to which he was exiled. But I must first speak of seas and of ships; and am I not well placed in London to speak of those things?

"You have seen that I embarked at St Malo. We left the Channel, and the immense billows coming from the west, announced our entrance on the Atlantic.

"It is difficult for those who have never been at sea to form an idea of the sentiments experienced when from the deck of the vessel one sees on all sides nothing but the serious and menacing face of the abyss. There is in the perilous life of a sailor an independence which springs from his absence from the land. The passions of men are left upon the shore. Between the world quitted and the world sought for, there is neither love nor country but on the element which bears us. No more duties to fulfil, no more visits to make, no more journals, no more politics. Even the language of a sailor is not the ordinary language. It is a language such as the ocean and the heavens, the calm and the tempest speak. One inhabits a universe on the waters, among creatures whose clothing, whose tastes, whose manners and aspects, resemble not the people of the earth; they have the roughness of the sea-wolf, and the lightness of the bird. Their fronts are marked by none of the cares of society. The wrinkles which traverse them resemble the foldings of a diminutive sail, and they are less chisselled by age than by the wind and by the waves. The skin of these creatures, impregnated by salt, is red and rigid, like the surface of the rock beaten by the billows.

"Sailors have a passion for their vessel. They weep with regret on quitting it, and with tenderness on returning to it. They cannot remain with their families. After having sworn a hundred times to expose themselves no more to the sea, they find it impossible to live away from it, like a young lover who cannot tear himself from the arms of a faithless and stormy mistress. In the docks of London and Plymouth it is not rare to find sailors born on board ship; from their infancy to their old age they have never been on shore, and have never seen the land but from the deck of their float

ing cradle: spectators of the world they have never entered. Within this life, narrowed to so small a space under the clouds and over the abyss, every thing is animated for the mariner: an anchor, a sail, a mast, a cannon, are the creatures of his affections, and have each their history

That sail was shivered on the coast of Labrador; the master sailsman mended it with the piece you seeThat anchor saved the vessel, when all the other anchors were lost in the midst of the coral rocks of the Sandwich Isles-That mast was broken by a hurricane off the Cape of Good Hope; it was but one single piece, but it is much stronger now that it is composed of two piecesThe cannon which you see is the only one which was not dismounted at the battle of the Chesapeake.' Then the most interesting news a-board'The log has just been thrown-the vessel is going ten knots an hourthe sky is clear at noon-an observation has been taken-they are at such a latitude-so many leagues have been made in the right direction-the needle declines, it is at such a degree-the sand of the sandglass passes badly, it threatens rain

flying-fish have been seen towards the south, the weather will become calm;-the water has changed its colour-pieces of wood have been seen floating by-sea-gulls and wildducks have been seen-a little bird has perched upon the yards-it is necessary to stand out to sea, for they are nearing the land, and it is dangerous to approach it during the night. Among the poultry is a favourite sacred cock which has survived all the others; it is famous for having crowed during a battle, as if in a farm-yard in the midst of its hens. Under the decks lives a cat of tortoise-coloured skin, bushy tail, long stiff mustaches, firm on its feet, and caring not for the rolling of the vessel: it has twice made the voyage round the world, and saved itself from a wreck on a cask. The cabin boys give to the cock biscuits soaked in wine; and the cat has the privilege of sleeping, when it likes, in the hammock of the first lieutenant.'

"The aged sailor resembles the aged labourer. Their harvests are different, it is true; the sailor has led a wandering life, the labourer has

never quitted his field, but they both consult the stars, and predict the future in ploughing their furrows; to the one the lark, the redbreast, and nightingale to the other, the albatross, the curlew, and the kingfisher, are prophets. They retire in the evening, the one into his cabin, the other into his cottage: frail tenements, but where the hurricane which shakes them, does not agitate their tranquil consciences.

In the wind tempestuous blowing, Still no danger they descry; The guiltless heart, its boon bestowing, Soothes them with its lullaby.

Lullaby, &c. &c.'

"The sailor knows not where death will surprise him, or on what coast he will leave his life. Perhaps he will mingle his last sigh with the wind, attached to a raft to continue his voyage; perhaps he will sleep interred on a desert island, which one may never light upon again, as he slept alone in his hammock in the middle of the ocean. The vessel is itself a spectacle. Sensible to the slightest movement of the helm, an hippogriff or winged courser, it obeys the hand of the pilot, as a horse the hand of its rider. The elegance of the masts and cordages, the agility of the sailors who cluster about the yards, the different aspects in which the ship presents itself, whether it advances leaning upon the water by a contrary wind, or flies straight forward before a favourable breeze, make this scientific machine one of the wonders of the genius of man. Sometimes the waves break against its sides, and dash up their spray; sometimes the tranquil water divides without resistance before its prow. The flags, the lights, the sails, complete the beauty of this palace of Neptune. The main-sails, unfurled in all their breadth, belly out like vast cylinders; the top-sails, reefed in the midst, resemble the breasts of a mermaid. Animated by impetuous wind, the vessel with its keel, as with the share of the plough, furrows with a mighty noise the fields of the ocean.

"On these vast paths of the deep, along which are seen neither trees, nor villages, nor cities, nor towers, nor spires, nor tombs-on this causeway without columns, without mile

stones, which has no boundaries but the waves, no relays but the winds, no lights but the stars-the most delightful of adventures, when one is not in quest of lands and seas unknown, is the meeting of two vessels. The mutual discovery takes place along the horizon by the help of a telescope; then they make sail towards each other. The crews and the passengers hurry upon the deck. The two ships approach, hoist their flags, brail half up their sails, and lay themselves alongside of each other All is silence; the two captains, from the poop, hail each other with speaking-trumpets-'The name of the vessel-from what port

the name of the captain-where he comes from-where he is bound for-how many days his passage has lasted, and what are his observations

on

the longitude and latitude.' These are the questions-' Good voyage.' The sails are unbrailed, and belly to the wind. The sailors and passengers of the two vessels follow each other with their eyes, without saying a word; these going to seek the sun of Asia, those the sun of Europe, which will equally see them die. Time carries away and separates travellers upon the earth more promptly still than the wind separates those upon the ocean. They also make signs of adieu from afar-good voyage-the common port is Eternity.

"The boatswain of the vessel I was embarked in was an ancient supercargo, named Pierre Villeneuve. His name alone pleased me, for it recalled the good Villeneuve. He had served in India under Suffrein, and in America under the Count D'Estaing; he had been engaged in a multitude of affairs. Leaning on the fore part of the vessel, near the bowsprit, like a veteran seated on the bank of his little garden in the fosse of the Invalides, Pierre, whilst chewing a quid of tobacco, which swelled his cheek like a rheum, described to me the effect of detonations of artillery on the decks during a combat, the ravage the bullets made in rebounding against the gun frames, the cannons, and the timbers. I made him talk of the Indians, the negroes, the colonists; I asked him how the people were dressed-how the trees were shaped-of what co

lour was the earth and sky-what was the taste of the fruits-if the mannas were better than peachesthe palm-tree finer than the oak. He explained to me all this by comparisons taken from things which I knew. The palm-tree was a great cabbage the dress of an Indian was like the dress of my grandmother-all the people of the East, and especially the Chinese, were cowards and robbers. Villeneuve was from Brittany, and we did not fail to finish by singing the praises of the incomparable beauty of our own country.

"The bell interrupted our conversation. It regulated the hours of dressing, of mustering the crew, and of meals. In the morning, at a given signal, the crew ranged upon the deck to take off their blue shirts to change them for others hanging in the shrouds. The shirts taken off are immediately washed in tubs, in which the mariners all wash their brown faces and tarry hands. At the midday and evening meal, the sailors, sitting in a circle around their wooden bowls, plunge one after the other, regularly and fairly, their pewter spoons into their soup, undulating to the rolling of the vessel. Those who are not hungry sell to their comrades their portion of biscuit and meat for tobacco or a glass of brandy. The passengers eat in the captain's cuddy. During the fine weather, a sail was often spread over the aft of the vessel, and we dined in view of the blue sea, whitened here and there by the foam of the breaking waves. Enveloped in my cloak, I slept during the night on the deck. My looks turned towards the stars above my head. The swelling sail sent to me the freshness of the breeze, which rocked me under the heavenly dome; dozing, and impelled by the wind, the sky changed with my dream.

"The passengers on board a vessel offer a society different from the crew; they belong to another element; their destinies are on the earth. Some are seeking fortune, others repose; some returning to their country, others quitting it; and others are voyaging to study the manners of foreign nations, and to instruct themselves

ST PETER'S ISLAND, NEWFOUNDland. -"The Governor lodged in a fort at the extremity of the city. I dined two or three times with this officer, who was extremely polite and obliging. He cultivated, under a bastion, some of the vegetables of Europe. After dinner, he shewed me what he called his garden. A delicate soft odour exhaled from a little plot of beans and flowers. It was not wafted to us by a breeze from our country, or by a zephyr of love, but by a wild wind of Newfoundland, without relations with the exiled plant, without sympathies of reminiscence or delight. In this perfume, which had changed its climate, its culture, and its world, were the melancholies and regrets of absence and of youth.

"We then went conversing to under the mast on which the flag floated, which was planted on the height of the fort, whilst, like the women of Virgil, we looked upon the sea, which separated us from our natal land-flentes. The Governor was agitated. He belonged to the vanquished opinion; he was weary of this rock,-a retreat suitable to a dreamer like me, but a rude abode for a man occupied with affairs, and not having in himself that passion which absorbs altogether, and makes the rest of the world disappear. Mine host enquired about the Revolution, and I enquired about the north-west passage. He was at the advanced guard of the desert, but he knew nothing of the Esquimaux, and received nothing from Canada but partridges.

"I was alone one morning, to behold the rising of the sun in the direction of France. I sat down on a project

never quitted his field, but they both consult the stars, and predict the future in ploughing their furrows; to the one the lark, the redbreast, and nightingale to the other, the albatross, the curlew, and the kingfisher, are prophets. They retire in the evening, the one into his cabin, the other into his cottage: frail tenements, but where the hurricane which shakes them, does not agitate their tranquil consciences.

In the wind tempestuous blowing, Still no danger they descry; The guiltless heart, its boon bestowing, Soothes them with its lullaby.

Lullaby, &c. &c.'

"The sailor knows not where death will surprise him, or on what coast he will leave his life. Perhaps he will mingle his last sigh with the wind, attached to a raft to continue his voyage; perhaps he will sleep interred on a desert island, which one may never light upon again, as he slept alone in his hammock in the middle of the ocean. The vessel is itself a spectacle. Sensible to the slightest movement of the helm, an hippogriff or winged courser, it obeys the hand of the pilot, as a horse the hand of its rider. The elegance of the masts and cordages, the agility of the sailors who cluster about the yards, the different aspects in which the ship presents itself, whether it advances leaning upon the water by a contrary wind, or flies straight forward before a favourable breeze, make this scientific machine one of the wonders of the genius of man. Sometimes the waves break against its sides, and dash up their spray; sometimes the tranquil water divides without resistance before its prow. The flags, the lights, the sails, complete the beauty of this palace of Neptune. The main-sails, unfurled in all their breadth, belly out like vast cylinders; the top-sails, reefed in the midst, resemble the breasts of a mermaid. Animated by impetuous wind, the vessel with its keel, as with the share of the plough, furrows with a mighty noise the fields of the ocean.

"On these vast paths of the deep, along which are seen neither trees, nor villages, nor cities, nor towers, nor spires, nor tombs on this causeway without columns, without mile

stones, which has no boundaries but the waves, no relays but the winds, no lights but the stars-the most delightful of adventures, when one is not in quest of lands and seas unknown, is the meeting of two vessels. The mutual discovery takes place along the horizon by the help of a telescope; then they make sail towards each other. The crews and the passengers hurry upon the deck. The two ships approach, hoist their flags, brail half up their sails, and lay themselves alongside of each other All is silence; the two captains, from the poop, hail each other with speaking-trumpets-'The name of the vessel-from what port

the name of the captain-where he comes from-where he is bound for-how many days his passage has lasted, and what are his observations

on

the longitude and latitude.' These are the questions- Good voyage.' The sails are unbrailed, and belly to the wind. The sailors and passengers of the two vessels follow each other with their eyes, without saying a word; these going to seek the sun of Asia, those the sun of Europe, which will equally see them die. Time carries away and separates travellers upon the earth more promptly still than the wind separates those upon the ocean. They also make signs of adieu from afar-good voyage-the common port is Eternity.

"The boatswain of the vessel I was embarked in was an ancient supercargo, named Pierre Villeneuve. His name alone pleased me, for it recalled the good Villeneuve. He had served in India under Suffrein, and in America under the Count D'Estaing; he had been engaged in a multitude of affairs. Leaning on the fore part of the vessel, near the bowsprit, like a veteran seated on the bank of his little garden in the fosse of the Invalides, Pierre, whilst chewing a quid of tobacco, which swelled his cheek like a rheum, described to me the effect of detonations of artillery on the decks during a combat, the ravage the bullets made in rebounding against the gun frames, the cannons, and the timbers. I made him talk of the Indians, the negroes, the colonists; I asked him how the people were dressed-how the trees were shaped-of what co

lour was the earth and sky-what was the taste of the fruits-if the mannas were better than peachesthe palm-tree finer than the oak. He explained to me all this by comparisons taken from things which I knew. The palm-tree was a great cabbage the dress of an Indian was like the dress of my grandmother-all the people of the East, and especially the Chinese, were cowards and robbers. Villeneuve was from Brittany, and we did not fail to finish by singing the praises of the incomparable beauty of our own

country.

"The bell interrupted our conversation. It regulated the hours of dressing, of mustering the crew, and of meals. In the morning, at a given signal, the crew ranged upon the deck to take off their blue shirts to change them for others hanging in the shrouds. The shirts taken off are immediately washed in tubs, in which the mariners all wash their brown faces and tarry hands. At the midday and evening meal, the sailors, sitting in a circle around their wooden bowls, plunge one after the other, regularly and fairly, their pewter spoons into their soup, undulating to the rolling of the vessel. Those who are not hungry sell to their comrades their portion of biscuit and meat for tobacco or a glass of brandy. The passengers eat in the captain's cuddy. During the fine weather, a sail was often spread over the aft of the vessel, and we dined in view of the blue sea, whitened here and there by the foam of the breaking waves. Enveloped in my cloak, I slept during the night on the deck. My looks turned towards the stars above my head. The swelling sail sent to me the freshness of the breeze, which rocked me under the heavenly dome; dozing, and impelled by the wind, the sky changed with my dream.

"The passengers on board a vessel offer a society different from the crew; they belong to another element; their destinies are on the earth. Some are seeking fortune, others repose; some returning to their country, others quitting it; and others are voyaging to study the manners of foreign nations, and to instruct themselves

ST PETER'S ISLAND, NEWFOUNDLAND. -"The Governor lodged in a fort at the extremity of the city. I dined two or three times with this officer, who was extremely polite and obliging. He cultivated, under a bastion, some of the vegetables of Europe. After dinner, he shewed me what he called his garden. A delicate soft odour exhaled from a little plot of beans and flowers. It was not wafted to us by a breeze from our country, or by a zephyr of love, but by a wild wind of Newfoundland, without relations with the exiled plant, without sympathies of reminiscence or delight. In this perfume, which had changed its climate, its culture, and its world, were the melancholies and regrets of absence and of youth.

"We then went conversing to under the mast on which the flag floated, which was planted on the height of the fort, whilst, like the women of Virgil, we looked upon the sea, which separated us from our natal land-flentes. The Governor was agitated. He belonged to the vanquished opinion; he was weary of this rock,-a retreat suitable to a dreamer like me, but a rude abode for a man occupied with affairs, and not having in himself that passion which absorbs altogether, and makes the rest of the world disappear. Mine host enquired about the Revolution, and I enquired about the north-west passage. He was at the advanced guard of the desert, but he knew nothing of the Esquimaux, and received nothing from Canada but partridges.

"I was alone one morning, to behold the rising of the sun in the direction of France. I sat down on a project