DEAR FATHER, The voyage is almost over. To-morrow morning we shall be at Queenstown, where I think we shall land, to go by Cork and Dublin to London. It will be pleasanter and quicker, and probably get us to London on Sunday morning. (The ship rolls so that I cannot write straight.) We have had a very quiet passage, not much bright weather, but nothing rough to speak of. Dull skies almost all the way, with a good deal of rain. The ship is a very good and stanch little boat, rather slow, but still making steady headway, and as comfortable as she could be with her rather limited accommodations. Paine and I have found our stateroom exceedingly comfortable, and with a few pleasant people on board, the time has passed briskly. I wonder how Fred has got along? His steamer must be not very far behind us, and I expect to see him in London by Tuesday. I shall be there with him until Friday, the 12th, when we sail to Christiania. We expect to reach there on the 16th, and then shall be off for four weeks on a country trip in Norway. Paine will go with me.
On Sunday, we had a sermon from an English minister, whose presence saved me from preaching. It was a lovely day, the finest we have had.
The voyage has been a very pleasant rest, and I shall be ready for an active summer when we land. Some people get dreadfully wearied of the sea, but I find every moment of it pleasant, and never feel in better health or spirits anywhere.
I hope that you are going to have a pleasant summer. Do spend a good part of it in writing to me. I shall look anxiously for my budget of letters every week, care of Jay Cooke, McCulloch & Co., London.
I will write again from London after I meet Fred. My love to mother and all. Tell me what they are doing, and tell them all to write.