I leant my head upon my hand, and gave myself up to sad and melancholy reflections. On one side stretched the beautiful coast of the Isle of Wight, whilst the fast-gathering shades of evening were slowly blending into one dark mass the groves and villas of Cowes; lights from many a pleasant window streamed across the rippling sea—lights, methought, cheering circles of happy faces, like those I lately gazed upon, but which I might never see more. Many a tall and gallant man-of-war rode ahead of us, fading in the gathering mist; boats, leaving their long, silvery tracks behind them, glided across the harbour; whilst the lights of the town, in rapid succession, broke forth as those of the day declined. The very tranquillity of such a scene as this, to a person in my then state of mind, by mocking, as it were, the inward grief, made it to be more deeply felt. I looked at my native shores, as a lover gazes on his mistress for the last time, till the boom of the evening gun, and the increasing darkness, warned me that it was time to go below. Calm were the elements, night’s silence deep, The waves scarce murmuring, and the winds asleep. In a few days we were in the Bay of Biscay—and now my troubles began. CHAPTER III. The Bay of Biscay well merits its turbulent character; of this we soon had ample demonstration, for the _Rottenbeam Castle_ had scarcely entered within its stormy bounds, when the wind, hitherto moderate, became rough and boisterous, and in a little time freshened almost to a gale; the vessel began to pitch and roll—the shrouds cracked—the few sails set were strained almost to splitting—and mountain seas with wild, foamy crests ever and anon burst over us, clearing the waist and forecastle, and making the “good ship” quiver through every plank and timber. These _sublimities_ were quite new to me, and produced their usual effects on the unseasoned—an involuntary tribute to Old Ocean—not a metrical outpouring, but one of a less spiritual quality, on which it would be superfluous to dilate.