fragrant heath. She had been used to familiar faces, and had hitherto reckoned time but by the falling leaf or the opening flower. Now her room was a wretched cabin the size of a closet, and that, too, rudely formed of boards. The incessant noise, the loud voices, the savour of the pitch, which seemed to be part of every thing she touched—the strange faces, the faint sick feeling that perpetually stole over her, made her indeed pine for the wings of the dove that nestled in the trees of her native woods.
If it were not for romance, reality would be unbearable: nevertheless, they are very different things. Beatrice had often thought, with a passionate longing, of the eternal ocean, the mighty mirror of the stars and the sunshine of heaven—she had listened to the autumn wind sweeping the depths of the dark woods, and marvelled if its sound resembled the stormy murmur of the waves: but, now that she was at sea, most devoutly did she pray to be on shore, and wept with very delight when they saw land.
I doubt whether any minor on his travels, sleeping in his carriage on deck, secure of being awakened by his valet at the proper moment for being in ecstasies with the lovely bay of
