Sunday, November 5th.—­Fine, and considerably hotter, though not unpleasantly so.  We had the Litany at eleven, and evening prayers and a sermon at four o’clock.  Not a single ship has passed within sight since we left Valparaiso, and the only living creatures we have seen are some albatrosses, a few white boobies, a cape-hen, the little petrels already mentioned, a shoal of porpoises, and two whales.

Monday, November 6th.—­Passed, at 3 a.m. to-day, a large barque, steering south, and at 8 a.m. a full-rigged ship, steering the same course.  We held—­as we do with every ship we pass—­a short conversation with her through the means of the mercantile code of signals. (This habit of exchanging signals afterwards proved to have been a most useful practice, for when the report that the ‘Sunbeam’ had gone down with all hands was widely circulated through England, I might almost say the world,—­for we found the report had preceded us by telegram to almost all the later ports we touched at,—­the anxiety of our friends was relieved many days sooner than it would otherwise have been by the fact of our having spoken the German steamer ‘Sakhara,’ in the Magellan Straits, Oct. 13, four days after we were supposed to have gone to the bottom.) The weather continues fine, and we have the same light baffling winds.  We hoped, when we started, to average at least 200 miles a day, but now we have been a week at sea, and have only made good a little more than 700 miles altogether, though we have sailed over 800 miles through the water.  It is, however, wonderful, in the opinion of the navigators, that we have made even as much progress as this, considering the very adverse circumstances under which the voyage has so far been performed, and we must endeavour to console ourselves with the reflection that the sailing qualities of the yacht have undergone another severe test in a satisfactory manner.  How the provisions and water will last out, and what time we shall leave ourselves to see anything of Japan, are questions which, nevertheless, occasionally present themselves to our minds.  Independently of such considerations, nothing could be more luxurious and delightful than our present mode of existence.  With perfect weather, plenty of books to read and writing to do, no possibility of interruptions, one can map out one’s day and dispose of one’s time exactly as one pleases, until the half-past six o’clock dressing-bell—­which always seems to come long before it is wanted—­recalls one to the duties and necessities of life.

[Illustration:  Conversation at Sea.]

Wednesday, November 8th.—­A grey cloudy morning and a flat calm.  At twelve o’clock, to the great joy of everybody on board, Tom decided to get up steam, as we have now been becalmed quite twenty-four hours, and have made but little progress in the right direction for some days.  The alacrity with which the order to stow sails and raise the funnel was obeyed—­every one lending a hand—­and the delight expressed on every countenance, must have assured him of at least the popularity of his decision.