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sometimes find their way across the deep. To tread there seemed more like walking on the solid land than on the quivering deck of a vessel, that might be stranded en the first shore, or foundered in the first gale.

On one Saturday morning in April, we embarked. Over the side of the vessel kindly salutations were exded with friends, and the good ship swung off. As he passed out of the harbor, a magnificent view of the city was afforded. The tall spires, the smoking himneys, and the towering monument on Bunker Hill, kens and pledges of national piety, industry, and pa

m. were the last objects that faded from our view. Fang, in rapid succession, the old fort, which grinned asty, as if she wished to pour her iron hail down 11s; the splendid hospital on Deer Island, smiling as fin recognition of our bloodless mission; the old giacuse, which has long stood to guide the weary zatner to a safe anchorage,- we were soon out on the One can hardly tell the feeling of loneliDe scean. zess and desolation which comes over the voyager, as, ire irst time, he loses sight of land. He is cut off the great world. Above him is the broad expanse : beneath him, a wide waste of waters; around he whistling wind makes melancholy music. The which, while lying at anchor, seemed to him a fazing palace, now dwindles to a speck, and himself own into insignificance, in the presence of the deur of the deep. Soon, however, this loneliand the sense of the sublime are swallowed up in the ing exhausting sickness which usually attends the Sage I will not show my folly by any attempt to sickness, or bewail what I suffered in cross

No one thus afflicted, on land or ocean, pathy. The poor landsman, however sick

he may be, is the object of ridicule, the butt of wit, and the sport of all. While he wishes to be cast into the deep, or disposed of in the shortest way, the more fortunate render themselves merry with his sorrows. My share of sea-sickness" belonged to me and somebody else," as a good-natured Irishman on board told me, as one day he saw me leaning over the side of the ship, wishing I were a fish, or a bird, or something else as insensible to the evils under which at that moment I was groaning. It was, however, some consolation to know I was not the worst on board, but in my turn could sport with those who were in deeper affliction.

When sea-sickness somewhat abated, and I could climb from my state-room to the deck, I began to study my fellow-passengers. The captain of the ship was a good-natured, frolic-loving man, who devoted himself to his passengers, of whom there were about fifty in the cabin, and a large number in the steerage. His experience and skill in the management of his vessel gave us a consciousness of safety, and his urbanity and kindness made the long voyage pass pleasantly away. On our arrival at Liverpool, complimentary resolutions were passed, to which we all gave our assent with hearty good will.

The oldest man on board was Mr. A., a native of Scotland a very fat man, who had a very lean wife. They were returning from the land of their adoption, to the land of their nativity, to attend the old kirk, and meet once more around the old hearth-stone. He was a fine specimen of an old-fashioned Calvinist, to whose ears there was nothing sweet in the tones of the church organ, nothing true in a written sermon, and whose eyes could see nothing but a retrograde in the movements of our times. Cromwell would have

delighted in such a man for a supporter, as he swept over fields of battle, singing the psalms of David. And yet, wedded to the past, and to the old Scotch Presbyterian past, he was a man of sincere and unaffected goodness, whose life, doubtless, is more correct than many who boast a more liberal faith.

The next oldest man on board was Mr. B., a jovial, hale old gentleman, who would tell, for hours at a time, the most improbable stories with as much gravity as if he believed them himself. He was, during the whole voyage, our mirth-maker general, rattling away at the most unreasonable rate, alike upon politics, religion, morals, and philosophy. If a joke was to be perpetrated, a freak of folly carried out, B. was ready. That he did not "sow all his wild oats" in youth, was very evident.

Next came Mr. C., a venerable man, upwards of sixty years, who was the first to retire to his berth at night, and the first to leave it in the morning; the first to come to the table, and the last to leave it; a striking instance of the value of good habits, and an illustration of the influence of a cheerful disposition to enable one to "hold his own," in vigor of body and sprightliness of mind. He had sent over to the "World's Fair" a lock, which, in his estimation, all creation could not pick, and a safe which all creation could not burn.

Next was Mr. D., a tall man in gray-gray hair, gray eyebrows, (gray whiskers, if he had any,) gray coat, gray pants, gray vest, and, for aught I know, gray boots. He mingled little with us, but moved about with a yellow-covered document protruding from the pocket of his great gray coat. He was an amiable man, and was crossing the ocean with his wife, to see the land and the graves of his fathers.

C

Next was Mr. E., a Hungarian, who boasted of his connection with the distinguished refugees. He told us of the shrewd way in which he managed to butcher his foes, and seemed to think cold-blooded murder a very harmless amusement. According to his own statement, he was a truer patriot than Kossuth, and a braver man than Ujhazy. He evidently was a fool, or thought we were fools. I set him down as a traveling pedler.

Besides these, we had men of all professions and employments-three clergymen, each of whom believed himself right and the others wrong; a physician, whom I should not be afraid to trust, provided I had no other disease than sea-sickness; a tallow chandler, who, having all his life made candles to light the way of others, was now going abroad to light his own candle; two young graduates of old Harvard, who, having finished their education, were going abroad in search of genius; a fine couple of English people, who were on their way to the scenes of their youth; a butcher and a baker; a watchmaker and a shoemaker; a dry goods dealer and a liquor seller; a file-cutter and a bricklayer; an old man nearly seventy years, and a child of three weeks; one fat as an alderman, and one dying in consumption; card players and Bible readers,—in fact, all sorts, white spirits and gray, forming one of the most agreeable and cosy companies that ever sailed from Boston.

We endeavored to amuse ourselves as best we could during the twenty-eight days we were on the deep; sometimes holding mock courts, and trying some of our fellow-passengers on fictitious charges; discussing grave matters of law, life, and logic; singing songs and psalm tunes; and, for the want of work, turned boys again, and went to play.

Our Sabbaths were spent according to our various ideas of propriety. The first holy day we were on the water was dismal in the extreme. But few of us were able to leave our beds, while from the poor, sea-sick objects of commiseration came many a doleful sound, and many a significant exclamation. The second Sabbath, too, passed very much in the same way. Storms swept over the deep, the billows ran high, and we were tumbled about in the most amusing manner. The most incorrigible were obliged to leave the cabin and seek their berths, and over all seemed to hang a deep, impenetrable gloom.

The third Sabbath there was an improvement. Early in the morning, we were aroused by the cry, "A ship! a ship!" and a few minutes afterwards a Bremen vessel, her deck covered with human beings, her flags flying proudly, her sails all set, came sweeping by, to land her living cargo on American shores. At eleven, my traveling companion, Dr. M., preached a sermon to the few who were able to crawl in to hear him. He used for his text that declaration of Jonah, "It is better for me to die than to live." Most who heard it were very much of Jonah's opinion, and perhaps no more appropriate theme could have been selected. The preacher flatly contradicted Jonah, declared that he knew nothing about the matter, and proved most conclusively that the poor sea-sick creatures on board, who almost desired to be cast out into Jonah's uncomfortable sepulchre, had better be quiet and contented where they

were.

The fourth Sabbath was a most lovely day. The sun arose in the morning in all his beauty, and poured a flood of splendor over the waters. Two religious services were that day held on board, in which orthodox