sails, you know, being to the regular rigging, what lace-edging and flounces are to a lady's dress.

The winds bore us within two days' sail of Iceland. In those high latitudes, the phenomena of the night were a curious novelty to most of our company. The sun would linger on the horizon till nearly nine, and indeed at ten o'clock one could read in the cabin, beneath the dim sky-light.

The sun-sets were gorgeous and peculiar; the huge luminary shooting up into the pale blue sky, broad, quivering pencils of light, like that "flaming brand" which the archangel waved before the gate of Paradise; or rolling along the horizon like a wheel of fire; or poised, as if shrinking and shivering at the inevitable plunge.

And then the full moon would come up, pale as the face of a nun; and by and by a few stars withdraw timidly the gossamer veil of the twilight, and disclose their blushing beauties to the sea. The shadow of the tall ship lies upon the water, swaying in and out with the swelling and sinking waves, like a huge banner on the wind, and mottled with phosphoric balls as with stars. The long, white bow-sprit goes beckoning in the moonlight, like the finger of some mighty phantom. All on board is still. The decks are deserted; only the helmsman and the watch remain; and finding your way to the prow, you look down upon the seething, bubbling water below, and the long lines of milky foam, and the g.owing phosphoric flakes that fall off from the sharp keel. Thep you creep out upon the jib-boom, and turn and gaze upon the mass of canvas that swells up from the vessel like a tower of ivory.

Your sensations, at such an hour, are utterly undefinable. Three objects, the chosen emblems of sublimity and beauty, alone occupy your attention. The hoary ocean-"image of eternity"—the moon, round as your horizon; and the ship, the most consummate specimen of the handiwork of man. A feeling of utter loneliness and helplessness comes over you- vague, infinite, irrepressible longings after the unknown and unattainable; and as the moon, so tranquil and motionless in heaven, is slowly drawing towards her, the mighty ocean surge, so do scenes like this stir to their very depths the dark, laboring waters of the human soul.

The only unpleasant incident of our trip, was our approach to the icebergs, when upon the Grand Bank. To sailors, as well as landsmen, their presence always causes a little anxiety; more especially from the reason that even the ordinary means of escape from disaster are taken away. In the neighborhood of the icebergs, it is always more or less foggy. They seem to shroud themselves in mist, as if to steal upon you unseen, like monsters seeking their prey. Long before evening, this fog descends, and often so thick is it, that one mast of the vessel is nearly invisible from the distance of another. And then the fog resembles in color the iceberg itself. A double and triple watch was frequently placed along the leeward side of the vessel, and at the

prow, to keep a sharp look-out; but it was soon withdrawn, and the vessel left to go where Providence might send it. Every few moments during the afternoon-for the fog gathered at three o'clock -and night, the captain, to ascertain our probable distance from the danger, dropped the thermometer in a bucket of water hoisted from the ship's side. We passed through a field of floating ice, but without receiving a scratch. There was less gaiety than usual on board the ship, in the evening, and much thanksgiving in the morning.

We at length cleared the banks, and after beating about three or four days, against a pretty lively head wind, took the pilot, off Montauk, and the next night dropped anchor in the Lower Bay. There was a loud, whirring sound, like the running down of a town-clock, a sharp click, and then all was still. Every body was in his berth, but nobody rose, because every body knew the meaning of the strange sound. It was the prettiest bit of music my ears had listened to, since the last solo of Lablache. But it started no enthusiasm. I lay awake, calmly reflecting on the past, before whose brilliant scene the green curtain had just descended, perhaps never again to rise. I had passed in safety through many dangers, seen and unseen; it was an hour for solemn thought. I repeated to myself that beautiful hymn of Addison's, and soon fell into a pleasant sleep. When I arose in the morning and went on deck, the sun was shining brightly on the hill-sides of Staten Island. The ship soon weighed anchor, and passed up through fleets of vessels, some outward bound, and others that had run in with itself. A steamboat soon hauled along side, and the passengers descending upon her hurricane deck, were soon transported to the docks. A moment after, and we struck foot on New York pavement, and with a general shaking of hands, bade each other, perhaps a last good-bye.

Albany, 1848.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH JOHN GURNEY.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

I well remember him,-his noble form
Erect and graceful, and his speaking brow
And eloquent words. For he had been the guest
Of this New World, and even had bowed himself
'Neath my vine-cover'd porch, with his pure smile;
And in my humble parlor lingered long

His voice, like an imprisoned melody.

Philanthropy was his, in every form
Of earnest piety, or enduring toil,-
While for the brotherhood of man he strove
Untrammel'd and untiring. From the lip,
And from the pen, and life, alike it flow'd,
Cheering the sad of heart in every clime-
A stream, without declension.

Mild, yet firm,

In duty's path, his calm eye look'd above
Time and its trifles.

Courteous, and benign;

His social sympathies were prompt to aid
His labors in the Gospel, breathing balm
O'er soften'd hearts. The child of ignorance
Listened with wondering trust, to him who spake
The truth in love; and with a throbbing breast
The prisoner hail'd him thro' his darken'd grate,-
Blessing the brow that beam'd with love to all
Whom God had made.

Yet now, methinks, I hear
O'er Ocean's wave, the tread of echoing feet,
Bearing him to his burial. Multitudes,
In solemn guise, press onward. Woe is there,
As though a whole community deplor'd

Father, and friend. Commerce foregoes its thrift, And gaiety its revel. Every sect

Mingle their tears.

Hath prince, or hero found
Such honor'd grave,-who for ambition's sake
Crush'd out the sacred life the Almighty gave,
And call'd it victory? Wins bigot zeal
Such mourning of the heart, that in the robe
Of Ebal's cursing clad, hath fiercely warr'd
With the complexion of its brother's creed,
And scowling trampled on the Master's rule
Of Charity?

Gifted, and good, farewell!

True patriot, and true christian, peace and love,
Thy guests on earth made thee at home in heaven,
So teaching thee its language, that thy deeds

Spake forth its dialect, by night, and day.
Oh favor'd of that Spirit, early sought
By thee, in sacred silence of the soul,
May we the pattern of thy blameless life
Pursue, and find its close,-eternal gain!

RECOLLECTIONS OF SCOTLAND.

From a Gentleman's Journal.

It was a bright morning in July, when I left that bustling city, Glasgow, to take a short trip through the Highlands. Everything was life and animation. Porters were busily engaged in conveying luggage on board the steamers. Runners from the various companies were waylaying unfortunate travellers. My trip by steamer being only to Dumbarton, I was soon quietly allowed to pass. In a few minutes, all was announced ready, and we were fairly started for the Highlands. The Clyde at Glasgow becomes very narrow, and the navigation from Greenock to Glasgow, at all times is difficult, owing to the shallowness of the river. Having now arrived at Dumbarton Castle, (which is built on a huge black rock rising from the Clyde,) once so ably defended by that patriot, Sir William Wallace, but at last shamefully betrayed by his own countryman, Sir John Monteith, who suffered an ignominous death. in London, but not having time to go over the castle in this tour, I contented myself with merely taking a passing view. Dumbarton is very picturesque; numbers of neat cottages are scattered on the river's bank. We now left our steamer and took a carriage to the foot of Loch Lomond; the country was very beautiful. We passed some delightful summer retreats, occupied by wealthy merchants. Several ladies and gentlemen came in the party, which made it much more agreeable. We now suddenly came in view of the Loch. Ben Lomond's snowy top, we could perceive in the distance, rising far above the clouds. The emotion I felt, I can scarcely describe. Sir Walter Scott's beautiful work was brought to mind, with recollections of border chiefs and those deadly feuds which caused so much noble blood to be shed, and ultimately brought about that union with England, which fortunately has been so much more to her advantage than to poor Erin. We now drove to a small hotel, where a good plain breakfast was laid. The steamer which was to convey us up the loch, was quietly lying in front of our hotel, and fifteen minutes were allowed us, to partake of the good things before us.

having expired, we had our luggage conveyed on board, and were steaming our way up the loch. The scenery, in many parts, is very grand; mountains rising on all sides, while numerous islands are interspersed in various parts of the loch. Numbers of red deer. were seen quietly grazing, while here and there were to be seen a hunting box or cottage on the islands, occupied by game keepers. Some parts of the loch are very narrow, while others are ten and twelve miles broad. We now were approaching Ben Lomond, which rises almost perpendicularly from the water to the height of some thousand feet. The sides were thickly shaded with pine,

with here and there a huge rock protruding. A thick mist hung over the top. Had time permitted, I would have liked to clamber up its sides, the view to be obtained, fully repaying for the trouble and fatigue. Numerous caves were pointed out to us in the rocks, one in particular, named after that famous freebooter, Rob Roy, where he and his men used nightly to resort. We were also shown the spot where he lies buried. Having now arrived at the head of the loch, several of our tourists left us, taking the western route through the islands. The distance is sixty miles from the foot to the head of the loch, and was performed in five hours. Our boat now retraced her way to a landing, called Inversnaid, where we engaged ponies to convey us across a portion of the mountains to the foot of Lock Katrine. The true character of the wily Scot was here shown to us. After endeavoring to extort double price for the use of their ponies, they espied one of our ladies who had a trunk somewhat larger than was altogether prudent for travelling over these mountains, for conveying which they resolutely demanded twelve shillings. Having no other alternative than to pay or leave it behind, our fair friend was obliged to comply with their demand. It was a source of merriment for us, at our lady's expense. Travellers must always expect to pay little extras of that kind, and these poor Scots depend solely on what they gain in this way, for their support through the winter. One of the chief objects of interest on the route, was the cottage in which Helen McGregor was born. A number of little curiosities were shown us. We now reached the Loch Katrine. A small hut for the registry of visitors' names and the sale of pure wiskey and-oat cakes, was the only place of accommodation afforded us. An eight-oared cutter being ready, we took our seats to be rowed to the Trossachs, two miles above the head of the loch. Nothing could equal the beauty and sublimity of scenery now around us; we were hemmed in by mountains, rising many hundred feet above the lake. Few places are so fit for meditation as the bosom of a quiet loch. When far away from home, isolated from the busy world, then can we gaze on the wonders of nature, and admire the mighty works of our great Creator.

Having heard that the echo was repeated many times, on this loch, I asked one of our worthy Scots to give us a shout. He did so, and it was distinctly reëchoed all around us. We were now

drawing near the famous island, where the lady is so beautifully described by Scott, in his poem of the Lady of the Lake, as appearing to King James. One of our boatmen gave us a recitation from that lay, which was certainly very appropriate to the occasion. We landed on this lovely island, formed by nature with all that inspires a poet, there plased in a lake, hemmed in on all sidec by mountains, while rich shrubs and wild flowers were luxuriantly flourishing around; fit home for aerial spirits and speil-bound fairies of our imaginations and our dreams. Having again embarked, one of our boatmen sang us Burns's Highland Mary. The