Once more upon the dark blue water! It is noon,—the sun shines gloriously; the sea, undulated by a slight swell from the Atlantic, falls gently on the beach, or breaks upon the beetling precipice which forms the headland of Rathmore. The wind has almost "sighed itself to rest," and, coming across the sparkling surface of the ocean in partial eddies, ruffles it for a moment and passes on. Fainter and fainter still,—nothing but an occasional cat's-paw is visible, far as the helmsman's eye can range. The cutter has no longer steerage way; the folds of the ample mainsail flap heavily as the yacht rolls in the run of the tide, which, setting rapidly to the eastward, drifts the unmanageable vessel along a chain of rocky islands, severed by some tremendous convulsion from the main, to which they had been originally united.

A more magnificent and a more varied scene than that visible from the yacht's deck could not be imagined. A-beam lay the grey ruins of Dunluce, lighted up by a flood of sunshine; the shores of Portrush, with its scattered bathing-houses, and the highlands of Donegal at the extreme distance, appeared astern. On the left was an expanse of ocean, boundless, waveless, beautiful: the sea-gull was idly resting on the surface, the puffin and the cormorant diving and appearing continually; while a league off a man-of-war brig, covered to the very trucks with useless canvass, lay as if she rode at anchor. Beyond the motionless vessel, the Scottish coast was clearly defined; the bold outline of the shores of Isla presented itself: and, half lost in the haze, the cone of Jura showed yet more faintly. On the starboard bow the Giant's Causeway rose from the water, and with a glass you could trace its unequal surface of basaltic columns; while right ahead Bengore and Rathlin completed this mighty panorama.

Nor was the cutter from which this scene was viewed an object void of interest. She was a vessel of some seventy tons, displaying that beauty of build and equipment for which modern yachts are so remarkable. The low black hull was symmetry itself, while the taunt spars and topmast displayed a cloud of sail, which at a short distance would appear to require a bark of double the size to carry. Above deck everything was simple and ship-shape; below, space had been accurately considered, and not an inch was lost. Nothing could surpass the conveniency of the cabins, or the elegance with which the fittings and furniture were designed.

Four hours passed,—not a breath of wind stirred: a deader calm I never witnessed. We drifted past the Causeway, and, leaving the dangerous rock of Carrickbannon between us and the flying bridge of Carrick-a-rede, found ourselves at five o'clock rolling in the sound of Rathlin, with Churchbay and Ballycastle on either beam.

There is not in calm or storm a nastier piece of water than that which divides the island from the main. Its currents are most rapid; and, from the peculiar inequality of the bottom, in calms there is a heavy and sickening roll, and in storms a cross and dangerous sea. Without a leading wind, or plenty of it, a vessel finds it difficult to stem the current; and, in making the attempt with a light breeze, a man is regularly hung up until a change of tide enables him to slip through.

Judging from the outline of Rathlin, this island must have been originally disparted from the main; and the whole bottom of the sound evinces volcanic action. Nothing can be more broken and irregular than the under surface. At one cast the lead rests at ten, and at the next it reaches thirty fathoms. Beneath, all seems rifted rocks and endless caverns, and easily accounts for the short and bubbling sea that flows above. Everything considered, the loss of life occasioned by the passage of this sound is trifling. For weeks together all communication with the main land is frequently totally interrupted; and, until the weather moderates, the hardiest islander will not dare to venture out. But as the sea seldom gives up its dead, and the furious under-currents sweep them far from the place where they perished, many a stranger has here met his doom, and his fate remained a mystery for ever.

Still the calm continued, the tide was nearly done, and we had the comfortable alternative of anchoring in Churchbay or drifting back "to the place from whence we came." It would have vexed a saint, had there been one on board. Calculating on a speedy and certain passage, we had postponed our departure until the last hour. On Monday the regatta would commence; and we should have been in the Clyde the day before. A breeze for half an hour would have carried us clear of the tides, and liberated us from this infernal sound; and every man on board had whistled for it in vain. Dinner was announced, and, wearied with rolling and flapping, we briskly obeyed the summons. I paused with my foot within the companion: the master's eye was turned to the brig outside us; mine followed in the same direction.

"It's coming—phew!" and he gave a low and lengthened whistle, as if the tardy breeze required encouragement to bring it on. The light duck in the brig's royals fluttered for a moment, and then blew gently out; the top-gallant sails filled; presently the lower canvass told that the wind had reached it. The vessel has steerage way again; the breeze steals on, curling over the surface of the water, and in a few minutes we too shall have it.

On it came: the short and lumbering motion of the yacht ceased; she heeled gently over, and the table swung steadily as with increasing velocity the vessel displaced the water, and flung it in sparkling sheets from her bows. Next minute the master's voice gave comfortable assurance from the skylight—"The breeze was true, and before sunset there would be plenty of it."

Those who prefer the security of the king's highway to breasting "the pathless deep," build upon the certainty with which their journeyings shall terminate, and argue that there is safer dependence in trusting to post-horses than to the agency of "wanton winds." No doubt there is; the worst delay will arise from a lost shoe or a broken trace. The traveller has few contingencies to dread; he will reach the Bear for breakfast, and the Lion for dinner; and, if he be a borrower from the night, he will be surely at the Swan, his halting-place, ere the town-clock has ceased striking and the drum has beaten its reveille. To me that very regularity is not to be endured; the wheels grate over the same gravel that the thousand which preceded them have pressed before; the same hedge, the same paling meets the eye; there hangs the well-remembered sign; that waiter has been there these ten years,—ay, the same laughing barmaid, and obsequious boots, and bustling hostler, all with a smile of welcome, cold, mechanical, and insincere; not even the novelty of a new face among them,—all rooted to their places like the milestones themselves. Pish! one wearies of the road; it has no danger, no interest, no excitement. Give me the deep blue water; its very insecurity has charms for me. Is it calm?—mark yon cloud-bank in the south! There is wind there, for a thousand! It comes, but right ahead. No matter; my life for it, it will shift ere morning. Let it but change a point or two, and we shall lie our course. It comes—and fair at last, and, rushing forward with augmenting speed, the gallant vessel disparts the sparkling waters, and the keel cleaves the wave that keel never cleft before; and objects fade, and objects rise, while, "like a thing of life," the good ship hurries on. Cold must that spirit be which owns no elemental influence, nor feels buoyant as the bark that bears him onward to his destination!

As dinner ended, the altered motion of the yacht announced that we had rounded Ushet Point, and left the shelter of the island. We were now in the channel which separates Rathlin from the Scotch coast, and the cutter felt the rising swell as her sharp bows plunged in the wave, and flung it aside as if in scorn. The hissing noise with which the smooth and coppered sides slipped through the yielding waters marked our increased velocity. Yet we experienced little inconvenience; on the morocco-cushioned sofa even a Roman might have reclined in comfort. To every movement of the yacht the table gave an accommodating swing: fragile porcelain and frail decanter remained there in full security; and, though the wine-glass was filled to the brim, the rosewood surface on which it stood was unstained by a single drop. Human luxury cannot surpass that which a well-appointed yacht affords.

When we left the cabin for the deck, a new scene and a new sky were presented. Evening was closing in; the light blue clouds of morning were succeeded by a dark and lowering atmosphere; the wind was freshening, and it came in partial squalls, accompanied by drizzling rain. Rathlin, and the Irish highlands were fading fast away, while the tower on the Mull of Cantire flung its sparkling light over the dark waters, as if soliciting our approach. Two or three colliers we had passed, were steering for the Clyde close astern; while a Glasgow steamer, bound for Derry, came puffing by, and in a short time was lost in the increasing haze.

Is there on earth or sea an object of more interest or beauty than that lone building which relieves the benighted voyager from his uncertainty? In nothing has modern intelligence been more usefully displayed than in the superior lighting of the British seas. Harbour, and rock, and shoal, have each their distinguishing beacon; and, when he once sees the chalk cliffs of his native island, the returning mariner may count himself at home. Light after light rises from the murky horizon: there, flaring with the brilliancy of a fixed star; here, meteor-like, shooting out its stream of fire, and momentarily disappearing. On, nothing doubting, speeds the adventurous sailor, until the anchor falls from the bows, and the vessel "safely rides."

The light upon Cantire burns steadily, and in moderate weather it is visible at the distance of fifteen miles. It stands high, being upwards of two hundred and thirty feet above the level of the sea. We skirted the base of the cliff it occupies, and steered for the little island of Sanna. Momentarily the sea rose, the night grew worse, the dim and hazy twilight faded away, the wind piped louder, and the rain came down in torrents. When the weather looked threatening the cutter had been put under easy canvass, and now a further reduction was required. The mainsail was double-reefed, the third jib shifted for a smaller one, all above and below "made snug," and on we hurried.

The night was dark as a witch's cauldron when, rounding Sanna, we caught the Pladda lights, placed on opposite towers, and bearing from each other N. and S. It was easy to discover that we had got the shelter of the land, as the pitching motion of the yacht changed to a rushing velocity; but, though we found a smoother sea, the wind freshened, the rain fell with unabated violence, and the breeze, striking us in sudden gusts as it roared through the openings of the islands, half-flooded the deck with a boiling sea that broke over the bows, or forced itself through the lee-scuppers. Anxious to end our dreary navigation, "Carry on!" was the word, and light after light rose, and was lost successively. We passed the lights on Cumray; and, presently, that on Toward, in Dumbarton, minutely revolving, burst on the sight after its brief eclipse with dazzling brilliancy; while from the opposite shores of the Frith the beacons of Air and Trune were now and then distinctly visible. Our last meteor guide told that our midnight voyage was nearly ended, and the pier-light of Greenock enabled us to feel our way through a crowd of shipping abreast the town. "Stand by, for'ard!—let go!" The anchor fell, the chain went clattering through the hawse-hole; in a few seconds the cutter swung head to wind, and there we were, safe as in a wet dock!

We descended to the cabin, first discarding our outward coverings at the foot of the companion ladder. We came down like mermen, distilling from every limb, water of earth and sky in pretty equal proportions; but, glory to the Prophet and Macintosh! Flushing petticoats, pea-jackets, sou'westers, and India-rubber boots, proved garments of such excellent endurance, notwithstanding a three hours' pitiless pelting of spray and rain, that we shuffled off our slough, and showed in good and dry condition, as if we had the while been snug in the royal mail, or, drier yet, engaged at a meeting of the Temperance Society. And then came supper,—they can cook in yachts!—and we had run ninety miles since dinner; and that lobster salad, and those broiled bones, with the joyous prospect which bottles of varied tint upon yonder locker-head present, all would make—ay—a teetotaller himself forswear his vows for ever.

All is snug for the night. The men have shifted their wet clothes, and, as their supper is preparing, they crowd around the galley fire; and jest and "laugh suppressed" are audible. What a change these few brief minutes have effected! To the dreary darkness of a flooded deck, the luxury of this lighted and luxurious cabin has succeeded. The wind whistles through the shrouds, the rain falls spattering on the skylight,—what matter?—we heed them not; they merely recall the discomfort of the past, which gives a heightened zest to the pleasure of the passing hour. On rolled "the sandman" Time! the dial's finger silently pointing at his stealthy course, and warning us to separate.

Presently every sound below was hushed. All felt that repose which comfort succeeding hardship can best produce. In my own cabin I listened for a brief space to the growling of the storm; sleep laid his "leaden mace upon my lids;" I turned indolently in my cot, muttering with the honest Boatswain in the "Tempest,"

"Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!"

and next moment was "fast as a watchman."