ly breeze, one
clear and cold morning towards the close of November, in the year 1811,
bound on a voyage of several years' duration, I experienced no regret at
leaving my home and native land, and had no misgiving in regard to
the future. My spirits rose as the majestic dome of the State House
diminished in the distance; my heart bounded with hope as we entered
the waters of Massachusetts Bay. I felt that the path I was destined
to travel, although perhaps a rugged one, would be a straight and
successful one, and if not entirely free from thorns, would be liberally
sprinkled with flowers.

It is wisely ordered by a benignant Providence that man, notwithstanding
his eager desire to know the secrets of futurity, can never penetrate
those mysteries. In some cases, could he know the changes which would
take place in his condition, the misfortunes he would experience, the
miseries he would undergo, in the lapse of only a few short years, or
perhaps months, he would shrink like a coward from the conflict, and
yield himself up to despair.

I could not long indulge in vagaries of the imagination. In a few hours
the wind hauled into the north-east, and a short head sea rendered the
ship exceedingly uneasy. While busily employed in various duties I felt
an uncomfortable sensation pervading every part of my system. My head
grew dizzy and my limbs grew weak; I found, to my utter confusion, that
I WAS SEASICK! I had hardly made the humiliating discovery, when the
boatswain hoarsely issued the unwelcome order, "Lay aloft, lads, and
send down the royal yards and masts!"

My pride would not allow me to shrink from my duty, and especially a
duty like this, which belonged to light hands. And while I heartily
wished the masts and yards, which added so much to the beauty of the
ship, and of which I was so proud in port, fifty fathoms beneath the
keelson, I hastened with my wonted alacrity aloft, and commenced the
work of sending down the main-royal yard.

Seasickness is an unwelcome malady at best. It not only deprives a
person of all buoyancy of spirit, but plunges him headlong into the gulf
of despondency. His only desire is to remain quiet; to stir neither limb
nor muscle; to lounge or lie down and muse on his unhappy destiny. If
he is urged by a sense of duty to arouse himself from this stupor, and
occupy himself with labors and cares while weighed down by the heavy
load, his condition, although it may command little sympathy from