The people on the boat were almost all New Englanders, seeking their fortunes.  They had brought with them their habits of calculation, their cautious manners, their love of polemics.  It grieved me to hear these immigrants who were to be the fathers of a new race, all, from the old man down to the little girl, talking not of what they should do, but of what they should get in the new scene.  It was to them a prospect, not of the unfolding nobler energies, but of more ease, and larger accumulation.  It wearied me, too, to hear Trinity and Unity discussed in the poor, narrow doctrinal way on these free waters; but that will soon cease, there is not time for this clash of opinions in the West, where the clash of material interests is so noisy.  They will need the spirit of religion more than ever to guide them, but will find less time than before for its doctrine.  This change was to me, who am tired of the war of words on these subjects, and believe it only sows the wind to reap the whirlwind, refreshing, but I argue nothing from it; there is nothing real in the freedom of thought at the West, it is from the position of men’s lives, not the state of their minds.  So soon as they have time, unless they grow better meanwhile, they will cavil and criticise, and judge other men by their own standard, and outrage the law of love every way, just as they do with us.

We reached Mackinaw the evening of the third day, but, to my great disappointment, it was too late and too rainy to go ashore.  The beauty of the island, though seen under the most unfavorable circumstances, did not disappoint my expectations.  But I shall see it to more purpose on my return.

As the day has passed dully, a cold rain preventing us from keeping out in the air, my thoughts have been dwelling on a story told when we were off Detroit, this morning, by a fellow passenger, and whose moral beauty touched me profoundly.

Some years ago, said Mrs. L., my father and mother stopped to dine at Detroit.  A short time before dinner my father met in the hall Captain P., a friend of his youthful days.  He had loved P. extremely, as did many who knew him, and had not been surprised to hear of the distinction and popular esteem which his wide knowledge, talents, and noble temper commanded, as he went onward in the world.  P. was every way fitted to succeed; his aims were high, but not too high for his powers, suggested by an instinct of his own capacities, not by an ideal standard drawn from culture.  Though steadfast in his course, it was not to overrun others, his wise self-possession was no less for them than himself.  He was thoroughly the gentleman, gentle because manly, and was a striking instance that where there is strength for sincere courtesy, there is no need of other adaptation to the character of others, to make one’s way freely and gracefully through the crowd.

My father was delighted to see him, and after a short parley in the hall—­“We will dine together,” he cried, “then we shall have time to tell all our stories.”