From the same steamboat, Nautilus, he addressed the following note to Dr. Brockenbrough.

"As I stepped into the Nautilus, a large packet from Washington, among which was yours inclosing Uncle Nat's' letter, was put into my hands.

6

"The Native of Virginia' is indiscreet in covering too much ground. He ought to have darned and patched old Tom's Mantle, and fought behind it as a Telemonian shield.

"Add to my P. S. in the address to my constituents, that letters, via New-York, to the care of the P. Master, will reach me. My address is, care of John & Wm. Gilliatt, London, until further notice. I am nearing the Amity. Farewell! farewell!"

CHAPTER XX.

THE VOYAGE.

AFTER the Amity had gotten fairly under way, and the passengers somewhat acquainted with each other, they sought, by various amusements, to relieve the tedium of their voyage. Whist was a favorite game on board; and here Mr. Randolph soon proved his superiority as a player. It became a contest each night, who should have him as a partner, and finally they took turns.

I observed, one morning, says Mr. Jacob Harvey, of New-York, to whom we are indebted for the incidents of this voyage, that Mr. Randolph was examining a very large box of books, containing enough to keep him busy reading during a voyage round the world. I asked him why he had brought so many with him? I want to have them bound in England, sir," replied he. "Bound in England!" exclaimed I, laughing, "why did you not send them to New-York or Boston, where you can get them done cheaper?"

"What, sir," replied he sharply, "patronize some of our Yankee taskmasters; those patriotic gentry, who have caused such a heavy duty to be imposed upon foreign books? Never, sir, never; I will neither wear what they make, nor eat what they raise, so long as my

tobacco crop will enable me to get supplies from old England; and I shall employ John Bull to bind my books, until the time arrives when they can be properly done South of Mason and Dixon's line!" He was kind enough to offer me the use of them, saying: "Take my advice, and don't read any of the novels; and when you get home, sir, tell your father that I recommended abstinence from novel reading and whisky punch. Depend upon it, sir, they are both equally injurious to the brain!"

His favorite author was Milton, and he frequently gave us readings from "Paradise Lost," stopping occasionally to point out the beauties of the poem. Young, Thomson, Johnson, and Southey, did not please his taste; they were, he said, "too artificial." But his classification of modern poems was very original.

"Sir, I place first on this list, Tom Crib's Memorial to Congress, for its great wit and satire; next, the Two Penny Post Boy, for similar excellencies; and third, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, for every variety of sentiment, well expressed. But, sir (no offence to Ireland), I can't go Moore's songs; they are too sentimental by half; all ideal and above nature."

Turning over his books one day, I was surprised to find a copy of "Fanny," Mr. Halleck's very clever satirical poem, which had been recently published. "I am glad," said I, " that you do not proscribe Yankee poetry as well as Yankee codfish."

"O no, sir,” replied he, "I always admire talent, no matter where it comes from; and I consider this little work as the best specimen of American poetry that we have yet seen. I am proud of it, sir; and I mean to take it to London with me, and to present it to that lady whose talents and conversation I shall most admire."

I may mention here, although somewhat out of place, that when we met in London in June following, I suddenly recollected the circumstance, and said to him: "By the way, Mr. Randolph, to whom did you present Fanny ?'"

To your countrywoman, Miss Edgeworth, sir: she has no competitor in my estimation. She fairly won the book, sir."

He proposed, one fine morning, to read Fanny to me aloud, and on deck, where we were enjoying a fine breeze and noonday sun. It was the most amusing "reading" I ever listened to. The notes were much longer than the poem; for, whenever he came to a well-known

name, up went his spectacles and down went the book, and he branched off into some anecdote of the person or of his family. Thus we "progressed" slowly from page to page, and it actually consumed three mornings before we reached—

"And music ceases when it rains

In Scudder's balcony."

I was one morning looking over his books for my own amusement, and observed that several of the prettiest editions were marked "This for Miss

"

"How is this?" said I; "some fair lady seems to have enchained you."

"Ah,” replied he, "if you only knew her, the sweetest girl in the 'Ancient Dominion,' and a particular favorite of mine, sir; I shall have all these books beautifully bound in London, sir, fit to grace her centre-table on my return."

I took up one of them, a volume of old plays, and after reading a few pages, exclaimed: "Surely you have not read these plays lately, Mr. Randolph, or you would not present this book to Miss ; it is too lascivious for her eyes."

He immediately ran his eye over the page; then took the book out of my hands, and immediately indorsed on the back "not fit for Bet." Then, turning to me, he said with warmth:

"You have done me an infinite service, sir. I would not for worlds do aught to sully the purity of that girl's mind. I had forgotten those plays, sir, or they would not have found a place in my box. I abominate as much as you do, sir, that vile style of writing which is intended to lessen our abhorrence of vice, and throw ridicule on virtuous conduct. You have given me the hint, sir. Come, assist me in looking over all these books, lest some other black sheep may have found its way into the flock."

We accordingly went through the whole box, but found no other volume deserving of condemnation, much to Randolph's satisfaction. He then presented me with several books, as keepsakes; and he wanted to add several more, but I had to decline positively. His generosity knew no bounds; and had I been avaricious of mental food, I might have become possessed of half his travelling library.

On the 5th of April, we landed about noon. The wind had

changed since Randolph predicted that we would strike Sligo Head,' and we first saw the high mountains of Donegal. The atmosphere was beautifully clear, and we ran along the coast near enough to see the houses, &c. Towards night Randolph said to me:

"Well, sir, I now believe the anecdote related by Arthur Young. In his notes on Ireland he says, that one day a farmer took his son, a young boy, some distance from home, in the county Meath. They came to a tree; the boy was astonished, stopped, and asked, 'Father, what is that?' never having seen one before. Here have we been sailing along the Irish coast for a whole day, and not a single tree have I yet seen!"

It was too true. Barren are the mountains of Donegal, no trees are to be seen; and it is no wonder that an American should be struck with astonishment, just arriving from his own well-wooded shores.

The moon was shining brightly when we came up with the island of "Rathlin," or "Raghery;" but the tide ran so strongly against us we passed it very slowly, notwithstanding we had a stiff breeze in our favor. As Mr. Randolph gazed upon its rugged shore, he said:

"That island I have wished much to see, sir. I suppose that you are aware that its inhabitants are a most peculiar race. They look down with contempt upon the Continent,' as they call Ireland (only three miles distant); and the greatest curse known to them is, 'May Ireland be your latter end.' They have their own laws and usages; intermarrying among themselves; pay great deference to their landlord and priest; smuggle a little for an honest livelihood; and the severest punishment practised among them is, banishment to Ireland!"

Next day we ran down the Channel, passing and meeting hundreds of vessels, from the stately Indiaman to the small fishing. smack. The American vessels were easily discovered from the British, by their white canvas, bright sides, and sharp bows. It was a very exciting scene, and Randolph was in fine spirits. The sight of Old England brought back the "olden time" to his memory, and he shed tears of delight.

"Thank God," exclaimed he, "that I have lived to behold the land of Shakspeare, of Milton, of my forefathers! May her greatness increase through all time!"

It was past eleven o'clock at night when we reached the dock, and we remained on board till next morning. Before parting, Randolph said to me, "I do not wish you to tell any one that I am here. I do not covet any attentions, at present, sir. I have come to England to see, and not to be seen; to hear, and not to be heard. I don't want to be made a lion of, sir. You understand me. I have formed a friendship for you, which I hope will be continued, sir; and when you come to London, you must instantly inform me of your arrival ; there is my address, sir. God bless you; and remember you tell your father not to give you whisky punch or novels."

LONDON, May 27th, 1822. Monday.

you to

MY DEAR BET: On Saturday I had the pleasure to receive your letter of the 10th of last month; and a great one it was; for, altho' I took somewhat of a French leave of you, I do assure you, my dear, that "my thoughts, too, were with you on the ocean." Among my treasures I brought a packet, containing all the letters I have ever received from you; and the reading over these, and talking of a young Irish gentleman, whose acquaintance I happened to make on board the steamboat, was the chief solace of my voyage. It was a short one, although a part of it was somewhat boisterous, and the press of sail carried by our ships (the packets more especially), when those of other nations are under reefed and double-reefed topsails, exposes them to greater danger, while it shortens their voyage; and yet, such is the skill of our seamen, that insurance is no higher upon our bottoms than upon European ones. Indeed, our voyages reminded me of our tobacco crop. You see I can't "sink the tailor." The vessel is out so short a time that she avoids many dangers to which dull sailers are exposed.

Fal

We made the coast of Ireland at noon on Good Friday, and at twelve on the following night we were safe in the Regent's Dock, in Liverpool. When you consider that we had to come the North Passage (that is, between the coast of Ireland and Scotland), and crooked as our path was, to go out of our way to Holyhead for a pilot, it was an astonishing run. The first land we made in Ireland was Runardallah (liquid n, as in Spanish), or the Bloody Foreland, bearing on our lee (starboard), bore S. S. E. 6 leagues-an ominous name. coner's beautiful poem, The Shipwreck, will render you mistress of the sea-phrases. The coast of Donegal, far as the eye can reach, is lonely, desolate, and naked; not a tree to be seen, and a single Martello tower the only evidence that it was the dwelling-place of man. Not even a sail was in sight; and I felt a sensation of sadness and desolation, for we seemed more forsaken and abandoned than when surrounded only by the world of waters. This is the coast to which