in every part.  The road was steep, and in several parts the rock was cut into steps to enable you to ascend.  After an hour’s fatiguing walk, which I never should have accomplished in my weak state, without the assistance of the islanders, we arrived at the summit.  The view which met my eyes was striking.  I was on the peak of a chain of hills, forming an immense amphitheatre, encircling a valley which appeared about fifteen miles in diameter, and the major part of which was occupied by a lake of water.

I could discern what appeared to be the habitations of men on different parts of the lake; but there was not a tree or a shrub to be seen.

“What,” demanded I of the man who appeared to take the lead of the rest of the party, “have you no trees here?”

“None whatever; and yet we can do very well without them.  Do you not observe that there is no mould; that the island is composed entirely of pumice stone?”

“I do,” replied I.  “Pray what is the name of your barren spot—­and in what part of the world are we?”

“As for its name, we call it Whale Island,” replied the man; “but as for where we are, we cannot exactly tell ourselves, for we are a floating island, being composed entirely of pumice stone, whose specific gravity, as you must know, is much lighter than that of water.”

“How strange,” observed I; “I cannot believe that you are in earnest.”

“And yet not quite so strange as you imagine,” replied my conductor.  “If you examine the structure of this island, from where you now stand, you will perceive at once, that it has been the crater of some large volcano.  It is easy to imagine, that after having reared its head above the surface of the sea, by some of those sudden caprices of ever-working nature, the base has again sunk down, leaving the summit of the crater floating on the ocean.  Such is our opinion of the formation of this island; and I doubt whether your geologists on the continent would produce a more satisfactory theory.”

“What? you have communicated with Europe, then?” cried I, delighted at the hopes of return.

“We have had communication, but we do not communicate again.  In the winter time, this island, which, strange as it may appear to you, does not change its position many hundred miles in the course of centuries, is enclosed with the icebergs in the north:  when the spring appears, we are disengaged, and then drift a degree or two to the southward, seldom more.”

“Are you not then affected by the winds and tides?”

“Of course we are:  but there is a universal balance throughout nature, and everything finds its level.  There is order, when there appears disorder—­and no stream runs in one direction, without a counter stream, to restore the equilibrium.  Upon the whole, what with the under currents, and the changes which continually take place, I should say that we are very little, if at all, affected by the tides—­which