Our stay at the island was to be only until we could get coal enough aboard to take us to Cape Town, and so on the following morning I started for Longwood and the now vacant tomb of Napoleon. I was not aware when I started on foot, that I had to walk a distance before returning to the town, of nine miles, and that too over a road of lava formation, and under the burning rays of a vertical sun. The ascent, at the first, is very great. Much fagged on reaching the summit point I sat down to rest, and surveyed the scene around. Near me on a road-stone, his bridleless and heavily-ladened little donkey cropping thistles not far off, in his parti-colored dress sat a Lascar quietly discussing his cigar. On the stone which he occupied, I read “1124 distance: 1180 feet elevation.” The road in the direction in which I was going was shut in by clumps of brushwood and some scrubby pines, above which, far away—its ragged top currying away the bottoms of the southeast trade-clouds which, blowing continually over the island, ever and anon drop their genial drops on the arid earth beneath—rose Diana’s peak hundreds of feet in air. But the view looking seaward: Sir Joshua Reynolds said that the horizon-line of the great and wide sea in mid-deep is one of the most striking emblems of the infinite and the eternal to be found in all the works of the Almighty. This idea, of all other places, arises in the mind when gazing from the eminences of St. Helena; but then, as you look upon “the sea here, the sea there, the sea all around,”—contrasted with the vast expanse, how small in the imagination becomes the spot on which you stand, and how coffined before death, must have felt the great spirit, to whom all Europe was once a theatre,—_qui fait le tour du monde_!