I
Fear Golden Apples Will Not Be Strewn On Our Paths, Even Though We
Are Bound The Furthest West.
Fifteen days have we been out of
sight of land; two days out from Queenstown we broke a piston-rod,
which obliged us to lay to, in a fearfully rough sea, for five
hours.
Next day one of our four boilers burst, and again another
piston-rod; which accidents, combined with contrary winds and
heavy seas, reduced our speed to nearly half for the remainder of
the journey. Our spirits have not flagged, as, thanks to various
small games such as pitch-and-toss, running races when the ship
was rolling, quoits, and cards, we have not found time unbearably
long. The last few days we have had big sweepstakes on the run of
the ship; but, unfortunately, none of our party have won them. One
evening we had a concert; but you may imagine the talent on board
was not great when they had to call upon one of us to accompany
the _prima donna_, and the other to sing a second in a duet;
another evening we danced - or rather tried to - our band consisting
of a concertina and a flute, played by two of the steerage
passengers, but the vessel rolled so persistently that we often
lost our equilibrium and reeled like drunken men and women.
I must stop: curiosity bids me go on deck. We shall shortly be in
the quarantine harbour, the entrance of which is said to be very
fine; though I very much doubt our being able to see anything, as,
in spite of being in this much boasted climate of the new world,
it is raining and is dull enough to rejoice the hearts of true
John Bulls like your daughter's.
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