“He did not know the name of his ship.  Indeed, in the course of time we discovered he did not even know that ships had names—­’like Christian people’; and when, one day, from the top of the Talfourd Hill, he beheld the sea lying open to his view, his eyes roamed afar, lost in an air of wild surprise, as though he had never seen such a sight before.  And probably he had not.  As far as I could make out, he had been hustled together with many others on board an emigrant-ship lying at the mouth of the Elbe, too bewildered to take note of his surroundings, too weary to see anything, too anxious to care.  They were driven below into the ’tweendeck and battened down from the very start.  It was a low timber dwelling—­he would say—­with wooden beams overhead, like the houses in his country, but you went into it down a ladder.  It was very large, very cold, damp and sombre, with places in the manner of wooden boxes where people had to sleep, one above another, and it kept on rocking all ways at once all the time.  He crept into one of these boxes and laid down there in the clothes in which he had left his home many days before, keeping his bundle and his stick by his side.  People groaned, children cried, water dripped, the lights went out, the walls of the place creaked, and everything was being shaken so that in one’s little box one dared not lift one’s head.  He had lost touch with his only companion (a young man from the same valley, he said), and all the time a great noise of wind went on outside and heavy blows fell—­boom! boom!  An awful sickness overcame him, even to the point of making him neglect his prayers.  Besides, one could not tell whether it was morning or evening.  It seemed always to be night in that place.

“Before that he had been travelling a long, long time on the iron track.  He looked out of the window, which had a wonderfully clear glass in it, and the trees, the houses, the fields, and the long roads seemed to fly round and round about him till his head swam.  He gave me to understand that he had on his passage beheld uncounted multitudes of people—­whole nations—­all dressed in such clothes as the rich wear.  Once he was made to get out of the carriage, and slept through a night on a bench in a house of bricks with his bundle under his head; and once for many hours he had to sit on a floor of flat stones dozing, with his knees up and with his bundle between his feet.  There was a roof over him, which seemed made of glass, and was so high that the tallest mountain-pine he had ever seen would have had room to grow under it.  Steam-machines rolled in at one end and out at the other.  People swarmed more than you can see on a feast-day round the miraculous Holy Image in the yard of the Carmelite Convent down in the plains where, before he left his home, he drove his mother in a wooden cart—­a pious old woman who wanted to offer prayers and make a vow for his safety.  He could not give me an idea of how large and lofty