The mariners of the Channel are the true ancient Gauls. The islands, which in these days become rapidly more and more English--preserved for many ages their old French character. The peasant in Sark speaks the language of Louis XIV. Forty years ago, the old classical nautical language was to be found in the mouths of the sailors of Jersey and Aurigny. When amongst them, it was possible to imagine oneself carried back to the sea life of the seventeenth century. From that speaking trumpet which terrified Admiral Hidde, a philologist might have learnt the ancient technicalities of manoeuvring and giving orders at sea, in the very words which were roared out to his sailors by Jean Bart. The old French maritime vocabulary is now almost entirely changed, but was still in use in Jersey in 1820. A ship that was a good plyer was _bon boulinier_; one that carried a weather-helm in spite of her foresails and rudder was _un vaisseau ardent_; to get under way was _prendre aire_; to lie to in a storm, _capeyer_; to make fast running rigging was _faire dormant_; to get to windward, _faire chapelle_; to keep the cable tight, _faire teste_; to be out of trim, _être en pantenne_; to keep the sails full, _porter plain_. These expressions have fallen out of use. To-day we say _louvoyer_ for to beat to windward, they said _leauvoyer_; for _naviguer_, sail, they said _naviger_; for _virer vent devant_, to tack, _donner vent devant_; for _aller de l'avant_, to make headway, _tailler de l'avant_; for _tirez d'accord_, haul together, _halez d'accord_; for _dérapez_, to weigh anchor, _deplantez_; for _embraquez_, to haul tight, _abraquez_; for _taquets_, cleats, _bittons_; for _burins_, toggles, _tappes_; for _balancine_, fore-lift, main-lift, etc., _valancine_; for _tribord_, starboard, _stribord_; for _les hommes de quart à bâbord_, men of the larboard watch, _les basbourdis_. Tourville wrote to Hocquincourt: _nous avons singlét_ (sailed), for _cinglé_. Instead of _la rafale_, squall, _le raffal_; instead of _bossoir_, cat-head, _boussoir_; instead of _drosse_, truss, _drousse_; instead of _loffer_, to luff, _faire une olofée_; instead of _elonger_, to lay alongside, _alonger_; instead of _forte brise_, stiff breeze, _survent_; instead of _jouail_, stock of an anchor, _jas_; instead of _soute_, store-room, _fosse_.

Such, at the beginning of this century, was the maritime dialect of the Channel Islands. Ango would have been startled had he heard the speech of a Jersey pilot. Whilst everywhere else the sails _faseyaient_ (shivered), in these islands they _barbeyaient_. A _saute de vent_, sudden shift of wind, was a _folle-vente_. The old methods of mooring known as _la valture_ and _la portugaise_ were alone used, and such commands as _jour-et-chaque!_ and _bosse et vilte!_ might still be heard. While a sailor of Granville was already employing the word _clan_ for sheave-hold, one of St. Aubin or of St. Sampson still stuck to his _canal de pouliot_. What was called _bout d'alonge_ (upper fultock) at St. Malo, was _oreille d'âne_ at St. Helier. Mess Lethierry, as did the Duke de Vibonne, called the sheer of the decks _la tonture_, and the caulker's chisel _la patarasse_.

It was with this uncouth sea dialect in his mouth that Duquesne beat De Ruyter, that Duguay Trouin defeated Wasnaer, and that Tourville, in 1681, poured a broadside into the first galley which bombarded Algiers. It is now a dead language. The idiom of the sea is altogether different. Duperré would not be able to understand Suffren.

The language of French naval signals is not less transformed; there is a long distance between the four pennants, red, white, yellow, and blue, of Labourdonnaye, and the eighteen flags of these days, which, hoisted two and two, three and three, or four and four, furnish, for distant communication, sixty-six thousand combinations, are never deficient, and, so to speak, foresee the unforeseen.