The flying-fish now began to be a source of continual amusement as they scuttled away from under the bows of the ship, mistaking her, probably, for some huge devouring whale.  So strange are they when first seen, though long read of and long looked for, that it is difficult to recollect that they are actually fish.  The first little one was mistaken for a dragon-fly, the first big one for a gray plover.  The flight is almost exactly like that of a quail or partridge—­flight, I must say; for, in spite of all that has been learnedly written to the contrary, it was too difficult as yet for the English sportsmen on board to believe that their motion was not a true flight, aided by the vibration of the wings, and not a mere impulse given (as in the leap of the salmon) by a rush under water.  That they can change their course at will is plain to one who looks down on them from the lofty deck, and still more from the paddle-box.  The length of the flight seems too great to be attributed to a few strokes of the tail; while the plain fact that they renew their flight after touching, and only touching, the surface, would seem to show that it was not due only to the original impetus, for that would be retarded, instead of being quickened, every time they touched.  Such were our first impressions:  and they were confirmed by what we saw on the voyage home.

The nights as yet, we will not say disappointed us,—­for to see new stars, like Canopus and Fomalhaut, shining in the far south, even to see Sirius, in his ever-changing blaze of red and blue, riding high in a December heaven, is interesting enough; but the brilliance of the stars is not, at least at this season, equal to that of a frosty sky in England.  Nevertheless, to make up for the deficiency, the clouds were glorious; so glorious, that I longed again and again, as I did afterwards in the West Indies, that Mr. Ruskin were by my side, to see and to describe, as none but he can do.  The evening skies are fit weeds for widowed Eos weeping over the dying Sun; thin, formless, rent—­in carelessness, not in rage; and of all the hues of early autumn leaves, purple and brown, with green and primrose lakes of air between:  but all hues weakened, mingled, chastened into loneliness, tenderness, regretfulness, through which still shines, in endless vistas of clear western light, the hope of the returning day.  More and more faint, the pageant fades below towards the white haze of the horizon, where, in sharpest contrast, leaps and welters against it the black jagged sea; and richer and richer it glows upwards, till it cuts the azure overhead:  until, only too soon—­

’The sun’s rim dips, the stars rush out,
   At one stride comes the dark,’