set, and which we call twilight, are entirely unknown
here, hours which England's youths and maidens generally appropriate to
themselves, and which, in after years, recall some of the sweetest
memories of their lives. Fancy a day deprived of such hours! No sooner
has Phoebus veiled his glorious beams than there is a general demand for
candles, and we find our liberal supply of two 'dips' a very inadequate
apology for about four hours' illuminating purposes on a draughty deck.

But we must haste on our way past the Tunisian Coast, past Galita,
onward through fleets of lateen rigged piratical looking crafts, with
snowy sails and bird-like movements, dashing their white wings in the
surge. We must not dwell too long on this peaceful and pleasant shore,
for Pantellaria--an island of more interest in one sense--begins to rise
ahead. This, in all probability, is the "Calypso's Isle" of the
classics, but now the less poetical "Botany Bay" of the Italians. I
should think that a few years' compulsory residence here is a thing to
be desired rather than not, for it is a delightful spot enough, a sort
of embryo continent, and nature seems to have achieved here some of her
grandest works in the smallest possible space and with the least
possible amount of material. As we near its shore we catch a glimpse of
a pure white town, gracefully reclining on the slopes of a hill at the
head of a perfect miniature of a bay. Artistically the effect is very
pleasing, the glistening white houses seem as if embowered in the
darkest of green foliage, each roof, each angle standing out most
distinctly. Much as we regret it we see charming Pantellaria vanishing
astern, for our engines will not cease their everlasting plunges to
satisfy any weaknesses of ours.

How wonderfully strange and new everything seems to us; the sea, the
land, its peoples, all so different to England; even the very heavens
shed milder lights, have purer depths of colour. At night the stars
shine out larger and with greater brilliance than we are wont to see
them. Our old friend, the Great Bear, still remains true to us, though
he keeps shorter watches in our southward way, others less loyal,
forsake us altogether, yet in exchange if we get new forms they are not
less beautiful.

Brilliant as are the skies the sea is equally so, for there seem as many
gems beneath as above us; we appear to be cleaving our way through a
yielding mass of liquid gold. Every dash the ship makes