but the ships look shadowy and unsubstantial
as phantoms, so that, a moment after they
have been signalled, the straining eye searches
vainly for them. Still we are glad to make out
a friendly sail, or to see the smoke of a funnel.
It relieves the weariness of the voyage, and
makes the slippery deck, and cumbered hold
more cheerful.

We do not make much way, for we are
heavily laden. We are carrying all sorts of
fresh provisions and stores: yet we know
that our burthen will disappear, among so many,
like a drop of water in the sand; and this
is another reason why we are glad to see
other vessels steering toward the same point.
At last, however, as we draw near land, the
heavy snow-storm which has been brooding
so long in the air, descends with an effect that
is quite blinding. Then we go below, and
try to amuse ourselves as well as we can. It
is too dark to read with comfort, except at
night, when the candles are lighted; and then
we are most of us drowsy. So we play at
cards and tell each other stories, quite
familiarly; although, wonderful to say, we may
not have been acquainted before. It is curious
to mark how tolerant we are of each other's
little weaknesses; and how closely we seem
to be drawn together by the mere tie of
national brotherhood. I have never
witnessed anything like it before amongst
Englishmen.

In about forty hours from the time we left
Varna we anchored at Balaklava. We could
hear now and then the stray boom of cannon
to windward; and we could see the flag
of England flying from the heights. We had
scarcely cast anchor, when we were boarded
by a tumultuous and motley crowd of officers
off duty, looking pale and haggard enough.
Doctors with anxious faces and hurried looks,
brawny boatmen, and lean slovenly servants
on foraging expeditions. You could hardly
recognise them as the trim smart grooms who
had left Constantinople a short time ago.
I must own also to some surprise at being
accosted by touters, who perceiving, I
suppose, by my speculative and abstracted looks,
that I was not a military gentleman, obligingly
offered to procure me quarters for a con-si-de-ra-tion.
Come, thought I, after all, things
cannot be quite so bad as we've heard say, if
a young fellow of no account, like this, is able
to get me food and shelter. Whereupon I
fell into a train of reflections.

Our greatest curse in the Crimea has been
our ignorance. We were obliged to do
everything in the dark—to feel our way
at every step. Thus we knew that the
casual visit of a Frenchman about sixty
years ago had first given political importance
to the Crimea. We knew that the
name of that Frenchman had been of course
forgotten. We should like to hear the name
of the Frenchman who suggested the building
of old Westminster Bridge or any other
work on which our national pride reposes. I
warrant it would be as hard to come at as
that of the founder of Sebastopol.

Then we knew that there was a bay which
Strabo called the Ctenus, and a Tartar village
by the name of Aktiar (ancient). We knew that
the appellation of Sebastopol was altogether
an invention of the respectable but lively
Catherine. Indeed, there was no end to the
things we knew which were not of the smallest
importance for anybody to know. Of ancient
Cherson, we knew all that Dubois de
Montpéreux and Kohl had to say upon the subject,
and that I am sure was confusing enough—
especially to read when slightly sea-sick.
With regard to Balaklava specially, we knew
all about the colony of Symbolum (the
Cembalo of the Genoese); also about Ulysses
and the Læstrigonians. We were well up in
various matters relating to Diana: her fondness
for roasted strangers, the elegance of her
temple, and the mysterious functions of her
friend Theos; while we need, of course,
scarcely allude to Orestes and Pylades, who
have been, so to say, old familiar friends of
ours these five-and-twenty years. We could
have recognised their lodging even by the
description of a Zouave, who offered himself
as a sort of amateur laquais de place. The
imperious Iphigenia was also a lady with
whom we were well acquainted by repute,
and we were fully instructed about
subterranean Inkermann and the Arians. Our
education, indeed, like that of most of our
clear-headed practical countrymen, had been
altogether in this direction—so of course we
could not be expected to know anything about
the wild wind-gusts which come on
unexpectedly here, and one of which absolutely
blew our ship's boat bottom upwards, and
drifted it away like a straw before we were
aware of it—so completely were we taken by
surprise in consequence of an event which
an officer's Greek servant told me
subsequently was quite an every-day occurrence at
this season of the year, and a very well-
known peculiarity of the climate. The
captains of the little Greek boats which ply
about these seas in peace time, are always
very well prepared on these occasions. Some
of these men would have been invaluable as
pilots; but it seems the naval authorities are
now afraid to employ them—another fine
illustration of our far-sighted and able
policy towards the Greeks at the outbreak
of the war. A little prudent concession
would have placed them completely on our
side. Now, however, I have no doubt that
the naval authorities have good reason for
their suspicions, and that many a Greek
pilot would risk his life to punish us. Indeed,
the melancholy story of the Tiger is proof
enough of it.

These thoughts positively haunt me as our
boat (recaught and brought back after a good
deal of delay) is being hustled forward by a
pair of short fat oars towards the shore, and
moderately bumped and jockeyed by the