_28th._ Just returned from a visit to what one of the men who accompanied us called “the last post office I ever _did_ see, any how!” It is located in the centre of the grand fort, planned by the most celebrated engineer of his own and Napoleon's time, General Bernard. They mount three hundred guns, and the work, I understand is, or is to be the finest piece of military architecture in the United States. But it was too dark while we were there to observe any thing minutely. We are now approaching blue water very fast. The Rip Raps or Fort Calhoun on our left, will soon be lost to our view. This fortification is only a few feet above the water as yet, nor will it be finished for some years. I do not know who was the projector of it, but presume from the name it bears that it was originally projected by that celebrated South Carolinian statesman, while he was minister of the war department. It is to be built on a similar plan to that of Cherbourg in France, by filling large boats or rafts with stone, and sinking them. This mass is then covered with loose stone, over all which a composition or cement is poured, acting as a binder. This work is about gun distance from Old Point Comfort, and the two, by a cross fire, form a most admirable barrier to James River, thus protecting the ports of Richmond and Norfolk completely. I do not see that Baltimore is by any means adequately guarded, its only protection being a small fort a dozen miles below the town, which might be very easily evaded by a skilful foe. _29th._ Only think of a stager of my standing and experience being sea-sick! I am ashamed of myself, after defying Old Nep. in his very lair, in two or three regular marches across his domains, to be here, turning pale in the face from encountering the Capes of Virginia. But so it is, and as that droll Yankee Liston whom I saw in Boston, but whose name I forget,[1] was wont to say, “it can't be any _'tisser_.” [Footnote 1: My friend means Finn.] _June 4._ After all, this sea life is an intolerably monotonous and stupid way of getting along in the world. I would rather be a dormouse or a hedgehog; indeed I might as well be either,—for my only life now is lying in the sun all day, eating if my qualms will allow me, and drinking whether they will allow me or no,—merely _pour passer le temps_: sleeping from seven o'clock, P.M. until seven o'clock, A.M. besides taking a nap in {555} the morning, and a siesta to boot. I have seen the flying fish, the whale, and the Portuguese man of war, which Mariette says is “sans doute le Nautile,”—and now I close my log till I shall see a dolphin. “This do I swear, and now let's have a song!” as the renowned Artaxomines saith. II. Chased by a Pirate. Going ashore. St. Thomas's. Descriptive Sketches.