blighted tree of knowledge in this garden of the world. We were lifted

above the Alpine peaks, and from their deep and brawling ravines entered

the plain of fair France, and after an airy journey of six days, we landed

at Dieppe, furled the feathered wings, and closed the silken globe of our

little pinnace. A heavy rain made this mode of travelling now incommodious;

so we embarked in a steam-packet, and after a short passage landed at

Portsmouth.

A strange story was rife here. A few days before, a tempest-struck vessel

had appeared off the town: the hull was parched-looking and cracked, the

sails rent, and bent in a careless, unseamanlike manner, the shrouds

tangled and broken. She drifted towards the harbour, and was stranded on

the sands at the entrance. In the morning the custom-house officers,

together with a crowd of idlers, visited her. One only of the crew appeared

to have arrived with her. He had got to shore, and had walked a few paces

towards the town, and then, vanquished by malady and approaching death, had

fallen on the inhospitable beach. He was found stiff, his hands clenched,

and pressed against his breast. His skin, nearly black, his matted hair and

bristly beard, were signs of a long protracted misery. It was whispered

that he had died of the plague. No one ventured on board the vessel, and

strange sights were averred to be seen at night, walking the deck, and

hanging on the masts and shrouds. She soon went to pieces; I was shewn

where she had been, and saw her disjoined timbers tossed on the waves. The

body of the man who had landed, had been buried deep in the sands; and none

could tell more, than that the vessel was American built, and that several

months before the Fortunatas had sailed from Philadelphia, of which no

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The Last Man