This constellation being about thirty degrees from the south pole, is seen in its whole revolution, and, accordingly, when off the Cape, I have observed it in every stage, from its triumphant erect position, between sixty and seventy degrees above the horizon, to that of complete inversion, with the top beneath, and almost touching the water.  This position, by the way, always reminded me of the death of St. Peter, who is said to have deemed it too great an honour to be crucified with his head upwards.  In short, I defy the stupidest mortal that ever lived to watch these changes in the aspect of this splendid constellation, and not to be in some degree struck by them.

These airy visions are sometimes curiously broken in upon by the most common-place incidents, which force us back upon ordinary life.  On the 28th of May we overtook a packet on her way to the Brazils from England, which had sailed more than a month after us, but she had not a single newspaper, army list, navy list, or review on board.  The mate was totally ignorant of all the interesting topics of that most interesting moment of the war (1812); and in reply to all our questions, merely observed that everything was just the same as when we left England.  The captain was ill in bed, and could not be spoken to, so that this intelligent gentleman, his chief officer, had been lugged on deck to tell the news.  He honestly confessed, after being sufficiently baited and badgered by our interrogatories, that even when in England he had no time to look at the newspapers, but that he left public affairs to the management of those whose business it was to look after them, while he found enough to do in looking after the packet.

“I dare say,” added the fellow, with rather more dryness of humour than we had imagined was in his doughy composition, “I dare say the whole story you are asking about, of Buonaparte and the Russians, is told very exactly in these bags (pointing to the mail), and if I deliver them safe at Rio, it will be wrong to say I bring no news.”

On the 4th of June we had a jollification in honour of good old King George the Third’s birthday.  In how many different parts of the world, and with what deep and affectionate sincerity, were cups quaffed and cheers rung out in the same loyal cause!  If sailors would tell the truth, we should find that when abroad and far away, they generally use their distant friends as the captain, mentioned some time ago, did his ship’s company’s European clothing—­stow them away for a future occasion.  I do not say that they forget or neglect their friends; they merely put them by in safety for a time.  In fact, as the song says, a sailor’s heart and soul have plenty to do “in every port,” to keep fully up to the companionships which are present, without moping and moaning over the remembrance of friends at a distance, who, in like manner no doubt, unship us also, more or less, from their thoughts, if not from their memory, for the time being; and it is all right and proper that it should be so.