the whale-fishery of the South
Seas, having already, in a similar capacity, encountered the dangers of
the North.

Dr Hopley had few weaknesses. His chief one was an extravagant belief
in phrenology. We would not be understood to imply that phrenology is
extravagant; but we assert that the doctor's belief in it was
extravagant, assigning, as he did, to every real and ideal facility of
the human mind "a local habitation and a name" in the cranium, with a
corresponding depression or elevation of the surface to mark its
whereabouts. In other respects he was a commonplace sort of a man.

Mr Millons, the first mate, was a short, hale, thick-set man, without
any particularly strong points of character. He was about thirty-five,
and possessed a superabundance of fair hair and whiskers, with a large,
broad chin, a firm mouth, rather fierce-looking eyes, and a hasty, but
by no means a bad temper. He was a trustworthy, matter-of-fact seaman,
and a good officer, but not bright intellectually. Like most men of his
class, his look implied that he did not under-estimate his own
importance, and his tones were those of a man accustomed to command.

Tim Rokens was an old salt; a bluff, strong, cast-iron man, of about
forty-five years of age, who had been at sea since he was a little boy,
and would not have consented to live on dry land, though he had been
"offered command of a seaport town all to himself," as he was wont to
affirm emphatically. His visage was scarred and knotty, as if it had
been long used to being pelted by storms--as indeed it had. There was a
scar over his left eye and down his cheek, which had been caused by a
slash from the cutlass of a pirate in the China Seas; but although it
added to the rugged effect of his countenance, it did not detract from
the frank, kindly expression that invariably rested there. Tim Rokens
had never been caught out of temper in his life. Men were wont say he
had no temper to lose. Whether this was true or no, we cannot presume
to say, but certainly he never lost it. He was the best and boldest
harpooner in Captain Dunning's ship, and a sententious deliverer of his
private opinion on all occasions whatsoever. When we say that he wore a
rough blue pilot-cloth suit, and had a large black beard, with a
sprinkling of silver hairs in it, we have completed his portrait.

"What's come of Glynn?" inquired Captain Dunning, as he accepted a large
cup of smoking tea with one hand, an