University of Virginia Library

5. V.

During the period we lay becalmed under a
burning sun, which, though entering its winter
solstice retained the fervour of summer fire, we
passed the most of our time in the little cockle-shell

of a yawl, (as though the limits of our ship
were not confined enough) riding listlessly upon the
long billows or rowing far out from the ship, which,
with all her light sails furled, rolled heavily upon
the crestless billows, suggesting the anomalous idea
of power in a state of helplessness.

An hour before sunset our long-idle sails were
once more filled by a fine breeze, which, ruffling the
surface of the ocean more than a league distant,
we had discerned coming from the Florida shore,
some time before it reached us; and as it came
slowly onward over the sea, we watched with no
little anxiety the agitated line of waves which
danced merrily before it, marking its approach.

A faintly delineated gray bank lining the western
horizon, marked the “land of flowers” of the romantic
Ponce de Leon. Can that be Florida! the
Pasqua de Flores of the Spaniards—the country of
blossoms and living fountains, welling with perpetual
youth! were our reflections as we gazed
upon the low marshy shore. Yet here the avaricious
Spaniard sought for a mine more precious
than the diamonds and gold of the Incas! a fountain
whose waters were represented to have the
wonderful property of rejuvenating old age and perpetuating
youth! Here every wrinkled Castillian
Iolas expected to find a Hebé to restore him to the
bloom and vigour of Adonis! But alas, for the
bachelors of modern days, the seeker for fountains
of eternal youth wandered only through inhospitable
wilds, and encountered the warlike Seminoles,
who, unlike the timorous natives of the newly discovered

Indies, met his little band with bold and
determined resolution. After a long and fruitless
search, he returned to Porto Rico, wearied, disappointed,
and no doubt with his brow more deeply
furrowed than when he set out upon his singularly
romantic expedition.

While we glided along the Florida shore, which
was fast receding from the eye, a sudden boiling
and commotion of the sea, which we had remarked
some time before we were involved in it, assured us
that we had again entered the Gulf Stream, where
it rushes from the Mexican Sea, after having made
a broad sweep of eighteen hundred miles, and in
twenty days after emerging from it in higher latitudes.
Our course was now very sensibly retarded
by the strong current against which we sailed,
though impelled by a breeze which would have
wafted us, over a currentless sea, nine or ten miles
an hour. In the afternoon the blue hills of Cuba,
elevated above the undulating surface of the island,
and stretching along its back like a serrated spine,
reared themselves from the sea far to the south;
and at sunset the twin hills of Matanzas, for which
sailors' imaginations have conjured up not the most
pleasing appellation—could be just distinguished
from the blue waves on the verge of the ocean; and
receding from the sea, with an uneven surface, the
vast island rose along the whole southern horizon,
not more than four or five leagues distant. The
Florida shore had long before disappeared, though
several vessels were standing toward it, bound apparently
into Key West, between which and Havana

we had seen an armed schooner, under
American colours, hovering during the whole afternoon.

Cape St. Antonio, the notorious rendezvous of
that daring band of pirates, which, possessing the
marauding without the chivalrous spirit of the old
buccaneers, long infested these seas, just protruded
above the rim of the horizon far to the south-east.
We soon lost sight of it, and in the evening, altering
our course a little to avoid the shoals which are scattered
thickly off the southern and western extremity
of Florida, ran rapidly and safely past the Tortugas
—the Scylla and Charybdis of this southern latitude.

We already begin to appreciate the genial influence
of a southern climate. The sun, tempered by
a pleasant wind, beams down upon us warm and
cheerily—the air is balmy and laden with grateful
fragrance from the unseen land—and though near
the first of December, at which time you dwellers
under the wintry skies of the north, are shivering
over your grates, we have worn our summer garments
and palm-leaf hats for some days past. If
this is a specimen of a southern winter, where quietly
to inhale the mellow air is an elysian enjoyment—henceforth
sleighing and skating will have
less charms for me.

We are at last at the termination of our voyage
upon the sea. In three days at the farthest we expect
to land in New-Orleans. But three days upon
the waveless Mississippi to those who have been
riding a month upon the ocean, is but a trifle. After
an uncommonly long, but unusually pleasant passage

of thirty-one days, we anchored off the Balize[1]
last evening at sun set.

The tedious monotony of our passage since leaving
Cuba, was more than cancelled by the scenes
and variety of yesterday. We had not seen a sail
for four or five days, when, on ascending to the deck
at sunrise yesterday morning, judge of my surprise
and pleasure at beholding a fleet of nearly fifty vessels
surrounding us on every side, all standing to
one common centre; in the midst of which our own
gallant ship dashed proudly on, like a high mettled
courser contending for the victory. To one imprisoned
in a companionless ship on the broad and
lonely ocean so many days, this was a scene, from
its vivid contrast, calculated to awaken in the bosom
emotions of the liveliest gratification and pleasure.

A point or two abaft our beam, within pistol shot
distance, slowly and majestically moved a huge,
British West Indiaman, her black gloomy hull
wholly unrelieved by brighter colours, with her red
ensign heavily unfolding to the breeze in recognition
of the stars and stripes, floating gracefully at
our peak. Farther astern, a taunt-rigged, rakish
looking Portuguese polacca (polaque) carrying even
in so light a breeze a “bone in her teeth,” glided
swiftly along, every thing set from deck to truck.
We could distinctly see the red woollen caps and
dark red faces of her crew, peering over the bow,
as they pointed to, and made remarks upon our

ship. Early in the morning, about a league ahead
of us, we had observed a heavy sailing Dutch ship,
as indeed all Dutch ships are; about eleven o'clock
we came up with, and passed her, with the same
facility as if she had been at anchor. On all sides
of us vessels of nearly every maritime nation were
in sight; and in conjectures respecting them, and
in admiring their variety of construction and appearance,
we passed most of the day, elated with the
prospect of a speedy termination to our voyage.

Before we had completed dinner, the cry of
“Land ho!” was heard from the main-top, and in
the course of half an hour we saw from the deck,
not exactly land, but an apology for it, in the form
and substance of an immense marsh of tall, wild
grass, which stretched along the horizon from west
to east ad infinitum. This soil, if you may term
it such, is formed by the accumulation and deposition
of ochreous matter discharged by the Mississippi,
whose turbid waters are more or less charged with
terrene particles, so much so, that a glass filled with
its water appears to deposit in a short time a sediment
nearly equal to one-twelfth of its bulk. The
matter discharged by the river, condensed and
strengthened by logs, trees, grass, and other gross
substances, is raised above the ordinary tide waters,
upon which a soil is formed of mingled sand and
marl, capable of producing the long grass, which
not only lines the coast in the vicinity of this river,
but extends many miles into the interior, where it
unites with the cypress swamps which cover the
greater part of the unreclaimed lowlands of Louisiana.

We coasted along this shore till about three in
the afternoon, when the light-house at the South-East
passage, the chief embouchure of the Mississippi,
appeared in sight but a few miles ahead; passing
this, we received a pilot from a fairy-like pilot-boat,
which, on delivering him, bounded away from us
like a swift-winged albatross. About four o'clock
the light-house at the South-West passage lifted its
solitary head above the horizon. The breeze freshening,
we approached it rapidly, under the guidance
of the pilot, who had taken command of our ship.
When nearly abreast of the light-house, a fierce little
warlike-looking revenue cutter ran alongside of us,
and lowering her boat, sent her lieutenant on board,
to see that “all was straight.” He cracked a bottle
of wine with the captain, and leaving some late
New-Orleans papers, took his departure. For the
next half hour the quarter-deck appeared like a school-room—buzz,
buzz, buzz! till the papers were read
and re-read, advertisements and all, and all were
satisfied. About six in the evening we cast anchor at
the mouth of the South-West pass, in company not
only with the fleet in which we had sailed during the
day, but with a large fleet already at anchor, waiting
for tide, pilots, wind, or two-boats. In approaching
the mouth of the river, we observed, to us, a novel
and remarkable appearance—the meeting of the
milky, turbid waters of the Mississippi, with the
pale green of the ocean. The waters of the former,
being lighter than the latter, and not readily mingling
with it, are thrown upon the surface, floating
like oil to the depth of only two or three feet. A
ship passing through this water, leaves a long, dark
wake, which is slowly covered by the uniting of the
parted waters. The line of demarkation between
the yellowish-brown water of the river, and the clear
green water of the sea, is so distinctly defined, that
a cane could be laid along it. When we first discovered
the long white line, about two miles distant,
it presented the appearance of a low sand beach.
As we reached it, I went aloft, and seating myself
in the top-gallant cross-trees, beheld one of the most
singular appearances of which I had ever formed any
conception. When within a few fathoms of the discoloured
water, we appeared to be rushing on to
certain destruction, and when our sharp keel cut and
turned up the sluggish surface, I involuntarily shuddered;
the next instant we seemed suspended between
two seas. Another moment, and we had
passed the line of division, ploughing the lazy and
muddy waves, and leaving a dark transparent wake
far astern. We are hourly expecting our tow-boat—
the Whale. When she arrives we shall immediately,
in the company of some other ships, move up for
New-Orleans. The morning is delightful, and we
have the prospect of a pleasant sail, or rather
tow, up the river. A hundred snow-white sails
are reflecting the rays of the morning sun, while
the rapid dashing of the swift pilot-boats about us,
and the slower movements of ships getting under
weigh to cross the bar, and work their own way up
to the city—together with the mingling sounds of
stern commands, and the sonorous “heave-ho-yeo!”
of the labouring seamen, borne upon the breeze,
give an almost unparalleled charm and novelty to
the scene. Our Whale is now in sight, spouting,
not jets d'eau, but volumes of dense black smoke.
We shall soon be under weigh, and every countenance
is bright with anticipation. Within an hour
we shall be floating upon the great artery of North
America, “prisoners of hope” and of steam, on our
way to add our little number to the countless thousands
who throng the streets of the Key of the Great
Valley through which it flows.