STEPPING on board the steamship State of Indiana, I say to the purser: “Sir, I am from the West; I want elbow-room. Can’t you take away these partitions and turn several of these compartments into one?” He replies: “You are now from the West, but you will soon be from this ship, unless you keep quiet.” From this remark I see at once that the fellow is a crank, and I will either let him have his own way or give him a whipping. I choose the former; so we shake hands over the bloody chasm—or, I should say, over the briny deep.

I can never forget the scene that takes place at the wharf. The hour for departure has arrived. Hundreds of people have gathered around the vessel. As the last bell rings, there is hurrying to and fro. Friend leaving friend; husband kissing wife; fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, mingling their tears together, as parents and children take their last fond embrace of each other. Ah! There are streaming eyes and heavy hearts. As the vessel moves off, one sees the throwing of kisses, the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. But we are gone. Tear-bedimmed eyes can no longer behold the forms of loved ones. I dare say that many of these partings will be renewed no more on this earth.

One hazards very little in committing himself to the winds and waves of the Atlantic when he is on a goodly vessel, wisely planned and skillfully put together; when the sea-captain is faithful and experienced, and understands the workings of the mariner’s compass and the position of the polar star. But my very soul is stirred within me when I think of the thousands and tens of thousands who are sailing on life’s dark and tempestuous ocean without a chart or compass; without a rudder to steer or a hand to direct them; without the light from the Star of Bethlehem to guide them over the trackless waters to the Haven of Rest. They came from nowhere! They see nothing ahead of them save the rock-bound coast of eternity, beset with false lights which are luring them on to the breakers of death and the whirlpool of despair. From the bottom of my heart do I thank God for the “Old Ship of Zion,” planned by Divine Wisdom, freighted with immortal souls, guided by the Star of Hope, commanded by Jesus Christ, bound for the Port of Glory!

As we leave New York, the Bartholdi Statue on Bedloe’s Island is one of the last things we behold. This statue has been justly called “the wonder of the century,” and one feels a national pride in the thought that this statue, rising three hundred feet in the air, her right hand lifting her torch on high—that this statue, the wonder of the age, is a fit emblem of the country to which it belongs—it is Liberty enlightening the world!

I can not pause here to speak of the deep, strange and strong impulses that stir one’s soul as he sees his native land fade from view. I must, instead, proceed to tell the reader something about

“A Life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep,

Where the scattered waters rave

And the winds their revels keep.”

The first few days, if the sea is calm and quiet, and so it is with us, are spent in forming new acquaintances. No one wants an introduction to any one. Everybody is supposed to know everybody else. A hearty hand-shake, a friendly look of the eye, and you are friends for the journey. And I dare say that many who here meet will be firm friends for the journey of life. The company on board the ship is a little world within itself, representing almost every phase of human life, from the lowest to the highest. Here a statesman, there a philosopher; here a musician, there an artist. We have one wonderful fellow on board, who is here, there, and everywhere. He is anything, everything and nothing. He evidently has more life in his heels than brains in his head, and more folly on his tongue than reverence in his heart—a pretended musician, who has decidedly a better voice for eating soup than for singing songs. And it comes to pass that a certain small boy follows the example of this clown, and the two together make things lively and thoroughly uncomfortable for the rest of the party.

Naturally enough, after these acquaintances are formed, birds of a feather flock together. The Rev. Dr. Malcom MacVicar, Chancellor of the MacMaster University of Toronto, and his highly cultivated lady, are among our fellow-passengers. I first met the Doctor some years ago, when in Canada. He is an author of considerable note. For twenty-five years previous to his going to Canada, he was probably the most conspicuous figure in the educational circles of New York State. The University over which he is now called to preside is a Baptist institution with a million dollars endowment. Although raised to high position and crowned with honors, Doctor MacVicar is as humble and unassuming as though he were in the lowliest walks of life. Prof. Honey, of Yale University, places his wife under my care. Mrs. Honey is a lady of lovely character and superior attainments. Those whom I have mentioned, together with two physicians from Indiana, and Rev. Mr. Smith from Canada, form a little party somewhat to ourselves, though we try not to appear clannish.

The passengers are occasionally attracted by whales, and are much interested in watching them. Frequently two or three may be seen following the vessel for miles and miles at a time, to get such food as may be thrown overboard. Then they strike out ahead of us, or to one side, chasing each other through the water. These monsters of the deep remind me of a former class-mate, who was noted more for genial nature than for strong intellect. One day, while the class in chemistry were reciting, he said:

“Professor, I understand that fish is good brain-food. Is it true?”

The teacher replied: “Yes, I am disposed to think there is some truth in the statement.”

“I am glad to know that, Professor, I am going to try it. How much do you think I ought to eat?”

“Well, Sir,” responded the sarcastic professor, “I should recommend at least half a dozen whales.”

I am sure, however, that when I last saw the student in question he had not begun the eating of fish.

The fourth day is stormy and the sea rough. The women and children are sick, very sick. The men are thoroughly prepared to sympathize with them. They all lose their sea-legs. The vessel is turned into a hospital. It is really amusing to hear the different expressions from these afflicted sons of Adam.

One fellow, amid his heaving and straining, says: “I am not ‘zac’-ly sea-sick, but my stomach hurts me mightily.”

Another, in like condition, says: “If they would stop the ship only five minutes I would be all right.”

In the midst of the severest agony, an old gentleman ejaculates something like this: “I left my children and loved ones at home, and I expect to return in four months; but I would stay in Europe four years, if I knew there would be a railroad built across in that time.”

I did not hear this myself, but it is said of one clergyman on board that amid the fierceness of the storm he became exceedingly uneasy. Wringing his hands, and approaching the chief officer, he exclaimed: “O Captain, Captain, is there any danger of d-e-a-t-h?” The captain replied: “Would that I could give you some encouragement; but, my Reverend Sir, in five minutes we shall all be in Heaven.” At this, the distressed preacher clasped his hands and cried aloud, “God forbid!” A United States Minister on board said that any one who would cross the ocean for pleasure, would go to hell for amusement.

For five days the sea rages, and the vessel rolls and labors and groans. Looking out over the waters, I see ten thousand hills and mountains, each crowned with white surf, which in the distance looks like melting snow. Between these mountains there are deep gorges and broad valleys. A moment later the mountains and valleys exchange places. Now on the crest of a wave, the vessel is borne high in the air, and now she drops into a yawning gulf below, coming down first on one side then on the other. Now and then she pitches head-foremost, reeling and staggering like a drunken man.

But, as usual, calm and quiet follow the storm. The sea is now as placid as a lake. The sun is going down, apparently to bathe himself in a sea of glory. In a few minutes the gleaming stars will look down to see their bright faces reflected in the water. The sick are restored to health, the staggering walk is gone, and “Richard is himself again.”

We were in sight of land almost the whole of yesterday. About twilight last evening, we viewed the western coast of “bonnie Scotland.” I arose at an early hour this morning, to find our stately craft smoothly gliding on the placid waters of the river Clyde. It is a picture worthy of the artist’s brush—a scene well calculated to inspire every emotion of the poet’s soul.

On the north side of the majestic river, there is a sodded plain, broad and unbroken, gradually rising from the water’s edge. As we view this wooded landscape o’er, we see, here and there, farmhouses, which are as picturesque and beautiful as they are quaint and old, with the smoke from their ivy-covered chimneys coiling up and ascending on high like incense from the altar of burnt offering. Turning our eyes southward, we behold, hard by the stream, a long chain of towering mountains, whose gently sloping sides are carpeted with green grass, and girt around with budding trees. The heavy rain-drops on the grass and leaves are sparkling in the light of the new-risen sun. The mountains are echoing the merry tune which comes from the whistling plowman on the opposite shore. Now, between these two prospects, on the broad and unruffled bosom of this flowing river, our heavily-laden vessel, as though she were weary because of her long journey, moves slowly, gracefully, noiselessly, with the stars and the stripes proudly streaming from her mast-head. Indeed so motionless and queenly is our goodly vessel in her onward course, that she is apparently standing still while the mountains and plains are passing in review before her.

A little farther up the stream, we see Dumbarton Castle standing in the river. This historic rock measures a mile in circumference, and rises three hundred feet above the water. This castle was at one time the prison of Sir William Wallace, and afterwards the stronghold of Robert Bruce. From here on to Glasgow the Clyde is lined on both sides with iron-foundries and ship-building yards.

The voyage ends at Glasgow. The passengers are glad once more to press terra firma under their feet. I would write something about Glasgow, but I am like the more hopeful one of two Irishmen who went to America. Landing in New York, they started up town. They had gone only a few paces, when one of them saw a ten dollar gold piece lying on the sidewalk, and stooped to pick it up. The other said: “Oh, don’t bother to get that little coin; we will foind plenty of pieces larger than that.”