the marvellous, they now appeared anxious to fix their faith on a more solid basis. You should have seen their eager, anxious look, their attentive ear, their uncovered heads, when any us began a "long yarn' of about the campaigns of the emperor. No sooner had the admiration and wonder which one story excited subsided, than they begged of us to commence another. You may guess that we always complied with their request. There was a charm in the homage which they paid to the glory of our idol. The chapelle destined to receive the remains of the emperor excited, above all, the respectful curiosity of the inhabitants of the island. They always bent the knee on entering; and some went so far as to prostrate themselves to the ground, touching it with their lips. Some among the women piously took out their rosaries, and commenced reciting prayers to the great St. Napoleon.

We left Madeira at nine o'clock on the morning of the 26th, with fine weather and a stiff breeze. There, as every where else, the regrets and the good wishes of the inhabitants accompanied us. We were in the best humour in the world with ourselves and with every body else. The ship's crew answered the acclamations from ashore by singing in chorus a chant de circonstance, composed since we left Cadiz, and of which the authorship has been imputed to the Abbé Felix Coquereau. Our almoner has always repudiated the paternity; but I give you the lines, nevertheless, such as they are: "Il n'est plus! mais sa gloire Remplit le monde encore; Son nom, dans notre histoire, Rayonne en lettres d'or, Chacun dit la vaillance De ses braves soldats, Et, s'il est mort, hélas ! Au moins, dans notre France, Sa gloire ne meurt pas!

Son nom! La jeune mère
Le dit à son enfant ;
Sur l'airain, sur la pierre,
Il brille triomphant,
Lorsque l'intolérance
Célébrait son trépas,
On se disait tout bas :
Espérons, car en France
La gloire ne meurt pas !

Non la gloire est vivante
En la France aujourd'hui,

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Enfin reconnaissante
Veut se parer de lui
Venez cortège immense,
Français de tous états!
Pressez vous sur les pas,
Pour qu'on dise qu'en France
La gloire ne meurt pas."

Whatever may be the merit of this song as a composition, I cannot choose but think kindly of the author. He certainly has not drunk at the well of M. Eugene Sue, the maritime novelist, or we should have his lines larded with "catheads," bowsprits," "handspikes," and a plentiful sprinkling of oaths. For, Cor Dieu! M. Eugene Sue is a perfect seaman; and, Tu Dieu! Vrai Dieu! Mort Dieu! though a very estimable person, he is quite a different kind of chap from Glascock, or Marryat, or Basil Hall. Worthy man! having made ninety sea-leagues as surgeon's mate aboard a corvette, he describes the sea as I, a plain, simple blue-jacket, would describe a courtball of Louis Philippe. Tom, Tom, he has travestied us sailors most outrageously! Help his corpus if any wind blows him near my shoulderof-mutton fist.

the

All our joviality and merry snatches of songs were changed to another tune at three or four leagues from Madeira. The corvette hailed the frigate. The captain, thinking that one of the Favorite's men had fallen overboard, threw out safety-buoy, and we immediately brought to. La Favorite continued, nevertheless, to make sail; and one of the officers, with a speakingtrumpet in hand, announced to us that our vessel was on fire. There was general consternation during the space of a minute. Under any circumstances a fire aboard ship is an awful misfortune; but, charged with so high and holy a mission, it would have been an overwhelming calamity. Fortunately our sinister auguries were soon dissipated, for the event became comical. The crew of La Favorite had alarmed us, and were doubtless themselves alarmed by the thick smoke which they saw issuing from the head of the ship. They were not aware that this smoke entirely originated from three burnt cutlets, of which the following is the history:-The young M. Chabot, completely recovered from his fall,

but not from his ill-humour, did not care to encounter the merry, laughing faces of his companions. His servant, therefore, received an order to serve his breakfast in his private cabin. You must know that our cook is proud of his art, and jealous of its exercise. It appeared that the servant of M. Chabot had, unknown to the cook, introduced himself into the sanctuary of M. le Chef, and had placed the cutlets, in order more effectually to escape unnoticed, on a tremendous fire. In the midst of these preparations the cook suddenly entered. The valet fled, overturning the unfortunate cutlets, sauce and all, into the fire. The flame rapidly extended; and a good deal of water was flung down before we completely succeeded in extinguishing the flames. It was long-I may say a monthbefore our chef was pacified. He insisted that M. Chabot should make him the amende honorable in person; and at length the officers were obliged to interfere.

Such were the most eventful passages of our trip between Madeira and the Canaries. The next daythe 27th-it was beautiful weatherthere was a cry of land. It was the Peak of Teneriffe-Teneriffe, the hospitable-Teneriffe, the hôtellerie of navigators. All our passengers got on deck to view this colossal mountain. We could soon distinguish many points of the coast. The breeze freshened every moment; and both ships were now bravely making ten knots an hour each, side by side. At four o'clock in the evening we doubled the Cape of Anaya, and entered the bay which it shelters against a northerly wind. Beyond us was the town of St. Croix, stretching itself along the shore, with its belfries, its white houses, its terraces en Belvidère.

An hour afterwards both ships cast anchor before the Mole, not far from the Alameda, whence we could distinguish among the eager groups of pedestrians the mantillas of some of the fair sex. In the evening some of the officers, and certain of the crew (of whom, by the way, I formed one), went ashore. If ever a country deserved its name, this is that very place. It is, indeed, a happy

land-a terre fortunée. Misfortune ought to be deprived of half its bitterness, and good fortune to have additional zest, in this perfect paradise. On the evening of which I speak there was a pleasant freshness in the air, which was felt in the town. The sea, seen in the distance, shone like a mirror. There is such a charm in the atmosphere of the country, that even after sunset surrounding objects appear luminous. One would say that St. Croix was lighted with gas. Groups of pretty women enlivened the tableau on every side. Our young officers, struck by their costume and appearance, were anxious to address them; and I was not wholly useless on the occasion, for I made our élégans aware of the usages of the country. In this charming island it is the fashion to address people in the streets, to exchange glances and compliments, without ever having met before. The officers soon profited by my suggestions; and I suppose they passed an agreeable soirée. Soon the streets became deserted; the houses were lighted up; music was heard; and I could distinguish the uniform of our officers joining in the mazy dance.

*

As for me, I continued my solitary walk. They would have invited me, as they invited the others, perhaps, for strangers are all well received, no matter what their rank; but, as you well know, Tom, I am but a simple sailor, and if I saw there were swabs opposite me in the country dance, it would annoy me confoundedly. My lot, for the rest, was not the most unfortunate. At every turn I encountered beautiful young women, with expressive, enthusiastic, yet modest features. The whole town resounded with chants d'amour. Under almost every balcony, gay cavaliers sounded the "light guitar,' which was responded to from within by the pianoforte. Oh, delightful country! said I. Would that I were but twenty, and my time my own!

Almost insensibly I quitted the populous quarter of the town, and at length reached that part of St. Croix opposite the sea. There were plenty of my officers and brothersailors who were on the look-out for adventures on that evening, but as

for me I was discreet. There are days, as you know, Tom, when pleasure comes, so to speak, amiss. The gay dame knocks at your door, and flaunts into your apartment; but though you have not seen her for a long time, instead of stretching out the hand frankly, you recoil. It was not that I was melancholy; but remembrances of country and family came across my mind. I thought of a young girl of Faouët, in my own province, who was to have been united to me, and who is now a saint in heaven. I thought on my mother

my poor old mother-excellent, kind old creature-and who would be so delighted to see me after years of absence. And I could not all the while refrain from tears. A day must at length come when, on my return to Faouët, the neighbours will meet me with tears in their eyes. Not one of them, I know, will open their lips to pronounce the cause of their sorrow. But I shall read it in their countenances,-" La Mère le Hérou is dead!" Poor woman! I am her only son. She has no other support; yet she does not complain. Is her old age happy?-But a truce to these reveries. Awaking from them, I found myself a considerable distance from the town. I retraced my steps, and found on my arrival that the night was already far advanced. I found the état-major assembled in the Grande Place. Some were relating in the most bouncing style the history of their bonnes fortunes; whilst others admired the Obelisk of the Virgin, a beautiful marble monument which decorates the town. A black-letter fellow, belonging to La Favorite, was giving in the most erudite fashion the history of this obelisk. I listened to him for a good quarter of an hour spinning out his long yarn; but at length I could stand it no longer. In quitting the état-major I fell in with a group of jolly English officers, who had already three cloths in the wind, and who were loud in their praises of the pluck of the beauties of the island, and of the happy star which conducted them thither. As in returning to the Mole I took the longest road, I met again my Englishmen, who were awaiting their boat. But the scene had changed. Their joyous bois

terousness now gave place to a species of sombre melancholy. In the midst of them was an elderly man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant. At the moment of my arrival the old lieutenant was in the act of speaking. His companions listened to him with deep attention. The name of Nelson reached my ears. "The shot came from that bastion," said the lieutenant, pointing out with his finger one of the batteries which defends the bay. The old lieutenant was not mistaken. It was from the bastion of St. Pierre that the shot was fired which carried away the arm of the intrepid admiral. Warming by degrees, the lieutenant related circumstantially the facts as they occurred. On the 25th July, 1797, just forty-three years previously, Nelson had entered the bay and attacked the forts. The castle of St. Christopher answered briskly to the attack; the forts of San Miguel and Paso Alto manned their batteries with the utmost zeal; but it was the fort of St. Pedro which bore off the bell. In the hottest part of the engagement, the admiral led the attack on the Mole. His intrepidity cost him dearly; for his party were covered by the batteries of St. Pedro, and he lost his arm in consequence.

Just at this moment the English lieutenant perceived me, as if by chance. He saw that my uniform was French; and, under the influence of considerable excitement, asked me what business I had there. Before I had time to reply, the younger officers, provoked by what they called the impertinence of a Frenchman, who had attempted to ridicule them and to asperse the memory of their hero, indulged in certain threats. On the instant I stood forward. I claimed the intimate friendship of you, my worthy friend, Tom Barnacle; but you, like me, are a simple blue-jacket, and your name made little impression on these swabs. Then it was that I condescended to do a thing which I have not resorted to since I came to the age of reason- thing which I promise you I shall never repeat, unless under the influence of "force nécessaire." What was it? you will ask. Well, then, I made a speech, in which I repudiated all idea of ridicule; and, to speak truly, I had

WHAT was the Lady Evelyn about all this while? She had mounted to her chamber with a merry heart; she had seated herself at her table as if for the purpose of study; she was lifting her eyes from time to time from the page that lay open before her, and gazing about as if impressed with a belief that some one would come to call her. Nobody came however, and she grew anxious. She rose from her chair, walked towards the window, and threw it up. It did not look out upon the terrace, and she knew that it did not; yet she strained her swanlike neck as if it had been of sufficient flexibility to carry her vision round an entire angle of the building. Poor Lady Evelyn! her heart lost its lightness, and her cheek grew pale with anxiety. At last, after an interval of perhaps a quarter of an hour, the sound of approaching footsteps was heard in the corridor. She had just time to close the window when the door of her chamber opened, and Lady Boroughdale made her appear

"What is the matter, Evy ?" demanded Evy's mother. You look pale and agitated. Has any thing happened to alarm you; or are you ill, my love ?"

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No, mamma, I am not ill; nothing has happened. Indeed I am not agitated at all."

"I think you are, my love, and I am sorry for it. Sit down, Evy, dearest, and let us have a little talk together."

The Lady Evelyn sat down as she was desired, and her mother occupied a chair close to that of her daughter. She then took Evelyn's hand in hers, and said gravely, yet affectionately, Have you seen Frederick Blackston since his return home?"

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The blood mounted to the Lady Evelyn's cheek and forehead, and overspread her very neck with vermilion. There was a moment's, and only one moment's, disposition to answer in the negative, but it was

Indeed, mamma, I cannot tell; for I was not even conscious of the route that I was following till I found myself all at once by the water side."

And what might you be thinking of all the while, that you could not see where you were going?"

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Oh, mamma! how can I answer that? If my thoughts had not been wool-gathering altogether, I should certainly not have lost my way so very near home."

"Evy," said her mother, solemnly, "you never deceived me in your life. I cannot suspect you of deceiving me now."

"Deceiving you, mamma! No. Why should I deceive you? what is there to practise deceit about?"

"That you must tell me, my love," was the answer. "Or, stay; perhaps I can assist you. Evy, you have been too much with Frederick Blackston."

"Mamma-mamma, I entreat you not to say that! Frederick Blackston is the dearest friend I have in