in some parts of Upper Egypt.  Hitherto he had found the most implicit listeners.  His dreaming fancies had transported us beyond the “ignorant present.”  But when (still hardying more and more in his triumphs over our simplicity) he went on to affirm that he had actually sailed through the legs of the Colossus at Rhodes, it really became necessary to make a stand.  And here I must do justice to the good sense and intrepidity of one of our party, a youth, that had hitherto been one of his most deferential auditors, who, from his recent reading, made bold to assure the gentleman, that there must be some mistake, as “the Colossus in question had been destroyed long since;” to whose opinion, delivered with all modesty, our hero was obliging enough to concede thus much, that “the figure was indeed a little damaged.”  This was the only opposition he met with, and it did not at all seem to stagger him, for he proceeded with his fables, which the same youth appeared to swallow with still more complacency than ever,—­confirmed, as it were, by the extreme candour of that concession.  With these prodigies he wheedled us on till we came in sight of the Reculvers, which one of our own company (having been the vogage before) immediately recognising, and pointing out to us, was considered by us as no ordinary seaman.

All this time sat upon the edge of the deck quite a different character.  It was a lad, apparently very poor, very infirm, and very patient.  His eye was ever on the sea, with a smile:  and, if he caught now and then some snatches of these wild legends, it was by accident, and they seemed not to concern him.  The waves to him whispered more pleasant stories.  He was as one, being with us, but not of us.  He heard the bell of dinner ring without stirring; and when some of us pulled out our private stores—­our cold meat and our salads—­he produced none, and seemed to want none.  Only a solitary biscuit he had laid in; provision for the one or two days and nights, to which these vessels then were oftentimes obliged to prolong their voyage Upon a nearer acquaintance with him, which he seemed neither to court nor decline, we learned that he was going to Margate, with the hope of being admitted into the Infirmary there for sea-bathing.  His disease was a scrofula, which appeared to have eaten all over him.  He expressed great hopes of a cure; and when we asked him, whether he had any friends where he was going, he replied, “he had no friends.”

These pleasant, and some mournful passages, with the first sight of the sea, co-operating with youth, and a sense of holydays, and out-of-door adventure, to me that had been pent up in populous cities for many months before,—­have left upon my mind the fragrance as of summer days gone by, bequeathing nothing but their remembrance for cold and wintry hours to chew upon.