_24th._--Yesterday the Morgiana sailed for Pernambuco, whence she will return to the coast of Africa. To-day the Antigone French frigate, commanded by Captain Villeneuve, nephew to the admiral of that name who was at Trafalgar, came in. Whenever France and England are not at war, the French and English certainly seek each other, and like each other more than any other two nations: and yet they seem like two great heads of parties, and the other nations take the French and English sides, as if there were no cause of opposition but theirs. Others may account for the fact, I am satisfied that it is so; and that whenever we meet a Frenchman in time of peace, in a distant country, it is something akin to the pleasure of seeing a countryman; and it is particularly the case with French naval men. Frequent intercourse of any kind, even that of war, begets a similarity of habits, manners, and ideas; so I suppose we have grown alike by fighting, and are all the more likely to fight again. There is a report, but I believe not well founded, that placards are stuck up about the city threatening that all Europeans, especially Portuguese, who do not leave the place before the 24th of December, shall be massacred. I listen to these things, because reports, even when false, indicate something of the spirit of the times. _December 8th._--This place is now so quiet that the merchants feel quite safe, and therefore we are leaving Bahia. I have taken leave of many hospitable persons who have shown us much attention; but my health is so indifferent, that but for the sake of that civility which I felt due to them, I should not have gone ashore again: however, it is all done, and we are in the act of getting under weigh. [Illustration] _9th._--As we sailed out of the bay, we amused ourselves with conjecturing the possible situation of Robinson Crusoe's plantation in the bay of All Saints. Those who had been at Cachoeira chose that it should be in that direction; while such as had been confined to the neighbourhood of the city pitched on different sitios, all or any of which might have answered the purpose. There is a charm in Defoe's works that one hardly finds, excepting in the Pilgrim's Progress. The language is so homely, that one is not aware of the poetical cast of the thoughts; and both together form such a reality, that the parable and the romance alike remain fixed on the mind like truth. And what is truth? Surely not the mere outward acts of vulgar life; but rather the moral and intellectual perceptions by which our judgment, and actions, and motives, are directed. Then, are the wanderings of Christiana and Mercy, and the sufferings of the shipwrecked mariner, true in the right sense of the word truth? True as the lofty creations of Milton, and the embodied visions of Michael Angelo; because they have their basis and their home in the heart, and soul, and understanding of man.