clear voices, sing hymns and songs remarkably well together. It is very charming and beautiful. The tones remain with me at night like consolatory spirit-voices, like the moonlight on the swell of the waves.
Last night, when the sea was rough and there was even some danger, when every movable thing was tumbled about, and I thought of my home, and was in “a shocking humour,” and acknowledged it even to my fellow-voyagers, those three voices sang hymns so exquisitely till about midnight, that every restless wave within me hushed itself to repose. To-day, we have better weather and wind, and are all in good spirits. Some little children, however, are so sick that it is pitiable to see them. This next night we shall come into dangerous water. One of the great steamers, which goes between Europe and America, struck amid the surf in the neighbourhood of Halifax, and suffered considerable damage. But we must manage better than that. Our Captain Judkins is considered to be a remarkably skilful seaman. An excellent, good-tempered, and kind-hearted man is he beside; likes to come and sit in the saloon with the ladies, tells them stories, and plays with the children.
I read a deal here on board; one can get through a vast many books on such an occasion. I have read Châteaubriand's “Confessions,” but without much pleasure. What can one learn from an autobiography in which the writer acknowledges that he will confess nothing about himself which would be derogatory to his dignity. It was in a manner different to this that St. Augustine wrote his Confessions, regarding merely the eternal eye; in a different manner Rousseau, great and noble, at least in his desire to confess to the truth. Thus will I, sometime, shrive myself. For every object and every consideration is mean except this, the highest. Châteaubriand's French vanity spoils, for me, his book; nevertheless, I have retained some glorious descriptions, some occasional
