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OW softening is retrospection! and how beautifying. It is like moonlight on an unlovely landscape. The deformities of the prospect are idealized in the illusive radiance, not concealed but rendered picturesque and charming by the mellow mysteriousness that moonlight lends; as retrospection is hallowed by the sentiment that clings to experiences past, the blessed quality that tones down or makes picturesque the disagreeable portions, and flings enchantment over the pleasant recollections.

This is a prelude to the medley of memories, bright, glowing, strange, grotesque, treasured by the passengers of the good ship Frances that sailed away from Providence the 15th of last October to the Yorktown centennial celebration. The passengers were Governor Bell and the officers of his staff, a number of invited guests, the New Hampshire State Militia with their chaplain, and five ladies. Great good spirits prevailed, for were they not one and all patriots, and bound for the Yorktown celebration in proof thereof?

As darkness fell over the waters, the sense of enjoyment arose. The weather was unusually mild for the season, and it was pleasant to sit on deck watching the long glittering wake of the steamer, and talking and thinking of the great events we were going to see celebrated,—to help celebrate; listening to conversation concerning the brave a hundred years ago, wrapped in patriotic reveries through which the forms of a triumphant Washington and defeated Cornwallis floated dimly, and into which the long-echoing shouts of Uncle Sam's earliest progeny faintly sounded.

But few among them will ever forget the horrors of the night that followed that dreadful Saturday night,—the first night out! The sumptuous feast proffered by Rhode Island to New Hampshire, fortified not the feasters against the foe of the sea. O the sea-sickness and the groaning and the longing for the morning light, that came at last, bringing alleviation for a time at least! The ship was small, and the sea rough, and all the valor of the doughty warriors on board could not repel the insidious and practical invader. The work of devastation was visible on every countenance Sunday morning.

But the weather was most delightful, soft and warm; the sky blue, bright and sparkling, with white, fleecy clouds floating over it as in June, a brisk breeze on the sea, that sent us merrily along, the near shores glowing in greenness, gladdening the gaze to rest upon them. We were sailing down the beautiful New York Harbor, and the spirits of the company revived perceptibly with the charming scenes, and conversation rose above the depressed sea-sick level to which it had sunk. The family of the Frances was grouped together on the upper deck, enjoying the morning hours, scanning the receding landscape through a glass,—sitting there in the warm sunshine during the sail past the Jersey coast.

But it was Sunday—New England Sunday as yet—and presently all were seated in the saloon, listening to a thoughtful sermon, full of strength and comfort, from the chaplain, Rev. Mr. Powers of Manchester. We were admonished to be good soldiers in life, fighting bravely its battles, enduring patiently its privations and losses, in perfect faith of the victory that awaits us beyond.