the sad catastrophe of the “Arctic.” All of these exercises, which increase the discipline of a crew and the efficiency of a ship, are of course possessed of more interest to those officers who have military duties to perform on board, than others, who are too apt to experience the indifference of the Emerald isle native, who being informed that the house was on fire, replied it was nothing to him, he “was only a boarder.” The weather we experienced in the trades was very pleasant, though it became hot with much suddenness. Pretty white clouds trooped across the sky like pilgrims in white, bound to Mecca. The regular waves as they came chasing one another from the horizon, rolled the whitest caps, and the sea was of the bluest, particularly as the lashed arms of our wheels divided the water in their passage, and the wheel-houses keeping off the direct rays of the sun, made it exquisitely transparent. Though the dews at night were so heavy that the moisture would run like rain off the awnings, yet the shadows of the big sails that had gone to sleep from the steadiness of the wind, made deeper by the bright moonlight and the illuminated image of the engine of our Savior’s agony—the “southern cross”—with its twinkling stars looking down from the sky, made one forget that the distance from the coast of Africa was not the greatest, and that the wearing of a thick coat at night, was a decided improvement on a thin one. Porpoises were almost in the daily practice of thrusting their swinish nozzles upon public attention, and innumerable graceful little flying-fish, disturbed by our passage through the water, or chased by the dolphin, flew continually across the waves ahead of us, like flocks of sparrows over briers. But then we had the smallpox on board, on the person of a Portuguese boy shipped at Funchal, and the possibility of contracting this loathsome disease, or the possession of an arm rather sore from vaccination, did not make the run more pleasurable. The events of Christmas day were, that we were in 13° 23′ north latitude, and 23° 48′ west longitude; a very pleasant repast was spread by the ward-room, where “home with all its endearments” was drunk in Serchal; and a poor little bird very much resembling the partridge of our own country, was blown aboard. This little representative of Africa’s feathery race fell a victim to the taxidermist aboard. What he thought previous to his demise, of the day, I know not, but to me it was not Christmas; and no mental effort could “bring back the features that joy used to wear” when the mistletoe was hung, and the back log placed; nor could the defunct gobbler, who lately bestrode our coop, sole tenant, now lying in very brown state on a festive table, even provoke the pleasant memories.