“Certainly sir,” was the response.

“Will it be available in Asia?”

“Yes, sir.  You can use it in China, India, or Australia, at your pleasure.”  “Can I use it in Irkutsk?”

“Where, sir?”

“In Irkutsk.”

“Really, I can’t say; what is Irkutsk?”

“It is the capital of Eastern Siberia.”

The person with whom I conversed, changed from gay to grave, and from lively to severe.  With calm dignity he remarked, “I am unable to say, if our letters can be used at the place you mention.  They are good all over the civilized world, but I don’t know anything about Irkutsk.  Never heard of the place before.”

I bowed myself out of the establishment, with a fresh conviction of the unknown character of the country whither I was bound.  I obtained a letter of credit at the opposition shop, but without a guarantee of its availability in Northern Asia.

In a foggy atmosphere on the morning of March 21, 1866, I rode through muddy streets to the dock of the Pacific Mail Steamship Company.  There was a large party to see us off, the passengers having about three times their number of friends.  There were tears, kisses, embraces, choking sighs, which ne’er might be repeated; blessings and benedictions among the serious many, and gleeful words of farewell among the hilarious few.  One party of half a dozen became merry over too much champagne, and when the steward’s bell sounded its warning, there was confusion on the subject of identity.  One stout gentleman who protested that he would go to sea, was led ashore much against his will.

After leaving the dock, I found my cabin room-mate a gaunt, sallow-visaged person, who seemed perfectly at home on a steamer.  On my mentioning the subject of sea-sickness, he eyed me curiously and then ventured an opinion.

“I see,” said he, “you are of bilious temperament and will be very ill.  As for myself, I have been a dozen times over the route and am rarely affected by the ship’s motion.”

Then he gave me some kind advice touching my conduct when I should feel the symptoms of approaching mal du mer.  I thanked him and sought the deck.  An hour after we passed Sandy Hook, my new acquaintance succumbed to the evils that afflict landsmen who go down to the sea in ships.  Without any qualm of stomach or conscience, I returned the advice he had proffered me.  I did not suffer a moment from the marine malady during that voyage, or any subsequent one.[A]

[Footnote A:  A few years ago a friend gave me a prescription which he said would prevent sea-sickness.  I present it here as he wrote it.

“The night before going to sea, I take a blue pill (5 to 10 grains) in order to carry the bile from the liver into the stomach.  When I rise on the following morning, a dose of citrate of magnesia or some kindred substance finishes my preparation.  I take my breakfast and all other meals afterward as if nothing had happened.”