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216 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorkor. 
PRAYER OF THE WEARY. 
BY MRS. B. JESSUP EAME8. 
Softly —now softly lay my tired head 
Upon thy lap, 0 Eirth ! our kindest mother. 
Thy weary child by sorest suffering led, 
Cometh to thee her soul’s deep griefs to smother: 
Open thine arms ! she brings a wasted frame, 
An aching head unto thy narrow dwelling. 
She brings sad thoughts, which none may know or name 
But whose lone whispers to her heart are telling 
That, could she on thy pillow find repose, 
Her life-long sorrows would forever close ! 
Fold me—then fold me to thy sheltering breast, 
And let my sleep be dreamless and unbroken ; 
I pine, 0 Mother 1 for that blissful rest 
Which thou to many a human heart hast spoken ! 
Life hath hung, 0 ! so heavy on my hands— 
I am but here a pilgrim and sojourner ; 
Wuile memory, like a constant sentinel, stands 
Over the spirit that she holds a mourner ! 
In silence and deep loneliness I come, 
Darkened, and troubled,—take the wanderer home ! 
Yes ! Earth will give a sinking form a home— 
But Thou, who art my Merciful Forgiver, 
Shalt bid this weary spirit to Thee come 
And bathe its wing in Life's refreshing river: 
Thon hast been merciful to me, O God I 
And turned my heart to Thee, ’mid worldly dangers, 
And heard my prayer that, as l bore the rod. 
So thoughts of my last hour might not be strangers, 
But that my soul from earthly taint set free, 
In garments undefiled might calmly rise to Thee ! 
June 26, 1856. 
THE BRAVE BOY. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WEALTH NOT ESSENTIAL TO HAPPINES2. 
Among all the mistaken ideas as to the source 
of true happiness, there are none more false 
than that happiness is necessarily attendant 
upon wealth. It seems generally supposed 
that a fine house, furniture and equipages, 
would of course make the possessor happy, and 
they are envied accordingly. Yet there is, 
there can be, no supreme power in wealth 
alone, to give one moment of pure, sincere hap¬ 
piness, and all who are above absolute want, 
possess the elements of happiness as much, and 
more, than the richest monarch on earth. Deep 
within the heart, will ever be found, the source 
of joy, or sorrow, and many a face, which to the 
superficial observer wears a careless smile, car¬ 
ries throbbiug beneath, an aching, wretched 
heart! O, what a wrong world this is, and how 
beautiful we might make it, if we would ! 
Reader, whoever you are,—father, mother, 
husband, wife, son or daughter, sister or brother, 
—look well to your ways, and see if you are not 
responsible for the happiness or misery of a 
household, or of some living creature, some hu¬ 
man being; and remember that kindness— 
gentle, loving words, and caresses, prompted by 
pure affection—have often more power to bring 
the color to a fading cheek, and smiles to hearts 
and faces, than the most costly gifts g rid could 
purchase. Deem not, you who are heads of 
families, that when you have furnished food and 
drink, you have done all, and may give the 
harsh, unjust rebuke, or unkind word, with im¬ 
punity ; for be assured they fall with cutting 
and crushing weight upon some heart, whose 
wealth of love you are trampling beneath your 
feet, and which, if treasured, would be to you a 
mine of richest jewels, whose lustre but grows 
brighter as time rolls away. Is not the world 
full enough of bitterness, of sickness, sorrow 
and disappointment, and vexation, and why 
should we enhance it, by scattering cold and 
cruel words, and looks ? Is some one, within 
our sphere, less fortunate than we, is not that 
enough ? Or must we add the constant re¬ 
proach, and unfeeling taunt ? 
O, Love and Charity, are rare and blessed 
gifts!—and those who have not these, are 
neither happy, nor capable of making others so. 
Let each one of us, examine our own hearts, 
and therein we shall find the source of many an 
hour of sorrow to ourselves and others, which 
might be turned away by the merest kind and 
gentle word, or even look. Ah, let us not have 
to look back upon a stern, cold, unforgiving life, 
and see the sweet flowers we have crushed, 
whose perfume would have gladdened our path¬ 
way, while the piles of gold we have heaped 
have no power to send one ray of sunlight, or 
love, or comfort, into the cold and cheerless 
chamber of death ! Elise. 
Be Kind to Children. —How little do they 
who have grown up to man’s estate trouble 
themselves about the feelings of children 1 It 
would really seem as if they fancied children 
were destitute of all those fine and delicate 
springs of emotion, which are recognized in ma- 
turer life, and are the sources of joys and sor¬ 
rows. It is time the grown-up world went to 
school to some one who has not forgotten the 
tender susceptibilities of childhood; that it 
may learn to sympathize with the little suffer¬ 
ers. The germinating bud has within its fold¬ 
ed recesses all the beauty and the fragrance of 
the flower ; the gentle distillations of heaven 
sink as sweetly in its secluded shrine, and the 
sunbeams fall there as soothingly, as on the 
prouder petals that would claim all to them¬ 
selves. 
The tear itself often glows like a diamond on 
the cheek where the rose and lily blend. Its 
moral beauty as a perfect daguerre of compas¬ 
sion and benevolence, is still greater. It shone 
thus on the Savior’s cheek at the tomb of Laza¬ 
rus, and when he wept over Jerusalem. It still 
shines in his disciples in their mission of 
mercy. There are, indeed, tears of deceit, like 
those fabled of the crocodile. Let them pass. 
None but a fallen angel would gather them up. 
There are tears of gratitude, of joy. These 
sparkle like the morning dew. 
I was sitting by a window in the second 
story of one of the large boarding-houses at 
Saratoga Springs, thinking of absent friends, 
when I heard shouts of children from the piazza 
beneath me. 
“ Oh, yes, that’s capital! so we will! Come 
on now! There’s William Hale! Come on, 
William, we’re going to have a ride on the cir¬ 
cular railway. Come with us.” 
“Yes, if my mother is willing. I will run 
and ask her,” replied William. 
“ Oh, oh ! so you must run and ask your ma. 
Great baby—run along to your ma ! Ain’t you 
ashamed ? I didn’t ask my mother.” 
“ Nor I,—nor I,” added half a dozen voices. 
“Be a man, William," cried the first voice. 
“Come along with us, if you dou't wish to be 
called a coward as long as you live. Don’t you 
see we are all waiting ?" 
I leaned forward to catch a view of the chil¬ 
dren, and saw William standing with one foot 
advanced, and his hand firmly clenched, in the 
midst of the group. He was a fine subject for 
a painter, just at that moment. His flushed 
brow, flashing eye, compressed lip, and chang¬ 
ing cheek, all told how that word coward was 
rankling in his breast. Will he prove himself, 
indeed, one, by yielding to them ? thought I. 
It was with breathless interest I listened fo r 
his answer, for I feared that the evil principle 
in his heart would he stronger than the good. 
But no. 
“ I will not go without I ask my mother,” said 
the noble boy, his voice trembling with emo¬ 
tion, “ and I am no coward either. I promised 
her I would not go from the house without her 
permission, and I should be a base coward if I 
were to tell her a wicked lie.” 
There was something commanding in his 
tone, which made the noisy children mute. It 
was the power of a strong soul pver the weaker, 
and they involuntarily yielded him the tribute 
of respect. 
I saw him in the evening among the gathered 
multitude in the parlor. He was walking by 
his mother’s side—a stately matroB, clad in 
widow’s weeds. It was with evident pride she 
looked on her graceful hoy, whose face was one 
of the finest I ever saw, fairly radiant with 
animation and intelligence. Well might she 
be proud of such a son—one who could dare to 
do right, when all were tempting to the wrong. 
— Selected. 
A MOTHER’S GRAVE. 
Earth has some sacred spots, where we feel 
like losing the shoes from our feet, and tread¬ 
ing with holy reverence ; where common words 
of social converse seem rude, and the smile of 
pleasure unfitting; places where friendship’s 
hands have lingered in each others, where vows 
have been plighted, prayers offered, and tears 
of parting shed. Oh, how the thoughts hover 
around such places, and travel hack through 
unmeasured space to visit them. But of all the 
spots on this green earth none is so sacred as 
that where rest, waiting the resurrection, those 
we once cherished and loved—our brothers, our 
sisters, or our children. Hence in all ages the 
better part of mankind have chosen and loved 
spots for the burial of their dead ; and on these 
spots they have loved to wander at eventide to 
meditate and weep. But of all places even 
among the charnel houses of the dead, none is 
so sacred as a Mother’s Grave. 
There sleeps the nurse of our infancy—the 
guide of our youth—the counsellor of our riper 
y ears —our friend when others deserted us ; she 
whose heart was a stranger to every other feel¬ 
ing but love, and who could always find excuses 
for us when we could find none for ourselves — 
There she sleeps, and we love the very earth for 
her sake. With sentiments like these I turned 
aside from the gaieties of life to the narrow 
habitations of the dead. I wandered among 
those who had commenced life with me in hope. 
Here distinctions were forgotten ; at least by 
the quiet slumberers around me. I saw the 
rich and the great, who scorned the poor, and 
shunned them as if infected with the plague, 
quietly sleeping by their side.— Selected. 
THE SHIRTING HUES OF LIFE. 
STAR SPANGLED BANNER. 
Life has for an observer such a quick succes¬ 
sion of interests and amusing adventure, that it 
is almost inconceivable he should ever feel dull 
or we; ry of it. No one day resembles another. 
Every hour, every minute, opens new stores to 
our experience and new excitements to our cu¬ 
riosity. We are always on the eve and the 
morrow of some surprising event. Like the 
moth, we are forever flying towards a star—hut 
with this difference, that we attain it; and if 
sometimes we find the halo we fancied a glory 
is but some deceiving mist, at least we have 
learned a lesson. If we look upon life merely 
as humble students, we shall not feel any great 
bitterness at such disappointments. It is only 
when we hug our ignorance to our hearts that 
we are, and deserve to be, miserable—when we 
embrace the cloud, that we lose the goddess. 
Bm if we open the eyes of the mind, and deter¬ 
mine to be neither wantonly stupid nor inatten¬ 
tive, an enchanted world begins to rise from 
chaos. The aspect even of the room in which 
we sit grows lively with a thousand unsuspect¬ 
ed curiosities. We discern that the most ordi¬ 
nary person is invested with some noticeable 
characteristic. If we deign to look but for five 
pleasant minutes at any commonplace thing, 
we become aware of its peculiar beauty : and 
there is not a bird that wings through the air, 
nor a flower that blossoms in the garden; nor 
a fish that swims in water, but has its own sin¬ 
gular and delightful story .—Household Words. 
O say, can yon see by the dawn's early light, 
What so pi ondly we hiiiled at the twilight s last gleaming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 
O’er the ramparts we watched were to gallantly streaming, 
And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
Gave proof through the night that our Flag was still there. 
O say does thatstar spangled 1 a ino jet wave. 
O'er the land of the free and home of the brave ? 
On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
W here the foe's haughty host in dread silence repose3. 
What is that which the breeze, o er the towering steep. 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream, 
’Tis the star spangled banner, O long may it wave, 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave I 
And where is that band, who so vauntlngly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confi slon 
A home and a country shall leave ns no more 1 
Their blood has washed out their fo il footstep's pollution ; 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave. 
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave. 
And the star spangled banner, in triumph shall wave, 
O'er the land of the free and the home of tLe brave ! 
O I thus be it ever when freemen shall star d, 
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation I 
Blest with victory and peace, may he heaven r :scued lard 
Prsise the power that has made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
And this be onr motto, in God is our trust; 
And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave. 
O’er the land of tho free and the home of the brave. 
(fwfe,—^fcol mil) S-Ioitt. 
LETTER I.-THE VOYAGE. 
BY GLKZKX F. WILCOX. 
DEPARTURE PROM N iW YORK. 
The 25th of April I went on board of the 
packet ship Victoria, which was lying at anchor 
in the East River, and preparing to sail on the 
following day. The crew and most of the pas¬ 
sengers was on hoard ; and the deck was cov¬ 
ered with chests, boxes, spars, coils of rope, 
canvas, <fcc., and presented an appearance of 
confusion which the crew under the direction of 
the officers, were endeavoring to alleviate.— 
About halt of the sailors were drunk, and some 
of them being a little rebellious, were unhesi¬ 
tatingly knocked down by the mates. The 
very sunniest part of poor Jack s life, is full of 
peiil and hardships; but nowhere probably 
does he receive more brutal treatment than in 
the lines of European packets. The best class 
of sailors do not ship on these vessels, but go 
out in the Indiamen and other ships that are 
bound on long voyages to distant climes and 
lauds. 
The next forenoon the steam tug Hecla took 
us in tow, and proceeded down the hay. It 
was an exceedingly beautiful day. I he sky 
was clear and the sun shone warm and bright 
on the picturesque shores that surround this 
pleasant sheet of water. The passengers were 
all on deck, gazing at the enchanting scenery, 
and watching the numerous vessels, that, with 
broad sheets of snowy canvas spread to the 
breeze, were moving in every direction over the 
water. We were a joyful company ; for with 
the exception of myself, all were returning to 
their homes in their native land, and the pros¬ 
pect of meeting friends and relations, and of be¬ 
holding again the familiar scenes of early days, 
was the theme of many conversations, and on all 
faces rested aglow of satisfaction in anticipa¬ 
tion of the coming enjoyment. At four o clock 
in the afternoon we passed Sandy Hook, and as 
the wide ocean was open before .us, the steam 
tug and pilot were discharged, and spreading 
all her canvas to the breeze, the Victoria turned 
her prow toward the Old World. The wind,tho’ 
fair, was very light, and when evening came it 
died away, and through the entire night there 
was a dead calm. In the morning, however, it 
rose again, and freshened as the sun ascended 
the heavens, hearing the noble ship, gaily on 
her course, and then the lines of Bvron came to 
the mind of the wanderer. 
“The eallR were filled, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fust the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumnambient foam.” 
The bold highlands of New Jersey, and the 
whi'e extended shores of Long Island, grew 
more indistinct, and shortly after dinner, the 
last faint, cloud of land, vanished away between 
the sky and water. 
APPEARANCE OP THE OCEAN. 
To one who is unaccustomed to the ocean, a 
sea voyage presents a variety ot subjects for 
contemplation. As the favorable winds fill the 
sails and drive the vessel swiftly from the land, 
the numerous ships that continually hover 
about the ennance of a great commercial port, 
gradually disappear, and in a few days the eye 
wanders in vain for a single sail over the ex¬ 
panse of water. Your own ship is the centre of 
the scene around, and from it the ocean seems 
gradually to ascend until it meets the sky in the 
circling horizon. Above all bends the vault of 
heaven ; sometimes its pure deep blue, unspot¬ 
ted by a single cloud, and illuminated by day 
by the rays of the sun, that shine on the snowy 
sails, and flash brightly on the gladdened wa¬ 
ters, and gemmed by night by the moon and 
starry constellations. Sometimes light, fleecy 
clouds sail swiftly through the icrial ocean like 
ships upon the watery one beneath ; sometimes 
they gather and overspread the sky with a va¬ 
porous veil, and the rain falls soothingly on the 
heaving deep ; and again they pile up in black 
and frowning masses on tho edge of the distant 
horizon, and ride furiously on the wind, and the 
sea foams and writhes in the terrible tempest. 
Sudden and violent showers are distinguish¬ 
ed by the name of squalls from other storms at 
sea. In warm weather they are, as upon land, 
frequently accompanied by thunder and light¬ 
ning, which render them sublime and imposing, 
but sometimes the tall masts draw the electri¬ 
city. The chief danger, however, arises from 
the fierce wind which sometimes precedes them, 
and striking a vessel before she can take in sail, 
either capsizes her, or carries away the masts 
and rigging. But the grandeur of ocean is 
never fully displayed except in a gale, when, 
like aij angry lion he rises in his majesty and 
strength and shakes his mane in the buffeting 
wind. The ocean is never quiet. Even when 
there is a perfect calm, and not a cap full of air 
stirring, as the sailors say, and the leaden sky 
pours down a steady rain that lulls every ripple 
asleep, there is a « dead swell” on the water 
sufficient to impart a slight rocking motion to 
a ship. When there is a moderate breeze the 
water continually rises in heaps, which are often 
crested with fleecy foam, and frequently tho 
spray dashes into the air, and if the sun shines, 
a rainbow may he seen, for an instant, among 
the glittering drops. 
HEAVING THE LOG. 
The log, line and glass are the instruments 
by which the ship’s progress per hour through 
the water, is measured. Oue who has never 
seen, or read a description of the log, would im¬ 
agine from its name that it is a heavy, unwieldy 
instrument, requiring two or three men to man¬ 
age if , and in shape, perhaps, resembling a rail- 
cut from the butt end of a full sized tree; and 
after this effort of the mental powers, would prob¬ 
ably yet be puzzled to understand how a ship’s 
rate of speed is measured by it. Take a circu¬ 
lar piece of board a foot in diameter, and divide 
it into four equal parts, and one of those parts 
will constitute a log. A strip of lead is fasten¬ 
ed on that edge which formed part of the cir¬ 
cumference of the circle, to keep it upright 
when in the water. To the corners of the log 
opposite the lead a long light line is attached, 
marked at regular distances. These distances 
hear the same proportion to a mile that the time 
measured by the running of the sand in the 
glass does to an hour. The centre of the log is 
perforated by a small hole, into which a wooden 
plug is fitted. This plug is fastened to one end 
of a short line, and the other end is joined to 
the main line a few inches from the log. When 
the plug is inserted in the hole the strain comes 
upon the centre, and the lead keeping it up¬ 
right, it offers great resistance to being drawn 
rapidly through the water. The manner of us¬ 
ing it is as follows:—The line, which is wound 
upon a reel, and log is taken to the stern, and 
the log aud a few fathoms of spare line cast 
overboard on the lee side. A man stands by 
with the sand glass in his hand. As soon as 
the line begins to unwind from the reel, an offi¬ 
cer calls out to him, “turn.” He turns the 
glass, and when the sand has all fallen into the 
lower part, he gives the word, and a couple of 
seamen grasp the line and check it with a sud¬ 
den jerk, which withdraws the plug from the 
log, aud it can now be easily pulled in by the 
line that is attached to the corner. As the line 
comes in the knots are qounted, and their num¬ 
ber indicates the miles per hour that the ship 
is going. 
the ship in a gale 
Presents a variety of spectacles, some of which 
are very amusing to an unconcerned spectator. 
When you sit down at the table, you have a 
practical illustration of the tendency of liquids 
to seek their level by the overflowing of your tea 
or coffee on the table-cloth. The knife, fork 
and victuals on your plate must he closely 
watched, or you will suddenly behold them 
traveling across to your neighbors, aud if he be 
unguarded for a moment, he will find his own 
meat, gravy and all very unceremoniously de 
posited in his lap. Many of the passengers who 
are sea sick do not appear at the table, and ot 
those who do, some will only partake of a little 
tea, or soup or dry toast, and then with pale aud 
haggard countenances, hurry on deck or to their 
state room, where by actions' if not by words, 
they acknowledge the authority of Father Nep¬ 
tune. Walking the deck is almost an impossi¬ 
bility to any oue but a seaman, for besides be 
ing kept continually wet and slippery by the 
waves that break on the vessel, the position is 
so frequently changed that it makes it one 
of the roughest countries a man ever traveled. 
Trunks, boxes, and every thing in your room 
that is not lashed, take to sliding about in quite 
a lively manner. Y r ou find it exceedingly diffi¬ 
cult to stand still, and if you sit down you are 
incessantly shiftfhg about and endeavoring to 
maintain an upright position. When night 
comes you a,re fatigued as if you had been la¬ 
boring in the field, and your narrow berth, 
where all night you are tossed about, now on to 
your head and shoulders, now on to your feet, 
now to one side, and then to the other, while in 
your fitful slumbers you are tortured by hide¬ 
ous dreams, is a poor substitute for the bed in 
the still farm house chamber. In the morning 
instead of being refreshed and vigorous, you 
rise languid and sore, and probably in the first 
JULY 5. 
effort you make to dress, you lose your balance 
aud are thrown violently as the penalty of your 
want of skill or carefulness. 
up the channel 
Three weeks after losing sight of the Ameri¬ 
can shore, we approached the English Chaunel. 
For the most part, the passage had been ex¬ 
tremely pleasant, and for several days a westerly 
breeze sent us merrily along, until the evening 
of the 17th of May, when the captain informed 
us that we were about twenty miles to the 
southward of the Scilly Isles, and promised if 
the favorable wind aud weather continued, to 
show us an England landscape in the morn¬ 
ing on the coast of Cornwall. But as the sun 
rose the wind increased to a gale, and there 
came on so thick a fog, that about the first inti¬ 
mation we should have had of the proximity of 
land would have been the striking of the ship. 
Not being certain of our exact position, the cap¬ 
tain hove the ship to. By noon, however, the 
fog lifted a little, and the sun coming out, an 
observation was taken, and again we proceeded 
on our way. 
Banks of mist hung round the horizon, which 
rendered it impossible to see more than three 
or four miles. At six o’clock in the afternoon, 
while taking tea, and discussing the question 
whether a fog bank might be regarded as part 
of an English landscape, the thrilling cry of 
land ho ! came from the deck, and rushing up 
we saw dimly looming through the mist the 
bold headland of Start point on the coa3tof De¬ 
vonshire. It was merely the outline of the 
land, however, that we beheld, and tho mist 
soon shrouded it again. But the wind was fair 
and our course certain, and the following morn¬ 
ing we were abreast of the Isle of Wight; but 
the mist still prevented us from discerning any¬ 
thing hut the mere outline of its shores. We 
ran on before the favoring breeze, and at one 
o’clock made Beechy Head. Here for the first 
time I gazed upon the chalky cliffs of England. 
In the distance they appeared like a long, low 
white cloud, but as we approached, masses of 
shade rested in the deep furrows that time and 
tempest have worn in their faces. The mist 
rolled away, and I saw part of the city of Brigh¬ 
ton, famous as a watering place, and villages 
nestling in the coves, farm houses in the midst 
of orchards dotting the upland slopes, tho re¬ 
volving sails of windmills shining in the sun, 
green hedges surrounding green fields, roads 
winding along the valleys and over the eleva¬ 
tions, and on the summit of a hill, a stone 
church with a square tower that was half fallen 
to ruins. 
That eveniug I watched the sun go down in 
a cloudless sky behind the hills of Kent. The 
full moon rose in the east, and filled that part 
of the heavens with a golden light, such as we 
imagine rests on the vine clad hills and pleasant 
valleys of France, and the long rays, streaming 
across the placid waters, brightened the face of 
Shakspear cliff, which the great dramatist has 
rendered famous by his description in one of 
the scenes of King Lear, laid near the spot. 
“The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark, 
Diminished to her cock ; her cock a buoy, 
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge 
That on the unuumbered idle pebbles chafes 
Cannot be heard so high.” 
After passing Dover we were in the North 
Sea, and the following evening, the anchor was 
dropped at Gravesend, where we awaited day¬ 
light and a favorable tide to ascend the river. 
FROM GRAVESEND TO LONDON. 
Dame Fortune was disposed to favor us to the 
last. While we were making the latter half of 
our voyage on the Atlantic with a favorable 
breeze, a long continued gale was blowing down 
the Channel, but when we approached it the 
wind subsided and changed, and we sailed 
right before it, and now when we were to as¬ 
cend the river the warmest and pleasantest day 
that spring had yet produced, smiled upon us. 
In the morning, I heard the larks singing high 
up in the sky, and the breeze, blowing through 
the green groves, and over meadows and pas¬ 
tures that were yellow with buttercups, came 
sweetly scented to the nostrils. 
From Gravesend to London the Thames is 
very devious, and scarcely as wide as the Gen¬ 
esee river below Rochester. The shores are 
low, and embanked in many places. The water 
is the color of that in the Erie canal. There is 
no grandeur in its scenery. The meadows and 
pastures, kept green by the moist air, and 
feeding noble flocks and herds, reach back to 
upland slopes. These are divided into irregu¬ 
lar fields that are enclosed by hedges, and you 
can see the long and narrow footpaths winding 
along under them and sometimes crossing the 
middle of a field. There are mansions in the 
midst of groves and lanes. Stone churches with 
lofty spires, villages, windmillsand farm houses. 
At Woolwich, we passed several old war ships 
that had rendered England service, under the 
command of Nelson in some of her greatest na¬ 
val conflicts. They are anchored in the river, 
and converted into hospitals for seamen. At 
Greenwich we obtained a view of the Hospital 
and Observatory, and a little above passed the 
monster iron ship that is now building. When 
completed it will be the largest in the world.— 
As we proceeded the river became more dense¬ 
ly crowded with shipping ; the din of business 
came louder and more incessantly to the ear; 
the air grew thick with smoke, and you could 
view the sun as easily as through a piece of 
smoked glass ; the buildings were more com¬ 
pact, and had an old*r appearance, and finally 
we turned into a narrow passage and entered 
the dock. 
One unquiet, perverse disposition distempers 
the peace and unity of a whole family or socie¬ 
ty, as one jarring instrument will spoil a whole 
concert. 
... 
