Journal of a Residence in America

a grey, dripping, damp, dingy, dark, and very disagreeable. Sat working, reading, and talking in our own cabin all day. Read part of a book called Adventures of a Younger Son. The gentlemen amused themselves with fishing, and brought up sundry hake and dog-fish. I examined the heart of one of the fish, and was surprised at the long continuance of pulsation after the cessation of existence. In the evening, sang, talked, and played French blind man's buff;?sat working till near one o'clock, and reading Moore's Fudge Family,?which is good fun. It's too hard to be becalmed within thirty hours of our destination- Why art thou weeping Over the happy, happy dead, Who are gone away From this life of clay, From this fount of tears, From this burthen of years, From sin, from sorrow, From sad " to-morrow," From struggling and creeping: Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for (he dead ? Why art thou weeping Over the steadfast faithful dead, Who can never change, Nor grow cold and strange, Nor turn away, In a single day, From the love they bore, And the faith they swore; Who are true for ever, Will slight thee never, But love thee still, Through good and ill, With the constancy Of eternity : Why art thou weeping, Oh fool, for the dead? They are your only friends; For where this foul life ends, Alone beginneth trulh, and love, and faith; All which sweet blossoms are preserved by deatli. Saturday,5st, Becalmed again till about two o'clock, when a fair wi...