Before its extinction, however, this unhappy organ fanned into a flame the smouldering embers of cliqueism, which had originated with dancing. Except during the prevalence of the trade-winds, our “runs” varied very considerably. These particular winds, however, brought contentment to all; they are uniformly cool and steady by day and night; every stitch of canvas is set, and the ship heels over to a certain angle and there remains for days together, so steady, indeed, that on a specially inclined table one could with comfort indulge in billiards. The officers and crew have a comparatively easy time of it as long as these winds last, being exempt from all necessity of furling, reefing, or bracing of yards—while the enjoyment extends even to the dumb portion of the “live stock,” the cows in the long-boat, the sheep in their pens, and the poultry—everywhere. To the uninitiated it appeared strange that we should, when outward bound, have to proceed so far south in order to round the Cape, while on the homeward journey we could hug it so closely as to see the low-lying coast; but the phenomenon was easily to be accounted for by the prevalence of certain winds and oceanic currents. The history of the art of navigation, from the mariner’s compass of the fifteenth century, when Columbus discovered its variations, down to the perfect instruments of the present day, has always seemed to me highly interesting. Even in the sailing days the captains practised it with wonderful accuracy. Far out in mid-ocean, we were bearing right on an island laid down in the chart, and I asked the captain whether he intended altering the ship’s course. “Not at all,” he replied; “we shall sail right over it.” We did so. An early navigator probably saw a dead whale there, which he duly entered on the chart. And unquestionably as logarithms and modern instruments have simplified matters, it is even now not quite so easy as it appears.