unlike the English country, and towns, people, manners, mode of building, and so on. But England had in the place given population, laws, and tone of mind to the people of the new world. It was the old world in England which must become my standard of judgment as regarded the new. For that reason I came first to England, and to England I shall, please God, return when I have finished my pilgrimage on the other side of the ocean, in order to obtain a more decided impression, to form a conclusive judgment before I return home. We will expound together the runes in the native land of runic lore.
Now, however, I know what London looks like, and I shall not be amazed by the buildings of New York.
To-day, Sunday, has been to me really a festival day. We have had divine service on board, and that was good and beautiful. The passengers, about sixty in number, together with the crew of the vessel, all in their best attire, assembled in the great saloon on deck. The captain, a brisk, good-looking, young officer, read the sermon and prayers, and read them remarkably well. The whole assembly joined in the prayers and responses, as is customary in the English episcopal church. The sun shone in upon that gay assembly composed of so many different nations.
To be so solitary, so without countrymen, kindred or friends, in this assembly, and yet to know myself so profoundly united with all these in the same life and the same prayer,—“Our Father, which art in Heaven!”—it affected me so much that I wept (my usual outlet, as you know, for an overflowing heart, in joy as in grief). The captain thought that I needed cheering, and came to me very kindly after the service. But it was not so. I was happy.
Since then I have walked on deck, and read a poem called “Evangeline,” a tale of Acadia, by the American
