any one who wants to be well served on the trip will find that a sovereign to the table steward, and one to the bedroom steward,—the first paid the last day before reaching port, and the second by instalments of half to commence with, and half just before leaving,—will have a marvellously good effect, and that it is, in fact, an expected fee. If it is your first voyage, and you expect to be sick, speak to the state-room steward, who has charge of the room you occupy, or the stewardess, if you have a lady with you; tell him you shall probably need his attention, and he must look out for you; hand him half a sovereign and your card, with the number of your room, and you will have occasion to experience most satisfactorily the value of British gold before the voyage is over. If a desirable seat at the table is required in the dining-saloon—that is, an outside or end seat, where one can get out and in easily,—or at the table at which the captain sometimes presides, a similar interview with the saloon steward, a day or two before sailing, may accomplish it.

Besides these stewards, there are others, who are known as deck stewards, who wait upon seasick passengers, who lie about the decks in various nooks, in pleasant weather, and who have their meals brought to them by these attentive fellows from the cabin table. It is one phase of seasickness that some of the sufferers get well enough to lie languidly about in the fresh, bracing air, and can eat certain viands they may fancy for the nonce, but upon entering the enclosed saloon, are at once, from the confined air or the more perceptible motion of the ship, afflicted with a most irrepressible and disagreeable nausea.

Well, the ticket for Liverpool is bought, your letter of credit prepared, and you are all ready for your first trip across the water. People that you know, who have been often, ask, in a nonchalant style, what "boat" you are going "over" in; you thought it was a steamer, and the easy style with which they talk of running over for a few weeks, or should have gone this month, if they hadn't been so busy, or they shall probably see you in Vienna, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, causes you to think that this, to you, tremendous undertaking of a first voyage over the Atlantic is to be but an insignificant excursion, after all, and that the entire romance of the affair and the realizing of your imagination is to be dissolved like one of youth's castles in the air. So it seems as you ride down to the steamer, get on board, pushing amid the crowds of passengers and leave-taking friends; and not until a last, and perhaps, tearful leave-taking, and when the vessel fairly swings out into the stream, and you respond to the fluttering signal of dear ones on shore, till rapid receding renders face and form indistinguishable, do you realize that you are fairly launched on the great ocean, and friends and home are left behind, as they never have been before.

One's first experience upon the great, awful Ocean is never to be forgotten. My esteem for that great navigator, Christopher Columbus, has risen one hundred per cent. since I have crossed it, to think of the amount of courage, strength of mind, and faith it must have required to sustain him in his venturesome voyage in the frail and imperfect crafts which those of his day must have been.

Two days out, and the great broad sweep of the Atlantic makes its influence felt upon all who are in any degree susceptible. To the landsman, the steamship seems to have a regular gigantic see-saw motion, very much like that of the toy ships that used to rise and fall on mimic waves, moved by clock-work, on clocks that used to be displayed in the store windows of jewellers and fancy dealers. Now the bows rise with a grand sweep,—now they sink again as the vessel plunges into an advancing wave,—up and down, up and down, and forging ahead to the never-ceasing, tremulous jar of the machinery. In the calmest weather there is always one vast swell, and when wind or storm prevails, it is both grand and terrible.

The great, vast ocean is something so much beyond anything I ever imagined,—the same vast expanse of dark-blue rolling waves as far as the eye can reach,—day after day, day after day,—the great ship a mere speck, an atom in the vast circle of water,—water everywhere. The very wind sounds differently than on land; a cheerful breeze is like the breath of a giant, and a playful wave will send a dozen hogsheads of water over the lofty bulwarks.

But in a stiff breeze, when a great wave strikes like an iron avalanche against the ship, she seems to pause and shudder, as it were, beneath the blow; then, gathering strength from the unceasing throb of the mighty power within, urges her way bravely on, while far as the eye can reach, as the ship sinks in the watery valleys, you see the great black tossing waves, all crested with spray and foam, like a huge squadron of white-plumed giant cavalry. The spray sometimes flies high over the smoke-stack, and a dash of saline drops, coming fiercely into the face, feels like a handful of pebbles. A look around on the vast expanse, and the ship which at the pier seemed so huge, so strong, so unyielding, becomes an atom in comparison,—is tossed, like a mere feather, upon old Ocean's bosom; and one realizes how little is between him and eternity. There seem to be no places that to my mind bring man so sensibly into the presence of Almighty God as in the midst of the ocean during a storm, or amid the grand and lofty peaks of the Alps; all other feelings are swallowed up in the mute acknowledgment of God's majesty and man's insignificance.

If ever twelve days seem long to a man, it is during his first voyage across the Atlantic; and the real beauty of green grass is best appreciated by seeing it on the shores of Queenstown as the steamer sails into Cork harbor.

Land again! How well we all are! A sea voyage,—it is nothing. Every one who is going ashore here is in the bustle of preparation.

We agree to meet A and party in London; we will call on B in Paris,—yes, we shall come across C in Switzerland. How glib we are talking of the old country! for here it is,—no three thousand miles of ocean to cross now. A clear, bright Sunday morning, and we are going ashore in the little tug which we can see fuming down the harbor to meet us.

We part with companions with a feeling of regret. Seated on the deck of the little tug, the steamer again looms up, huge and gigantic, and we wonder that the ocean could have so tossed her about. But the bell rings, the ropes are cast off, the tug steams away, our late companions give us three parting cheers, and we respond as the distance rapidly widens between us.

Custom-house officials examine your luggage on the tug. American tourists have but very little trouble, and the investigation is slight; cigars and fire-arms not forming a prominent feature in your luggage, but little, if any, inconvenience may be anticipated.

This ordeal of the custom-house constitutes one of the most terrible bugbears of the inexperienced traveller. It is the common opinion that an inspection of your baggage means a general and reckless overhauling of the personal property in your trunks—a disclosure of the secrets of the toilet, perhaps of the meagreness of your wardrobe, and a laying of profane hands on things held especially sacred. Ladies naturally dread this experience, and gentlemen, too, who have been foolish enough to stow away some little articles that custom-house regulations have placed under the ban. But the examination is really a very trifling affair; it is conducted courteously and rapidly, and the traveller laughs to himself about his unfounded apprehensions.

The tug is at the wharf; the very earth has a pleasant smell; let us get on terra firma. Now,