On board the Cunard Steamer Cuba

Dec. 12, 1866.

My Dear A—

We are now twelve days out at sea; and it seems as if it was only yesterday that the little tender carried you back from the ship's side to Liverpool. Time goes very slowly at sea, but looking back it seems to have passed like a dream. I can fancy a man who spends his life at sea growing old without knowing it, and coming back to his friends as grey as Rip Van Winkle, in the belief that he is a blooming youth still. Time spent at sea is simply so much time taken out of life, and a fourteen-days' voyage is suicide for fourteen days. You may observe that I am brought low; and write somewhat in the style of M. F. Tupper. After I sent off my last letter to you from Queenstown Harbour, I began to be grievously afflicted, in fact that letter was finished very abruptly and under great difficulties.

We made a very bad start of it, and had rough weather for the first three days of our voyage, during all which time I was more or less unwell, generally more. Memory then presents an enormous vista of unsteady meals. Meals are so frequent on board a Cunarder, and so punctual, and the time between them has so little incident, that at least one half of that period seems to have been meal times.