LETTER TWENTY.
On Board the Strathfieldsaye,
Lying off Plymouth,
My Dear Sister,
We came to anchor here this morning about eight o'clock, and I lose no time in writing to you. I had not time to take my last (dated March 26th, the day we left London) to the coach office. Left it with Hornblower. Hope you have received it safe. The following is some account of our voyage thus far.
Tuesday, March 26th.—Left London half-past ten o'clock. Were but just in time for the steamer to Gravesend about one o'clock. Went in a small boat to the ship at the distance of about one mile. The hole allotted to steerage passengers had a most miserable appearance at first.
Wednesday, March 27th.—Left Gravesend this morning between ten and eleven o'clock. Came to anchor for the night in three or four hours, about five miles below the Nore. All confusion on board these two days,
Thursday, March 28th.—The anchor heaved just before I got up. Went on deck about six o'clock. A beautiful clear morning. Went along very delightfully, with a good deal of sail set. Past Margate just before one o'clock. The sky now began to get cloudy. About two o'clock a sudden squall of wind with a sharp storm of hail caught us, and put us all in confusion and fright. We were now opposite Ramsgate. The weather continued rainy and bad the remainder of the afternoon. Came to anchor in the Downs about six o'clock, a little distance from shore, opposite Deal.
Friday, March 29th.—Got the anchor up at ten o'clock this morning. Went along merrily with a good wind very near shore. The line of coast from Deal to the white cliffs of Dover presented many pleasant views. In sight of Dover Castle about twelve o'clock. A delightful view of Dover and Shakespeare's cliff. Saw the coast of France on the opposite side of the channel for about three hours. Very little sun to-day, but a good breeze. Went on deck soon after seven o'clock at night. The round yellow moon shone out from under a ridge of dark clouds upon the wide, foaming waters deliciously. Still going along rapidly; only one other vessel in sight.
Saturday, March 30th.—This morning at daylight off the Isle of Wight. In sight of it for about two hours. Been dashing along gallantly all night. Myself very sick, obliged to lie down. As I lay on the bare boards of my berth, with my rolled-up bed under my head, in a hole only just roomy enough to hold the number of its inhabitants touching each other, I sought relief from my miserable sensations by thinking of those I had left behind, or anything that could distract my attention from the scene around me. I crept upon deck at 12 o'clock. The scene there was truly magnificent. As we rose and sank over the tumultuous waves of the English Channel I could not help repeating the beautiful lines of Campbell:
'Our march is on the mountain wave,
Our home is on the deep.'
Sunday, March 31st.—Came to anchor, after tacking about all night, at Plymouth. There is a Mr. Walker, from Newbold, Warwickshire, a cabin passenger, and some men whom he has engaged in the steerage. There is also a Mr. Badham, from Birmingham. And there are many farm labourers from Sussex in the steerage—a very rude set. There are some Irishmen and some Scotchmen. Some of the steerage passengers, I believe, are going to leave us at Plymouth, among them a young foppish Jew from London, heartily tired of the journey already. Clarinda is rather better, perhaps, than when we left London. Our love to all. Hope all are well. If you write, do so immediately. Do try to send us two or three little things to take with us. I do think I shall die on sea biscuit and salt beef before I get to Sydney.
Your affectionate brother,