Cunard Royal Mail Steamship Etruria,
Mid-Ocean, June 12.

Well, was not this starting for Europe in a hurry? I left Boston Saturday, June 9th, at five A.M., only deciding the day previous to go. A number of letters and telegrams, from New York, urging me to join a delightful party who were to make the journey, proved to be too much of a temptation to accept the change I so much needed, to resist. For several previous seasons I have seen friends off, honestly glad to have them enjoy so much, but after awhile enthusiasm in the pleasures of others, who enjoy much and leave you behind to be glad for them, grows dull, like champagne long uncorked, not much sparkle to it, ‘for all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ A hurried packing; good-by letters; messenger boys running here and there; a turning of the keys; and I am off. To my maid, to the elevator boy, to the expressman and the coachman, I excitedly said, ‘I am going to Europe,’ but their faces did not light up with delight as I expected they would; and I thought—How unappreciative we all are, after all, of other people’s enthusiasm. The train was a slow one, but the only one that could possibly get me to New York in time to take the steamer. Some trouble with the machinery of the engine detained us, and I spent the time, while the cars were stopped, praying to be resigned, if I had got to be disappointed, as, for a while, matters looked as if it would be impossible for me to reach my friends on the hour for the ship to sail. But prayers and the work of an ingenious Yankee mechanic carried us through. It was after 3 P.M. when we rolled into the Grand Central Depot. I rushed into the nearest cab like one mad—urged, coaxed, and fee’d my driver, who quickly comprehended the situation and ran his horses to the best of their speed, and did get me to the Cunard Wharf about ten minutes before the Etruria moved; but it was in truth a ‘John Gilpin ride.’ My friends were on the lookout with anxious eyes, and, when they caught a sight of me, greeted my appearance with shouts of delight. After the excitement was over, we settled down into an ‘all right’ atmosphere and looked about. The sights that met my eyes I shall never forget. The huge ship with the bright-colored flags flying, the hundreds of people crowded on her, hundreds more on the wharf, throwing kisses, waving handkerchiefs and adieus, everybody loaded with flowers, many laughing and more crying. ‘God bless you. Take care of yourselves. Write soon and often,’ were the oft-repeated words we heard. The planks are drawn, the band struck up ‘The Girl I left behind me,’ and off we steamed down the beautiful harbor of New York, fast leaving the shores of America in the distance. I thought of all the loved friends we were sailing away from, in the body but not in spirit, and asked our dear ‘Father in Heaven’ to take care of us all. I was tired, so dined early, settled things a little in our state-room, and retired. I went immediately to sleep, without a care, like a weary, confiding child on its mother’s breast, and did not once awaken until nine the next morning—Sunday. My rest was perfect, thus ‘rocked in the cradle of the deep,’ while the waves sung to me their sweet lullaby. I arose feeling thoroughly refreshed—rubbed my eyes well to be convinced that I was not dreaming, and that in reality I was far out at sea. We have a fine state-room; two wide berths and a sofa; and only F. and I its occupants; plenty of room for our things, and two looking-glasses; so we shall be sure to keep amiable on this trip. The Etruria is a beautiful and an immense steamer. Four hundred persons make up the crew and she takes fifty engineers. We have a music room, a library, a large saloon, reception rooms, dining room, etc., all finely and conveniently furnished and spacious. We have six hundred passengers on board, all first class, and a fairly good-looking crowd notwithstanding there are but few from Boston. We take no second class passengers or emigrants. So far the weather has been charming. We settle ourselves in our steamer chairs in the most deliciously idle and comfortable positions, E. tucks his numerous nice wraps about us, for the air is keen but most wholesomely pure and sweet, and we give ourselves up both body and mind to perfect rest and repose, such as no condition on land can bring. I even find myself wishing that the steamer would not speed on quite so rapidly. I am afraid we shall sight land too soon. On shipboard, the slightest incident becomes to all a matter of great interest. A ship in the distance, or a whale’s back, will cause as much excitement as Barnum’s circus in a country town. We have seen two steamers far away, many sea-gulls and Mother Cary’s chickens, and a school of porpoises followed us a long distance, creating much amusement. We have two dukes on board, a real lord and a lady, but they look very like the rest of us mortals, and seem to do quite as much stretching, yawning, walking, and eating. We have met here several old friends, and have made some new ones. Everybody seems inclined to be agreeable and social. I cannot imagine how any one could ever think a sea voyage dull. I get so interested in all about me, that their interests and purposes become my own. A bright little Cuban miss confided to me that she was going to travel for a year, because her rich father had taken to himself a new companion younger than herself, and she could not stay at home and see the young girl in her mother’s place. We have six school-girls on board with their chaperone, and a jolly good time they are having. School-girls are the same everywhere. A bride and groom sit at table near us, trying to act as if they had been always married, but are really continually revealing their new condition. Ah! ‘the old, old story,’ but ever new. A gentleman from the West, who had been cabled to ‘hurry over—wife sick,’ walks the deck with a face that tells of the sad heart he carries. How we all sympathize with him, and yet are so helpless in comforting him! We had a fine concert in the grand saloon last evening, for ‘sweet charity;’ and many of the ladies honored the occasion by changing their travelling dresses for evening costumes. Mlle. Zelie de Lussan sang two pieces most charmingly, and on encore gave us ‘Coming thro’ the Rye’ and ‘Dors mon ange.’ She is a great favorite with all on board, and no wonder, for she endeavors in her sweet way to add to the happiness of all. She was enthusiastically applauded. We had some fine instrumental music on both violin and piano, and ‘Tony’ Pastor was irresistible in his manner of rendering several comic selections, and very kind to repeat them in acknowledgment of hearty applause. Our young ladies passed around the hats, into which coin was quickly deposited to the amount of over three hundred dollars. Rev. Dr. H., of New York, made a few remarks. He is a forcible, impressive speaker and with a physique equal to our own Trinity Rector. He also has exhibited a commendable spirit in helping make the time pass agreeably for all with whom he has come in contact. Editor P. is also amongst us, leaving his ‘New York World’ behind for a time, but not under a bushel. Our table and the service are excellent: and what gormandizers we are to be sure! Hungry as sharks every meal, notwithstanding the hourly extras of bouillon and crackers on deck, and the daily treats from our own boxes of fruit, wine, and bon-bons. If any one should now ask me ‘What is the chief end of man?’ I should honestly answer, To eat of all, at least, on board our ship. Poor E. looks upon his chest of medicines for sea-sickness as a lost investment; stocks way down—not even a shadow of an excuse yet for opening it. Miss C., the noted beauty, is on board, but her fair face is closely enveloped in veils, that the sun and wind may not be too familiar. One loses much not to take the whole of this blessed, invigorating air, and look out unhampered on the exquisite sky and cloud effects above us, and the artistic blending of blues and greens on the waves beneath.

Liverpool, England, June 17, 1888.—We first saw land yesterday morning, very early. It was a perfect morning, clear and warm, and when we emerged from our state-room and made our way on deck, we found the greater portion of our comrades ahead of us, with their glasses in hand, peering toward the rocky coast of not far away ‘Old Ireland.’ It is a rough, rugged shore, with here and there a lighthouse, built as if to last for ages, on rocks, strong and high, and all colored white with some black trimmings. Occasionally an old castle is seen. The fields of flax, colored with all the shades of green, are very beautiful, and add much to vary the scene.

We have had, as one of our daily companions crossing over, an Irish gentleman of much intelligence and culture. He is a large land-holder, and has a fine home not very far from Dublin; has been travelling some in America, but mostly in the Western States. I have gained much information from him of his country and its people. He was amazed at the extent of our own land, but with all his intelligence could not comprehend everything connected with our divisions of country clearly, and said to me—‘Boston, that city is very near Massachusetts, is it not?’ He admired American ladies, and thought ‘Mrs. Cleveland should reign in Washington longer.’ His brogue was fascinating, and he talked much of the Pot-o-mac River.

In speaking of the poor of his country, I did not hesitate to ask him how he and gentlemen of his kind could endure having the poor so oppressed by the rich landlords; that to me it seemed most cruel. With a sympathetic sigh he replied, ‘If you will visit me, I will show to you more than I can tell you.’

Our big steamer stopped, for the first time, for the passengers who were booked for the ‘Green Isle’ to get on to the little tug which came puffing down from Queenstown, and we said good-by to many of our fellow-voyagers reluctantly. A large mail was thrown on board also for Ireland, carrying undoubtedly happiness and help into many homes.

On again we started, and reached Liverpool at one o’clock A.M. We certainly had a perfect trip over, and the Etruria and her watchful, careful commander, Captain Cook, will have ever a grateful place in my memory. Blessed be the gift of memory! The one thing that holds precious treasures that cannot be taken from us; from which we can at all times summon the delights and joys of the past, without money and without price.