Rio is said to possess a superb climate in the winter months; but if it is finer than the weather which we are having now it must be supernaturally beautiful. For twenty-four hours we have run before a fresh northeast breeze, the only fault to be found with which is the fact that, as we are now dead before the wind, the after-sails are the only ones which draw, blanketing the others. The course this morning was given to the quartermaster, southwest, which will not be altered except in case of necessity till we have passed the Falklands. No mention has been made, by the way, of our helmsmen, dignified by the name of quartermasters. They do not really hold this rank, as they are merely sailors who have been picked out by the mates as the best helmsmen, and receive no more wages than able seamen. The idea of this is to have only certain men to steer the ship, that they may thoroughly understand her under all circumstances. It is curious to see how much less tanned these men are than the others, owing to the protection of the wheel-house. The old mate continues to crawl growlingly about the decks, grumbling at various actual and phantasmagorical afflictions. His mode of progression is a sort of creeping prowl, as he thrusts his face into every nook and cranny, with a hundred wrinkles in his great, flabby nose, as though he were continuously assailed with disagreeable odors. He hazes the men a great deal more than the second mate does, though I do not think that he is particularly courageous; a flock of Gogginses might, like jackals, prove dangerous, but singly, his valor I’m sure would dwindle at close quarters. Being a poor seaman, the men have no respect at all for him, and in the presence of the skipper he bawls at the sailors and makes a feint of hitting them, glancing at the old man for approval, as he rolls about, exhorting them in his most rasping voice to “Come now, git a move on.” Mr. Rarx gets several times more work out of his watch, for he knows how to handle the men; and as he has recovered his equanimity he continues to exhibit his claims to being a humorist. His men were hoisting the yards up taut in the second dog-watch yesterday, and when they came to the maintop-gallant-halliards, they burst into a fine chanty, “Whiskey”; then when they had finished with the main-yards they began on the foretop-gallant-halliards, but without a song. The yard seemed to stick a bit; and as sailors can always do twice the work with the inspiration of a song, Mr. Rarx called out, “Give us a little more of that whiskey, fellows”; which so tickled the fellows’ fancies that some of them shook in their extremity of mirth, though a sailor must always laugh at a mate’s joke. If the second mate were not such a bad-tempered man he would not be an unpleasant companion, for he talks well and is always very neat; but his recent villanous deed deprives his conversation of most of its erstwhile attractions, while he appears to think absolutely nothing of it.