It is but twelve days since we parted, and yet we are actually in the old world, and the things which we have so often talked over on the rock-bound shore are really before me. Yes, we are on the soil of Old England, and are soon to see its glories and greatness, and, I fear, its miseries, for a bird's eye view has already satisfied me that there is enough of poverty. You know we left New York in a soaking rain, and the wind blowing fresh from the north-east. We all felt disappointed, as we had hoped to pass down the bay, so celebrated for its beauty, with the bright sunshine to cheer our way; but we had to take comfort from the old proverb, that "a bad beginning makes a good ending." James, George, and I had made up our minds to a regular time of sea-sickness, and so we hastened to put our state room into order and have all our conveniences fixed for the voyage. As soon as we had made matters comfortable, we returned to the deck, and found a most formidable crowd. Every passenger seemed to have, on the occasion, a troop of friends, and all parts of the immense steamer were thronged. The warning voice of _"all on shore"_ soon caused a secession, and at twelve o'clock we had the great agent at work by which we hoped to make headway against wind and wave. The cheering of the crowd upon the wharf was hearty as we dropped into the river, and its return from our passengers was not lacking in spirit. The Arctic, you know, is one of the Collins line of steamers, and I was not a little surprised at her vast size and splendid accommodations, because I had only seen the Cunard boats in Boston, which are very inferior, in size and comfort, to this palace and tower of the ocean.