thing of the vague and vast, in idea, which naturally comes over one, in such circumstances. What a strange thing is it, to step from the "sure and firm-set earth" to the unstable element-to feel that divorce from all former possessions and familiar objects, from the fields and the mountains and the solid world-to be borne on the wings of the wind, on, on, day after day, day after day, and to reach no shore-to hear, night after night, rushing by one's very pillow, the deep, dark, fathomless

sea!

And yet there is a strange mixture of things too in a life at sea, and on board of one of these magnificent packets. Reality and romance react upon each other, making both more strange. We have been sailing upon the dread and boundless ocean, naturally associated with none but ideas of difficulty and danger. And yet here is a saloon,* more splendid in its cabinet-work and whole finishing than any private apartment perhaps in our native land; here are a luxurious table and attentive servants; here, upon that tremendous element, one wave of which, could it put forth its power, would dash us in pieces, are groups of people easy and unconcerned-some are reading, some con

*The George Washington.

versing, some singing, some engaged in amusements-sports and games: at night all retire to their chambers in this floating palace; in the morning they meet, and greet one another at the breakfast table, as if it were a large party on a visit in the country.

The grandeur of the ocean on our first getting out of sight of land, seemed to me something greater than I had felt before-the whole circle around boundless: it was, compared with looking off from the shore, like embracing in one comprehensive act of mind, the eternity past and to come. Yet I defy anybody, not thoroughly accustomed to the sea, to feel much of its grandeur after thought, imagination, feeling, sensation, have been rocked into that indescribable state of ennui, disquiet, discomfort, and inertness which the sea often produces. No, let me look off from some headland, or out from some quiet nook of the fastanchored earth, to feel the grandeur or to enjoy the romance of the sea.

I wonder that nobody has talked, or written, or sung, or satirized, about this horrible discomfort of a sea voyage. It is said that Cato repented only of three things during his life" to have gone by sea, when he could go by land, to have passed a day inactive, and to have told a secret to his wife.”

I will not discuss the other points with the old stoic, but with the first I certainly have the most perfect sympathy. It is not seasickness; I have had none of it; but it is a sickness of the sea, which has never, that I know, been described. It is a tremendous ennui, a complete inaptitude to all enjoyment, a total inability to be pleased with anything. Nothing is agreeable-neither eating nor drinking, nor walking nor talking, nor reading nor writing, nor even is going to sleep an agreeable process, and waking is perfect misery. I am speaking of my own experience, it is true, and others find a happier fortune upon the sea; but, I believe that it is the experience of a class, not much less unhappy than the most miserable victims of seasickness.

JUNE 25. We are sailing slowly up St. George's Channel. It really almost requires an act of faith, to feel that in sixteen days we have reached the Old World; that yonder is the coast of Ireland, and there, on the right, is Snowdon in Wales. As we move on silently, borne along by an invisible power, it seems as if this were a spectre ship; and the surrounding objects, a dream. The stillness and mystery of expectation come over one's mind like a spell-for this, indeed, is the mighty gateway to the Old World, and the misty

curtain before us is about to burst asunder, and to turn the visions of a whole previous life into reality! If I were approaching the coast of Kamtschatka or New Holland, it would be a different thing; it would be comparatively a commonplace occurrence; but here is the birthplace of my language, of my mind's nurture-the world where my thoughts have lived, my fatherland—and yet strange and mysterious as if it were the land of some pre-existent being!

The Old World!-my childhood's dream-my boyhood's wonder-my youth's study-I have read of the wars of grim old kings and barons, as if they were the wars of titans and giantsbut now it is reality; for I see the very soil they trod. They come again over those hills and mountains--they fight again-they bleed, they die, they vanish from the earth. Yet other crowds come-the struggling generations pass before me; and antiquity is a presence and a power. It has a "local habitation." Its clouded tabernacle is peopled with life. Who says that the earth is cold and dead? It is written all over-its whole broad surface, every travelled path, every wave of ocean-with the story of human affections. Warm, eager life-the life of breathing generations, is folded in its mighty bosom, and sleeps there,

THE OLD WORLD.

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but is not dead! Oh! world! world! what hast thou been through the long ages that have gone before us? Ay, what hast thou been? In this vast domain of old time before me, every human heart has been a world of living affections. Every soul that has lived has taken the experience of life, new and fresh, singly and alone, as if no other had ever felt it. Not in palaces only, but in the cottage, has the whole mighty problem of this wonderful humanity been wrought out. Sighings, and tears, and rejoicings, birthday gladness, and bridal joy, and clouding griefs, and death, have been in every dwelling. Gay throngs of youth have entered in, and funereal trains have come forth, at every door. Through millions of hearts on these very shores, has swept the whole mighty procession of human passions. How has it already lengthened out almost to eternity, the brief expanse of time!

LIVERPOOL, JUNE 26. On approaching the higher latitudes, one of the most remarkable things that drew my attention, was the extreme shortness of the nights. It is not quite two hours from the end of the evening twilight to the first dawn of the morning. The sun sets, I think, at about half-past eight o'clock, and rises at half-past three in the morning. A gentleman on board said that he had read in