But this oil and canvass style of thinking, writing, and speaking, is bad. I wish our age were more sculptural in its genius--though I have not the power in any thing to conform thereto, I have the grace to perceive its higher excellence: yet Milton was a sculptor, Shakspeare a painter. How do we get through that?--My reason for objecting to Webster's style--though the tears were in my eyes several times while my father read--is precisely the same as my reason for not altogether liking my father's reading--'tis slightly theatrical--something too much of passion, something too much of effect--but perhaps I am mistaken; for I do so abhor the slightest approach to the lamps and orange peel, that I had almost rather hear a "brazen candlestick turned on a wheel," than all the music of due emphasis and inflection, if allied to a theatrical manner.--Dined at table again. They abound in toasts, and, among others, gave "The friends we have left, and those we are going to!" My heart sank. I am going to no friend; and the "stranger," with which the Americans salute wayfarers through their land, is the only title I can claim amongst them. After dinner, walked about--danced--saw the sun sink in a bed of gorgeous stormy clouds;--worked and walked till bed-time.--I was considerably amused, and my English blood a little roused at a very good-natured and well-meant caution of Mr. ----, to avoid making an enemy of Colonel ----. He is, they say, a party man, having influence which he may exert to our detriment. _Friday, 24th._ Rose late after a fair night's sleep--came up to the round-house. After breakfast, worked and walked for an immense time. Read a canto in Dante: just as I had finished it, "A sail! a sail!" was cried from all quarters. Remembering my promise to dear H----, I got together my writing-materials, and scrawled her a few incoherent lines full of my very heart. The vessel bore rapidly down upon us, but as there was no prospect of either her or our lying-to, Mr. ---- tied my missive, together with one Mr. ---- had just scribbled, to a lump of lead, and presently we all rushed on deck to see the ship pass us. She was an English packet, from Valparaiso, bound to London; her foremast had been carried away, but she was going gallantly before the wind. As she passed us, Mr. ---- got up into the boat, to have a better chance of throwing. I saw him fling powerfully,--the little packet whizzed through the air, but the distance was impossible, and the dark waters received it within twenty feet of the ship, which sailed rapidly on, and had soon left us far behind. I believe I screamed, as the black sea closed over my poor letter. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *