Progress of the Long Voyage—Story-Telling and Journalising.  
Many weeks passed away, but the Maid of the Isle still held on her course over the boundless ocean.
 
Day after day came and went, the sun rose in the east morning after morning, ran its appointed course, and sank, night after night, on the western horizon, but little else occurred to vary the monotony of that long, long voyage. When the sun rose, its bright rays leapt from the bosom of the ocean; when it set, the same bosom of the great deep received its descending beams. No land, no sail appeared to the anxious gazers in that little boat, which seemed to move across, yet never to reach the boundaries of that mighty circle of water and sky, in the midst of which they lay enchained, as if by some wicked enchanter’s spell.
 
Breezes blew steadily at times and urged them swiftly on towards the circumference, but it fled as fast as they approached. Then it fell calm, and the weary men resumed their oars, and with heavy hearts and weakened arms tugged at the boat which seemed to have turned into a mass of lead. At such times a dead silence was maintained, for the work, which once would have been to them but child’s play, had now become severe and heavy labour. Still they did not murmur. Even the cross-grained Tarquin became subdued in spirit by the influence of the calm endurance and good-humour of his comrades. But the calms seldom lasted long. The winds, which happily continued favourable, again ruffled the surface of the sea, and sometimes blew so briskly as to oblige them to take in a reef or two in their sails. The oars were gladly drawn in, and the spirits of the men rose as the little boat bent over to the blast, lost her leaden qualities, and danced upon the broad-backed billows, like a cork. There was no rain during all this time; little or no stormy weather; and, but for their constant exposure to the hot sun by day and the cold chills by night, the time might have been said to pass even pleasantly, despite the want of a sufficiency of food. Thus day after day and night after night flew by, and week after week came and went, and still the Maid of the Isle held on her course over the boundless ocean.
 
During all that time the one and a quarter ounces of salt junk and biscuit and the eighth of a pint of water were weighed and measured out to each man, three times a day, with scrupulous care and exactness, lest a drop or a crumb of the food that was more precious than diamonds should be lost. The men had all become accustomed to short allowance now, and experienced no greater inconvenience than a feeling of lassitude, which feeling increased daily, but by such imperceptible degrees that they were scarcely conscious of it, and were only occasionally made aware of the great reduction of their strength when they attempted to lift any article which, in the days of their full vigour, they could have tossed into the air, but which they could scarcely move now. When, however, the fair breeze enabled them to glide along under sail, and they lay enjoying complete rest, they experienced no unwonted sensations of weakness; their spirits rose, as the spirits of sailors always will rise when the waves are rippling at the bow and a white track forming in the wake; and they spent the time—when not asleep—in cheerful conversation and in the spinning of long yarns. They did not sing, however, as might have been expected—they were too weak for that—they called the feeling “lazy,” some said they “couldn’t be bothered” to sing. No one seemed willing to admit that his strength was in reality abated.
 
In story-telling the captain, the doctor, and Glynn shone conspicuous. And when all was going smoothly and well, the anecdotes, histories, and romances related by these three were listened to with such intense interest and delight by the whole crew, that one would have thought they were enjoying a pleasure trip, and had no cause whatever for anxiety. Gurney, too, and Briant, and Nikel Sling came out frequently in the story-telling line, and were the means of causing many and many an hour to pass quickly and pleasantly by, which would otherwise have hung heavily on the hands of all.
 
Ailie Dunning was an engrossed and delighted listener at all times. She drank in every species of story with an avidity that was quite amusing. It seemed also to have been infectious, for even Jacko used to sit hour after hour looking steadily at each successive speaker, with a countenance so full of bright intelligence, and grave surpassing wisdom, as to lead one to the belief that he not only understood all that was said, but turned it over in his mind, and drew from it ideas and conclusions far more bright and philosophical than could have been drawn therefrom by any human being, however wise or ingenious.
 
He grinned, too, did Jacko, with an intensity and frequency that induced the sailors at first to call him a clever dog, in the belief that his perception of the ludicrous was very strong indeed; but as his grins were observed to occur quite as frequently at the pathetic and the grave as at the comical parts of the stories, they changed their minds, and said he was a “codger”—in which remark they were undoubtedly safe, seeing that it committed them to nothing very specific.
 
Captain Dunning’s stories were, more properly speaking, histories, and were very much relished, for he possessed a natural power of relating what he knew in an interesting manner and with a peculiarly pleasant tone of voice. Every one who has considered the subject at all must have observed what a powerful influence there lies in the mere manner and tone of a speaker. The captain’s voice was so rich, so mellow, and capable of such varied modulation, that the men listened with pleasure to the words which rolled from his lips, as one would listen to a sweet song. He became so deeply interested, too, in the subject about which he happened to be speaking, that his auditors could not help becoming interested also. He had no powers of eloquence, neither was he gifted with an unusually bright fancy. But he was fluent in speech, and his words, though not chosen, were usually appropriate. The captain had no powers of invention whatever. He used to say, when asked to tell a story, that he “might as well try to play the fiddle with a handspike.” But this was no misfortune, for he had read much, and his memory was good, and supplied him with an endless flow of small-talk on almost every subject that usually falls under the observation of sea-captains, and on many subjects besides, about which most sea-captains, or land-captains, or any other captains whatsoever, are almost totally ignorant.
 
Captain Dunning could tell of adventures in the whale-fishery, gone through either by hims............