which her flag has swept in triumph from the time of the Armada, "when the winds and waves had commission from God to fight under British banners;" until these latter days, when the fortresses of Syria crumbled into ruins beneath her thunder, and a nation, containing one third of earth's inhabitants, bowed down before her.*

But to turn to details of that sea-life which any of my readers, who have not already experienced, may calculate upon having to live ere long in these amphibious days. Our time flows on smoothly and pleasantly enough; its course is so monotonous and even, that it seems rapid. The minds of sea-going men enjoy entire freedom from the daily cares that fever ordinary life; there is no wealth to be lost or gained, no letters to disturb into joy or sorrow, no intrusive visitors: you live in the open air, between the awful ocean and the glorious sky: there is very little loud laughter, but there is scarcely an anxious or a gloomy brow. Every one finds a listener, and, still more easily, does every one find communicativeness. Information on every subject that can interest the traveller only waits an audience. You will hear places, that sound most strange and distant, spoken of with the familiarity of citizens: if you inquire about any locality in the wide East, up starts a native of the spot; and a gazetteer of voices is ready to enlighten you on any subject of geography, from Cairo to Hong-Kong.

On Sunday divine service was performed by a young missionary clergyman, to a grave and decorous audience. It was a striking scene that little congregation of exiles observing the ritual of their church in the midst of that stormy sea. The red ensign was laid upon small table, and formed an altar, not unappropriate to the occasion; without, the wind was howling, and the waters weltered, and all nature seemed in commotion; but within, the peace of heaven was being promised, and seemed to shed its calm over the storm-tost listeners to its voice. I was surprised to find that none of the crew except the officers, or

The walls of Acre, impregnable even to Napoleon, lie heaped in ruins; Beyrout, Tyre, Sidon, Tortosa-Gibell, and Scanderoon are defenceless. The "Flowery Land" is laid open to the world, and a pen in Downing Street wrought the spell by which all this was wrought.

any of the servants of the ship, formed part of the congregation. Surely the service which begins by addressing prince and peasant as brethren should not form part of the exclusive privileges of first-class passengers.

There are nearly two hundred souls on board, yet there is as much order and regularity as in an English hotel. At half-past eight in the morning a dressing bell resounds through the decks and galleries; the sleepers tumble off the bier-like places that are called berths, and a hundred razors are gleaming in a hundred miniature looking-glasses. Chemisettes and pea-jackets don't take long to put on, where the toilette process is an uncomfortable one: and at nine o'clock we are all quietly seated at a well-furnished breakfast, wherein milk, fresh from the dairy on the deck, hot rolls, salt-fish, and turtle cutlets figure advantageously. About ten the sunny deck is alive with inhabitants, not unsuccessfully imitating life ashore. Merry groups of children are playing about as if on a grass-plot. Twos and threes of men are walking the decks for exercise, as eagerly as if they'd never reach the bowsprit in time; a tranquil group of smokers is arched over each paddle-box; ladies are reading, or working worsted monsters under the awning. An invalid or two is laid upon a sofa, gossiping now and then gently to a caught child, or a pausing passer-by. The sea is sparkling brightly as we move swiftly but smoothly over it. There is scarcely anything to remind us of our imprisonment; and, except for the silent sailor, at the restless wheel, we might fancy ourselves at the pumproom at Bath, or on the chain-pier at Brighton.

In the care-free idleness of our voyage, every trifle becomes a matter of interest; and the little incidents that assume the shape of news strongly illustrate the innate activity of human sympathies, and the necessity the mind feels for their exercise. It is true, we no longer hear of "Monster-meetings," or " Anticorn-law-agitation," or divisions of the house, with the speeches of their respective orators. But something "very like a whale" was seen this morning towards the coast of France; the sea is always rising up or getting smooth; L.'s last joke has a busy time of it, and B.'s last anecdote is almost believed.

It did not require the isolation of our lot to create a deep in

terest about one of our fair invalids, who only appeared on deck when we entered on a milder climate. This poor girl was going to the Mediterranean in the hope of prolonging, not of saving, the life whose sunset hour was already visible in the bright color of her hectic cheek. When I first saw her, her eyes, in which the light of immortality seemed already shining, were gazing mournfully on those northern skies, which she was never to behold again—at least with an upward glance. Her helplessness, and youth, and beauty seemed to exercise an influence over all around her; the little children spoke softly, and the helmsman seemed to move the wheel more gently, lest it should disturb her.

Is it the respect that men unconsciously feel towards those about to "put on immortality," or tenderness for those about to part from earth, that checks the wild laugh, and makes the eager foot tread lightly as it approaches that pale girl? I know not; but if the old theory, that failing life could be restored by the infusion of healthy blood, were true, I believe there is not a man in all that crowded ship who would not freely let his best : blood flow for her, whom he never saw before, and whom, after a few more sunsets, none will ever see again.

"Steward!" calls out a little cadet, with the tone of a great mogul, “are you bringing me that ale ?”

"No, sir," replies a voice from below; "twelve dozen has been drunk since breakfast, and the purser won't allow till luncheon."

any more

This reasonable restriction is soon removed: luncheon appears at twelve, and with it the desired beer. Four o'clock is struck in concert with the dinner-bell: no one is late, and no injustice is done on this occasion. At five the deck is again alive, and, if the sea be smooth, quadrillers and country-dancers bound over the depths of ocean as livelily as tritons and sea-nymphs. As the number of the former predominates considerably, the latter are in great request. If the evening be stormy, the men gather round the oven between decks, and smoke, and listen with pa. tient looks to the more vehement conversationists-the bellwethers of the talking flock. Seven o'clock bells summon to a tea of a very substantial nature, which is followed by whist,

chat, worsted-work, backgammon, and books for quiet people— like us. At ten there is a light supper, at eleven the candles are extinguished; you tumble into your berth, and the day is done. I have dwelt thus long on the details of a modern sea-life, because a prejudice exists against the long voyage, which I think is without foundation now, and which requires only experience to There is no doubt that, for the infirm, the aged, and the very young, it is the most expedient means of reaching Malta, and the shores of the Levant; and for all, the most healthful and convenient.

overcome.

I have spoken of the Oriental Steamer, as I found her in two passages of upwards of 5000 miles in length; and before I leave the subject I must bear my willing testimony to the ability and courtesy of her captain, officers, and well-ordered crew, who do credit to their gallant ship, as she does to the country that produced her.

CHAPTER III.

GIBRALTAR-THE STRAITS-ALGIERS.

England, we love thee better than we know-
And this I learnt when, after wanderings long
'Mid people of another stock and tongue,
I heard, at length, thy martial music blow,
And saw thy warrior children to and fro
Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates

Which, like twin giants, guard th' Herculean Straits.
R. C. TRENCH.

On the first of January, we left Southampton; on the evening of the second we took leave of England at Falmouth.* On the morning of the third we entered the much calumniated Bay of Biscay, which is no longer formidable, since the introduction of steam. On the fifth we caught a glimpse of Cape Finisterre, and then passed from the Bay of Biscay into waveless waters, sheltered by the Spanish shore. Thenceforth, every morning rose with brighter suns, and balmier breezes, until we came in sight of Capes St. Vincent and Trafalgar, relieved off the distant, but beautiful mountain coast of Barbary. The thoughts evoked by the scenes of Nelson's death and victory were not interrupted by the next bold headland. There was Gibraltar, and there England's flag was flying.

There was not a cloud in all the calm and glowing sky; the crescent moon, the emblem of Moslem power, was trembling over the picturesque land of the Moor, almost dissolved in a flood of sunshine; the sea, a filagree of blue and silver, faintly reflected the mountains of Medina Sidonia, among whose snowy summits we seemed to steer: all nature seemed in a pleasant trance, and all Spain was taking his siesta as we dashed into the Bay of Gibraltar.

The Oriental steamers now go direct from Southampton, thus saving twenty-four honrs.