Rainy, thick, and hazy, but not blowing very hard.

All is dull and dismal; a dreadful state of suspense, between feelings of exquisite joy in the hope of soon seeing home, and feelings of gloomy apprehension that a few hours may doom us to destruction.
"_Half-past seven._...

Heaven be praised! The joyful tidings are just announced of _Land!!_ Oh! who can conceive our feelings now?
The wretch condemned to the scaffold, who receives, at the moment he expects to die, the joyful reprieve, he can best conceive the state of our minds.
"The land is Cape Cod, distant about ten miles.

Joyful, joyful is the thought.

To-night we shall, in all probability, be in Boston.