Kitchen Establishment—Stewards and Cooks—Scouse—Inspection of Cooks' Galley—A Joke—A Squall—An Altercation—Captain J. and Mrs. L—t—Cape Pigeons—Oranges
46

CHAPTER VI.

A Disagreeable Scene—Scarcity of Oil—Lamps and Slush—An Albatross—Ill Manners of the Mate—Cold Weather—The Whiffletree Watch—Disagreeable Scene—Magellan Clouds and Southern Cross—An Act of Kindness—Turnovers and Sport—Tierra del Fuego and Staten Land—A Perilous Passage—Ducks and Cape Pigeons—A Squall—A Black Albatross—Cape Horn—Stormy Weather—A Gale—Accident at the Breakfast Table
54

CHAPTER VII.

Severe Cold—Furious Storm—Diego Ramirez Islands—Land Ahead—Cape Horn Weather—Two Vessels—Length of Days and Nights—Disagreeable Brawl—Heading North—Patagonia—The Andes—Another Storm—Anxiety of Captain J.—A Lunar Rainbow—Another Gale—Bill of Fare—Filthy Cooks and Impure Water
63

CHAPTER VIII.

Captain Jackson—A Drifting Spar—Approaching Talcahuana—Washing-day—Landscapes—Harbor of Talcahuana—Pelicans—A Visit from Officials—Description of the Town—American Houses—Tremont House—A Dinner
72

CHAPTER IX.

Character of the Inhabitants—Agricultural Implements—Lassoing Cattle—Poncho—A Covered Wagon—Wild Doves—An Earthquake—An Excursion—Dogs, Women, Children, and Shells—A Scotchman and his Wine—An Adventure and the Calaboose—A Chilian Musket Fished Up—An Affecting Incident—Fruit Market—Leave Talcahuana—An Explanation—Theft in the Cooks' Galley—Disinterested Advice—Uneasiness of Mrs. L—t and Captain J.
80

CHAPTER X.

Religious Services—A Beautiful Bird—Departure of Cape Pigeons and Albatrosses—Stormy Petrels—Amusements—Harmony among the Passengers—Mrs. L—t and her Child—Violence of Captain J.—Our Chaplain turns Poet—Captain J.'s rest disturbed by the Passengers—He threatens to blow them through—Sugar—Petty Annoyances—A Rag Baby—Our Chaplain and his Revolver—Change of Weather—Uncomfortable Condition of the Main Cabin—Theft of Raisins—Ship's Stores—Gross Negligence—Great Waste of Scouse
90

CHAPTER XI.

An Arbitrary Prohibition—Card Playing and Checker Playing—Dancing—Treachery of Mr. Johnson—Some Passengers—A Comical Character, and a Pugnacious Character—A Beautiful Bird—Closing the Hatches—A Question of Jurisdiction—The Hatches Re-opened—A Sudden Transformation—Neglected Duties of the Chaplain—His Influence with the Captain
99

CHAPTER XII.

Head Winds—The Dusky Albatross—Tacking Ship—Fishing for Birds—Amusement of the Mate and Passengers—A Poet—Fair Winds—A Porpoise—A Fight in the Main Cabin—My Journal—Opinions of Mr. Johnson—Meeting in the Main Cabin—Schools of Porpoises—Narrow Escape from Shipwreck—An Act of Charity
107

CHAPTER XIII.

Whales—Sunshine—The Pacific Ocean and Tom Moore—Wormy Bread and Impure Water—A Pilot—Arrival in the Harbor of San Francisco—The City—Dismantled Ships—My last Visit to the Bark—Statement and Counter Statement—Angry Remonstrance—Mr. Spring and his two Journals—Final Adieu to the James W. Paige
114

California Scenes.

Officers, Passengers and Crew

OF THE

BARK JAMES W. PAIGE.

Joseph Jackson, Master; Horace Atwood, First Mate; Dudley P. Gardner, Second Mate; E. S. Blake, E. P. Holden, Stephen Walker, W. B. Webber, Cyrus E. Gould, Michael Cashman, John Tobin, Hiram Draper, Michael Feeney, M. V. Wall, W. Grant, Philip Keen, George Reynolds, Tim Scannell, Ithiel Gordon, Willard Heath, Elisha Osgood, G. A. Brown, J. S. Brown, Geo. L. Pierce, Leonard Stinson, S. H. Bachelder, J. F. Dolliff, Joel D. Thompson, Eben Toothaker, J. S. Russell, H. Whitney, Geo. A. Emery, Stephen Pierce, A. F. Johnson, William Shaw, Stover Clark, J. Wentworth, G. French, W. Marshall, L. Sherman, Alfred Fletcher, G. E. Morton, E. F. Starr, S. H. Sanger, James Carlow, W. Spring, M. Sawtelle, D. Worster, Ivory Matthews, Rev. John Johnson, S. P. Lawrence, ---- Hodsdon, William Lamson, Horace McKoy, Charles Hollom, Samuel Murray, J. Lamson, Jonathan Tyler, Thomas Ladd, Noah Andrews, L. Wakeman, J. Colborn, Wm. Smith, O. E. Smith, John Day, Thos. Foster, John Magrath, W. Footman, J. Jackson, James Concord, T. W. Dolliff, David Tinney, J. T. Bickford, B. D. Morrill, J. Montgomery, Stillman Sawyer, J. C. Pullen, S. Kelley, Mrs. Draper, Mrs. Grant, Miss J. Spaulding, Mrs. H. G. Brown, Mrs. S. J. Brown and Daughter, Miss M. L. Brown, Mrs. J. P. Lawrence, Mrs. L—t and Daughter.

ROUND CAPE HORN.

CHAPTER I.

Description of the Bark—She sets Sail—Uncomfortable Situation—Specimen of our Discomforts—A Squall—Escape from a Waterspout—Approach to the Cape Verde Islands—Religious Services—A School of Porpoises—A Dutch Vessel—A Flying-fish—Annoyances—Bad Cooking—A Practical Joke—Tropic of Cancer.

The Bark James W. Paige of 240 tons burthen, was fitted up for a passenger ship in the latter part of the winter of 1852, by James Dunning and Joseph Nickerson of Bangor, Maine. A portion of the hold was made into a cabin with fourteen double berths on each side. Fifty-two passengers occupied this room. A small house with berths for fourteen passengers and a state-room for the captain was built over the cabin, and enclosed the companion-way or stairs leading down to the cabin. This cabin was called the after cabin, to distinguish it from the room in the hold, which was named the forward or main cabin; and the house was called the after house. Another house was constructed over the main cabin, in which lodged the mate and four or five passengers. The after cabin was appropriated to the ladies, though singularly enough, the Rev. Mr. Johnson, who, we were told, had been employed to officiate as our chaplain, was assigned a berth in this cabin, much to the annoyance of a portion of the ladies. The sailors occupied the forecastle. The cook's galley, a very important part of the ship's appointments, was placed between the two houses. These houses did not occupy the whole width of the deck, but a narrow space was left for a walk round them. There was also a small open space between the cook's galley and the after house, and at the ends of the houses.

Our bark, though owned in Bangor, lay at Frankfort, twelve miles below the city, where she was fitted up, in consequence of the river being closed by the ice at that season of the year, down to the latter town. Many delays occurred before all our preparations were made, but at last all was ready, and we dropped down the river to Prospect, where we took on board our last passenger, and on the third day of April, 1852, we bade adieu to the ice and snow of Maine, and with a heavy gale of wind were soon driven out to sea.

We were fortunate in the beginning of our voyage in having strong and fair gales of wind, which drove us rapidly on our course; but we had at the same time much wet, drizzling weather, which soon enabled us to discover that our ship was an old and leaky thing, and that our houses, though new, had been so carelessly constructed, that the water came in freely upon us, wetting our berths, and rendering our situation exceedingly uncomfortable. Add to this the fact that our ship, being in ballast, rolled so badly that we could not stand for a moment without clinging with both hands to our berths or some other fixture for support, and that nearly all of us were suffering severely with seasickness, and I think it will not be difficult to convince the reader that our condition was far from agreeable.

The following may serve as a specimen of our discomforts: I lay in my berth in the after house—on the second night of our voyage,—suffering from intolerable nausea and equally intolerable thirst. The vessel rolled violently; the rain was dropping from the leaky roof into my face and on my bedclothes. The passengers were running to and fro in much confusion, and the voice of the captain was loudly heard in giving orders to the sailors, who were sent aloft to take in sail, for a squall had struck us. The trunks in our cabin were dashing from side to side, breaking chairs and stools and whatever else came in their way. The earthern ware in the lockers was slipping about and crashing up in a style that threatened its speedy demolition. All was noise and confusion. The winds whistled, howled and screamed, the sails flapped, the waves dashed against the sides of the vessel and over the decks, keeping a stream of water running back and forth as we rolled and pitched, and tossed over the seas. An unlucky wave, higher than the rest, stove a boat that hung at the davits, and added greatly to the confusion and apprehension which pervaded the ship. The storm, though with frequent lulls, continued for several days. During one night the trunks and chests in the main cabin were tumbled about so furiously, that they beat down the stairs. A barrel of pork was upset, and the brine, dashing across the floor, so frightened a poor fellow, who thought the vessel had sprung a leak, that he scrambled up into our house, and sat up all night.

A day or two after this I heard, as I lay in my berth, an unusual commotion on deck, and the captain was giving orders in a loud voice and a quick and hurried manner. In a few moments I learned that we had but just barely escaped a waterspout, which had passed within less than the ship's length to the leeward of us. Sick as I was, I deeply regretted that I was not up to see it. I may never have another opportunity to witness such a phenomenon.

Sunday, 18th April. Latitude 29°, 25' N. Longitude 29° 71' W. from Greenwich. We have reached a warmer and more comfortable climate. We have exchanged the cold stormy blasts, the wintry winds of Maine, for mild and gentle breezes and a warm sun, and we feel a sense of comfort in the change that is exceedingly exhilarating. I have nearly recovered from seasickness, from which I believe no other passenger has suffered so severely, but it leaves me much enfeebled. We are approaching the Cape Verde Islands, which we hope to see in the course of three or four days.

We have had religious services on deck to-day. Our chaplain gave us a sensible written discourse, which was listened to with attention. We had good singing, and the services were conducted with a degree of propriety that would have afforded an excellent example for imitation by some of the congregations I have seen in our churches.

Soon after the close of the services our company was enlivened by the sight of a school of porpoises; and Sherman, one of the passengers who had made several voyages, made an attempt to capture one of them. Taking a harpoon to which a long line was attached, he dropped into the chains under the bowsprit, and watched for the porpoises as they came plunging swiftly through the water beneath him. It required no small degree of skill and dexterity to strike them. There he stood looking intently into the water with his harpoon raised, when suddenly a group of the animals came within striking distance. In an instant he thrust his weapon into one of them, and the line was pulled in by men who were stationed on deck for the purpose. The fish was brought to the surface, but in his struggles he broke away from the harpoon and escaped, and in a few moments the whole school, as if warned of their danger, had disappeared. We have not a great variety of amusements on board our vessel, and such a circumstance as this serves to infuse a good deal of life into us. A school of porpoises, a few stray sea birds, and a distant sail constitute nearly all we have to relieve the monotony of our voyage. Up to this time we have spoken but one vessel. I lay in my berth one night dreaming pleasantly of friends at home, when I was awakened by the hoarse voice of our captain hailing a bark that was at that moment passing. She was a Dutch vessel homeward bound. The Dutch captain had some difficulty in understanding ours, and asked three times where we were bound, though answered each time very distinctly "Cal-i-for-ny."

April 19. This morning the mate found a flying-fish. It had flown in during the night, probably in attempting to escape the dolphin, which is its greatest enemy. It was about ten inches in length, with fins five or six inches, which serve as wings in the short flights it makes over the water. Some of our men saw a large turtle floating by us. It had a voyage of several hundred miles to make before it could reach land.

We are not without many annoyances, and one very serious one arises from the bad cooking of our food, and often from want of a sufficient quantity of it. Our cooks are excessively filthy, and it requires a strong stomach to enable one to swallow the messes they set before us. Many complaints have been made of this state of things to the captain, and to-day we have presented him with a written protest signed by every man in our room, but without effecting any improvement.

Time passes irksomely with many of our passengers, and they often resort to odd expedients in order to wear away the weary hours. When other sources of amusement fail, they sometimes find enjoyment in playing practical jokes on each other. We had an instance of this sort of recreation to-day. A ship was seen to windward in the morning, and standing in the same direction with us. Some one of the party pronounced her a pirate. This was found to operate on the fears of one of the passengers, a simple, honest, credulous fellow, who believed others to be as honest as himself, and a grand frolic was arranged to come off at night at his expense. It was therefore reported that the pirate, though she had fallen several miles astern, had sent a boat to board us, and accordingly several of the men armed themselves with their rifles and revolvers, and prepared to defend the ship. Several barrels were thrown overboard in the dark to represent the piratical boat, and these were fired at as they floated by the ship. Then came a man tumbling and rolling about with terrible groans and yells, pretending to be wounded, and a moment after a cry went through the ship that the pirates were boarding us. The poor fellow for whose benefit all this hubbub was gotten up, was at that moment passing by my berth, and I heard him responding to the cry—"They are boarding us, they are boarding us! where's a handspike?" and he ran and unshipped a pump handle in an instant, and hastened to the spot where the supposed attack was made, determined to make a desperate defence. That he would have fought bravely had there been occasion for it, no one had a doubt, while it was suspected that some of his persecutors would have preferred retreating to fighting under any circumstances. The cracking of the rifles and revolvers, and the uproar all over the ship, awoke the captain, who got up in no very amiable mood, but he soon got into the humor of the frolic, and laughed as heartily as any of them.

April 21. Our longitude to-day at noon was 23° W., latitude 23° 50' N. We were then twenty-one miles from the Tropic of Cancer. It is now sunset. We have passed the tropic, and are now sailing in the torrid zone. It is an epoch in my life. I have talked with several of my fellow passengers about it, but they see nothing to interest them in the circumstance. This tropic is not a thing to be seen—there is nothing tangible in it. And as for the torrid zone, they do not perceive any very great difference between that and the temperate zone we have just left. I am now sitting at the stern of the ship, enjoying a mild soft sea breeze and a beautiful twilight. We often have richer sunsets in Maine, and the twilight continues much longer; but there is here, while it continues, a softness and a delicate blending of the different tints of purple, azure and gold, which we do not always see in our northern latitudes. Our men are lying or sitting about the decks and upon the houses, many in groups engaged in conversation, some of them spinning long yarns, and others listening to an interesting song wherein is related the history of "a beautiful fair maid of high degree with black hair and milk white cheeks, and her galliant lovyer," while here and there may be seen one quietly communing with his own thoughts, which the friends he has left three thousand miles distant suggest to him.

The ladies at the beginning of the voyage were confined a large portion of the time to their cabin by sickness. But since their recovery they spend many hours on deck every fair day; and as they are under the necessity of going through our room in passing to and from their cabin, we are in a fair way of becoming acquainted with them.

April 22. We are now but three hundred and fifty miles distant from the coast of Africa, and about five hundred miles north of the Cape Verde Islands. We have sailed sharp on the wind during several days, hoping each day to fall in with the north-east trade-winds that are to waft us to the coast of South America. But we have not been so fortunate as to find the trades, and this morning we have but little wind in any direction. The sea, though rolling in long undulations, is very smooth, and the sails are flapping idly against the masts.

CHAPTER II.

Consultations about Cape Verde Islands—Flying-fish—English Steamer—Tropical Showers—Disappointment—Capture of a Porpoise—May-Day at Sea—An English Bark—Letters for Home—Another Bark—Nautical Ceremonies—An Aquatic Bird—Crossing the Equator—Squalls—A Portuguese Brig—Captain J. engages to stop at Rio Janeiro—Land Seen—Cape Frio—Approach to Rio Janeiro—Beautiful Scenery—Disappointment.

I have had several consultations with the captain on the subject of touching at the Cape Verde Islands; and as his chief objection, aside from one or two days' loss of time, is the port charges, the passengers have obviated that objection by subscribing an amount much greater than will be necessary to pay those charges, besides engaging to assist in getting some pure water on board, of which we are in great want. I am very desirous of seeing something, however small, of a tropical country, and of the trees, birds, and other productions of a tropical climate; and this may be my only opportunity. Above all I long for a short respite, if only for a day, from this confinement to the vessel, and for a little exercise upon the land before we continue our long voyage to the coast of South America.

April 24. Saw the flight of a school of flying-fish. They rush through the air with great rapidity, and generally—those that I have seen,—against the wind. They look very prettily as they skim over the water a little above its surface, and follow the undulations of the waves a distance varying from five to twenty rods. Towards night a large English steamer with four masts and all sails set, was seen on our starboard bow, and continued in sight nearly two hours.

This afternoon we had a slight specimen of a tropical shower. Some dark clouds suddenly arose, and before the heavens were half covered, they broke upon us in a heavy shower accompanied by thunder, that drove us all under shelter. It passed away however as quickly as it arose.

We had this day been sailing with a fair breeze, and hoped by to-morrow to be anchored in one of the harbors of the Cape Verde Islands. We were much elated at the prospect, and it had been the chief topic of conversation for two or three days. Judge then of my disappointment when I learned at night that the captain had ordered the helmsman to put the bark off to the south-west, the direction of the islands being south. He had determined to avoid the islands, and we had no other alternative but to submit. After sailing south-west about four hours in order to give the islands a wide berth, our course was again changed to the south. We turned into our berths with no very amiable feeling towards Capt. J., who, we thought, manifested very little regard for the welfare or comfort of his passengers.

Sunday, April 25. We are passing the Cape Verde Islands without even the gratification of looking at them. But we have now got the trade-wind in earnest, and are driving before it at the rate of ten or eleven knots. We have seen several schools of flying-fish to-day, and two of them have been picked up on the deck by the sailors. This afternoon a large school of porpoises came playing round the ship, and one of them was struck with the harpoon by Sherman, our sailor passenger, and secured. It was about five feet long, and weighed, probably, two hundred pounds.

Monday, April 26. Some portions of the porpoise killed yesterday were served up to-day for dinner. The liver was said to be very good, resembling that of a cow; but the flesh, though relished by some of the passengers, was black, and had rather a strong flavor. I did not taste of either of them.

Saturday, May 1. May-day at sea. We rose as usual this morning, took our breakfast, and talked of May-day at home, and of the friends we had left there, and seeing in fancy the youthful portion of them setting out on a shivering ramble in pursuit of a few flowers or leaves through the mud and snow, while we strove to shelter ourselves from the heat of a tropical sun under an awning of a large sail, which we raised over the after house, where we sat, lay or walked, and read, talked and sung, during the day. Towards evening I sat for an hour—and it is an indolent pleasure I often indulge in—observing the sky and the clouds, and watching their slow and sometimes almost imperceptible changes of shape and hue, and in comparing them with the sunset skies of our northern climes, which, if wanting something of the ethereal softness of this, are more glowing, more brilliant, and more decidedly beautiful.

Sunday, May 2. This morning a sail was seen on our larboard tack, but the wind being light, we did not speak her till night. We watched her till after sunset, when her mate boarded us, and reported her to be an English bark bound for Liverpool. We had been writing letters all day, hoping this vessel would prove to be an American homeward bound. We were somewhat disappointed, but as we might not soon have an opportunity of sending more directly, we decided to send our package, containing forty-five letters, by the bark to England, thence to be forwarded by steamer to America.

Monday, May 3. Spoke another bark, the Fanny Major, for which I had prepared another letter, but she was found to be outward-bound, from New-York to the same port with us, and having on board sixty-five passengers. Our vessel proved to be the best sailor. We had been sailing on different tacks, and she was half a mile astern of us, when our captain backed sail and let her come up. Just at this time a squall arose, and she soon ranged along-side, and in a few minutes passed by us. The captains hailed each other through their speaking-trumpets, asking what port they sailed from, where bound, how long out, what ports they intended to touch at, what was the longitude by the reckoning of each, &c. After the bark had passed us we set our sails, and soon overhauled her. The captains had a few more words, when the passengers and crew of the New-Yorker gave us three hearty cheers, which we answered with an equal number, then three more from the New-Yorker answered by one from us, and our military band, consisting of a drum and a fife, set up a lively air, when we speedily shot by, and left her to follow in our wake.

At night we had a visit from a large aquatic bird. After flying around the ship for some time, she alighted on the jib-boom, and was captured by Sherman. I was very desirous of preserving the skin of this bird, which differed from any of those described by Audubon or Wilson, and was probably not a visitor to the United States; but our captain, who is a man of contracted views, and is deeply tinctured with a sailor's whims and superstitions, ordered it to be set at liberty under the pretense of sympathy.

Tuesday, May 4. We have for a week past been drifting,—I can hardly say sailing, for the winds have been light, and we have made but little progress,—towards the Equator, and to-day we have crossed that important geographical line, and passed into another hemisphere. The event has been celebrated with a good deal of hilarity and nonsense. Old Neptune appeared on board rigged out with an immense wig of Manilla cordage, a grotesque mask, red flannel drawers, and a buffalo coat, and holding the captain's speaking-trumpet in his hand. He was accompanied by his wife, personated by a thin, slender and active fellow, arrayed in a long gown and a straw bonnet. They amused us with a dance to the music of a fiddle, and in return they were treated with some brandy, of which they partook with great gusto. Neptune enquired into the affairs of the ship, cautioned the stewards and cooks to do their duty, gave some wholesome advice to the officers, to whom he was formally introduced, cracked a good many jokes upon the passengers, and disappeared. The frolic went off with great good humor among all parties.

Wednesday, May 12. We have had many squalls accompanied with rain for several days past. Last night a pretty heavy one struck us, sending down a torrent of rain, which leaked into our berths and houses. Many of us got well drenched. Feeling rather uncomfortable from the wet, I arose and stood up by the side of my berth, holding on to it for support, while the ship rolled violently. But I soon grew tired of this. So feeling over my bed in the dark, and finding a comparatively dry place at the foot of it, I changed my pillow to that end, and turned in again. Lulled to rest by the howling of the wind, the dashing of the seas, the rushing of several pailfuls of water over the floor of our room, the hoarse orders of the captain and the answers of the sailors, I slept till morning.

Friday, May 14. Spoke a Portuguese brig bound to Rio Janeiro. Her decks were crowded with men and women migrating to the New World. I thought there must have been more than a hundred of them in a vessel not more than two-thirds as large as ours.

Saturday, May 15. We are now distant about four hundred miles from Rio Janeiro, and have strong hopes that we shall touch there, though it was the original intention of Captain Jackson to stop at Saint Catherine's, nearly three hundred miles further south. He is strongly prejudiced against Rio, having lost a brother and three men, besides being dangerously ill himself of yellow fever contracted there on a former visit. Then the port charges are higher at Rio than at St. Catherine's. This objection, however, the passengers propose to obviate by paying fifty dollars; and so the captain engages to put in to Rio if he can ascertain from outward-bound vessels that the place is free from yellow fever. And none of us wish to go there if it is not, though our eagerness to step on land once more would induce many of us to incur some little risk. St. Catherine's is a small island, containing only a few unimportant villages and towns; and it is said, that in consequence of the riotous conduct of many Americans who have put in there, the authorities prohibit a greater number than eight persons landing from any vessel at one time. This would be an uncomfortable, not to say insupportable, state of things for a company of eighty-eight men, women and children, weary of the voyage, and crazy to set foot again on land.

Wednesday, May 19. This is the forty-sixth day of our voyage, during forty-five of which we have not seen land. To-day the cry of land has resounded through the ship, with not quite the joy and enthusiasm to us, perhaps, that the same words gave to Columbus and his companions on the discovery of America, but certainly with a good deal of satisfaction. I have just seen it, two hills on Cape Frio, which we are fast approaching. This cape is sixty miles from Rio, where we hope to arrive early to-morrow, though we are still in great suspense and uncertainty about stopping there at all.

Thursday, May 20. We passed Cape Frio in the night, and are now, early in the morning, approaching the harbor of Rio. We are now but a few miles distant from the entrance to the harbor. There it lies before us. There lie the hills along the coast in almost every variety of form, some with a gradual rise to their summits, others bold and almost perpendicular; some smooth and rounded, others abrupt and jagged, and still others conical, and sharply pointed. There, in the distance, are the mountains, between which and us is the city, towards which all our thoughts, wishes and desires so anxiously tend. There lies a beach, upon which the surf is breaking in long, white swells; and there are the trees upon the sides and summits of the hills. What a world of new and curious objects we are about to behold! What a variety of trees and other plants and flowers and fruits! What grand and beautiful scenery! and what an endless variety of curiosities, natural and artificial, in this, to us, new city in a new world!

But are we not to be disappointed at last? Even now, when we are almost within view of the city, circumstances begin to wear a suspicious aspect. No vessel is to be seen coming from the harbor, from which we can obtain information with regard to the health of the city, and our captain keeps a respectful distance from the coast, as though he feared to meet one. True, he keeps up a show of going in, by keeping off and on, but he begins to talk of losing his labor and time, and we perceive that he has already dropped half a dozen miles to the leeward of the harbor. We watch his every motion, and listen to every word with deep anxiety. But he does not keep us long in suspense. A hurried breakfast, of which I did not partake, is scarcely passed, when the order is given, "square away the yards," and in an instant all our visions of Rio Janeiro have vanished. We bid farewell to the city without seeing it, and to the tropics, without setting foot on their lands, and with but one indistinct glimpse of the beautiful scenery within their bounds.