At Sea, June 25th, 1873

My Dear Sister:

I thought it would be a little romantic to put the above heading to a letter, and so this evening, in our comfortable dining saloon, with our gallant little vessel rocking and trembling underneath us as she has been rocking and trembling for 20 days, I sit down to pen the letter you no doubt will be anxiously looking for, and which perhaps will be all the more interesting because of its being written on the ocean.

That is a long sentence to begin with, isn't it? But I have a long sheet of foolscap before me, chosen indeed in the stead of commercial note so that I might have more room for penning down the thoughts which come crowding up in my mind. You see I haven't written a single letter since I came on board, because I did not want them to get stale by lying around. For three weeks we have been totally shut out from the world; we have had no possible means of communication with our fellow beings in any quarter of the earth; they may all be dead, or the world be burned up, for anything we know (being surrounded with water, we are safe from that casualty at least); and for anything our friends know, we may long ago have been buried in the sea, or lost in a tempest, or captured by pirates, or murdered by mutineers. What a comfort, then, will it be for us on the one hand, to find out that the world is not dead or burnt up yet; and, on the other hand, for our friends to know that we have been safely preserved through all the perils of the ocean.

"Where are we now?" -- A very proper question, truly. That heading, "At Sea," is rather indefinite. Well, according to the Captain's reckoning, we are 4,200 miles from San Francisco and about 500 from Yokohama, Japan. Though how he knows, is more than I can tell; for there is nothing about us to show that we have gone even ten miles since we lost sight of land. There are no mile stones set up, nor little stations to mark the progress. The sea looks the same to-day as it did yesterday and the day before, and as it does all the time indeed -- except when it is enveloped by a tremendous fog, and then it doesn't look at all. We have not met a single steamer, and only three ships have been discerned in the distance since we left our port. They were all on the horizon, and stood, or seemed to stand, perfectly still; no one knew exactly when they came in sight, and they all disappeared in as mysterious a manner. They were so far off that their bare outlines alone were perceptible.

"How does the ocean look?" -- Yes, I have no doubt many questions come up in your mind as you think of "a life on the ocean wave," and "a home on the rolling deep," and I will try to imagine the most obvious of them and answer them. I hope, however, that the accidents and contingencies attendant on a mail transfer of 7,000 miles will not interfere with your getting this letter; for I should be sorry to hear that all the valuable information with which I purpose filling it has been lost. Well, you will find this question answered on the second page of Mitchell's Modern Geography; and scores of times has that answer come into my mind as I have stood on the quarter-deck and gazed out over the illimitable expanse around me. "Blue and boundless, like the sky." Such indeed is its appearance

on a sunshiny day, when there is only breeze enough to stir its glassy surface into gentle undulations. O how beautiful does it then appear! It reminds one of that text in

Revelations -- "And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire." But usually there is a strong breeze and a heavy swell, and the waters seem almost perfectly black, contrasting strongly with the snow white foam upon the wave crests. Many a moment have I spent in leaning over the railing of the deck and gazing down into those solemn depths. All the poetry in a man is stirred as he lets his imagination dwell upon the scenes which have transpired on the surface and in the bosom of this mighty deep, silently and solemnly tossing in agitation before his eyes.

"Did I get sea-sick?"-- Excuse me, but that question is rather personal. You know, or at least I think you do, that before going on board I formed a strong resolution not to get sea-sick. You also know that I formed an equally strong resolution not to take the measles -- which resolution I kept as far as possible.-- It would be too cruel a joke, however, for me to acknowledge without any prevarication that I fared as poorly in adhering to my second resolution as I did in regard to my first. So I hope you will not press the subject, for it is really an unpleasant one -- a very unpleasant one. If smallpox is not more than twice as bad as the measles, I think I would take the two together rather than renew my experience -- but if I don't change the subject I shall sooner or later "let the cat out of the bag." Still, seasickness is an interesting topic, and I may say something about it through the Advocate. But that will not be until I get to China, when I will be too far away to hear you laugh at me.

"Have we met with any strange incidents during our voyage?" -- Yes, one very strange. We woke up one morning and found it was Wednesday, and when we lay down in the evening it was Thursday. This remarkable occurrence took place the day the ship crossed the 180th degree of longitude, or the meridian on just the opposite side of the world from Greenwich. The Captain, who is a jolly Scotch tar, and a little inclined to be waggish at times (I am afraid), said we would feel the ship tilt over as we crossed the line; but if he was sincere the line must have been a very broad one, for from the time we came to it until after midnight there was nothing but tilting, although we had smooth sailing before. But the Captain, I am satisfied, is a real wag; for in speaking of the "Homopathic" practice one day, he said that the soup which patients got under that practice was made by taking a photograph of a chicken and hauling it through five gallons of water, of which they were given an allowance of one tablespoonful four or five times a week -- which is certainly a libel on the Doctors. However you may draw your own inference from these statements concerning the veracity of our commanding officer.

"Have I seen a whale?" -- No, nor a shark or a swordfish or anything else scarcely. The ocean seems almost destitute of life to one passing rapidly over its surface. Yet I did catch a glimpse of the sea serpent one day, as I was leaning across the railing of the deck. It was about a foot long, and looked exactly like a common water snake. I don't understand why such a fuss should be made over the monster, as it is called, for really it wasn't big enough to make any fuss about. But the prettiest sight I have yet seen was a shoal of porpoises. One sunny afternoon Miss Combs and I were standing upon the deck, looking out over the smooth waters. I had just expressed a wish that Old Neptune would give us a less chary view of the treasures of animated life which he held concealed in such a stingy manner in his bosom, when my attention was arrested by little sheets of spray which began to be thrown up several feet above the surface of the water, at a distance of near a quarter of a mile from the ship. We watched the phenomenon with interest, as the sheets rapidly increased in number and frequency, and soon discovered the cause. A large shoal of porpoises, or sea dogs, were running in the same direction with us, evidently trying to race with the ship, and with frolicsome glee kept leaping out of the water to a distance of several feet, so that we could easily distinguish the size and shape of their bodies. At times I suppose there were 20 or 30 large, fat fellows in the air at once, and their lively appearance, with the glistening of the spray in the beams of the afternoon sun, formed a scene which Nature alone can paint. It was beautiful beyond expression, and was quite a break in the monotony of the voyage.

"Has the voyage been very monotonous?" -- Not to me; I have enjoyed it all the way through, and have spent many a happy hour in reading and lounging about. I am almost sorry it is so near over. We have not had a storm at any time, which has been a good deal of disappointment to me, for I have been very anxious to see the Pacific belie its name in a regular tempest. But we have had plenty of wind and fog and clouds, and some rain. Last Sabbath evening about 10 o'clock, I went up on deck, as I usually do before retiring to my berth. Our vessel, (called the Quang-se), is about 320 ft. long by 40 ft. wide, and we have a hundred feet or more of the deck to walk on, the deck itself being elevated some 20 ft. above the water. There was a dense fog and a strong headwind, and the billows clashed in fury against the sides of the ship. It was very dark, a star here and there being alone visible through the gloom, while the black and sullen waters seemed to howl a mournful dirge, or to be muttering the presaging wrath of a coming storm. As I paced back and forth on the deck, I hummed softly to myself the beautiful S. S. hymn -- how beautiful now!

"Dark is the night, and cold the wind is blowing,

Nearer and nearer comes the breaker's roar;

Where shall I go, or whither fly for refuge?

Hide me, my Father, till the storm is o'er.

With His loving hand to guide, let the clouds above me roll,

And the billows in their fury dash around me;

I can brave the wildest storm with his glory in my soul,

I can sing amidst the tempest, Praise the Lord!" etc.

By imagining the scene, you may in a measure comprehend the power of those simple, beautiful, touching words. O you know not how grand it is to be sailing in a gallant ship far out at sea, making its way steadily on against wind and wave and tide, and to be singing such hymns as "Out on an ocean all boundless we ride," "We are joyously voyaging over the main," "In the rifted Rock I'm resting," etc.

"A word about our Missionary party before I close?" Certainly. You got the photographic group I sent you from San Francisco a day or two before we sailed (June 5th)? If you did not, I doubt if I ever shall forgive you. I wrote the names of the group underneath, so that you might get acquainted with them. There are, Bro. Harris & wife, whom I mention first so as to get rid of them first. If Bro. Harris were out for a missionary (which is not the fact), he could not succeed with the wife he has. She is

simply a bundle of vanity and selfishness, with about the same qualifications for missionary work that Margaret Hoobler has. It was one of the many blunders of the Missionary Secretaries when they sent that couple out. Their greatest redeeming quality is the unmistakable fondness they have for each other. (This strictly confidential. By no means publish this letter). Then there are Bro. and Sister Correll -- dear, good, solid, Christian workers, just the material out of which successful missionaries are made. Never were two couples more strongly contrasted. Poor Mrs. Correll has had a hard time during the voyage -- constantly sick, and on the verge of death last night; or as Miss Combs said, as near heaven as ever she was. Lastly Miss Combs, M. D., the instrument in the hands of a merciful Providence of saving Mrs. Correll's life; short of stature, with very homely features, a fiery temper, a bold disposition, energy and resolution enough for three or four men, quick witted, mischievous, always ready to laugh or joke, and above all with a character so firmly grounded upon Christian principles, with a heart so entirely unselfish that despite her lack of personal beauty .... ..... a .. . . h. . . . . d and masculine temperament, she is almost the personification of goodness. I regret that she is going to Pekin, and am tempted to look upon her appointment, so far as its destination is concerned, as another blunder of the Missionary Society.

Well, I must finish. This is Wednesday night, and Saturday morning we expect to get into Yokohama. There I shall mail this letter, and possibly write another if we lie over a few days. I want you to write immediately, and tell me how many of my letters reached home. If I remember aright, this is the fourth I have written. Address Kiukiang, China, via Shanghai, Care Rev. V. C. Hart. Ten cent stamp required. You know I have not heard from home since the morning I left it. My regards to all. God bless you every one. Goodby,

Your aff. bro.

A. Stritmatter