sea, is a remembrance of gustatory bliss
which I gratefully cherish. When we had
reduced the herrings to skeletons, and the
cream-pot to a whited sepulchre of emptiness,
we slipped from our moorings, and sailed
away from the lovely little village with real
regret. By noon we were off Hartland
Point.

We had now arrived at the important
part of our voyage— the part at which it
was necessary to decide, once for all, on our
future destination. Mr. Migott and I took
counsel together solemnly, unrolled the
charts, and then astonished our trusty crew
by announcing that the end of the voyage
was to be the Scilly Islands. Up to this time
the Brothers Dobbs had been inclined to
laugh at the notion of getting so far in so
small a boat. But they began to look grave
now, and to hint at cautious objections. The
weather was certainly beautiful; but then
the wind was dead against us. Our little
vessel was stiff and sturdy enough for any
service, but nobody on board knew the
strange waters into which we were going—
and, as for the charts, could any one of us
study them with a proper knowledge of the
science of navigation? Would it not be
better, to take a little cruise to Lundy Island,
away there on the starboard bow? And
another little cruise about the Welsh coast,
where the Dobbses had been before? To
these cautious questions we replied by rash
and peremptory negatives; and the Brothers,
thereupon, abandoned their view of the case,
and accepted ours with great resignation. For
the Scilly Islands, therefore, we shaped our
course, alternately standing out to sea, and
running in for the land, so as to get down
ultimately to the Land's End, against the
wind, in a series of long zig-zags, now in a
westerly and now in an easterly direction.
Our first tack from Hartland Point was a
sail of six hours out to sea. At sunset, the
little Tomtit had lost sight of land for the
first time since she was launched, and was
rising and falling gently on the long swells of
the Atlantic. It was a deliciously calm, clear
evening, with every promise of the fine
weather lasting. The spirits of the Brothers
Dobbs, when they found themselves at last in
the blue water, rose amazingly.

"Only give us decent weather, sir," said
Bob Dobbs, cheerfully smacking the tiller of
the Tomtit; " and we'll find our way to Scilly
somehow, in spite of the wind."

We were now fairly at sea, keeping a
regular watch on deck at night, and never
running nearer the Cornish coast than was
necessary to enable us to compare the great
headlands with the marks on our chart. Under
present circumstances, no more than three of
us could sleep in the cabin at one time— the
combined powers of the snoring party were
thus weakened, and the ventilation below
could be preserved in a satisfactory state.
Instead of chronicling our slow zig-zag
progress to the Land's End, which is unlikely to
interest anybody not familiar with Cornish
names and nautical phrases, I will try to
describe the manner in which we passed the
day on board the Tomtit, now that we were
away from land events and amusements. If
there was to be any such thing as an alloy
of dulness in our cruise, this was assuredly
the part of it in which Time and the Hour
were likely to run slowest through the day.

In the first place, let me record with just
pride, that we have solved the difficult problem
of a pure republic in our modest little craft.
No man in particular among us is master—no
man in particular is servant. The man who
can do at the right time, and in the best way,
the thing that is most wanted, is always the
hero of the situation among us. When Dick
Dobbs is frying the onions for dinner, he is
the person most respected in the ship, and
Mr. Migott and myself are his faithful and
expectant subjects. When grog is to be made,
or sauces are to be prepared, Mr. Jollins
becomes in his turn, the monarch of all he
surveys. When musical entertainments are in
progress, Mr. Migott is vocal king, and sole
conductor of band and chorus. When nautical
talk and sea-stories rule the hour, Bob Dobbs,
who has voyaged in various merchantmen all
over the world, and is every inch of him a
thorough sailor, becomes the best man of the
company. When any affairs connected with
the internal management of the vessel are
under consideration, Sam Dobbs is Chairman
of the Committee in the Cockpit. So we
sail along; and such is the perfect constitution
of society at which we mariners of England
have been able to arrive.

Our freedom extends to the smallest
details. We have no stated hours, and we are
well ahead of all rules and regulations. We
have no breakfast hour, no dinner hour, no
time for rising, or for going to bed. We have
no particular eatables at particular meals.
We don't know the day of the month, or the
day of the week; and never look at our
watches, except when we wind them up. Our
voice is frequently the voice of the sluggard;
but we never complain, because nobody ever
wakes us too soon, or thinks of interfering
with our slumbering again. We wear each
other's coats, smoke each other's pipes, poach
on each other's victuals. We are a happy,
dawdling, undisciplined, slovenly lot. We
have no principles, no respectability, no business,
no stake in the country, no knowledge
of Mrs. Grundy. We are a parcel of Lotos-
Eaters; and we know nothing, except that
we are poking our way along anyhow to the
Scilly Islands in the Tomtit.

We rise when we have had sleep enough
—any time you like between seven and ten.
If I happen to be on deck first, I begin by
hearing the news of the weather and the
wind from Sam, Dick, or Bob at the helm.
Soon the face of Mr. Migott, rosy with recent
snoring, rises from the cabin, and his body