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 serrices were that day held on board, in which orthodox

and heterodox, Arminian and Calvinist, Protestant and Catholic, Jew and Gentile, bond and free, united.

You would have been amused at the spectacle we presented, as, pale and cadaverous after our long seasickness, we two, friend M. and myself, stood up against the boat which was on deck, and, with our sermons in our hands, preached to the congregation which came from cabin, forecastle, and steerage. There was to me something sublime in the song which swept over the waters, and the prayer which went up from our floating Bethel to the God of ocean and storm. I never preached in such a chapel before, with the heavens for a bending arch, and the deep ocean for a carpet. But God preaches louder than man on the ocean. His voice is heard in the wild roar of the sea, and in the moaning wind, and the wide, wide expanse spread out north, south, east, and west.

Though we had a long and severe passage, we had but few dangerous storms; and those few were not considered by the sailors as at all uncomfortable. On the Saturday evening of that week when the severe and terrible storm swept along your coast, destroying property, demolishing light-houses, and sacrificing life, we experienced a gale, which, to those who had never seen the ocean in its fury, was truly appalling. Just at nightfall, a mast, to which was attached a tattered sail and the oil jacket of a sailor, drifted by. As it mounted on the waves, it seemed to nod mournfully, as if inculcating lessons of prudence. It appeared to foretell the storm, which soon was careering over the wide, watery waste. I had never before seen the ocean lashed into rage, and the impression made on my mind will never be erased. The night was dark; not a star sent down its twinkling rays; the rain fell in torrents;

the ropes rattled against each other; the hoarse cry of the officer on deck, and the almost chilling reply of the sailor,"Ay, ay, sir,"-mingled with the blast; deep thunders rolled, and vivid lightnings gleamed; phosphoric light seemed to crown every wave with fire, and our ship plunged about, as if mad with the storm which was crossing her track. To one who loves the grand and the sublime, I know of nothing finer than a storm at sea. All sickness, fear, and anxiety depart; every other feeling is swallowed up in the one awful idea; and the beholder almost wishes to be wrecked, stranded, or foundered, -any thing, that he may see the whole of such a grand catastrophe.

These storms give rise, sometimes, to most amusing incidents. One morning, while the company were at breakfast, the ship was thrown upon a wave which caused her to plunge and reel to such an extent, that those who sat upon one side of the table canted over upon their backs upon the floor, in the twinkling of an eye, while over them flowed streams of milk and honey, and upon them were piled meat and bread, table dishes and their contents. The ship's surgeon one day was administering a bowl of gruel to a patient, when, by a roll of the vessel, the contents of his bowl were discharged into his own bosom, and the doctor was forced unwillingly to take his own medicine.

Our passage was so long, that all measures were resorted to for amusement. One fine morning, while the ship lay becalmed in mid ocean, the intelligence was communicated to us that a bottle, containing some document, was floating near us. It was at once conjectured to contain an account of some shipwreck. Our interest was increased by the apparent zeal of the officers, who lowered the boat, and brought on board the

bottle. All gathered around to see it broken, and when the paper within was read, it was found to be a harmless joke, which had been perpetrated upon us for the purpose of keeping up our spirits another day. Out of it grew a mock trial, in which all the parts were well sustained day after day, even to the use of handcuffs and fetters.

On the 1st day of May, we saw land, for the first time, in the dim and misty distance. A long, narrow stripe, like a bank of mist, was pointed out as "Crow's Head." It was a joyful sight, and shout after shout burst from rejoicing lips. On the evening of next day, Cape Clear light was recognized, and, soon after, full in view was the coast of Ireland, with old, ruined castles on its frowning hills. We entered the Mersey on Sabbath morning, and soon, passing by the town of Birkenhead, the great commercial city of Liverpool was before us. Before leaving the vessel, we met in the cabin, and sung a song which had been prepared to the tune of "Poor old Ned," an air which had often been employed during our passage.

There is a good ship, the Daniel Webster is its name,
And it sailed long ago— long ago;

In spite of head winds, it has crossed the stormy main,
In the tracks where the good ships go.

Now, if we must part, be it so;

But we'll say farewell ere we go;

For we've no more a home on the ocean foam,

Since away we must go

we must go.

Adieu to the ship, and the captain true,

Who has kept us safe by his skill;

While each of his mates, and his jolly, jolly crew,

Has toiled with a right good will.

Now, if we must part, be it so;

But we'll say farewell ere we go;

For we've no more a home on the ocean foam,

As strangers we met, but with sympathetic hearts,
Ere we sailed, long ago— long ago;

Now, tears fill our eyes, as each one departs,
Ne'er to meet, perchance, here below.

Now, if we must part, be it so ;

But we'll say farewell ere we go;

For we've no more a home on the ocean foam,
Since away we must go — we must go.

The echo died away, and another song- sweeter, purer, and more befitting the sacred day went up to God from that company, about to be separatud, never to meet again on earth.

Be thou, O God, exalted high;
And as thy glory fills the sky,
So let it be on earth displayed,

Till thou art here as there obeyed.

Here our voyage was finished, and, with bandbox and bundle, we prepared to go ashore, very willing to exchange "life on the ocean wave" for life on the solid land, where knives and forks would not dance together on the table, and where our bed at night would not now and then take a notion to stand on the head-board or foot-board, thus reversing the position of the sleeper to a most uncomfortable degree, -but where his head. and feet would always be in their proper places, nú longer at the mercy of the storm, the winds, and the

waves.