Thus I am now within 262 miles of home, for I count the journey nothing from the Isle of Wight to Salisbury. But I image Salisbury and its inhabitants to my mind with frigid indif ference. I am led from my own emotions to suspect that the passion a man professes for the place of his birth is rather artificial than natural.

What's Salisbury to me, or what am I to Salisbury,
That I should cleave to her?

The inhabitants are divided by birth. To obtain access to the people in the Close, a man must have blood to recommend him. But blood is every thing. If he has blood, it is of very little consequence whether he has any brains.* I doubt whether there be three people in Salisbury who care for me three straws. But no matter. even with them. For he has but little acquaintance with human nature who knows not that

I ́am

*For several centuries the boast of the people of Salisbury, was, that they had a great tall church in their city, which contained as many windows as there are weeks; pillars as there are days, and gates as there are months in the year; with a deal more of skimble-skamble stuff about their spire being twice the height of the monument in London. But this famous spire reminds me of a Virginian spire, for the bells that belong to it are suspended at a distance from the church.

The glory of Salisbury was reserved for the eighteenth century. Towards the close of the eighteenth century there sprung up in Salisbury not fewer authors than its Cathedral

even the place of a man's birth, and all the tender charities of relation and friend, give way by a long absence to another climate, and a succession of new objects.

"Strike the bell four there! Heave the log, "and drink the grog! Come aft and hold the "reel!"

This exclamation of the mate announces that it is two in the morning.

"Is the glass clear?-Clear glass!-Turn !— "Done !-Stop!-The Olive goes almost three "knots!"

Two o'clock and the author of this volume not yet gone to bed! You cannot sleep I presume because you are so near your home?—Sir, you are mistaken. There will be no joyful face to give me a welcome home! No one to adorn me with the best robe, to put a ring on my hand, and shoes on my feet. I come not on deck to ruminate upon home! It is for Tourists, not for

has pillars; though, whether these authors will be pillars to British literature is somewhat problematical. Of these authors the most distinguished are Easton illustrious for his volume on Longevity, Wansey celebrated for his American Tour, Feltham popular for the many miles' he walked in one day through the Isle of Man, Maton famous for the simples he culled in the Western Counties, Stoddart renowned for the novelty of his remarks on Taste, and Paul eminent for having counted the number of buttons in the coat of the first Consul. But enough. Satire ought not to descend from her dignity to trample on the dead, to disturb the dying, or encounter the still-born.

Travellers, to attach an idea of happiness to any particular spot of the earth. I come upon deck to commune with my own heart; to commune spiritually with Virginia, my heart, my

soul !

The moon is gazing at her face in the water, our sails are reflected on the deep, and the repose of the night is disturbed only by the roar of the ocean, whose talking waves the sea-boy chides as he lolls over the bow.

Passenger.-Officer Adams! I salute you. You are, if I mistake not, second officer of the American ship Olive, a ship good in every respect; for she has good masts, good rigging, good sails, and good fellows on board of her. But her quarterdeck is rather small.

Mr. Adams.-A fisherman's walk; two steps and overboard.

Passenger.-Does the Olive carry tops or crosstrees above her lower mast-heads?

Mr. Adams.-I believe both. But talking of tops, let me tell you a story. A midshipman of a man of war wanted the lanthorn put out in the main-top. Main-top there! says the midshipman.-Sir, says a fellow looking over the topbrim.-Extinguish that nocturnal luminary!— There's no such rope in the top, Sir!-The midshipman told the boatswain to speak.-Main-top there! cried the boatswain.-Sir! said the sailor. -Dowse the glim! cried the boatswain.-Aye! Aye! Sir! said Jack.

Passenger.-Why, Adams, you seem cold.

Mr. Adams.-Cold! I shake a cloth in the wind. What a fine great-coat I left ashore at Fell's Point!

Passenger. You remind me of the Dutchman and his cable. When Mynbeer was parting his last cable in a heavy gale of wind at Spithead, "Mine Got!" cried he. "I have got a nice coil "of cable at Amsterdam!"

Mr. Adams.-Do you observe that light upon our larboard-beam? It is the Eddystone LightHouse.

Passenger. I beg you will give it a wide birth, and not break any of the lamps with our bowsprit.

Mr. Adams.--I have a great mind to put the helm hard a starboard, and run it down.

Passenger. Suppose you suffer Cunningham to run down into the cabin, and bring up the casebottle, together with the cold meat. A damper of pork, and a stifler of grog, relish exquisitely in the middle watch. What say you to a pull at the haliards?

Mr. Adams.-I fear there are no haliards in the bottle. I should like a small pull too; just to freshen the nip.

Passenger--Cunningham! -Cunningham! Come out from under the lee of the boat. Cunningham! Take the key of my liquor-case, and bring a bottle of the best coniąc brandy upon deck. Also the cold pork; the officer's piece with the handle to

it. But tread softly! Don't interrupt the slumbers of the steward.

Cunningham.-Aye! Aye! Sir! Aye! Aye! Mr. Adams. I always feel better at sea, than I do ashore. I get sick of the d-d dirty streets, before I have been a week out of the ship. If it was not for the fair Sec, I would never want to be in harbour.

1

Cunningham.--(ascending the cabin ladder) The steward, Sir, has eat all the cold pork. There is nothing left but the ribs and trucks. Mr. Adams.--D--n his maw! Where is he?

Cunningham. He is upon the forecastle, Sir. He can't sleep for indigestibility. He is walking the deck with his jacket unbuttoned. He is obliged to let out all reefs.

Passenger.-Cunningham! put the case-bottle down on the drum-head of the capstern, and help yourself to a throat seizing. You are a nice light hand for reeving top-gallant studding-sail haliards, and becketting the royal. Can you play at Tom Coxe's traverse?

Mr. Adams.-That he can. I cannot keep the son of a sea-cook upon deck in his watch. He is for everlasting up one hatch way, and down the other.

Cunningham.-Gentlemen my humble service.

to you.

Mr. Adams.-None of your blarney. But give us a toast that is ship-shape.