with the French king, backed by the bestirring ardor of
Paul, a squadron of nine vessels, of various force, were ready in the
road of Groix for another descent on the British coasts. These craft
were miscellaneously picked up, their crews a mongrel pack, the officers
mostly French, unacquainted with each other, and secretly jealous of
Paul. The expedition was full of the elements of insubordination and
failure. Much bitterness and agony resulted to a spirit like Paul's. But
he bore up, and though in many particulars the sequel more than
warranted his misgivings, his soul still refused to surrender.

The career of this stubborn adventurer signally illustrates the idea
that since all human affairs are subject to organic disorder, since they
are created in and sustained by a sort of half-disciplined chaos, hence
he who in great things seeks success must never wait for smooth water,
which never was and never will be, but, with what straggling method he
can, dash with all his derangements at his object, leaving the rest to
Fortune.

Though nominally commander of the squadron, Paul was not so in effect.
Most of his captains conceitedly claimed independent commands. One of
them in the end proved a traitor outright; few of the rest were
reliable.

As for the ships, that commanded by Paul in person will be a good
example of the fleet. She was an old Indiaman, clumsy and crank,
smelling strongly of the savor of tea, cloves, and arrack, the cargoes
of former voyages. Even at that day she was, from her venerable
grotesqueness, what a cocked hat is, at the present age, among ordinary
beavers. Her elephantine bulk was houdahed with a castellated poop like
the leaning tower of Pisa. Poor Israel, standing on the top of this
poop, spy-glass at his eye, looked more an astronomer than a mariner,
having to do, not with the mountains of the billows, but the mountains
in the moon. Galileo on Fiesole. She was originally a single-decked
ship, that is, carried her armament on one gun-deck; but cutting ports
below, in her after part, Paul rammed out there six old
eighteen-pounders, whose rusty muzzles peered just above the water-line,
like a parcel of dirty mulattoes from a cellar-way. Her name was the
Duras, but, ere sailing, it was changed to that other appellation,
whereby this sad old hulk became afterwards immortal. Though it is not
unknown, that a compliment to Doctor Franklin was involved in this
change of titles, yet the secret histor