“Do you make it out, Jones?” said Grinnerson, who had got up the scene, to one of the middys, a youngster intently engaged in reconnoitering through a glass half as long as himself. “I think I do, sir,” said Jones, with a difficultly-suppressed grin. “What is he looking for?” asked the simple victim. “The Line, to be sure; didn’t I tell you we were to cross it to-day?” “Oh yes, I remember; I should like amazingly to see it, if you would oblige me with the telescope.” “Oh, certainly; Jones, give Mr. Brown the glass.” The soft man took it, looked, but declared that he saw nought but sky and sea. “Here, try mine,” continued the second mate; “’tis a better one than that you have,” handing him one with a hair or wire across the large end of it. “Now do you see it?” “I think I do; oh, yes, most distinctly. And that really is the line? Bless me, how small it is!” This was the climax; the middys held their mouths, and sputtering, tumbled in a body down the ladder to have their laugh out, whilst a general side-shaking at the griff’s expense took place amongst the remaining group on the poop. Well, the stormy dangers of the Cape safely passed, the pleasant isles of Johanna, sweet as those which Waller sung, duly visited—Dondra Head—Adam’s Peak—the woody shores of Ceylon here skirted and admired, those beautiful shores, where Partout on voit mûrir, partout on voit éclore, Et les fruits de Pomone et les présents de Flore; and the “spicy gales” from cinnamon groves duly snuffed up and appreciated (_entre nous_, a burnt pastile of Mr. Grinnerson’s, and not Ceylon, furnished the “spicy gales” on this occasion), we found ourselves at last off the far-famed coast of Coromandel, and fast approaching our destination.