“How horrid!”

An old lady, who has been very sick all the way, is revived by this appalling intelligence.

“I hope they won’t tumble over my caps!” she exclaims.

“Yes, they will have every thing out on deck,” says the lady, delighted with the increasing sensation.  “I tell you you don’t know these custom house officers.”

“It’s too bad!” “It’s dreadful!” “How horrid!” exclaim all.

“I shall put my best things in my pocket,” exclaims one.  “They don’t search our pockets, do they?”

“Well, no, not here; but I tell you they’ll search your pockets at Antwerp and Brussels,” says the lady.

Somebody catches the sound, and flies off into the state rooms with the intelligence that “the custom house officers are so dreadful—­they rip open your trunks, pull out all your things, burn your books, take away your daguerreotypes, and even search your pockets;” and a row of groans is heard ascending from the row of state rooms, as all begin to revolve what they have in their trunks, and what they are to do in this emergency.

“Pray tell me,” said I to a gentlemanly man, who had crossed four or five times, “is there really so much annoyance at the custom house?”

“Annoyance, ma’am?  No, not the slightest.”

“But do they really turn out the contents of the trunks, and take away people’s daguerreotypes, and burn their books?”

“Nothing of the kind, ma’am.  I apprehend no difficulty.  I never had any.  There are a few articles on which duty is charged.  I have a case of cigars, for instance; I shall show them to the custom house officer, and pay the duty.  If a person seems disposed to be fair, there is no difficulty.  The examination of ladies’ trunks is merely nominal; nothing is deranged.”

So it proved.  We arrived on Sunday morning; the custom house officers, very gentlemanly men, came on board; our luggage was all set out, and passed through a rapid examination, which in many cases amounted only to opening the trunk and shutting it, and all was over.  The whole ceremony did not occupy two hours.

So ends this letter.  You shall hear further how we landed at some future time.

LETTER II.

DEAR FATHER:—­

It was on Sunday morning that we first came in sight of land.  The day was one of a thousand—­clear, calm, and bright.  It is one of those strange, throbbing feelings, that come only once in a while in life; this waking up to find an ocean crossed and long-lost land restored again in another hemisphere; something like what we should suppose might be the thrill of awakening from life to immortality, and all the wonders of the world unknown.  That low, green line of land in the horizon is Ireland; and we, with water smooth as a lake and sails furled, are running within a mile of the shore.  Every body on deck, full of spirits and expectation, busy as can be looking through spyglasses, and exclaiming at every object on shore,—­