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greater avidity; in a word, when desire follows desire, and there is no gaining contentment even under favourable circumstances, and the mind is ever kept in a racking, unsatisfiable state of expectation, surely it is a spirit which cannot be advantageous, and which should not be encouraged. And therefore have I long thought, that he who endeavours to make himself happy in all situations, and under all circumstances; who, while he looks to the future with good hopes, appreciates and enjoys the present, follows the wisest plan. Therefore am I fully convinced, that he who, in a long voyage, keeps himself much the same at all times; who frets not with the wind when it opposes his progress, but quietly waits till a change comes; who, although he would be very well pleased could the voyage be got over in half the usual time, will not grieve very much though it should be rather longer than the usual time, is by far the happiest man. And what is more, he loses nothing by his contentment; for he gets to the end of the voyage

just at the same time with those who have all along been warring with the winds, and still more with themselves than the winds.

And in this, as in every thing else, when we are too eager, we are apt to miss and be deceived.

Hamlet. Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape like a camel?

Polonius. By the mass, and 'tis like a
camel, indeed.

Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel.
Pol. It is backed like a weasel.
Ham. Or like a whale?

Pol. Very like a whale.

I have known one started from his bed, at rather an earlier hour than he was in the habit of getting up at, to see land, which, after all his trouble of coming upon deck, he found to be made up of a cloud. I recollect, when we were drawing to the Indian coast, and expecting very soon to see the island of Ceylon, of more than half a dozen people standing for some time one night, inhaling, with wondrous pleasure, the "spicy gale," as it was wafted from the orange and cinnamon groves of

that lovely island, and making themselves sure that we could not be many miles from it; when it was afterwards found, that we were nearly as many degrees, and that the whole fragrance had proceeded from a little Friar's balsam on one of the party's fingers. I have seen nearly the whole of a ship's passengers drawn from their different employments, and sent in no small haste upon the poop, to see a bottle with something white about its neck, or a piece of light white paper, shaped somewhat like a butterfly, or even a plain bit of old rope, which some waggish chap had thrown out at the bow. And therefore, it is highly necessary, at such a time, to have all our eyes and senses about us, that we may see the land just as soon as it appears, and smell the scented wind just at the time it reaches

us.

Yet, for all this eagerness to reach the destined shore, the mind is not altogether free from uneasy sensations; there are reflections of a depressing kind apt to intrude as we draw to it, and the heart that beats high with expectation,

while the land is yet unseen, may lose all its buoyancy when it is seen. Now that we have really arrived at far-famed India, we feel, indeed, that we have left, at a great distance, the land where all our affections remain; and the happiness we experience in again seeing the wooded coast, and the far-stretching green-mantled hills, is much over-clouded by the reflection, that it is the coast and the country of strangers. This may be the country which some dear relation, or intimate friend, visited like us, and went to it to return no more. This is the country so inhospitable to the European; where the frail body is so apt to become the victim of disease; where the strong man must put no faith in his strength; where the sweeping epidemic, stretching far and wide, exerts its dreadful influence over all, and day after day gathering new strength, carries on each succeeding day increasing numbers to the grave. And thus, we think, it may be with us; in the general wreck may we sink unheeded, unmourned. In a foreign land, far from all that we love, from that which can alleviate so much the

loneliness of the death-bed; which can cheer so much the expiring heart, and brighten so much the sad gloom of the dying hour, may our eyes be closed.

And even if we escape such a fate, although, after a time, we may go back in safety to the land of our fathers, yet, as many years must roll past ere that period comes, consequently many changes must have taken place, and many of those ties that now bind us to it, shall ere then be unloosed for ever. Some of those that are dearest to us will, in all probability, have gone down to the grave; for the old must droop and die, in the common course of nature, and even the young are not secure from an early stroke. Long absence may have deadened and weaned the affection; and the joy-beaming look, and the warm-heaving bosom, which our presence ever inspired, and which stirred up in our breasts the grateful responsive glow, may be gone for ever. The companions, too, of our childhood and youth shall be scattered and lost. The few we may find we will scarcely recognise as our early com

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