poet, Henry Longfellow. The poem belongs to America, to its history and natural scenery. There is much dramatic interest and life in it. The end, however, strikes me as melo-dramatic and somewhat laboured. The beginning, the descriptions of the primeval forests of the new world, the tall trees which stand like the old druids with long descending beards and harps, which sound and lament in the wind, is glorious, and is a chord of that fresh minor key, which pervades the whole song, about the peaceful persecuted people of Acadia—a beautiful but mournful romance, and founded upon history. This little book was given to me by William Howitt on my departure from England; and thus I have to thank him for this my first taste of American literature, in which I fancy I can perceive a flavour of the life of the New World.
How pleasant it is to be able to read a little, and to be able to lie and think a little also! People here show me every possible attention; first one and then another comes and speaks a few words to me. I answer politely, but I do not continue the conversation; I have no inclination for it. Among the somewhat above fifty gentlemen, who are passengers on board, there is only one—a handsome old gentleman—whose countenance promises anything of more than ordinary interest. Nor among the twelve or thirteen ladies either is there anything remarkably promising or attractive, although some are very pretty and clever. I am very solitary. I have an excellent cabin to myself alone. In the day I can read there by the light from the glass window in the roof. In the evening and at night it is lighted by a lamp through a ground glass window in one corner.
People eat and drink here the whole day long; table is covered after table; one meal-time relieves another. Everything is rich and splendid. Yes, here we live really magnificently; but I do not like this superabundance,
