Emigration, from a word of the most cheerful import, came to sound
most dismally in my ear. There is nothing more agreeable to picture
and nothing more pathetic to behold. The abstract idea, as conceived
at home, is hopeful and adventurous. A young man, you fancy,
scorning restraints and helpers, issues forth into life, that great
battle, to fight for his own hand. The most pleasant stories of
ambition, of difficulties overcome, and of ultimate success, are but
as episodes to this great epic of self-help. The epic is composed of
individual heroisms; it stands to them as the victorious war which
subdued an empire stands to the personal act of bravery which spiked
a single cannon and was adequately rewarded with a medal. For in
emigration the young men enter direct and by the shipload on their
heritage of work; empty continents swarm, as at the bo's'un's
whistle, with industrious hands, and whole new empires are
domesticated to the service of man.
This is the closet picture, and is found, on trial, to consist mostly
of embellishments. The more I saw of my fellow-passengers, the less
I was tempted to the lyric note.
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