thing we could do was to give up the church,
and get back to humanity with all convenient
speed. The descent of the High Street of
Clovelly, at, night, turned out to be a matter
of more difficulty than we had anticipated.
There was no such thing as a lamp in the
whole village; and we had to grope our way
in the darkness down steps of irregular
sizes and heights, paved with slippery
pebbles, and ornamented with nothing in the
shape of a bannister, even at the most
dangerous places. Half-way down, my friend
and I had an argument in the dark—standing
with our noses against a wall, and with
nothing visible on either side—as to which
way we should turn next. I guessed to the
left, and he guessed to the right; and I, being
the most obstinate of the two, we ended in
following my route, and at last stumbled our
way down to the pier. Looking at the place
the next morning, we found that the steps to
the right led through a bit of cottage-garden
to a snug little precipice, over which inquisitive
tourists might pitch quietly, without let
or hindrance. Talk of the perils of the deep!
what are they in comparison with the perils
of the shore?

The adventures of the night were not
exhausted, so far as I was concerned, even when
we got back to our vessel. I have already
informed the reader that the cabin of the
Tomtit was twelve feet long by eight feet
wide—a snug apartment, but scarcely big
enough, as it struck me, for five men to
sleep in comfortably. Nevertheless, the
experiment was to be tried in Clovelly
harbour. I bargained, at the outset, for one
thing— that the cabin hatch should be kept
raised at least a foot all night. This
ventilatory condition being complied with, I
tumbled into my hammock, Mr. Migott
rolled into his, and Sam Dobbs, Dick Dobbs,
and Bob Dobbs, cast themselves down
promiscuously on the floor and the lockers
under us. Out went the lights; and off
went my friend and the Brothers Dobbs
into the most intolerable concert of snoring
that it is possible to imagine. I lay awake
listening, and studying the character of the
snore in each of the four sleeping individuals.
The snore of Mr. Migott I found to be
superior to the rest in point of amiability,
softness, and regularity—it was a kind of
oily, long-sustained purr, amusing and not
unmusical for the first five minutes. Next
in point of merit to Mr. Migott, came Bob
Dobbs. His note was several octaves lower
than my friend's, and his tone was a grunt
—but I will do him justice; I will not
scruple to admit that the sounds he
produced were regular as clockwork. Very
inferior was the performance of Sam Dobbs,
who, as owner of the boat, ought, I think, to
have set a good example. If an idle carpenter
planed a board very quickly at one time,
and very slowly at another, and if he moaned
at intervals over his work, he would
produce the best imitation of Sam Dobbs's
style of snoring that I can think of. Last,
and worst of all, came Dick Dobbs, who
was afflicted with a cold, and whose snore
consisted of a succession of loud chokes,
gasps, and puffs, all contending together, as
it appeared to me, which should suffocate
him soonest. There I lay, wide awake,
suffering under the awful nose-chorus which
I have attempted to describe, for nearly an
hour. It was a dark night: there was no
wind, and very little air. Horrible doubts
about the sufficiency of our ventilation began
to beset me. Reminiscences of early reading
on the subject of the Black Hole at
Calcutta came back vividly to my memory.
I thought of the twelve feet by eight, in
which we were all huddled together—terror
and indignation overpowered me—and I
roared for a light, before the cabin of the
Tomtit became too mephitic for flame of
any kind to exist in it. Uprose they then
my Merry Merry Men, bewildered and
grumbling, to grope for the match-box. It
was found, the lanthorn was lit, the face of
Mr. Migott appeared serenely over the side
of his hammock, and the voice of Mr. Migott
sweetly and sleepily inquired what was the
matter?

"Matter! The Black Hole at Calcutta is the
matter. Poisonous, gaseous exhalation is the
matter! Outrageous, ungentlemanly snoring
is the matter! Give me my bedding, and my
drop of brandy, and my pipe, and let me
go on deck. Let me be a Chaldean shepherd,
and contemplate the stars. Let me
be the careful watch who patrols the deck,
and guards the ship from foes and wreck.
Let me be anything but the companion of
men, who snore like the famous Furies in
the old Greek play." While I am venting my
indignation, and collecting my bedding, the
smiling and sleepy face of Mr. Migott
disappears slowly from the side of the hammock
—and before I am on deck, I hear the oily
purr once more, just as amiable, soft, and
regular as ever.

What a relief it was to have the sky to
look up at, the fresh night air to breathe, the
quiet murmur of the sea to listen to! I
rolled myself up in my blankets; and, for
aught I know to the contrary, was soon snoring
on deck as industriously as my companions
were snoring below. The first sounds that
woke me in the morning were produced by
the tongues of the natives of Clovelly,
assembled on the pier, staring down on me in
my nest of blankets, and shouting to each
other incessantly. I assumed that they were
making fun of the interesting stranger
stretched in repose on the deck of the Tomtit;
but I could not understand one word of the
Devonshire language in which they spoke.
Whatever they said of me, I forgive them,
however, in consideration of their cream and
fresh herrings. Our breakfast on the cabin-
hatch in Clovelly harbour, after a dip in the