A dull haze hangs over the city; St. Paul has put on his cap of clouds, and the great dome looms dimly on our sight; the mystery of twilight has taken possession of the city, and shrouds the streets in the open day. The fine old trees in the parks and in the squares are losing their green foliage, and stand half naked, shivering in the damp autumn air, while their yellow shrunken leaves are swept rustling along the ground, moaning their melancholy protest against the wandering wind, and even thus early in the season—for it is only late September—visions of November fogs are looming in the near future. But we turn our backs upon the dreary prospect, and send our thoughts onward towards the City of Rome whither we are fast journeying—not that ancient city which sits upon its seven hills, like a discrowned queen, still ruling the world of Art, swaying the minds of men, and, like a gigantic loadstone, drawing the heart of the world towards herself, grander in her age of ruin than her youthful pride; the glory of her dead days circles her with a halo of poetry and romance which renders her immortal. Her ruined palaces and temples lift their hoary heads and crumbling columns heavenward—impressive, awe-inspiring, and time-defying, showing only the footprints of the ages as they have passed solemnly onwards. The stir and bustle of every-day commonplace life, the cavalcade of nineteenth-century frivolities and fashions, have failed to drive the spirit of antiquity from the place; it still sits brooding in the air, permeating the souls and stirring the hearts of men with a passionate enthusiasm for the days that are gone. There is no coming and going of armies, no heathenish maraudings, no slave-trading, war-waging population nowadays; no centurion guards, no glittering cohorts flashing their arms and tossing their white plumes in the face of the sun; yet they seem to have left their ghostly impression on the air, and in the still evening hours we feel their presence revealed to us through (what we call) our imagination, and the past marches solemnly hand-in-hand with the present before our spirit’s eyes; and while we think we are merely day-dreaming—indulging in pleasant reveries—the subtle essence of ourselves is mingling with an immortal past. But it is not towards this ancient city we are fast hastening; our City of Rome is the creation of to-day, it has nothing to say to the yesterdays; its kingdom belongs to the to-morrows, which are crowded into the years to come. It is not throned like its ancient namesake on seven hills, but rides upon the myriad waves of a limitless ocean, and looks as though it could rule them too—this floating city, which is to carry us three thousand miles across the fascinating, fickle, and inconstant sea. Like a strong young giant our noble vessel lifts its great black bulwarks into the sunlight, and we climb its steep sides in the full confidence that much of the nauseating horrors of a sea voyage will be spared to us. The Atlantic steamers, as everyone knows, are all luxuriously appointed, but this is the most luxurious; our state room has two windows draped with green rep, a cosy sofa, and—luxury of luxuries—a reading lamp; one berth is four feet wide, with a spring mattress, downy pillows, and plenty of them; the upper berth is the usual size.

It takes us some hours to explore the vessel from end to end, as we are kindly permitted to do; occasionally we lose ourselves, and are picked up by a stray hand and set in the right way. We stroll through the grand saloon, where some frantic musician is already evoking solemn sounds from the grand organ, while the passengers are clamouring for seats at special tables, and the bewildered stewards are distracted in their endeavour to oblige everybody. It is a case of bull-baiting—British bull-baiting; the poor bull is on the horns of a dilemma; he manages to extricate himself somehow, and things settle down to general satisfaction. Descending to the engine-room, we seem to have a glimpse of the infernal regions—such a rattle and clatter of machinery, whizzing and whirling amid the blaze of a hundred fires, some lashed to white heat, others blazing with a steady roar, their red flames leaping over their fiery bed, lighting up the swarthy faces of the firemen, who look like dusky gnomes flitting among eternal fires. By the time we reach the upper deck the tender has departed, the anchor is up, and—are we moving? We seem to be still stationary, but the shores of England are receding from us, the long, curving lines of the shore growing dim and more dim, the forest of shipping with its tall masts and fluttering sails fades slowly from our sight, and as the twilight closes in we are almost out of sight of land; it vanishes away till it looks like a bank of low-lying clouds fringing the horizon; now and then a white sail flashes out of the darkness and is gone.

The night is simply superb, and the heavens are ablaze with stars, like a jewelled canopy stretching over us as far as the eye can reach. Such brilliancy above! Such a soft, hazy atmosphere around us! We seem to be floating away into dreamland, as our giant vessel glides like a phantom ship through the drowsy night; but for the phosphorescent waves which run rippling at the side, or swirl in white feathery foam round the bow, we should not know that we are moving—yet we are going at the rapid rate of sixteen knots an hour, so steadily her iron keel treads through the world of waters. Some of our fellow-passengers group themselves on the deck, or stroll up and down singing old home songs or catches, and glees. Lulled by these pleasant sounds and occasional echoes of the sailors’ voices, we sleep soundly through our first night at sea.

To some this voyage is a new experience, and to them everything is a pleasure and delight; their senses are on the qui vive, and they extract a keen enjoyment from the slightest matter; whether they are watching the shifting colours of the sea and skies, strolling idly up and down, or leaning over the bulwarks, straining their eyes over the vast expanse, eagerly expecting a school of whales to go spouting past, they are equally happy and content, seeing mountains where never a molehill exists; the atmospheric changes interest them, the whistling of the wind through the shrouds makes a new music to their ears, and the life on board ship with all its variations has the charm of novelty. But the novelty soon wears off and they gradually awake to the fact that a sea-voyage is a most monotonous affair. This the habituÉs, to whom the voyage is as an oft-told tale, realise from the first moment; they know precisely how the next ten days are likely to pass, and at once set their minds to enliven the monotony, every one contributing something to the amusement of the whole. We are especially fortunate on the present occasion, there being several of Colonel Mapleson’s company on board, who are most amiable in their endeavours to amuse their fellow-passengers. There is also an unusual amount of amateur musical and dramatic talent on board, and they combine together and organise a concert or some kind of dramatic entertainment every evening.

About eight o’clock everybody turns out in pretty, simple toilettes, and the stream sets towards the music-room. Great Britain is sparsely represented, and I don’t think with the best specimens; the scanty few seem manufactured for foreign travel only, and are not of the finest workmanship, either of art or nature.

On the evening of the first entertainment a gorgeous apparition appeared in the shape of the master of the ceremonies, the only evident reason for his filling that position being his possession of a swallow-tail coat. He was a fair, slim young man, with his hair parted down the middle. He was in full evening dress, with a huge artificial flower—a sunflower—in his buttonhole, and white gloves too long for his fingers. He was a British-Australian, we learned. When he opened his mouth he dropped, not pearls, but h’s; he dropped them in one place and picked them up in another, and in his attempt to announce the different operatic airs he mangled the soft Italian language till it fell upon the ear a mass of mutilated sounds. He had to run the gauntlet of a good deal of masculine chaff, which he bore with a stolid equanimity born of self-contentment; however, he unconsciously contributed to the general amusement, and gave rise to some humorous illustrations which served to beguile the time.

The weather continues delightful, a balmy atmosphere brooding over a smooth, grey sea. In quiet uninteresting calm the days pass by, but at night nature rallies her forces and gives us some glorious sunsets, filling the pale skies with cloud islands of golden light, while white and crimson feathery plumes, like spectral palms, float hither and thither across the sea-green sky. But nobody cares for a second-hand sunset, it must be seen to be appreciated—no word-painting or most brilliant colouring on canvas can convey an idea of it.

About mid-ocean we fall into foul weather, and a violent game of pitch and toss ensues; a clatter of broken china, contused limbs, and half a score of black eyes are the result. There is a tough-fibred, strong-brained missionary on board, whose very face in its stern rigidity is suggestive of torments here and hereafter. He takes advantage of the occasion and lifts up his eyes and voice in violent denunciation of all miserable sinners, exhorts everybody to repent upon the spot as the day of doom is at hand—the Lord has come in storm and tempest to break up the good ship and bury her living freight at the bottom of the sea! He aggravates the fear, and tortures the nerves, of the weaker vessels, till several ladies are carried to their berths in violent hysterics. Some few husbands, fathers, and lovers, expressed a strong desire to have that missionary “heaved overboard.” We pitied the poor heathens who would presently benefit by his ministrations.

We pass out of the storm into genial American weather—blue skies, soft, ambient air, and brilliant sunshine. A foretaste of the lovely Indian summer greets us long before we reach the shore. Our vessel, owing to its gigantic size, is a long time swinging round and entering its dock. We are in sight of New York at three in the afternoon, but it is late in the evening before we are able to effect a landing.

Everybody knows what a New York winter is like. We plunge at once into the hurly-burly, and for the next few months we “do as the world doth—say as it sayeth,” and being bound to the wheel whirl with it till the hard king, frost, melts and disappears under the genial breath of a somewhat humid spring; then we turn our faces southward.

It is impossible for the best disposed person to extract much pleasure from a dismal drive across the plains of Pennsylvania, while the heavens are weeping copiously, drenching the sick earth with their tears, and dropping a grey cloud mantle over it. A heavy mist is hiding everything, and moves like a shrouded funeral procession among the tall trees, as though it had wrapped the dead winter in its grave-clothes, and was carrying it away for burial in some invisible world we know not of. A damp chillness clings and crawls everywhere; it finds its way to our very bones; we shiver, and draw our wraps closer round us. The whole world seems veiled in mourning for the sins of our forefathers; even the buoyant spirits of the famous Mark Tapley must have gone down under these dreary surroundings.

There is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, but the pattering rain upon the windows, and the snort or occasional scream of our engine, like the shriek of a bird of prey, as it sweeps on its iron road. We look round us; everything and everybody seems in a state of depression, wrapped in a general gloom. The whimpering cries of the children sink into a dismal rhythmical wail, as though they wrangled by arithmetic, and wept according to rule.

There was a small family of these human fledglings aboard, and the parent bird was sorely tried in her endeavour to keep within bounds the belligerent spirits of her flock; in vain she called their attention to imaginary “gee-gees” and the invisible wonders outside—they stared out into the blankness, discovered the deception, and howled louder than ever. The cock-horse limped on its way to Banbury Cross, and even the lady with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes made music in vain. At last a mysterious voice issued from a muffled man in a corner, offering “ten dollars to anybody who would smother that baby.”

We all sympathised with the spirit of the offer, but perhaps the fear of after-consequences prevented anybody from accepting it. The mother dived into a boneless, baggy umbrella, which apparently served as luncheon basket, wardrobe, and, I verily believe might have been turned into a cradle; thence she abstracted crackers, apples, and candies—and cotton handerchiefs which she vigorously applied to their little damp noses.

This interesting family got off at Baltimore and left us for diversion to our own resources, to feed upon our own reserve fund of spirits, which afforded but poor entertainment.

As we reached Washington there was a rift in the clouds overhead, and a brilliant ray of sunlight darted through, lighting up the city, and gilding the great dome of the Capitol with heavenly alchemy; it might have been that some immortal eye had opened suddenly, winked upon this wicked world, and shut again, for in a moment it was as dark and cheerless as before.

Here we change cars, and as we pass through the little waiting-room there is a general rush, a clustering at one spot, and a babel of voices clash one with another; we catch a few wandering words—“Here’s where he fell, right here,” “Carried out that way,” “The wretch, I hope he’ll be hung,” &c. We look down and see a small brass star let into the ground, which marks the spot where poor Garfield fell; women prod it with their parasols, men assault it with their walking-sticks. We have no time to shed the “tributary tear”; the bell rings “All aboard, all aboard,” and in another moment we are on our way to Richmond. The weather clears, a few glancing gleams of golden sunlight stream through the broken clouds, then the sun closes its watery eye and goes to sleep, with a fair promise of a bright to-morrow.

We roll on through the fresh greenery of Maryland till the evening shadows fall and the death of the day’s life goes out in gloom and heaviness. We spend the hours in anticipatory speculations till we reach Richmond about ten o’clock; we drive at a rapid pace through the rough stony streets till we pull up at Ford’s hotel, where we intend taking up our quarters. A night arrival at a strange hotel is always more or less depressing—on this occasion it is especially so; we pass from the dim obscurity of the streets without to a still greater obscurity within. Preceded by a wisp of a lad we ascend the stairs and pass through a dimly-lighted corridor; not the ghost of a sound follows us, the echo of our footsteps is muffled in the thick carpet, and swallowed up in the brooding silence.

Our attendant unlocks and throws open a door, flourishes a tiny lamp above his head, then, with an extra flourish, sets it on the table, inquiring with a hoarse voice, as though he had just made a meal of sawdust, “do we want anything more”; as we had had nothing we could not very well require any more of it. By the light of our blinking lamp we inspect our apartment, which is at least amply supplied with beds; there are three of them, each of Brobdignagian proportions—rivals to the great bed of Ware—they fill the room to overflowing and seem struggling to get out of the window. We are soon lost in a wilderness of feathers and wandering through the land of Nod. It seems to me that the worst room in the house is always reserved for the punishment of late arrivals, which is bad diplomacy on the part of hotel proprietors, as it frequently drives their guests away in search of better quarters. It might have been so with us; but the next morning our smiling host appears and ushers us into a delightful suite of rooms on the ground floor, opposite the gardens of the Capitol, where the playful squirrels are so numerous and so tame that they will come jumping across the road to your windows to be fed, take nuts from your hand, and sit demurely by your side and crack them.