Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity of “creature comforts,” a sea-voyage would be delightful.  To the landsman there is sublimity in the wild and ever-varied forms of the ocean; they fill his mind with living images of a glory he had only dreamed of before.  But we would have been willing to forego all this and get back the comforts of the shore.  At New York we took passage in the second cabin of the Oxford, which, as usual in the Liverpool packets, consisted of a small space amid-ships, fitted up with rough, temporary berths.  The communication with the deck is by an open hatchway, which in storms is closed down.  As the passengers in this cabin furnish their own provisions, we made ourselves acquainted with the contents of certain storehouses on Pine St. wharf, and purchased a large box of provisions, which was stowed away under our narrow berth.  The cook, for a small compensation, took on himself the charge of preparing them, and we made ourselves as comfortable as the close, dark dwelling would admit.

As we approached the Banks of Newfoundland, a gale arose, which for two days and nights carried us on, careering Mazeppa-like, up hill and down.  The sea looked truly magnificent, although the sailors told us it was nothing at all in comparison with the storms of winter.  But we were not permitted to pass the Banks, without experiencing one of the calms, for which that neighborhood is noted.  For three days we lay almost motionless on the glassy water, sometimes surrounded by large flocks of sea-gulls.  The weed brought by the gulf stream, floated around—­some branches we fished up, were full of beautiful little shells.  Once a large school of black-fish came around the vessel, and the carpenter climbed down on the fore-chains, with a harpoon to strike one.  Scarcely had he taken his position, when they all darted off in a straight line, through the water, and were soon out of sight.  He said they smelt the harpoon.

We congratulated ourselves on having reached the Banks in seven days, as it is considered the longest third-part of the passage.  But the hopes of reaching Liverpool in twenty days, were soon overthrown.  A succession of southerly winds drove the vessel as far north as lat. 55 deg., without bringing us much nearer our destination.  It was extremely cold, for we were but five degrees south of the latitude of Greenland, and the long northern twilights came on.  The last glow of the evening twilight had scarcely faded, before the first glimmering of dawn appeared.  I found it extremely easy to read, at 10 P.M., on the deck.