perhaps, one that bounds over the water so gracefully or so lightly as a
speronare, or any one so picturesque and beautiful to the eye of those
who watch its progress.

The night was clear, and the stars shone out brilliantly as the light
craft skimmed over the water, and a fragment of a descending and waning
moon threw its soft beams upon the snow-white sail. The vessel, which
had no neck, was full of baskets, which had contained grapes and various
fruits brought from the ancient granary of Rome, still as fertile and as
luxuriant as ever. The crew consisted of the padrone, two men and a
boy; the three latter, with their gregos, or night greatcoats with
hoods, sitting forward before the sail, with their eyes fixed on the
land as they flew past point after point, thinking perhaps of their
wives, or perhaps of their sweethearts, or perhaps not thinking at all.

The padrone remained aft at the helm, offering every politeness to our
two young gentlemen, who only wished to be left alone. At last they
requested the padrone to give them gregos to lie down upon, as they
wished to go to sleep. He called the boy to take the helm, procured
them all they required, and then went forward. And our two midshipmen
laid down looking at the stars above them, for some minutes, without
exchanging a word. At last Jack commenced.

"I have been thinking, Gascoigne, that this is very delightful. My
heart bounds with the vessel, and it almost appears to me as if the
vessel herself was rejoicing in her liberty. Here she is capering over
the waves instead of being tied by the nose with a cable and anchor."

"That's a touch of the sentimental, Jack," replied Gascoigne; "but she
is no more free than she was when at anchor, for she now is forced to
act in obedience to her steersman, and go just where he pleases. You
may just as well say that a horse, if taken out of the stable, is free,
with the curb and his rider on his back."

"That's a touch of the rational, Ned, which destroys the illusion.
Never mind, we are free, at all events. What machines we are on board
of a man-of-war! We walk, talk, eat, drink, sleep, and get up, just
like clock-work; we are wound up to go the twenty-four hours, and then
wound up again; just like old Smallsole does the chronometers."

"Very true, Jack; but it does not appear to me, that, hitherto, you have
kept very good time: you require a little more regulating," said
Gascoigne.

"How can you expect a