A remarkable circumstance in connection with this part of the world is the low temperature of both sea and air; the former at noon was 77° and the latter only 70°, or about the same as the sea in August at New York. In the Indian and Atlantic Oceans the sea temperature at the equator is 84° and the air 86°. We certainly made a fine run up from Cape Horn. Four weeks ago to-morrow we were in 60° south, and have, therefore, sailed thirty-six hundred miles of latitude and forty degrees of longitude in twenty-seven days. But the wind has been very, very light for twenty-four hours. We did only one hundred and one miles and just did contrive to wriggle across the line. Perhaps this is only a light spell in the Trades, as this wind at this season ought to carry us seven or eight degrees farther north. Sufficient unto the day, etc. The memory of that miserable night last Wednesday is already beginning to grow dim. Mr. Rarx is improving; the terrific palpitation of his heart has ceased, and he has had much natural sleep lately. He did a strange thing last night in the middle watch: he got up out of his bed and sat for an hour in a chair; his heart was much relieved, he said, and he certainly does look better. This being Sunday I had a long talk in the afternoon watch with MacFoy, who confirmed what Paddy said of Rarx’s temper. Then happening to mention Coleman, the bosun remarked, “He’s been pretty quiet since Mr. Rarx laid him out.” “Laid him out when?” I asked. “Why, didn’t you know he near killed him when we were towin’ to sea? No? Oh, dear! We were haulin’ aft the foresheet and Coleman turned his head to say a word to the man behind him, when the second mate come around the house and kicked him pretty hard in the legs. ‘What are yer kickin’ me for, sir? I didn’t do nothin’.’ ‘You lie,’ said Mr. Rarx. ‘What are you sayin’ to that man? Givin’ me back talk, too.’ Well, sir, with that he jumped on him when he was stoopin’ over, and I thought his ribs ’ud go afore he got through with him. Now, look; a bosun’s supposed to be on the mate’s side. But I say there’s no bit o’ use in a-smashin’ a man all up that didn’t deserve it, as I’ve seen dozens o’ times in American ships. I must say there’s some tough cases sails in Yankee ships, but whose fault is that? It’s the fault o’ the cap’ins and mates themselves. What man with a little bit o’ self-respec’s goin’ to allow himself to be knocked around the decks when he can sail in other ships, even if he is only a foremast hand? A dog won’t stand that, but he can run away from the man what beats him; but the sailor can’t. But the worst of the whole thing is that American mates don’t make any difference atween a blackguard and a man what’s doin’ his best. Some men’s got to be thumped, it’s the only way to handle ’em; but what’s the good o’ hittin’ a man with a block like the second mate did to Karl and then hazin’ him for the rest o’ the passage. It’s mighty little you