The old Volage, in which we sailed for India, I am forced to confess, was one of the least good-looking of all his Majesty’s ships and vessels then afloat.  But by this time I cared not one fig for the looks of my ship, though, a month or two before, I should have considered it a point of honour to maintain its beauty.  I was delighted beyond measure to think that, at length, I was on the right road to promotion; and this satisfaction was more than doubled by finding the East was the region in which that great prize was to be sought for.

Although the men-of-war and their convoy sailed from Spithead on the 25th of March, they did not reach Madeira till the 19th of April.  It is always more teasing to be delayed at the outset of a voyage than at any other stage of its course, just as it is mortifying and hurtful to be checked in the commencement of a profession.  Upon this occasion we had a fine rattling easterly breeze for eight-and-forty hours after starting, which swept us all, dull sailers and good ones, merrily out of the British Channel.  This fair start is always a grand affair, whatever succeeds; for if the prevalent westerly wind catches a ship before the channel is left well behind, she may be driven back to Plymouth or Falmouth, and all the agony of bills, news, leave-taking, and letters, has to be endured over again.  Whereas, if she once gets the Lizard Light some fifty leagues astern of her, all these worrying distractions may be considered at an end.  A totally new world—­the “world of waters”—­is now entered upon, far beyond the reach even of those long-armed persons, the “gentlemen of the press,” or the startling sound of the postman’s knock; that call which so often sets off the steadiest-going pulse at a gallop!

Oh, the joy! the relief unspeakable! of feeling oneself fairly under weigh, and of seeing the white cliffs of Old England sinking in the north-eastern horizon right to windward!  Let the concocters of romances and other imaginary tales say what they please of the joys of returning home; give me the happiness of a good departure, and a boundless world of untried enjoyments ahead.  If a man be out of debt and out of love, or only moderately involved in either of these delicate predicaments; if he have youth and health and tolerable prospects, a good ship under his foot, good officers over him, and good messmates to serve with, why need he wear and tear his feelings about those he leaves behind?  Or rather, why need he grieve to part from those who are better pleased to see him vigorously doing his duty rather than idling in other people’s way at home?  Or wherefore should he sigh to quit those enjoyments in which he cannot honourably participate till he has earned his title to them by hardy service?

On the other hand, who is there so insensible as not to feel the deepest apprehension, on returning from a long and distant voyage?  Busy fancy will conjure up images of death and sickness, of losses and sorrows.  And when the accumulated pile of letters is first placed in our hands after a long voyage, with what sickening eagerness do we not turn from the superscription to discover the colour of the seal?