Travellers Stories | Page 5

entirely out of water, but no harm was done us by any
of these disasters; and on we went safe through the troubled waters.
At night, when we were planning how we should secure ourselves from
rolling about the cabin, there came a sudden lurch of the ship, and
every thing movable was sent SLAM BANG on one side of the cabin;
and such a crash of crockery in the pantry! A few minutes after came a
sound as if we had struck a rock. "What is that?" I asked of the
stewardess.
"Only a sea, ma'am," she replied. In my heart I hoped we should not
have another such box on the ear.

We had a horrid night, but the next day it grew quieter, though it was
still rough, and the wind ahead. Soon after, it grew fair, and the captain
promised us that on Monday, before twelve o'clock, we should see
Ireland; and sure enough it was so. I was on deck again just at twelve;
the sun came out of the clouds, and the mate took an observation.
"That is worth five pounds," said he; "now I know just where we are."
Then the captain went up on the wheel-box, and we heard the welcome
sound, "Tory Island." We were then greatly rejoiced; this was the
twelfth day of our voyage. At night, for one hour, the wind blew a gale,
and the ship rocked in a very disagreeable manner; but at six o'clock on
Tuesday morning we were on deck, and there was the beautiful Welsh
coast, and Snowdon just taking off his night-cap; and soon we saw
"England, that precious stone set in a silver sea."
Next to the thought of friends whom we had parted from for so long a
time, my mind during the voyage was occupied with the idea of
Columbus. When I looked upon the rude, boundless ocean, and
remembered that when he set out with his little vessel to go to a land
that no one knew any thing of, not even that there was such a land, he
was guided altogether by his faith in its existence; that he had no
sympathy, but only opposition; that he had no charts, nothing but the
compass, that sure but mysterious guide,--the thought of his sublime
courage, of his patient faith, was so present to my mind, that it seemed
as if I was actually sometimes in his presence.
The other idea was the wonderful skill displayed in the construction of
the small, but wonderfully powerful and beautifully arranged and safe
home, in which we were moving on this immense and turbid ocean,
carrying within her the great central fire by which the engine was
moved, which, in spite of winds and waves, carried us safely along;
then the science which enabled the master of this curious nutshell of
man's contriving to know just in what part of this waste of trackless
waters we were. All these things I knew before, and had often thought
of them, but was never so impressed with them; it was almost as if they
were new to me.
Before I quit the ocean, I must tell you of what I saw for which I cannot
account, and, had not one of the gentlemen seen it too, I should almost
have doubted my senses. When we were entirely out of sight of land, I
saw a white butterfly hovering over the waves, and looking as if he

were at home. Where the beautiful creature came from, or how he lived,
or what would become of him, no one could tell. He seemed to me to
be there as a symbol and a declaration that the souls of those whose
bodies lay in the ocean were yet living and present with those they had
loved.
When we arrived at Liverpool, we found a very dear friend, whom we
had known in America, on the wharf ready to receive us. He took us to
his house, and we felt that we were not, after all, in a strange land. Love
and kindness are the home of all souls, and show us what heaven must
be.
The thing that impressed me most was the dim light of the English day,
the soft, undefined shadows, compared with our brilliant sunshine and
sharply defined shade--then the coloring of the houses, the streets, the
ground, of every thing; no bright colors, all sober, some very dark,--the
idea of age, gravity, and stability. Nobody seems in a hurry. Our
country seems so young and vehement; this so grave and collected!
Now I will tell you something about my visit to my dear friend Harriet
Martineau, whose beautiful little books, "Feats on the Fiord," "The
Crofton Boys," and the others, you love so much to read.