as been able to
cultivate a close intimacy with the captain of the ship; but this
intimacy has been on the decline for some days, and, as he has committed
the unpardonable error of differing in opinion with the captain upon a
subject connected with the general direction and termination of the Gulf
Stream, he begins to fall quickly in the estimation of that potentate.
Then there is the relict of the late Major Fusby, of the Fusiliers, going
to or returning from England. Mrs. Fusby has a predilection for port
negus and the first Burmese war, in which campaign her late husband
received a wound of such a vital description (he died just twenty-two
years later), that it has enabled her to provide, at the expense of a
grateful nation, for three youthful Fusbies, who now serve their country
in various parts of the world. She does not suffer from sea-sickness, but
occasionally undergoes periods of nervous depression which require the
administration of the stimulant already referred to. It is a singular
fact that the present voyage is strangely illustrative of remarkable
events in the life of the late Fusby; there has not been a sail or a
porpoise in sight that has not called up some reminiscence of the early
career of the major; indeed, even the somewhat unusual appearance of an
iceberg, has been turned to account as suggestive of the intense
suffering undergone by the major during the period of his wound, owing to
the scarcity of the article ice in tropical countries. Then on deck
we have the inevitable old sailor who is perpetually engaged in scraping
the vestiges of paint from your favourite seat, and who, having arrived
at the completion of his monotonous task after four days incessant
labour, is found on the morning of the fifth engaged in smearing the
paint-denuded place of rest with a vilely glutinous compound peculiar to
ship-board. He never looks directly at you as you approach, with book and
jug, the desired spot, but you can tell by the leer in his eye and the
roll of the quid in his immense mouth that the old villain knows all
about the discomfort he is causing you, and you fancy you can detect a
chuckle, you turn away in a vain quest for a quiet cosy spot. Then there
is the captain himself, that most mighty despot. What king ever wielded
such power, what czar or kaiser had ever such obedience yielded to their
decrees? This man, who on shore is nothing, is here on his deck a very
pope; he is infallible. Canute could no