is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and
population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with those
of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have
left, all is vacancy, until you step on the opposite shore, and
are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another
world.

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a
connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the
story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation.
We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain" at each remove of our
pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken; we can trace it back link
by link; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But
a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, and
sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not
merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes--a gulf,
subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance
palpable, and return precarious.

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue
lines of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it
seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its
concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another.
That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all
most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might occur in
it--what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may
be driven by the uncertain currents of existence; or when he may
return; or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes