immortality of the soul.

Ten P.M.--Very sleepy. Nothing to be seen outside, but darkness
made visible; nothing inside but every variety of bunch into
which the human form can be twisted, rolled, or "massed," as Miss
Prescott says of her jewels. Every man's legs sprawl drowsily,
every woman's head (but mine,) nods, till it finally settles on
somebody's shoulder, a new proof of the truth of the everlasting
oak and vine simile; children fret; lovers whisper; old folks
snore, and somebody privately imbibes brandy, when the lamps go
out. The penetrating perfume rouses the multitude, causing some
to start up, like war horses at the smell of powder. When the
lamps are relighted, every one laughs, sniffs, and looks
inquiringly at his neighbor--every one but a stout gentleman, who,
with well-gloved hands folded upon his broad-cloth rotundity,
sleeps on impressively. Had he been innocent, he would
have waked up; for, to slumber in that babe-like manner, with a
car full of giggling, staring, sniffing humanity, was simply
preposterous. Public suspicion was down upon him at once. I doubt
if the appearance of a flat black bottle with a label would have
settled the matter more effectually than did the over dignified
and profound repose of this short-sighted being. His moral neck-
cloth, virtuous boots, and pious attitude availed him nothing,
and it was well he kept his eyes shut, for "Humbug!" twinkled at
him from every window-pane, brass nail and human eye around him.

Eleven P.M.--In the boat "City of Boston," escorted thither by my
car acquaintance, and deposited in the cabin. Trying to look as
if the greater portion of my life had been passed on board boats,
but painfully conscious that I don't know the first thing; so sit