The old sailor is like the old plough-man. True, their manner of harvesting is different: the sailor has led a wandering life, the plough-man has never left his fields; but they both know the stars and foretell the future while ploughing their furrows. Both have their prophets: one, the lark, the redbreast, the nightingale; the other, the petrel, the curlew, the halcyon. They retire to rest at night, one in his cabin, the other in his hut: frail dwelling-houses in which the hurricane which shakes them does not disturb peaceful consciences. If the wind a tempest's blowing, Still no danger they descry; The guiltless heart, its boon bestowing, Soothes them with its lullaby. The sailor does not know where Death will overtake him, upon what shore he will leave his life: perhaps, when he has mingled his last breath with the wind, he will be cast into the bosom of the waves, fastened to two oars, to continue his voyage; perhaps he will be buried on a desert island, which none shall ever see again, and sleep as he slept in mid-ocean, in his lonely hammock. The vessel is a sight in herself: sensible to the smallest movement of the helm, winged horse or hippogriff that she is, she obeys the hand of the pilot as a horse does that of its rider. The grace of the masts and rigging, the nimbleness of the sailors laying out on the yards, the various aspects under which the ship displays herself, whether listing, borne down by a contrary blast, or scudding before a favourable wind, cause this intelligent machine to become one of the marvels of human genius. At one time the swell and its foam break and burst against the keel; at another the peaceful waves separate submissively before the stem. The flags, the pennants, the sails complete the beauty of this palace of Neptune: the courses, spread in their width, swell out like huge cylinders; the topsails, confined at their waist, resemble a siren's breasts. Driven by a stiff breeze, the ship noisily ploughs the seas with her keel as with a plough-share. [Sidenote: Life at sea.] On this ocean highway, along which one sees no trees, nor villages, nor towns, nor towers, nor steeples nor tombstones; on this road without posts or milestones, which has no boundaries save the waves, no relays save the winds, no lights save the stars, the finest adventure, when one is not travelling in search of unknown lands and seas, is the meeting of two vessels. They are mutually discovered on the horizon through the spy-glass; they turn each in the direction of the other. The crew and the passengers hasten on deck. The two ships approach each other, hoist their ensigns, clew up some of their sails, heave-to. When all is silence, the two captains take their stand upon the quarter-deck and hail each other through the speaking-trumpet: "The ship's name? From what port? Name of the captain? Where is he from? How many days out? What is the latitude and longitude? Good-bye, let go!"