The next morning before I left my bed, I pondered over the events and conduct of the preceding day, but not with satisfaction, or self approbation. The seventh chapter of Ecclesiastes came fresh to my mind. I said to myself, adversity and constraint are more favorable to wisdom, than liberty and prosperity; or to express it in better words--"_sorrow is better than laughter, for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better_;" and for this maxim of wisdom we are indebted to a Jew. We remained a fortnight longer in Plymouth, and learnt by degrees to relish civility. We were kindly noticed by several good people who seemed to be rather partial to us, Americans, than otherwise. While there, I heard but very little uttered against America, or Americans. We were spoken to, and treated infinitely better than at Halifax. By the time of our embarkation, which was the 23d of April, 1815, we felt considerable attachment to the people about us. We arrived at New-York the 7th of June following, without any thing occurring in the passage worth committing to paper, unless it be to record the striking contrast in our feelings in our passage _to_ and FROM England. My sensations on first setting my foot once more on my native soil, were such as I have not power to describe. Tears gushed from my eyes, and had I not been ashamed, I should have kneeled down and kissed the earth of the UNITED STATES. I believe similar sensations, more or less fervent, fill the bosom of every American, on returning to his own country from British captivity. It is hardly possible that I shall, so long as my faculties remain entire, forget the horrors of the British transports, and several scenes and sufferings at Dartmoor Prison: yet I hope to be able, before I quit this world of contention, to forgive the contempts, the contumely, the starvations and filthiness inflicted on me, and on my countrymen, by an unfeeling enemy, while we remained in his power as prisoners of war. "Return we, from this gloomy view, To native scenes of fairer hue. Land of our sires! the Hero's home! Weary and sick, to thee we come; The heart fatigued with foreign woes, On thy fair bosom seeks repose. COLUMBIA! hope of future times! Thou wonder of surrounding climes! Thou last and only resting place Of Freedom's persecuted race! Hail to thy consecrated domes! Thy fruitful fields and peaceful homes. The hunter, thus, who long has toil'd O'er mountain rude, and forest wild, Turns from the dark and cheerless way, Where howls the savage beast of prey, To where yon curls of smoke aspire, Where briskly burns his crackling fire; Towards his cot delighted moves, Cheer'd by the voice of those he loves, And welcom'd by domestic smiles, Sings cheerly, and forgets his toils." POSTSCRIPT.