We sail about three knots only. Six ships in sight afterwards Two homeward-bound; four or five going out.

seven.

October 8.-The sky nearly cloudless and bright. The sea gently rippled—almost a mirror. Very cheering is the visiting and companionship of land-birds. They bring a pleasant home-feeling with them. On Sunday a willow wren was with us nearly all day, flitting about, below and above. Yesterday we were honoured by a migratory wheat-ear. To-day a swallow has been skimming about us. Very welcome it is, although silent. We only listen for its twitter to see old chimney-tops, houses, and homesteads come vividly before us. The dormant history of a life awakens in the song of a familiar household bird. Sea-birds we see also : they belong to the present, land-birds to the past.

The range of sea prospect is less extensive than I had expected, and less diversified with objects-ships, animals, birds, fish, &c. but these may increase as our keel drives on more largely into the capacious deep. We are now in lat. 47° 64' N., long. 8° 35' W.

October 9.-Yesterday we saw some Mother Carey's chickens. To-day it is stormy. Wind against us till noon, then it changed in our favour. Making famous way, eight knots per hour. More petrels seen. No ship in sight all day. Lat. 46° 24' N.

October 10.-Again very stormy. A large quantity of porpoises leaping and cutting through from wave to wave, round the prow of the vessel. A brig seen on the lee-bow. Very faint indication of there being such a thing as a sun; the captain not able to take an observation.

A person observed to the chief mate that it was likely to blow a gale by-and-by. "A gale!" said he, "what is it now?" The uproarious jolly sport of the porpoises in the morning was prophetically malevolent, as though they enjoyed the coming of a storm for us. Lightning faintly seen in the distance towards night. October 11.-All the night has been stormy and dark. Everything capable of giving out sound, doing its best to entertain us. Not a pot or pan but must present us with its natural_music. What a rattle, jingle, crackle, and splash ! Wood and water dash and groan. A confusion of all inanimate languages, animated by the tempest. About two o'clock the wind was one overwhelming flood of sound-then suddenly fell a torrent of rain-and as suddenly all was still-the sails all hanging lifeless round the masts. The wind had at once shifted into the opposite quarter. All cry aloud "the ship taken a-back!"- -in a minute, however, the wind filling the sails from the right quarter. The gale very strong; to land-lubbers rather fearful, Daylight

very anxiously expected by all of us. A bright morning-too bright-dawns on the gloomy and terrible darkness and storm: a glittering brightness as of rain. Rain, and a most luminous rainbow-gold, purple, and vermilion-spanning the wild and mountainous ocean. It fades away softly as a dream: a darkcloud follows it: the wind again piping loud-the air cold: a deluge of hail the consequence. All still in a moment: the wind gone as though we had been dreaming: again the old cry, "the ship a-back!" and again in a few minutes all is right. To know that the ship was taken "a-back," as seamen term it, was a circumstance of terror when winds were strong, as vessels are known to have gone down stern-foremost when so situated: so then, when we heard the cry of "all right," we were suddenly relieved of a great burthen of apprehension.

Now we speed along pleasantly, eight knots an hour. Fine now and breezy, the billows riding high, foam-crested. Very animating sunshine. The sky all bright azure or fleecy cloud.

About two o'clock we see a vessel a-head, coming full sail towards us. Consequently she is tacking against the wind. All is animation on board. The poop, the forecastle, the rigging, crowded with eager expectants all anxiously looking on. The vessel proves to be a Belgian of about 200 tons burthen. She nears us, cutting along like a fairy, with magical grace and lightness; sometimes nearly hidden from us by the interposing rising and falling waves. Had the sea been less billowy we should have spoken her, the captain getting out his trumpet for that purpose. She rode by us just out of hearing her people busy as ours were with telescopes. They would read our ship's name, as we theirs, and report us in London, if she touches there-or in Holland.

The scene was novel and delightful-the day so brilliant and spirit-stirring there was sunshine in our hearts—let us hope there was in theirs.

How most anxiously desired, and how full of pleasure when obtained, this meeting of ships on the solitary ocean!

The whole of this day making good way, about eight knots an hour. Opposite Oporto. Lat. 43° 16′ N., long. 11° 20′ W. October 12.-A dawn partly bright, partly clouded-slight showers followed by a succession of the most brilliant rainbows. Wind brisk: going nine knots an hour. I have been watching in idle moods the rich marbled appearance of the sea by the ship's side. The deep dark blue of the water broken up by the progress of the vessel through it into a lighter colouring-black, with snowy foam: very beautiful.

Beyond all imagination is the silence of the ocean! I sometimes go on deck at midnight when there is nothing steadfast in our watery world but the stars. Far-reaching and dread is the boom of majestic billows, the sound at times fading far off. We exclaim with Byron,

"O storm and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!"

But to me more strong, and most perfectly absolute, is the deep and solitary quiet of the ocean. It seems to me that the universe is listening infinitely; the stars twinkling lights in the vast temple; whilst the dash and welter of waves indicate, as by a minute-finger, the capacious going on of ages of Eternity.

Yesterday the first shark was seen. 12° 45′ W.

Lat. 41° 11' N., long.

October 13.-Wind still fresh and favourable.

Yesterday we were opposite Oporto, now we expect very shortly to pass Portugal altogether. Stormy petrels more abundant.

Commend me to a Jack Tar for heartiness and frank joviality. We last night gave Jem Cooney, one of our sailors, when going upon watch, a glass of grog. He drank our healths in a respectful manner-then in a facetious manner; and with a cheery countenance, said he would give us a seaman's toast : it was this"Here's to the man who eats his own plate, sleeps every night in his own coffin, and every day walks over his grave." A landsman would not at first understand this. The sailor's biscuit is his plate-his hammock is his coffin-and the sea, over which he is perpetually pacing to and fro, is his grave.

We are already past Portugal.

Another vessel over the weather-bow. Furl our sails to come near her. She proves to be a French brig from the Mediterranean to Havre. Our cook, being a Frenchman, speaks her. She has few people on board, whilst we make a goodly show; all out, old and young, all eager for the sight. The ship's name is Charlotte Auguste. Perhaps our friends in England may now hear of us. Our captain sets the seafaring French people higher in our estimation for politeness and punctuality than they were before, and certainly we did not heretofore lightly esteem them. He says we may more certainly depend on their good offices than on those of our own nation; John Bull being too often careless, negligent, or forgetful.

It is Sunday, and there has been service as before. The very ocean seems aware that it is a holy time, for although the morning was cloudy, the sun now shines upon us from the purest

azure-a divine afternoon. The billows seem to have checked half their roughness-dancing and glittering in the sun.

October 14.-How rich, breezy, and summer-like is this day: full of southerly feeling. Called on deck to see some whales: two rather small and one large. Wind fresh. Ten knots an hour.

October 15.-Wind rough, but to compensate for a little tossing, in the right quarter. We expect to pass Madeira in the night. I hope not. The sea is to-day more beautiful than I have yet seen it. I could watch it for hours: how perpetually changing from mountain to valley-purely blue, and crested everywhere with foam.

A Dutch barque has crossed over to us; some of our simple people said she was a pirate; but when our colours went up to the mast, hers went up too, and off she passed behind us away towards the east.

Our ship is heavily laden; sails consequently very slow, and is to our frequent mortification left behind by other ships. She will not, to use Byron's words,

"Keep pace with our expectancy, and fly."

Now Mother Carey's chickens get very common and familiar: whales, sharks, and sea-birds: terns, and large, clumsy, blackrook-looking birds-boobies. Lat. 35° 13′ N.

October 16.-The sea never looked more animated and beautiful than now: reflecting as it does the deep azure of the heavens. We are driven briskly before the wind, and the ocean is blown into mountainous ridges after us, dashing up high, and ending in sheets of foam. The deep blue colour of the water and the snowy foam contrast well.

This morning, at five o'clock, Madeira was seen to the east of us twenty leagues off, so that our hopes of nearing and touching there are at an end. This morning there was a birth on board, a son born to Mr. G. Greeves, and yet there were enow of us, unless we knew how, by humility and goodness, to maintain or add to the true dignity of human nature. There are already too many of us always seeking for some paradise, yet wandering away from it. How strange! the new emigrant goes to Australia without his knowledge or consent. Well, other children do the same; most of us do so, who are full-grown children. Leaves blown about by the winds are we, yet we persevere in our own wisdom; deeming that we shape our own destinies, when nothing can be further from it.

October 17.- Lat. 31° 32′ N., long. 18° 53′ W. The very

finest day we have had; yet not exactly what we wished for. " for a strong and stormy gale." to urge us onward! After so much time lost in the Channel, we never go fast enough. We this evening had the most resplendent sunset-" Glory beyond all glory ever seen." Wordsworth, who described, in Miltonic blank verse, 66 an evening sunset on the Lake," should have seen this on the ocean. How ardently did we desire that all our friends were with us just to participate with us in this vision, for we felt how utterly poor would be either prose or verse for its description! How we watched silently its progress, still looking upon the west, whilst the time seemed to dilate itself from moments into hours; our eyes resting fixedly on the deep repose of the clouds and the sky, rich with all hues—fading— fading into a calm and most luminous moonlight! To have seen the clouds, so warm and brilliant-rubies and sapphires, whiten insensibly to the purity of pearls, and to become like angels' wings. The night, balmy and bright, was a fitting counterpart to the day. Some grampusses seen to-day.

October 18.-Wind stronger; going seven knots an hour; yesterday only two. Not a vessel in sight; not a bird or a fish to break the weary monotony of sky and ocean. We are appa

rently climbing the same watery hill, and are as far as ever from the top. This morning we have been anxiously on the look-out for a sight of one or more of the Canary isles. But the day has softly, hour after hour, faded into night-into a most beautiful moonlight night, and we have looked vainly for Palmo and Ferro.

October 19.-" Land! land!" Land it surely is. It has fixed outlines; whilst the clouds, though very tranquil and landlike, will be found, if we watch steadfastly and patiently, to vary. It is an island, and Palmo. Now we have a more clear delineation before us of another island-Ferro it must be. We are nearer to it, and see, as we get still nearer, the bold lofty headlands and precipitous rocky shores. A fortnight has elapsed since we saw land, and there is something very pleasant in the consciousness that we are once more near it. Then the weather is so delightful too, fine and breezy. Now there is some new revelation in the distance, all eyes are occupied, and more quick and eager and interesting is the conversation of all who crowd the deck, poop, and forecastle; it lies far off, and is seen rising boldly into the heavens. All exclaim, "It is the Peak of Teneriffe." St. Helena lies on before us; the island of the chained eagle of France; and his grave. One of our seamen has been there. He says, "When I looked on his grave and its