presumptuous pope. Mine eyes have desired to witness scenes so long familiar to imagination, and become acquainted with men whose works I have read, and whose names I have loved to honor. All through youth, fancy drew vivid sketches of the vine-clad hills over which Italia's children gaze; of Rome, that city where proud Cæsar dwelt in his now ruined palace, and where the broken fragments of temple, forum, circus, and sepul chre are piled together in confusion; of Florence, that sparkling gem of the south, with its galleries of painting and sculpture, and the studios of its artists in every street; of Venice, with its wave-washed piles, its "bridge of sighs," its light, fantastic gondolas, propelled over sparkling waters, 'neath golden skies, to the simple melody of the boatman's song. The time when the reality should be substituted for the ideal, and I should cross the Tiber, by old, frowning St. Angelo, and pursue my way along the Via Appia, amid the crumbling monuments of the past, has been ardently desired.

A few months ago, the way was opened by which these desires could be gratified; and, with the threefold purpose of securing health, recreation, and knowledge, I left the familiar scenes of home, and set sail for the land of poetry and song. The sad parting, the tender farewell, the good-by song, and the last cordial grasp of the hand you remember, while the hearty welcome given to the wanderer, on his return, has not yet died out.

I took passage, as you know, from Boston, in the "Daniel Webster," the ominous name of one of the finest packet ships that ever sailed from port. The horror of the sea, which I had always felt, disappeared as I stood upon her deck, and contrasted her fine form and majestic proportions with the miserable craft which

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 on 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 exchanged with friends, and the good ship swung off. As she passed out of the harbor, a magnificent view of the city was afforded. The tall spires, the smoking chimneys, and the towering monument on Bunker Hill, tokens and pledges of national piety, industry, and patriotism, were the last objects that faded from our view. Passing, in rapid succession, the old fort, which grinned ghastly, as if she wished to pour her iron hail down upon us; the splendid hospital on Deer Island, smiling as if in recognition of our bloodless mission; the old light-house, which has long stood to guide the weary mariner to a safe anchorage, we were soon out on the open ocean. One can hardly tell the feeling of loneliness and desolation which comes over the voyager, as, for the first time, he loses sight of land. He is cut off from the great world. Above him is the broad expanse of sky; beneath him, a wide waste of waters; around him, the whistling wind makes melancholy music. The vessel, which, while lying at anchor, seemed to him a floating palace, now dwindles to a speck, and himself sinks down into insignificance, in the presence of the awful grandeur of the deep. Soon, however, this loneliness and the sense of the sublime are swallowed up in the irritating, exhausting sickness which usually attends the first voyage. I will not show my folly by any attempt to describe sea-sickness, or bewail what I suffered in crossing the ocean. No one thus afflicted, on land or ocean, secures sympathy. 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.

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.