superiority of the English at sea. The natives of the South of Europe
navigate smooth seas,—those of the North are frozen up during winter;
but the English seas are open all the year, and are navigated in long
dark stormy nights, when nothing but great skill and incessant exertion
can preserve the vessel. Hence arises a degree of confidence in their
sailors, which is almost incredible; the greater the danger, the greater
is their activity: instead of shrinking from toil, every man is at his
post;—having no faith in miracles for their deliverance, they almost
work miracles to deliver themselves, and, instead of preparing for
death, strain every sinew to avoid it. Added to this confidence, they
have also in war that which arises from constant success. The English
sailor feels that he is master of the seas. Whatever he sees is to do
him homage. He is always on the look-out, not with the fear of an enemy
before his eyes, but, like a strong pirate, with the hope of gain; and
when going into action, with an equal, or even a superior force, he
calculates his profits as certainly as if the enemy were already
taken.—"There," said the master of a frigate, when the captain did not
choose to engage a superior French force, because he had a convoy in
charge—"There," said he with a groan, "there's seven hundred pounds lost
to me for ever."—As for fear, it is not in their nature. One of these
men went to see a juggler exhibit his tricks: there happened to be a
quantity of gunpowder in the apartment underneath, which took fire and
blew up the house. The sailor was thrown into a garden behind, where he
fell without being hurt—He stretched his arms and legs, got up, shook
himself, rubbed his eyes, and then cried out,—conceiving what had
happened to be only a part of the performance, and perfectly willing to
go through the whole,—"D—n the fellow, I wonder what the devil he'll do
next!"
* * * * *
A slow and uncomfortable stage-coach carried us from Tor-point, which is
on the western side of Plymouth harbour, to Falmouth, through the towns
of Liskeard, Lostwithiel, a pretty place with its slated roofs and its
singular church tower, St Austel, and Truro. We are now at the same inn
and in the same room in which I was lodged with J. on our arrival. I had
then the delightful and stirring pleasure of expectation; I have now a
deeper joy in the hope of soon setting foot in my own country, and being
welcomed in my father's house. But I have left dear friends whom I shall
never behold again, and am departing from a land in which I have enjoyed
as much happiness as man can possibly enjoy in any other state than that
of domestic tranquillity.
THE END.
EDINBURGH:
Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.