Probably the proudest moment of the life of anyone who loves the sea, not even excepting the analogous epoch of his marriage morning, is the one in which he weighs anchor for the first time on board his own vessel. It is true that from the first hour he could call her his own his existence has been a dream of delight, unless perhaps for the passing cloud cast by the shadow of the cheque he has been required to draw for her payment. As soon as she has come into his possession, her ungainly naked bulk, as she lies upon the mud, assumes divine proportions; and as by slow degrees her 'toilette' proceeds, her decks whiten, her masts assume a golden hue and clothe themselves with sail and rigging, his happiness becomes unspeakable. If he is animated by the proper spirit, he has at once set himself to learn navigation; he has plunged deep into the 'Sailor's Manual'; and, to the amazement of his female relations, he is to be seen busily employed in tying and untying knots on short pieces of rope. But his principal preoccupation is the fitting of his cabins. The mystery of the ship's practical garniture he leaves to his master, as being beyond the utmost effort of his intellect, though he has a certain satisfaction in knowing that he possesses a pretty accurate knowledge of the way in which the framework of the vessel has been put together. At last everything is reported ready. He gives the order to weigh anchor, and, as if by a magical impulse, he finds that the being upon whom he has lavished so much affection has become a thing of life, has spread her wings, and is carrying him into the unknown. He paces the deck with telescope under his arm, in the proud consciousness that he is absolute master of her movements, and that with a wave of his hand he can direct her to the golden islands of the west or to the fabled homes of Calypso and the Cyclops, according as his fancy may suggest. No emperor or autocrat has ever been so conscious of his own majesty. But soon a most unwelcome and humiliating conviction damps his exaltation. He discovers that for all practical purposes of command and government he is more incompetent than his own cabin-boy or the cook's mate: that the real ruler of the ship's movements and destiny is his 'master,' whom his crew call the 'captain'; and that the only orders he can issue with a certainty that they are not open to criticism are those he gives for his breakfast and his dinner, if indeed he is in a position to partake of either. Officially he is gratified with the ambiguous title of 'owner,' while he is painfully conscious that his real social status is that of a mere passenger, and that this unwelcome servitude has every likelihood of enduring during his whole career as a yachtsman. He may indeed, as a man of education, or perhaps of scientific attainments, become in course of time a better navigator than many of the splendid rough and ready sailormen who command the ships of our squadron; but, unless he has been able to