anxious, however, to commence the voyage, having a crew on board, and,
being all ready, we boldly sailed, somewhat against our better judgment.
The nor'wester blowing, at the time, at the rate of forty miles an hour,
increased to eighty or ninety miles by March 2nd. This hurricane
continued through March 3rd, and gave us serious concern for the ship
and all on board.

At New York, on those days, the wind howled from the north, with the
"storm centre somewhere on the Atlantic," so said the wise seamen of the
weather bureau, to whom, by the way, the real old salt is indebted, at
the present day, for information of approaching storms, sometimes days
ahead. The prognostication was correct, as we can testify, for out on
the Atlantic our bark could carry only a mere rag of a foresail,
somewhat larger than a table-cloth, and with this storm-sail she went
flying before the tempest, all those dark days, with a large "bone in
her mouth,"[1] making great headway, even under the small sail.
Mountains of seas swept clean over the bark in their mad race, filling
her decks full to the top of the bulwarks, and shaking things generally.

Our men were lashed, each one to his station; and all spare spars not
doubly lashed were washed away, along with other movables that were
broken and torn from their fastenings by the wild storm.

The cook's galley came in for its share of the damage, the cook himself
barely escaping serious injury from a sea that went thundering across
the decks, taking with it doors, windows, galley stove, pots, kettles
and all, together with the culinary artist; landing the whole wreck in
the lee scuppers, but, most fortunately, with the professor on top. A
misfortune like this is always--felt. It dampens one's feelings, so to
speak. It means cold food for a time to come, if not even worse fare.