Like a bark upon the sea, Life is floating over death; Above, below, encircling thee, Danger lurks in every breath. Parted art thou from the grave Only by a plank most frail; Tossed upon the restless wave, Sport of every fickle gale. Let the skies be e'er so clear, And so calm and still the sea, Shipwreck yet has he to fear Who life's voyager will be. RUCKERT. The early trains for Liverpool, on Monday morning, were crowded by attorneys, attorneys' clerks, plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses, all going to the Assizes. They were a motley assembly, each with some cause for anxiety stirring at his heart; though, after all, that is saying little or nothing, for we are all of us in the same predicament through life; each with a fear and a hope from childhood and death. Among the passengers there was Mary Barton, dressed in the blue gown and obnoxious plaid shawl. Common as railroads are now in all places as a means of transit, and especially in Manchester, Mary had never been on one before; and she felt bewildered by the hurry, the noise of people, and bells, and horns; the whiz and the scream of the arriving trains. The very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. She had a back seat, and looked towards the factory-chimneys, and the cloud or smoke which hovers over Manchester, with a feeling akin to the "Heimweh." She was losing sight of the familiar objects of her childhood for the first time; and unpleasant as these objects are to most, she yearned after them with some of the same sentiment which gives pathos to the thoughts of the emigrant. The cloud-shadows which give beauty to Chat-Moss, the picturesque old houses of Newton, what were they to Mary, whose heart was full of many things?
