large as a garden-hose, and with such incredible force that the liquid was blown into a sticky foam a few inches from the spigot. Then there was a rush for utensils on every one’s part but the skipper’s, who stuck fearlessly to his post in spite of the thick jet of mucilaginous steam, trying to turn the faucet with a monkey-wrench. During this exhibition my wife and I stood at the break of the poop, looking down upon the actors, and simply howling at the old man, who, crouched low upon the deck, wrestled like a gladiator with the unruly “kag”; and when he finally emerged from his vapor-bath, with dripping beard and garments soaked to the skin, I feared that the second mate would die of apoplexy. However, most of the beer was saved, and we filled and corked away fully seventy-five bottles of the bubbling mixture. Latitude, 12° 51′ south; longitude, 36° 2′ west. +June 16+ Most doleful to disclose, the Trades began to let go this morning, and at ten o’clock the sky-sails were set for the first time in several days, while at the present moment, the middle of the afternoon, we are doing wretchedly, even though we have come up to south-southwest. As for the day, it was really magnificent; temperature of the air, 80°; of the sea, 78°, while the breeze was of that singular mixture of vigor and balm so often observed in the southeast trade-wind. Not a cloud specked the deep cobalt of the heavens all day save some feathery mare’s-tails near the zenith and a few clusters of pearly clouds on the southeastern horizon. As usual, though, there was something to mar the serenity of the day; how many days are there without some untoward incident to cast its fell shadow? In this case it was the temper of Captain Scruggs, who no sooner did he perceive that the wind was letting go than he at once began to blackguard the men and the weather in wild, lurid language. Perhaps he wanted to catch up with himself, for it must be chronicled that three days, actually three long days, seventy-two hours, have passed without his having consigned any one’s immortal parts to the fathomless pit! Last evening my wife asked him if about 20° south wasn’t the average spot to lose the Trades; this, in truth, is about the usual place at which the southeast winds vanish, but the disagreeable man glared at us for a few seconds and then snapped, “How do I know? You’re liable to lose ’m anywhere,” with an explosion on the final word. It is strange how he always tries to show that he knows just a little bit better than any one else; if, for instance, I asked him if Montevideo wasn’t in 34° 50′ south, he would be certain to reply, “No; 34° 55′,” on which occasions the mate usually gazes in wonder at him, and then smiles gently at us, as though to say, “You see, you can’t teach him.”