Sunday, February 13.⁠—It is cold and rough, though not at all stormy, and those who are on deck wear thick coats and caps. There is no clergyman on board, and we have no religious service. Capt. Bullock used to read the Liturgy himself, but in these West India and New Orleans voyages there are many Roman Catholics, and those who are not Romanists are of so many denominations, that he received little encouragement in maintaining an official worship; and it is no longer held, unless there is a clergyman on board and a request is made by the passengers.

All day there has been no sail in sight, except the steamer Columbia, for Charleston, SC; and she soon disappeared below the horizon.

We are near Cape Hatteras. It is night, and soon the Light of Hatteras throws its bright, cheerful beam for thirty miles over a huge burial ground of sailors. How many struggles with death, how many last efforts of the last resources of skill and courage, what floating wrecks of ships, what waste of life, has that light shone over! Under that reef, perished Bache, flying for harbor before the gale, in his little surveying brig. Every league has been and will be a field where lives and treasures are sown thick from the hand of Destruction⁠—one of those points on the earth’s surface where, in the universal and endless struggle between life and death, preservation and destruction, the destroyers have the advantage.

Soon after 9 p.m. we stand out direct, to cross the Gulf Stream. A bucket is thrown over the side, and water drawn. Its temperature is at 42°. In fifteen minutes more, it is thrown again, and the water is at 72° 30′. We are in the Gulf Stream.

Monday, February 14.⁠—Sea rather rough, and a good deal of seasickness. Several passengers have not been seen since we left the dock, and only about half appear at table. We are to the eastward of the Gulf Stream. The weather is clear, and no longer cold. At noon, we are in about the latitude of Charleston, SC. No vessels in sight, all day. It is strange, and always excites the surprise and comment of seafaring men, that in the great highway of nations, with the immense commerce that is perpetually running East and West, North and South, a steamer may make her three hundred miles a day, for day after day, and see no sails.

This is a truly glorious moonlight night. The seas and floods “in wavering morrice move”; the air is pure and not cold, the sky a deep blue, the sea a deep blue, the stars glisten, and the moon bathes all in a serene glory. It is hard to leave the deck and such a scene, for the small stateroom and its sleeping-shelf. But there must be sleep for infirm human nature⁠—a nature that has even less self-sustaining power than a locomotive engine, and must not only be supplied with fuel and water at every stopping place, but must lie by, in a dark corner, in absolute repose and mere oblivion, for one quarter of its time, or it will wear out in a few days.

Tuesday, February 15.⁠—A bright, sunny cheerful day. Passengers have laid aside their thick coats and fur caps, the snow and ice are gone from the rigging and spars, the decks are dry, the sea is calm, and the steady going engine alone, with easy exercise of power, drives the great hull, with its freight of cargo and provisions and human beings, over the placid sea, as fast as a furious gale could drive it, and leaves her long wake of foam on the sea, and her long wake of dark smoke in the sky.

The passengers are recovering from seasickness. The women sit on deck and sew and read, and the children play. That family of Creole children⁠—how sallow, how frail, what delicate limbs, yet not without life, and with no little grace! But they are petted, and the girls complain, and the boys are disposed to tyrannize over the other boys and the dogs. It is interesting to see, or to fancy we see the effect not only of climate, but of slavery and of despotic institutions, on the characters of children. What career is there for Cuban youth of ambition or merit? and what must be their life without one?

I am feeling very much at home in the Cahawba. She is an excellent sea boat, and under the best of discipline. I hardly believed that her commander could⁠—that any commander could⁠—fully come up to all the praise that had been bestowed on him; but I think he weathers it all. The rule of quietness prevails, almost to the point of an English dinner party. No order is given unless it be necessary, and none louder than is necessary for it to be heard. The reports are made in low voices, and the passengers are to see and hear as little as possible of the discipline of the ship. They do not know the quiet but certain means for ensuring the performance of every duty. They do not know that reports are made of the state of every part of the ship, and that, through the night, the cabins and passageways and every place where fire can take, are watched, and that the watch reports every half hour. They have not learned the merits of sturdy, faithful Miller, the chief mate, or quick, plucky Porter, the second mate, who can hardly keep down his “Liner” training to the tone of the Mail Steamer, nor the thorough excellence of the Engineer. But they do know the capital qualities of Mr. Rodgers, the purser, a grandson of the old Commodore, a nephew of Perry, and connected by blood or marriage with half the navy⁠—for his station and duties are among the passengers, and all become his personal friends.

The routine of the ship, as regards passengers, is this: a cup of coffee, if you desire it, when you turn out; breakfast at eight, lunch at twelve, dinner at three, tea at seven, and lights put out at ten.

Wednesday, February 16.⁠—Beautiful, serene, summer sea! The thermometer is at 70°, awnings are spread, the ladies have their books and sewing on deck, the men read and play chess and smoke, and the children play. We have crossed the Gulf Stream again, and are skirting along the Coast of Florida, as near to shore as safety permits; and here the deep sea runs close to the land. All objects on shore are plainly discernible by the naked eye, from the deck. We are below St. Augustine, about halfway between that and Key West. The coast is an interminable reach of sand beach, with coral reefs before it and the Everglades behind it. There are three small white tents, on the green sward, close upon the beach, backed by a grove of trees, with signals flying. That is the station of the United States Coast Survey. Towards evening, we pass a rough camp which was one of the camps of “Billy Bowlegs,” the famous Seminole warrior. There is the wreck of a bark, her lower masts still standing, while the beach is strewn with casks and boxes. It is an old wreck, and they make no signal for aid.

After dark, a light is made on our starboard bow. It is Cape Florida Light. At 11 p.m. we make the light on Carysfort Reef, the outermost and southernmost of the Florida lights; and, having given a good berth to the reef, stand out to sea again, to cross the Gulf Stream the third time.

What can exceed the beauty of these nights at sea⁠—these moonlight nights, the still sea, those bright stars, the light, soft trade wind clouds floating under them, the gentle air, and a feeling of tropical romance stealing over the exile from the snow and ice of New England! There is something in the clear blue warm sea of the tropics, which gives to the stranger a feeling of unreality. Where do those vessels come from, that rise out of the sea, in the horizon? Where do they go to, as they sink in the sea again? Are those blue spots really fast anchored islands, with men and children, and horses, and machinery, and schools, politics and newspapers on them, or are they afloat, and visited by beings of the air?