n August
sun, that was even now dipping his broad disk into the waves that
formed the distant horizon.

All around was life and motion; ours had not been the only ship that
had taken advantage of a favorable wind to put out from Cuxhaven to
the open sea. Four or five other ships were sailing along side, and as
they spread their snowy sails, on which the bright rays of the summer
sun was playing, they skimmed like white-winged sea-mews over the dark
green waters.

And now one of the pilot boats that lie here at anchor, yet tossed
year in and year out by the restless waves, sending on board both, to
the homeward and outward bound a skilful guide, to steer the ship
through the perilous shoals and sand banks that lie on this coast,
approached, to take up the pilot that had steered us safely into the
open sea. He took charge of all our letters--from those written to
parent, friend, or lady love left behind, to the tender lines penned
by the least shipboy, taking a long farewell of the mother who
standing on the pier, waved her hand to her child whose home was
henceforward to be on the deep, until long after we sailed. The pilot
thrust them all into his great leathern bag, held out his sea-hardened
hand to bid each one farewell and gave us his sailor-like greeting:
"Farewell, and a lucky voyage to you." He jumped into the boat, four
lusty rowers sat on the benches, and it flew over the glancing waters
with the speed of a bird until it reached the one-sailed craft he
called his pilot ship. This was our final adieu to the homes we had
left, for with the departure of the pilot from on board, the last link
that unites the sailor to his native land is broken, and it is then
the traveller feels how really every rolling wave increases the
distance between him and the fireside joys he has left behind.

Light winds soon drove us into the English channel, where we saw the
chalk cliffs of Dover shimmering in the bright sunshine on one
side--the coast of France like a soft blue cloud dipping into the sea
on the other. We approached so near to the British shore, that we
could distinguish the buildings and light-houses plainly. Near to
Dover, and on a rocky precipice, stands an old fortress of the middle
ages, looking out threateningly with bristling canon on the town and
over the sea that breaks and murmurs at its rocky base.

As it became dark, numerous beacon lights blazed from the watch-towers,
some speedily vanishing, others twin