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travels. It
seemed to me that a more humble method of seeing the world would
place within the power of almost every one, what has hitherto been
deemed the privilege of the wealthy few. Such a journey, too, offered
advantages for becoming acquainted with people as well as places--for
observing more intimately, the effect of government and education, and
more than all, for the study of human nature, in every condition of life.
At length I became possessed of a small sum, to be earned by letters
descriptive of things abroad, and on the 1st of July, 1844, set sail for
Liverpool, with a relative and friend, whose circumstances were
somewhat similar to mine. How far the success of the experiment and
the object of our long pilgrimage were attained, these pages will show.
* * * * *
LAND AND SEA.
There are springs that rise in the greenwood's heart, Where its leafy
glooms are cast, And the branches droop in the solemn air, Unstirred by
the sweeping blast. There are hills that lie in the noontide calm, On the
lap of the quiet earth; And, crown'd with gold by the ripened grain,
Surround my place of birth.
Dearer are these to my pining heart, Than the beauty of the deep, When
the moonlight falls in a bolt of gold On the waves that heave in sleep.
The rustling talk of the clustered leaves That shade a well-known door,
Is sweeter far than the booming sound Of the breaking wave before.
When night on the ocean sinks calmly down, I climb the vessel's prow,
Where the foam-wreath glows with its phosphor light, Like a crown on
a sea-nymph's brow. Above, through the lattice of rope and spar, The
stars in their beauty burn; And the spirit longs to ride their beams, And
back to the loved return.
They say that the sunset is brighter far When it sinks behind the sea;
That the stars shine out with a softer fire-- Not thus they seem to me.
Dearer the flush of the crimson west Through trees that my childhood
knew. When the star of love with its silver lamp, Lights the homes of
the tried and true!
Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity
of "creature comforts," a sea-voyage would be delightful. To the

landsman there is sublimity in the wild and ever-varied forms of the
ocean; they fill his mind with living images of a glory he had only
dreamed of before. But we would have been willing to forego all this
and get back the comforts of the shore. At New York we took passage
in the second cabin of the Oxford, which, as usual in the Liverpool
packets, consisted of a small space amid-ships, fitted up with rough,
temporary berths. The communication with the deck is by an open
hatchway, which in storms is closed down. As the passengers in this
cabin furnish their own provisions, we made ourselves acquainted with
the contents of certain storehouses on Pine St. wharf, and purchased a
large box of provisions, which was stowed away under our narrow
berth. The cook, for a small compensation, took on himself the charge
of preparing them, and we made ourselves as comfortable as the close,
dark dwelling would admit.
As we approached the Banks of Newfoundland, a gale arose, which for
two days and nights carried us on, careering Mazeppa-like, up hill and
down. The sea looked truly magnificent, although the sailors told us it
was nothing at all in comparison with the storms of winter. But we
were not permitted to pass the Banks, without experiencing one of the
calms, for which that neighborhood is noted. For three days we lay
almost motionless on the glassy water, sometimes surrounded by large
flocks of sea-gulls. The weed brought by the gulf stream, floated
around--some branches we fished up, were full of beautiful little shells.
Once a large school of black-fish came around the vessel, and the
carpenter climbed down on the fore-chains, with a harpoon to strike
one. Scarcely had he taken his position, when they all darted off in a
straight line, through the water, and were soon out of sight. He said
they smelt the harpoon.
We congratulated ourselves on having reached the Banks in seven days,
as it is considered the longest third-part of the passage. But the hopes of
reaching Liverpool in twenty days, were soon overthrown. A
succession of southerly winds drove the vessel as far north as lat. 55
deg., without bringing us much nearer our destination. It was extremely
cold, for we were but five degrees south of the latitude of Greenland,
and the long northern twilights came on. The last glow of the evening
twilight had scarcely faded, before the first