LETTER TWENTY-FIVE.
Sydney,
My Dear Sister,
I have just received from the post office your letter dated December 6th, 1840, together with the five newspapers (for which I am much obliged). Yesterday I delivered into the care of Mr. Chapman, chief officer of the brig Robert Newton, a small package containing Sydney newspapers, a few shells, and an unsealed letter with a little of ours and baby's hair. The Robert Newton will go to sea next week, bound direct to London. She will probably arrive about October. My friend Mr Chapman will forward the parcel to you as soon as he gets to London. He may pass through Birmingham on his way to his home in Yorkshire. If so he will call upon you. I wrote a second letter to you last October. Received your answer to my first, dated November 17th, on the 16th of last month. I wrote to Mr. J. Varney, March 23, 1841. Will write to Mr. W. Hornblower in a week or two. In my letter by the Robert Newton I tell you not to send any more newspapers by post, as I did not receive your first. As I have been more fortunate with these I would revoke that request.
The letter I receive to-day gives me much happiness. I rejoice to think that things do not appear to change for the worse at home, though I am afraid they get but little better. I scarcely know what feeling in me is strongest when I read your kind proposal to send us things from England: gratitude for or admiration of your affectionate generosity.
You wish for some account of the passage out from England. You shall have it in a few words. After gazing on the Land's End of Cornwall as it rapidly lessened away from our view on the 8th of April, 1839, we never saw land again, with the exception of the rugged cliffs of the Island of St. Antonia (the most western of the Verde Islands, off the cape of that name, on the coast of Africa), till we arrived on the opposite side of the world. We were sailing with a fair breeze, at eight or ten knots, when we passed Antonia; therefore it was not in sight more than three or four hours. We saw neither human beings beast, bird, nor tree upon it; nothing but the bare perpendicular rocks. On the first of June we were caught in a tremendous gale of wind, which increased during the night to a complete hurricane. For two days and nights we were either lying to or drifting before the tempest, with no other stitch of canvas than our close-reefed mizzen-top-sail; during which time the winds blew so terribly that we expected every minute to see the masts torn out of the ship, and heavy seas kept continually sweeping the deck. About the fourth evening after the storm abated we sighted a vessel in a dismasted condition. We saw lights of distress during the first part of the night, but on the following morning the horizon of the waters was without a speck. It would seem she went down in the night. We afterwards spoke a vessel from Newcastle, bound to India, which told us of the Red Rover being a total wreck on the Island of St. Jago. The Red Rover sailed out of Plymouth Sound while we were lying there, bound to Sydney. On the 20th July we made King's Island, at the entrance of Bass's Strait, having had cold and rough weather all the way from the latitude of the Cape of Good Hope. We did not get through Bass's Straits till the 22nd. On the 23rd we saw the mainland. The night of the 22nd was very rough, the ship rolling a great deal, and on that night our little one was born. The sun rose from the land on the 24th to take possession of an almost cloudless sky. The line of coast continued to lengthen till it stretched either way as far as the eye could reach in the bland and beautiful sunlight. The following night we were tacking about in sight of the lighthouse erected on the south head of Port Jackson. On the morning of the 25th, about 8 o'clock, we entered inside the heads, and in two hours afterwards anchored off Dawes' Battery, completing the passage in a little more than a hundred days.
When within the tropics we had the most delightful weather imaginable. The water was so smooth that the ship glided along almost without any perceptible motion. We saw whole fleets of nautilus floating past us every day, and sometimes the expanse of sea would be alive with shoals of porpoises, and ever and anon a little company of flying fish would spring up into the sun and drop again at a short distance into the bright and level waters. During a short calm on the line we counted one morning seventeen other vessels, none of them near us. From about the Cape of Good Hope to our journey's end we were surrounded every day by albatross and other sea birds. This is all! A poor account truly, but such as it is you must be pleased to be satisfied with it, for I can remember nothing to make me wish to think of the subject again. I will send you all the information concerning Australia which I think worth your attention in future letters, and I will write much more frequently. I will also often send some newspapers. I send about fifty by the Robert Newton. I see many London papers, but very seldom country papers. I have dined several times lately on board ship with a young gentleman from Birmingham, a son of Mr. Price, silversmith, at the bottom of Bull-street. It is not often I meet with anyone from that part of the country.
When you write after receiving this be pleased to let us know how Thomas is getting on in his education. I hope you will be sure to let him obtain a competent knowledge of arithmetic and the substantial branches of learning, to enable him to fill a respectable mercantile situation, in case it should be convenient for him to seek such employment. I hope he is a good boy and kind and affectionate to you all. And may He who is the Father of the Fatherless bless and prosper him in all things. I hope my brothers are comfortable and happy. Give my love to both of them. Tell my dear father and mother that the world's extension intervening shall not keep me from seeing them again if God spares us but two or three years longer. I often wish my father was here with me now, that I could provide for him in comfort, for I feel so lonely in this land of strangers. Yet there is something so heart-sickening in one's being an exile, that I am afraid to hold out encouragement to anyone to leave their native land. In case any of you should feel inclined to come out here, write me word to that effect as early as possible. I will give you a particular account of what could be done here in a future letter, and that of an early date.
I hope you will not be at the expense of sending anything for me as intimated in your kind letter, as neither of us now is in need of such in the shape of clothing. With respect to a lathe, I shall buy one in the colony. Any little thing you may wish to send for little Clarinda Sarah, I need not tell you, will be prized as coming from her aunts in Old England. When Mr. Chapman is in London you can entrust any parcel to him, and he will either get some seafaring gentleman who may be coming out here to bring it to me, or ship it in a regular manner, paying the freight in London, and getting a bill of lading signed for it. There are several little things which I want to get from home. I will enumerate them when I send the money to procure them. I should like very well to have the dog, but do not send him till you see whether I am likely soon to return. I am extremely glad to hear that Mr. J. Varney is getting on well in business. Send me word what John Hornblower is doing, if you can learn without giving yourself much trouble. Write to me as frequently as you can. Clarinda sends her love to all her friends, to which I add my own, sincerely wishing them every earthly happiness and prosperity; but ask Mr. Varney not to send any more messages, as he is likely to be understood by writing much better. In an early letter I will let you know my views as to the future. I am now very anxious about getting money, not being at all content to come here for no purpose. I must now bid you 'farewell' for the present. With my dear wife's love to my father and mother, and to you all, in which I most heartily unite.
Your affectionate brother,
Note.—The 'Thomas' so often mentioned in these letters was the son of my father's eldest brother, left fatherless and motherless at an early age, and reared by my aunts.