Soon the swift motion lulls our brains
into the accustomed muddle; we seem to be dragged along like a miserable
thread pulled through the eye of an ever-lasting needle,--through and
through, and never through,--while here and there, like painful knots,
the _depots_ stop us, the poor thread is arrested for a minute, and then
the pulling begins again. Or, in another dream, we are like fugitives
threading the gauntlet of the grim forests, while the ice-bound trees
essay a charge of bayonets on either side; but, under the guidance of
our fiery Mercury, we pass them as safely as ancient Priam passed the
outposts of the Greeks,--and New York, as hospitable as Achilles,
receives us in its mighty tent. Here we await the "Karnak," the British
Mail Company's new screw-steamer, bound for Havana, _via_ Nassau. At
length comes the welcome order to "be on board." We betake ourselves
thither,--the anchor is weighed, the gun fired, and we take leave of our
native land with a patriotic pang, which soon gives place to severer
spasms.
I do not know why all celebrated people who write books of travels begin
by describing their days of sea-sickness.
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