A calm at sea in the tropics, though by no means desirable for a continuance, is yet very beautiful for a short time; one may well endure a few hours' delay, even in such a climate, for the sake of observing the novel expression of the face of nature. The usually restless sea, the very emblem of life and vigour, seems in a deep slumber; not a ripple nor the tiniest wave that ever broke ruffles its glassy smoothness; it might now serve to typify death rather than life, but for a slow, long, heavy swell, that seems to lift up the drowsy waters as it rolls along; now and then the peculiar dorsal fin of a shark cuts through the still, sluggish mass, or a turtle, fast asleep, floats by, basking in the fervid sunshine.

On such a day as this, when every one felt particularly disposed to envy the fishes, and the life of a frog in a cool brook seemed the height of luxury, a boat was lowered, and a party of five, including Mr. Meredith, put off a considerable distance for the purpose of bathing, though the ostensible reason was “merely to see how the ship looked.”