you, and not merely you, whose guest I was, but the many who benefited me in word or deed, the warm-hearted, noble-minded, all those who let me drink the morning dew of a new, a more beautiful creation, that elixir of life which gives new, youthful life to heart and mind. Words are poor, and can only feebly express the feelings of the soul. May, however, somewhat of the life's joy which you afforded me, again breathe forth from these letters to you, and convey to you a better expression of thanks than that which can here be uttered by,—

Your guest and friend,

FREDRIKA BREMER.

THE

HOMES OF THE NEW WORLD.

LETTER I.

ON THE SEA.

Sept. 23rd, 1849.

THIS is, dearest Agatha, my second day on the great ocean! And if the voyage goes on as it has begun I shall not soon long for land. The most glorious weather, the heaven and the sea full of light, and for a habitation on my voyage to the new world a cabin large and splendid as a little castle, and besides that, convenient in the highest degree. And how I enjoy my quiet uninterrupted life here on board, after the exciting days in England, where the soul felt itself as on a rack, whilst the body hurried hither and thither in order to see and accomplish that which must be seen and accomplished before I was ready for my journey! For it was requisite to see a little of England, and especially of London, before I saw America and New York. I did not wish to be too much overcome by New York, therefore I would know something of the mother before I made acquaintance with the daughter, in order to have a point and rule of comparison, that I might correctly understand the type. I knew that Sweden and Stockholm were of another race,

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unlike the English country, and towns, people, manners, mode of building, and so on. But England had in the first place given population, laws, and tone of mind to the people of the new world. It was the old world in England which must become my standard of judgment as regarded the new. For that reason I came first to England, and to England I shall, please God, return when I have finished my pilgrimage on the other side of the ocean, in order to obtain a more decided impression, to form a conclusive judgment before I return home. We will expound together the runes in the native land of runic lore.

Now, however, I know what London looks like, and I shall not be amazed by the buildings of New York.

To-day, Sunday, has been to me really a festival day. We have had divine service on board, and that was good and beautiful. The passengers, about sixty in number, together with the crew of the vessel, all in their best attire, assembled in the great saloon on deck. The captain, a brisk, good-looking, young officer, read the sermon and prayers, and read them remarkably well. The whole assembly joined in the prayers and responses, as is customary in the English episcopal church. The sun shone in upon that gay assembly composed of so many different nations.

To be so solitary, so without countrymen, kindred or friends, in this assembly, and yet to know myself so profoundly united with all these in the same life and the same prayer," Our Father, which art in Heaven!"-it affected me so much that I wept (my usual outlet, as you know, for an overflowing heart, in joy as in grief). The captain thought that I needed cheering, and came to me very kindly after the service. But it was not so. I was happy.

Since then I have walked on deck, and read a poem called "Evangeline," a tale of Acadia, by the American

poet, Henry Longfellow. The poem belongs to America, to its history and natural scenery. There is much dramatic interest and life in it. The end, however, strikes me as melo-dramatic and somewhat laboured. The beginning, the descriptions of the primeval forests of the new world, the tall trees which stand like the old druids with long descending beards and harps, which sound and lament in the wind, is glorious, and is a chord of that fresh minor key, which pervades the whole song, about the peaceful persecuted people of Acadia-a beautiful but mournful romance, and founded upon history. This little book was given to me by William Howitt on my departure from England; and thus I have to thank him for this my first taste of American literature, in which I fancy I can perceive a flavour of the life of the New World.

How pleasant it is to be able to read a little, and to be able to lie and think a little also! People here show me every possible attention; first one and then another comes and speaks a few words to me. I answer politely, but I do not continue the conversation; I have no inclination for it. Among the somewhat above fifty gentlemen, who are passengers on board, there is only one-a handsome old gentleman-whose countenance promises anything of more than ordinary interest. Nor among the twelve or thirteen ladies either is there anything remarkably promising or attractive, although some are very pretty and clever. I am very solitary. I have an excellent cabin to myself alone. In the day I can read there by the light from the glass window in the roof. In the evening and at night it is lighted by a lamp through a ground glass window in one corner.

People eat and drink here the whole day long; table is covered after table; one meal-time relieves another. Everything is rich and splendid. Yes, here we live really magnificently; but I do not like this superabundance,