We emerge from the shadow of the great bridge, and pass another smart training-ship. Moored there we presume to justify the outrageous and apparently prohibitive stipulation of Parliament,--which required that a railway train should be carried through the air above the masthead of a fully rigged old-fashioned man-of-war,--for we never heard of another performing such a feat. Nor did our sagacious and far-seeing legislators probably dream of the advent of the squat iron-clads, with neither mast or sail, and hulls more under the water than above it, that now form the fleet of the present. Leaving this the last trace of grisly war behind, we enter on a glorious stretch of the uncontaminated Tamar, and admire two or three barges with their grand, looming, picturesque sails,--like great-winged sea-birds,--slowly traversing the bright expanse. Here a prophetic echo from the lyre of the poet who dwelled at its source, crosses the mental ear, and finds fulfilment,-- "Fount of a rushing river! wild flowers wreathe The home where thy first waters sunlight claim; The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe, Sweet Tamar spring! the music of thy name. Fair is the future scenery of thy days, Thy course domestic and thy paths of pride; Depths that give back the soft-eyed violet's gaze, Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide." Delightfully we career along, and our thoughts suggest what a spirit-cheering, buoyant--heart as well as boat--feeling of freedom fills the mind, when afloat in a trim craft with a full sail, and a fair wind. Pre-eminently so on the boundless sea, and in lesser degree, but most enjoyable also, on this broad reach of inland water. The busy succession of waves rising up and greeting with flickering salute the prow of our little vessel, as with easy rocking motion she speeds over their undulating succession. And the contented satisfaction, also, that we have the pleasant breeze, with its varying force for our untiring steed; no haunting thought disturbs, that some noble animal in slavery is running the sands of his life out the faster for our gratification,--nor the dread possibility of instant annihilation, that hovers continuously over the rushing transit of the iron trackway. Verily of all modes of movement, none equals for pleasantness the sailor's, nor does the phantom of a wild pitiless sky, lee shore, and foam-mantled rocks greatly alloy it. Wild glory of the weltering shore, The clouds dark portent hangeth o'er, The rushing billows muffled roar. Like storm-drenched bird, from out the west The labouring bark by strong winds pressed, Beats to the haven of her rest. The seaman views the turmoil grim, And be his vessel tight and trim, The tempest wears no fears for him.