I had nearly omitted to state that on the 23rd, we had one of those storms, with the accounts of which people have been kindly endeavouring to alarm me. It certainly blew with violence, but I have been ridiculed for asserting that its force was by no means equal to that of an equinoctial gale in England. I am certain, however, that it was not. There was not a single house thrown down, or any thatch stripped. The wind undoubtedly made a fearful roaring among the trees, and this led our Colonists to think it worse than it really was. The only accidents in consequence, of which I have heard, are the driving ashore of a small vessel of 35 tons (which was afterwards got off without damage), and the loss of a boat.[1]
4th.—The weather is most delightful, like that in April or May at home—when is the winter to come? our shortest day is past. During my absence about half an acre was broken up for Indian corn. My potatoes,—me miserum!—have failed in a great degree; the seed was damaged, although it cost me thirty-five shillings per cwt., and now there is none to be had at any price in
- ↑ How fully is Mr. Moore borne out in his just opinions, when these unimportant casualties are compared with the melancholy destruction, by the equinoctial gales and other storms of 1833, which have lined the coast of Great Britain and Ireland with innumerable and fatal wrecks, exhibiting a more extensive ruin of the seafaring interests than was ever before recollected in the memory of man.
