Roy and Música;-they for their sins, have voyaged in a little merchantman before. First of all, there was the ingress, very difficult for us, but infinitely more so, for an unfortunate horse, whom St. Roy chooses to take as a present for an old friend; the string that was fastened round the poor creature slipped to its throat when about half way between the boat and the ship, and the animal was suspended midway in the air. "Stop, stop!" cried the Italian groom, "she tumble in mare." "No, no," roared the captain, "he'll be hanged, by Jove!" Poor Carman did, however, escape his double death this time. As soon as we had cleared the port, the pilot left us, and the Italian rowers bending gracefully, set up a loud huzza, which was heartily returned, you may be sure, by our English sailors, who do not like to be outdone in noise. Dinner was served on deck, although it was quite a supererogatory ceremony; and Violet's Swiss lady's-maid, who has never seen a larger space of water than the lake of Geneva, and did not anticipate the pleasures of the sea, amused us excessively; for she walked up and down with a face indicative of deep despair, clasping her hands, and exclaiming, in a really tragical tone, "Ah, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu! et moi qui aime tant la soupe!" Then the noises!-chickens screaming, turkeys gobbling, men swearing, ropes creaking, children grumbling; the vain attempts at sleep, the reiterated questions of "what's o'clock ?" and "how is the wind ?" rain pattering; wind howling; going below for shelter, and coming up stairs again for fresh air; with dreadful anticipations of coming night. How will it be possible to pass twelve hours in the close cabin !-Of

the cabins themselves,-pigeon holes rather, it would be vain to attempt giving vou a sketch. Dismal, dark, hot, crowded beds perched up on shelves, which you may scarcely climb into without endangering your neck, and which, when once you are in them, give you an excellent idea of limbo, inasmuch as you can neither move hand nor foot: and if prompted by curiosity or anxiety, you do raise your head to see how the world wags without, bang goes your forehead against a hard wooden beam. I would have all who fret at minor miseries, take a voyage in a little merchant trader down the Adriatic, in the month of January ;—we do not know what ennui is. For three days and three nights, the winds roared and the rain poured, and we of course were all in momentary expectation of going down. Even exhaustion could not bring sleep, for the noise of the men's feet running about overhead: the screaming voices, vainly trying to overmaster the storm; the sea roaring and tossing about, now and then pouring in through the port-hole; the distant bellowing of the thunder; the violent plunging of the vessel, with the low creaking sound, that seems like her dying agony; altogether formed a concert of sweet sounds, which were anything but soothing. The storm arose in the middle of the first night, and the first indication I had of it, was seeing every thing on the table and on the drawers, which they had not had time to secure, quietly walk off, one after another on to the ground; cups and saucers, books, candlesticks, clothes,-away they all went, as if suddenly endued with life! Even the lamp, which Violet had had lighted, intending, innocently enough, to sit up and read all night, followed, and I leave you to guess

the pleasant consequences to our goods and chattels. But the worst of all was, that all this annoyance was for nothing; for on Monday morning we were farther from our place of destination, than on Thursday night. Sir Mark, who was heartily tired, wished to put back for Ancona, but this the captain refused to do.

After the tragedy came the farce.

The first consequence of quieter weather, and recovering health, was a general clamour for dinner. A boiled turkey was brought into the cabin, and Giuseppe watched his opportunity when the vessel, after a violent roll, poised for one moment on her side, to make a desperate attempt at carving. How the legs and wings at last were disjointed, will ever remain a mystery; and how he contrived, staggering at every step, to hand it round, is quite a secret ;— knives and forks were, you may be sure, quite dispensed with. May was delighted: she sat on the bench opposite, looking very hungry, with a wing of chicken in one hand, a potatoe in the other, her plate on her lap. She had not yet tasted a morsel, when, lo!—a sudden shake-down went the plate, smash! and stooping to pick it up, she let the potatoe goaway it rolled to the far corner of the cabin ;—before one exclamation had time to escape, came another jolt!-stretching out her right hand mechanically, to save herself from a tumble, away went the chicken after the potatoe, leaving the hungry victim minus a dinner. But the worst of all was, that at that identical moment, the captain's kitten came in, and holding undisputed right over all waifs and strays, she seized the morsel, and setting herself up exactly opposite poor May, began devouring it with a face of

most wicked exultation. Griselda surely never tried to eat her dinner in a storm at sea.

All this is very trifling to relate, dear Minna, is it not? but I wish to give you an idea of our enjoyments by sea, as well as by land. A picture, you know, would be but half complete without the minor touches.

After the first four days we were able to go on deck, and then came the delight.

It is happiness enough for me, with the delightful feeling of restored health, to sit on the deck and watch the sea in calm or in storm. The bright, the beautiful, the ever-changing in aspect, yet ever the same in reality.

How many claims on our sympathy has the sea which the green earth cannot boast! Over it we have watched our loved ones depart and come,-we,-after the lapse of years, to the spot which witnessed the parting agony; and there is the bright track still unchanged which they pursued.

Is there a corner of earth sacred to memory and to regret?-Pass a short time, and let us come to visit it, and change has been busy: flowers have grown, and weeds have arisen, and dead leaves have fallen; man, with his power to destroy, has been busy! Alas! we may not distinguish even the grave wherein our treasure lies, from the common earth around! But the sea, the boundless, the unchanging, is the same now as it was a thousand years ago! Yes! I love old ocean in the calm, when the waters are smooth and transparent as the sky they mirror, when the sea-bird stays his rapid flight to look on his pictured semblance,-when the fresh air blows cool

and pleasantly, and the little wavelets leap up laughingly to meet the warmth of the bright sunbeams! I love old ocean in the storm, when his dark waters heave up to the sky in moving mountains, when the waves come toppling and foaming on like winged destroyers, and the ship itself, a dark speck, tosses up, and anon down, in the very depth of the black abyss, and the very heart lies still with dread! It is one thing to read in carpeted hall and green bower descriptions of storms at sea-it is another thing to be in them to feel the excitement, the hope, the fear; to be drawn, as it were, to the very brink of death, and as suddenly rescued by an unseen hand, manifested in the stilling of the troubled waters,—in the calming of the fierce winds. Can the life thus perilled, and thus rescued, be ever afterwards all frivolous? Shall the images of beauty, of grandeur, and of desolation, then impressed upon the heart, pass away, and be utterly forgotten?-like the strings of a lute that are once touched to harmony, and then sleep for ever!-like the cloud passing over the bright sky, which is seen no more!" Ah, no! some portion of worldliness we must lose, when thus brought into contact with the sublimest scenes of

nature.

Then, too, our days are never monotonous. Today we pass an island called Pellagossa, a desolate speck in the ocean, on which a watch-tower and one dwelling house is built. One man dwells alone there, and he is stationed on it to prevent any one from landing, lest they should communicate the plague from Asia to Europe. What a history might the mind of that man furnish! Alone; from