we call) our imagination, and the past marches solemnly hand-in-hand with the present before our spirit’s eyes; and while we think we are merely day-dreaming--indulging in pleasant reveries--the subtle essence of ourselves is mingling with an immortal past. But it is not towards this ancient city we are fast hastening; our _City of Rome_ is the creation of to-day, it has nothing to say to the yesterdays; its kingdom belongs to the to-morrows, which are crowded into the years to come. It is not throned like its ancient namesake on seven hills, but rides upon the myriad waves of a limitless ocean, and looks as though it could rule them too--this floating city, which is to carry us three thousand miles across the fascinating, fickle, and inconstant sea. Like a strong young giant our noble vessel lifts its great black bulwarks into the sunlight, and we climb its steep sides in the full confidence that much of the nauseating horrors of a sea voyage will be spared to us. The Atlantic steamers, as everyone knows, are all luxuriously appointed, but this is the most luxurious; our state room has two windows draped with green rep, a cosy sofa, and--luxury of luxuries--a reading lamp; one berth is four feet wide, with a spring mattress, downy pillows, and plenty of them; the upper berth is the usual size. It takes us some hours to explore the vessel from end to end, as we are kindly permitted to do; occasionally we lose ourselves, and are picked up by a stray hand and set in the right way. We stroll through the grand saloon, where some frantic musician is already evoking solemn sounds from the grand organ, while the passengers are clamouring for seats at special tables, and the bewildered stewards are distracted in their endeavour to oblige everybody. It is a case of bull-baiting--British bull-baiting; the poor bull is on the horns of a dilemma; he manages to extricate himself somehow, and things settle down to general satisfaction. Descending to the engine-room, we seem to have a glimpse of the infernal regions--such a rattle and clatter of machinery, whizzing and whirling amid the blaze of a hundred fires, some lashed to white heat, others blazing with a steady roar, their red flames leaping over their fiery bed, lighting up the swarthy faces of the firemen, who look like dusky gnomes flitting among eternal fires. By the time we reach the upper deck the tender has departed, the anchor is up, and--are we moving? We seem to be still stationary, but the shores of England are receding from us, the long, curving lines of the shore growing dim and more dim, the forest of shipping with its tall masts and fluttering sails fades slowly from our sight, and as the twilight closes in we are almost out of sight of land; it vanishes away till it looks like a bank of low-lying clouds fringing the horizon; now and then a white sail flashes out of the darkness and is gone.