ticular fibre in my body would quiver, if it were only placed upon an immobile element-upon free soil. One thing I have learned within a week, and that is, fully to understand the merits of Christopher Columbus and Captain Cook. Even in my most pluckless condition, pale, haggard and hirsute, I could have performed a genuflexion, with the ardor of Carlyle himself, to these heroes of the sea. I have wondered how any soul could feel grand or sublime upon the ocean. Lord Jeffrey has demonstrated that beauty and sublimity are subjective, not inherent to the objects seen, but depending upon the mind of the person seeing. The labyrinth of forms which emanate from the painter's pencil and distil upon the canvass the freshness of Nature's Beauty, are first pictured in his soul. The warm breath of enthusiasm passes over the gross materials of earth, solves them into the refinement of thought, and then the "imprisoned splendor of the soul" bursts forth to beautify and bless. If, therefore, there is to be found beauty or sublimity upon the ocean, the mental tentacula must reach out and find it. But when they are paralyzed and shrunken by this everlasting sea-sickness-where is the sub I beg pardon. Eureka! It is the sublimity Burke discovered in Spencer's Cave of Error,—the nauseate sublime! Its monosyllabic expression, is simply-Ugh! On Sunday we passed amidst six icebergs. They were said to be beautiful. No doubt. But if each iceberg had been as radiant with gold and orange, green and violet, and prismatic generally as Trinity church windows, with a Polar bear surmounting each glittering pinnacle, the scene could not have aroused my sense of the beautiful. I did not even go on deck to see them. The beautiful was drowned fathomlessly in the ocean of sea-sickness. These British vessels run up north and over the Newfoundland banks. They thus save upwards of 300 miles. We have passed very few vessels. It is not the route for sailing vessels. During the rough time upon the banks, we ran by a little. schooner, with no sails set, dancing away 1500 miles from either hemisphere-playing "hide and go seek" with the billows, as if it were in very deed, the fairy gondola of Phedra which passed on its way, unharmed, without oar, sail, or rudder. We also passed the U. S. steamship Humboldt, upon our fifth day out. It is her first trip. She had, however, only seven pieces of canvas spread, while we had ten. Our American ladies did not like the idea of having Uncle Sam thrown behind in that way. I am free to confess that not a sentiment of patriotism disturbed my sea-sick heart. I was helped on deck for a view of this strange meeting of the steamers in mid-ocean. We ran along side of her, only distant one half mile. We saluted with cannon, and she returned it gallantly. How finely she dashed the waves from her black prow! What a thing of life is the proud, throbbing steamer, conscious of dignity, sinewed with brass and iron, with a viewless power mocking human might, beating in its iron heart! This gigantic power has been evoked into being, by the genius of this latter time, the distinguishing feature of which, above all others, is expressed in Wordsworth's lines: An intellectual mastery exercised I would not decry the British because we are her rivals in this race of material progress. Let honor crown the AngloSaxon of both continents. These petty irritabilities which have sprung out of this oceanic rivalry, and which have even poisoned the sociality of our voyage, are beneath the dignity and generosity of our countrymen. For safety and speed, for careful management, good servants and skilful officers, the "Asia," at least, cannot be rivalled. We shall try the American line on our return, and may then express our preference. Until then, God speed the noble steamers of both nations upon their missions of interchange! us. My first nautical observation on deck was that of a little bird "all alone, all alone," seemingly exhausted, yet still flying in its own element. What a lesson does this äerial pilgrim teach We who are continually passing the "flaming bounds" of worldly wisdom, and striving for the unknown and unapproachable mysteries of God and of the spirit world-does it not teach us to be content in our own sphere of knowledge? How beautiful would be the song of that little chorister, "Upon a bough high swaying in the wind," in some sequestered nook, surrounded by leafy prospects and smiling cultivation ! How like a hymn to its Creator would go up its carol to the All Audient One; yet, here it is, with fagged wing and panting breath, contending with harsh, cold blasts, just able to overtop the snowy spray of the mid-ocean; deluded from its greenwood home by the persuasive mysteries of the unknown; a thing of song in a sea of chaos, soon to be whelmed for ever. Is it not an epitome of man, when he breaks the golden chords of that harmony which bind him to his God? As my strength increases, the sea grows on my esteem. The warmer air detains me above, where the employment of the eye gives relief and delight. The sailors are putting up their ropes into snaky coils. The sound of dish-washing unromantically mingles with the "profound eternal bass" of Ocean's roar. French fops and English cockneys (we have a motley crew) puff the light cigar vapor. It darts away to blend with the blue, that bends above us like an unbroken canopy, embroidered with a few fleecy clouds. What a circle the horizon describes in the clear air! I do not know whether it pleases most from its perfect geometry or its bewildering extent. The waverings of the water are softened by the distance. It seems as if GOD, as he sits upon the circle of the heavens, had by his power carved out a vast liquid gem, variant with lights and shades. The sea, as your eye ap proaches the edge of the horizon,--that mysterious and everchanging line bounding the visible sphere and dividing it from the invisible, grows darker, until upon its rim, where it clasps the sky, it is black; the result of perspective, heightened by the contrast between the dark water and the fair sky. What an infinity of angles the wind makes the sea make! Like the agitation of one overmastering thought upon the world of mind. Each medium reflects it similarly, yet with a marked difference. One, like a Bacon or a Newton, heaves it heavenward, flashing it white and beautiful. Its very foam attests the strength of the billow. Another receives the power, and with docile humility, projects but a tiny drop--it may be, but a drop from the spray of the mightier wave. The officers are accustomed every log, to drop a bucket, and take the temperature of the water. This is reported, perhaps to Greenwich; and there the immense repertory of isolated, meaningless facts is put into the crucible of generalization, and comes out vital principles of navigation. So much for a bucket of salt water, and the Baconian system of induction. We are almost to Cape Clear, the southern point of Ireland. I am a living witness that the account Tacitus gives of these parts is an unmitigated fabrication. Thule, Ultima Thule, is generally acknowledged to be Ireland, I believe. Tacitus says, that the seas around Thule were a mass of sluggish stagnation, hardly yielding to the stroke of the oar, and never agitated by winds and tempests. About as authentic and probable as Juvenal's poetic account of the sun, which he affirms could be heard hissing in the waters of the Herculean Gulf. Audit Hercules stridentem gurgite solem. All on the look-out for land! Man at the mast-head and officers with glasses! The hour of enfranchisement draws nigh. Wearied with gazing into the dim distance, I went below, to return on deck at dark. Clambering up the taffrail I saw horror of horrors! within twenty-five yards of us, a huge black rock, rising up in the gloom, like the back of Leviathan! I involuntarily dropped. We were in sight of land with a vengeance. This rock is within a few miles of Cape Clear. The light-houses showed that "sweet Ireland"-(sweet indeed to the longing eye), was on our left. The next morning confirmed our locality. It found us pushing up the Channel between Wales and Ireland, not far from Braichen Point. We moved in a direct line to Holyhead. Away to the west, in dim, graceful limning, float, cloudlike, the cerulean mountains of Ireland. The low coast cannot be seen. "Heavy a port!" growls the officer at the wheel-house. "Heavy a port!" echoes the mate at the compass. "Heavy a port, Sir!" drawls out the man from the tiller, and the deflection eastward continues. I observed an oval line of a most ethereal fineness upon the right. It grew, with our panting steamer's progress, into form, grand and palpable, until Holyhead burst upon us. With a glass we viewed the immense work begun by government here. A harbor is being built for the Cunard and mail steamers. Already it is connected with Liverpool by cars. As we hove in sight, we ran up signals, which were carried to Liverpool before us,—as was indicated by the line of steam which began to flow throughout the distant landscape. us. We took a pilot aboard and received from him one newspaper, which was cut into shreds and devoured by fourteen passengers at once. The breath of the fresh landscape is around. Now I can write like a native of this round earth; for land is all about The cliffs of Old England stand out in definite outline. Light-houses and mansions attest the presence of a superior civilization. How many thronging associations flit through the mind, as I recall, that here, not in fancy's eye, but in reality, stands the little isle of power-the home of OLD COKE and CROMWELL, of SPENCER and CowPER, of CHATHAM and CANNING, and all the host of glorious minds with whom so much of life has been passed. Aye; in very truth, my eye has greeted |