It was in the month of December, 1872, when I with seventeen others left our good old port of Bristol bound for one of the West African oil rivers on a trading voyage. It was a splendid morning for the time of year: bright, fine, and clear, when we were towed through our old lock gates, with the hearty cheers, good-byes, and God-speed-yous from our friends ringing in the air; and although there were some of us made sad by the parting kiss, which to many was the last on this earth, there was one whose heart felt so glad that he has often described the day as being one of the happiest in his life, and that one was your humble servant, the writer. Our first start was soon delayed, as we had to anchor in King Road and wait a fair wind. And now a word to any hearers who may be about to start on a new venture. Always wait for a fair wind—when that comes make the best use you can of it. Our fair wind came after some two weeks, and lasted long enough for us to get clear of the English land; but before we were clear of the Irish, we encountered head winds again. Being too far out to return, we had to beat our ship about under close reefed topsails for another week. This was a rough time for all on board.