I should never have thought of such an expedition if it had not been suggested by a member of my family that I should accompany my daughter, who was meditating a trip to Europe.  I remembered how many friends had told me I ought to go; among the rest, Mr. Emerson, who had spoken to me repeatedly about it.  I had not seen Europe for more than half a century, and I had a certain longing for one more sight of the places I remembered, and others it would be a delight to look upon.  There were a few living persons whom I wished to meet.  I was assured that I should be kindly received in England.  All this was tempting enough, but there was an obstacle in the way which I feared, and, as it proved, not without good reason.  I doubted whether I could possibly breathe in a narrow state-room.  In certain localities I have found myself liable to attacks of asthma, and, although I had not had one for years, I felt sure that I could not escape it if I tried to sleep in a state-room.

I did not escape it, and I am glad to tell my story about it, because it excuses some of my involuntary social shortcomings, and enables me to thank collectively all those kind members of the profession who trained all the artillery of the pharmacopoeia upon my troublesome enemy, from bicarbonate of soda and Vichy water to arsenic and dynamite.  One costly contrivance, sent me by the Reverend Mr. Haweis, whom I have never duly thanked for it, looked more like an angelic trump for me to blow in a better world than what I believe it is, an inhaling tube intended to prolong my mortal respiration.  The best thing in my experience was recommended to me by an old friend in London.  It was Himrod’s asthma cure, one of the many powders, the smoke of which when burning is inhaled.  It is made in Providence, Rhode Island, and I had to go to London to find it.  It never failed to give at least temporary relief, but nothing enabled me to sleep in my state-room, though I had it all to myself, the upper berth being removed.  After the first night and part of the second, I never lay down at all while at sea.  The captain allowed me to have a candle and sit up in the saloon, where I worried through the night as I best might.  How could I be in a fit condition to accept the attention of my friends in Liverpool, after sitting up every night for more than a week; and how could I be in a mood for the catechizing of interviewers, without having once lain down during the whole return passage?  I hope the reader will see why I mention these facts.  They explain and excuse many things; they have been alluded to, sometimes with exaggeration, in the newspapers, and I could not tell my story fairly without mentioning them.  I got along well enough as soon as I landed, and have had no return of the trouble since I have been back in my own home.  I will not advertise an assortment of asthma remedies for sale, but I assure my kind friends I have had no use for any one of them since I have walked the Boston pavements, drank, not the Cochituate, but the Belmont spring water, and breathed the lusty air of my native northeasters.