The First and Last Voyage of The Atlantic.

It was a delightful afternoon in midsummer, when I passed through New York, that great thoroughfare of human life, to pursue my passage towards my own New England home, with a heart filled with those inexpressible emotions that crowd upon us, when, after a long absence we anticipate a return to the bosom of a loved family.

Nature seemed tuned to sweet harmonies, and echoing the happiness that filled the heart, produced no discordant note.  Gentle breezes fanned the cheek, and bore sweet perfume from the waving branches of the trees as they gently swung before it, and their trembling leaves fluttered before the passing breath of the summer wind; for summer was brightly clad in all her robes of glory.

Birds carolled in wild melody their hymns of praise, and lifted their glad voices to Him “who tipped their glittering wings with gold, and tuned their voice to praise.”  Flowers were blooming in all their rich varieties, and the splendid boquet that had been presented me from the lady with whom I had been boarding several weeks, bespoke the handy work of its Creator, and involuntarily raised the thoughts to that land, where the flowers fade not, where change and decay come not.

Our journey led us by the quiet Cemetery of Greenwood, that vast receptacle of the city dead.  As we mused upon its peaceful rest, its quiet shades, the transparency of the waters, that sleep in the bosom of the sylvan lake, and then glanced upon the great thoroughfare, teeming with life in all its varied and changeful positions, and reflected that every individual in that moving mass possessed an immortal mind, and was pressing their way to these grassy avenues, passing on, step by step, toward the silent grave, the thought was overwhelming, and the question came up, “Lord, what is man that thou art mindful of him, or the Son of man that thou regardest him?”

As we crossed Fulton ferry at Brooklyn, the waters spoke in low, dirge like voices of the same Almighty hand, and their waves were tossed into gentle motion by the passing breeze, and seemed to reflect myriads of diamonds upon its sparkling bosom, as it lay spread out before the eye of the beholder.

The bustling throng of the city were moving down by the Battery toward the steamboat wharf.  The silver fountain sent forth its sparkling waters, and the white swan curved its graceful neck in its mimic lake, and the walks in the Battery were neat and inviting; but these attracted not the attention of the passing throng.  There was a more intense object of curiosity.

The beautiful Atlantic lay at the wharf, lifting high her huge steam pipes, emitting her blinding steam, and impatient to try her strength upon the bosom of the deep.  Her deck was thronged with human beings, filled with impatient curiosity to see the gallant boat launch forth, and pursue her way over the waste of waters.

Little thought that gaping multitude of the rich freight that was on board that floating bark, that was now to try its giant strength upon the billowy waves, the ocean of human mind broader, deeper than the watery waste of the wide Atlantic.  O, no, they thought not of those priceless treasures, but it was the boat and her noble bearings that attracted all eyes and was the absorbing theme of conversation.