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for the secure bed and the spacious bed-roomhe execrates none; he dwells on his hours of happiness in it, rather than on his days of sorrow. Something has carried away every unkindly feeling, and regret, ay fond regret, as he for the last time, stirs and warms his bosom. And ever after may he look back with fondness on his days of voyaging. When, long afterwards, he looks to the time when he deemed himself most uncomfortable to the time when he deemed himself away from the world and all enjoyment, he may be inclined to say,
that though he deemed them so then, these were not his unhappiest moments--that then he had indeed more enjoyment than he has, sometimes, had since in the bustling world ; and he may even wish again for another trip upon the waves.
And again, in this feeling we have a beautiful proof how much that restlessness and changeableness which exists in man, stands in the way of his comfort. It shews us that the eagerness which is ever keeping him in anxiety, is also ever leading him into error ; that in looking so earnestly for what he expects, he is apt to neglect what he really has ; that sometimes when he ought not, he frets and discontents himself, and finds hardly any enjoyment in the situation he is in, merely because he has fixed his desires upon what he imagines a better. It shews, us that after we resign, or just when we are on the eve of resigning, what we deem an unhappy state, we may find out that there is indeed happiness in it,—that it was truly worth our prizing. And shewing us this, it teaches us, that nothing we are obliged to engage in, we should consider too hard, or rashly condemn and throw up; that whatever our state is, we ought to endeavour to be content, for it may be better than we imagine; it may
be better than even another we are desiring. It teaches us that even all the privations and annoyances of an Indian voyage should not make us complain very much. And lastly, seeing that the feeling is apt to exist under all circumstances,--that the mind habituated to any thing, whether good or bad, has a reluctance and a difficulty in withdrawing itself from it; we see how nicely we ought to choose,-how necessary it is that we strenuously avoid, making any attachment we would by-and-by wish to have broken ; and how quickly we should set about breaking it, if such an attachment has been made.
Where'er we roam
At dawn of day on the 21st of July, after a passage of just four months from England, we anchored safe in Madras Roads. The preceding night even the passenger was found keeping watch. Some, I believe, did not go to bed at all, but remained upon deck, looking out with as much anxiety as the commander himself for the light which was to warn us of our approach to Madras ; and most of those who did go, went only to remain, awake, until they should hear the glad call. all hands up to bring the ship to anchor;' so anxiously did every heart beat as we were drawing to the port.
I have formerly spoken rather against an overgreat anxiety at sea, to get forward; but I can well excuse, nay, I can almost commend, a little eagerness at such a time as this. The thought that after all our dangers and anxieties we are now getting into the harbour of safety: the inclination which all have, more or less, of seeing the end of what they are engaged in; the curiosity we possess to view the far-distant and farfamed place ; the place where, perhaps, we are destined to spend many of our years ; stir up
in the bosom a degree of anxiety which it is difficult, indeed scarcely possible, for any one to restrain. Nor is it right perhaps, as I have said, that it should be restrained. For it is not the fretful anxiety of disappointment. It is not that racking of the mind caused by discontentment; that anxiety which exists in an over-eager, everasking spirit. It is the gentler anxiousness of natural desire,--the more grateful buoyancy of