If a man be out of debt and out of love, or only moderately involved in either of these delicate predicaments; if he have youth and health and tolerable prospects, a good ship under his foot, good officers over him, and good messmates to serve with, why need he wear and tear his feelings about those he leaves behind?
Or rather, why need he grieve to part from those who are better pleased to see him vigorously doing his duty rather than idling in other people's way at home?
Or wherefore should he sigh to quit those enjoyments in which he cannot honourably participate till he has earned his title to them by hardy service?
On the other hand, who is there so insensible as not to feel the deepest apprehension, on returning from a long and distant voyage?
Busy fancy will conjure up images of death and sickness, of losses and sorrows.

And when the accumulated pile of letters is first placed in our hands after a long voyage, with what sickening eagerness do we not turn from the superscription to discover the colour of the seal?
It happened once to me to be nearly fifteen months without receiving a single line from home, or seeing an English newspaper.

On reaching the port of rendezvous, I found that as the ship I commanded was the only man-of-war in the harbour, there devolved upon me an immense load of official business requiring immediate and careful attention.

All this I learned on my way to the consul's office, where a huge budget of letters was delivered to me.

My first impulse, naturally, was to tear away the envelopes, and dive into the secrets of these domestic dispatches; but I paused on detecting several ominous-looking patches of black wax, and, thrusting them all into a drawer, did not open one till next day.