The fugitive can time restore:
An Hour once fled, has fled for ever,
And all the rest shall smile no more!
* L’heure du berger.
NOVEMBER 15.
The wind altered sufficiently to allow us to escape from the Downs; and at dusk we were off Beachy Head. This morning, the steward left the trap-door of the store-hole open; of course, I immediately contrived to step into it, and was on the point of being precipitated to the bottom, among innumerable boxes of grocery, bags of biscuit, and porter barrels;—where a broken limb was the least that I could expect. Luckily, I fell across the corner of the trap, and managed to support myself, till I could effect my escape with a bruised knee, and the loss of a few inches of skin from my left arm.
NOVEMBER 16.
Off the Isle of Wight.
NOVEMBER 17.
Off the St. Alban’s Head. Sick to death! My temples throbbing, my head burning, my limbs freezing, my mouth all fever, my stomach all nausea, my mind all disgust.