long ago been chronicled by Captain Cook, in his account of his first voyage on the great Southern Ocean.[1] When we could dispense with the deadlights, on days when a strong breeze was blowing, I used to spend many hours gazing at the view from our open stern-window, and watching its alternations as the vessel rose and fell. At one time I could see nothing but a huge hill of water shutting out all other objects than itself; then, as the ship rose upon the wave, would appear an immense furrowed plain, enlivened by birds of all sizes, from the albatross to the stormy petrel; some following close in our wake, others hovering around us in all directions, whilst others sat tranquilly upon the heaving waters, clustered together as quietly as ducks and geese upon a pond.
On one occasion, when near the islands of St. Paul and Amsterdam, we were caught upon the edge of a heavy gale from the south-west, before which we might have run merrily onwards towards our port, had not our lower deck been filled with emigrants, rendering it impossible to batten down the hatches. We were, therefore, obliged to "lay-to" for some hours—a somewhat provoking delay; but one which enabled us to store up in our memories another picture of the sea, never to be forgotten, its waves all foam and rage, whilst the albatrosses kept holiday amongst them. We had now come so near to our journey's end that our friends the birds deserted us, not liking the warm sea and air of Australia. Having watched and admired them so frequently and so long, we took leave of them with regret, and did not consider the Cape Leeuwin pigeons and the seagulls which met us near the land at
- ↑ See Harkesworth's 'Cook's Voyages,' vol. iv., p. 171. Edition third.
