Being at Margate the other day, we strolled, in company with "The Old Sailor," down to the "Jetty," where we were accosted by the veteran Hemptage, a boatman of the old school, who, with a salute, inquired "Will you take a trip this morning, Sir?"

"Not if it blows," answered the Old Sailor, assuming as much as possible the look and manners of a landsman, "I have made up my mind never to go sailing if there's a breath of wind."

The old man gave him a look, which spoke as plainly as look could—"Here's a precious lubber, to talk of sailing without wind."

"It would be on possible to move a-head and no breeze, Sir."

"I don't care for that," rejoined the Old Sailor, "I am very timid on the water; but if you're sure there's no danger, and it will be quite calm (it was nearly so), I will venture to take a sail."

"Danger!" repeated the veteran somewhat contemptuously, though there was an expression of doubt and suspicion on his countenance that seemed to say "I think you're a gammoning me."—"What danger can there be when there's hardly wind enough to fill the canvas?"

After some further conversation relative to the perils of the ocean, which drew forth some scornful glances from the veteran, we embarked in a pretty green boat, with two masts or poles, one sticking up behind and the other near the middle, to which sails were fastened. Whilst Hemptage was loosing what we believe is named the main-sail, the Old Sailor jumped aft to set what he called the "lug mizen," and he was shoving out a pole from the stern, right over the water. We immediately informed the boatman that our companion was "meddling with the things at the other end," and the veteran promptly turned round and exclaimed, "You'd better let that ere alone, Sir. You'll find somut as 'ull puzzle you there."

"Avast, old boy!" returned the Old Sailor, laughing; "I've rigged out as many bumkins[6] as you have in my time."

"Ay, ay," drawled out the veteran—"hang me if I didn't think so by the cut of your jib—I thought it was all gammon, and you knowed better than to go sailing without wind."

"You have belonged to a man-of-war," said the Old Sailor, as we were standing off from the shore.

"Why, yes, I've had a spell at it," returned Hemptage somewhat knowingly, "I was in the owld Hyacinth with Tommy Ussher, and a better Captain never walked a ship's quarter-deck. I was with him too in the Ondaunted frigate up the Mediterranean——"

"What! were you in her, in Frejus Bay, when Buonaparte embarked for Elba?" inquired the Old Sailor.

"Why to be sure I was, and remembers it well enough," returned he with animation. "And the first thing Boney did when he got aboard was to come forud on to the foksle and have a yarn with the foksle men[7]."

"What sort of a man was he?" we asked with quickness.

"What sort of a man," reiterated the veteran, "why a stout good-looking chap enough, only very swarthy. Them images as the Italian boys brings about is very like, only I never seed him in that little cocked hat."

"Why what did he wear then?" inquired we with some eagerness.

"Oh he wore a round hat[8]," replied Hemptage, "and he used to lean against the breech of the foksle gun and spin yarns with us for the hour together."

"Well!" we thought, "we never shall have done with Boney." We had never drawn him in a round hat, and the temptation was too strong to be resisted—so we have accordingly placed him at the head of this article—and as of course he would have a fashionable beaver, we have given him one of the shape of that period, and placed him in contrast with himself.—Boney versus Boney—cock'd hat against round.

It may be said "What's in a hat?" And when upon the head it becomes a rather important question. In many cases the answer would be "not much," but with respect to Napoleon it certainly must be admitted that there was something in it.

"But (we asked in continuation of our conversation) how could you talk with Buonaparte—did he speak English?"

"O yes, pretty well, considering—very well for him," replied Hemptage, "he mixed a little of his own lingo up with it—but we made it out. During the passage he used very often to come forud, and he told us he liked English sailors, and one had wounded him once at Toulon."

Fully aware that the fact of Napoleon's being wounded at Toulon had long been a disputed point, we questioned the man, and received the following statement:—

"Why," said the veteran, "he told us the English made a sortie, as they call it, and drove the French before them. Boney run as well as the rest, and an English seaman chaced after him; but whether the man was tired, or thought he'd gone far enough, he didn't know, but he gave him a shove in the starn with his bagonet, and said, 'Take that, you French Lubber.' The sailor might have killed him if he had been so disposed, but he acted generously and spared his life. 'And,' says Boney, 'if ever I could have discovered the man who acted so nobly, I would have made him comfortable for life.' The wound was in his thigh."