Liverpool,
Thank God, I am again in England, though not with the same feelings that I left it! Last night, as I quitted Dublin in the steamboat, the dark clouds traversed the sky in rapid confusion, and when the sun burst through them, the mountains on the right and left threw their long shadows towards England. This shadow spreads in my fancy over the lately so glowing scene, and the more I endeavour to efface it, the more indelible does it appear, like the blood stains to Lady Macbeth. I have read and written much on the sufferings of different ages and nations, and wrote and read with sympathy; but it is a far different thing to see them; to see them in their gigantic form in our highly-extolled times, denied and extenuated — nay, acknowledged and justified by those who, like the French, fancy that they are at the head of all human civilization. No wonder if the native Irish, like the prophet of old by the waters of Babylon, sit down and weep, if I, a stranger, am compelled to reckon the few days I passed among them as the most melancholy of my life. Of other, and I trust more cheering matters, in my next.