ty, better to die than to
sleep. And Picton, so far as this is concerned, so far as the general
interests of humanity are concerned, your colonists are only _dead men_,
while our "stately" men are individually responsible, not only to their
own kind, but to all human kind, and herein each form of government tells
its own story."

"I think you are rather severe upon poor Nova Scotia this morning," said
Picton, drily.

"You mistake me, Picton; I do not intend to cast any reflections upon the
people; I am only contrasting the effects produced by two different forms
of government upon neighboring bodies of men that would have been alike
had either a republican or monarchical rule obtained over both."

"Likely," said Picton, sententiously.

Meantime the schooner was lazily holding her course through the fog, which
was now dense as ever. What an odd little bit of ocean this is to be on!
"The sea, the sea, the open sea," all your own, with a diameter of perhaps
forty yards. Picton, who is full of activity, begins to unroll the log
line; the captain turns the glass, away goes the log. "Stop," "not three
knots!" and then comes the question again: "What shall we do?--we are
getting becalmed!"

"By Jove!" said Picton, slapping his thigh, "I have it--_cod-fish_!"

There are plenty of hooks on board the "Balaklava," and unfortunately only
one cod-line; but what with the deep-sea lead-and-line, and a roll of blue
cord, with a spike for a sinker, and the hooks, we are soon in the midst
of excitement. Now we almost pray for a calm; the schooner _will_ heave
ahead, and leave the lines astern; but nevertheless, up come the fine
fish, and plenty of them, too; the deck is all flop and glister with cod,
haddock, pollock; and Cookey, with a short knife, is at work with the
largest, preparing them for the banquet, according to the code
Newfoundland. Certainly the art of "cooking a cod-fish" is not quite
understood, except in this part of the world. The white flakes do not
exhibit the true conchoidal fracture in such perfection elsewhere; nor
break off in such delicious morsels, edged with delicate brown. "Another
bottle of ale, please, and a granitic biscuit, and a pickle, by way of
dessert."

Lazily along swings the "Balaklava." Picton brings up his travelling
blanket, and we stretch out upon it on deck, basking in the warm, humid
light, and leisurely puffing away at our segars, for we have nothing else
to do. Towards evening it grow