writer of the present narrative tried his hand
on the composition of whiskey punch, and
succeeded—which has always been his modest
aim through life—in imparting satisfaction to
his fellow-creatures. When the punch and
the pipes accompanying the same had come to
an end, a pilot-boat anchored alongside of us
for the night. Once embarked on our own
element, we old sea-dogs, are, after all, a
polite race of men. We asked the pilot
where he had come from—and he asked us.
We asked the pilot where he was bound to,
to-morrow morning—and he asked us. We
asked the pilot whether he would like a drop
of rum—and the pilot, loth to discourage us,
said Yes.  After that there was a little
pause: and then the pilot asked us, whether
we would come on board his boat—and we,
loth to discourage the pilot, said Yes, and did
go, and came back, and asked the pilot
whether he would come on board our boat—
and he said Yes, and did come on board, and
drank another drop of rum.  Thus in the
practice of the social virtues did we wile
away the hours—six jolly tars in a twelve-foot
cabin—till it was past eleven o'clock, and time,
as we say at sea, to tumble in, or tumble out,
as the case may be, when a jolly tar wants
practice in the art of getting into his
hammock.

The wind blew itself out in the night. As
the morning got on, it fell almost to a calm;
and the merchantmen about us began weighing
anchor, to drop down Channel with the
tide. The Tomtit, it is unnecessary to say,
scorned to be left behind, and hoisted her
sails with the best of them. Favoured by
the lightness of the wind, we sailed past
every vessel proceeding in our direction.
Barques, brigs, and schooners, French luggers
and Dutch galliots, we showed our stern to
all of them; and when the weather cleared,
and the breeze freshened towards the afternoon,
the little Tomtit was heading the
whole fleet. In the evening we brought up
close to the high coast of Somersetshire, to
wait for the tide. Weighed again, at ten at
night, and sailed for Ilfracombe.  Got
becalmed towards morning, but managed to
reach our port at ten, with the help of the
sweeps, or long oars. Went ashore for more
bread, beer, and fresh water; feeling so
nautical by this time, that the earth was
difficult to walk upon; and all the people we
had dealings with presented themselves to
us in the guise of unmitigated land-sharks.
O, my dear eyes! what a relief it was to
Mr. Migott and myself to find ourselves
in our floating castle, boxing the compass,
dancing the hornpipe, and splicing the
mainbrace freely in our ocean-home.

About noon we sailed for Ciovelly. Our
smooth passage across the magnificent Bay of
Bideford is the recollection of our happy
voyage which I find myself looking back on
most lovingly while I now write. No cloud
was in the sky. Far away, on the left, sloped
inwardly the winding shore, so clear, so fresh,
so divinely tender in its blue and purple hues,
that it was the most inexhaustible of luxuries
only to look at it.  Over the watery
horizon, to the right, the autumn sun hung
grandly, with the fire-path below, heaving
on a sea of lustrous darkest blue.  Flocks
of wild birds, at rest, floated, chirping
on the water all around.  The fragrant,
steady breeze was just enough to fill our sails.
On and on we went, with the bubbling sea-
song at our bows to soothe us; on and on,
till the blue lustre of the ocean grew darker,
till the sun sank redly towards the far
waterline, till the sacred evening stillness crept
over the sweet air, and hushed it with a
foretaste of the coming night.  What sight of
mystery and enchantment rises before us
now?  Steep, solemn cliffs, bare in some
place—where the dark-red rock has been
rent away, and the winding chasms open
grimly to the view—but clothed for the most
part with trees, which soften their summits
into the sky, and sweep all down them, in
glorious masses of wood, to the very water's
edge.  Climbing from the beach, up the
precipitous face of the cliff, a little fishing village
coyly shows itself.  The small white cottages
rise one above another, now perching on a
bit of rock, now peeping out of a clump of
trees; sometimes two or three together;
sometimes one standing alone; here, placed
sideways to the sea, there, fronting it—but
rising always one above another, as if, instead
of being founded on the earth, they were
hung from the trees on the top of the cliff.
Over all this lovely scene the evening
shadows are stealing.  The last rays of the sun
just tinge the quiet water, and touch the
white walls of the cottages.  From out at sea
comes the sound of a horn, blown from the
nearest fishing-vessel, as a signal to the rest
to follow her to shore.  From the land, the
voices of children at play, and the still, faint
fall of the small wves on the beach are the
only audible sounds.  This is Clovelly.  If
we had travelled a thousand miles to see it,
we should have said that our journey had not
been taken in vain.

On getting to shore, we found the one
street of Clovelly nothing but a succession of
irregular steps, from the beginning at the
beach, to the end, half-way up the cliffs. It
was like climbing to the top of an old castle,
instead of walking through a village. When
we reached the summit of the cliff, it was
getting too dark to see much of the country,
We strayed away, however, to look for the
church, and found ourselves, at twilight, near
some ghastly deserted out-houses, approached
by a half-ruinous gate-way, and a damp dark
avenue of trees.  The church was near, but
shut off fro us by ivy-grown walls.  No
living creature appeared; not even a dog
barked at us.  We were surrounded by
silence, solitude, darkness and desolation;
and it struck us both forcibly, that the best