by
self-delusion when I first met you, at the time you thought you had
discovered perpetual motion. Your torpedo, as you have just described
it to me, is an impossibility, and you yourself are--"

"An ass?" said I, looking up in his face.

"No, by no means," returned Biquitous, earnestly; "but you are an
enthusiast without ballast. Enthusiasm is a fine, noble quality. The
want of ballast is a grievous misfortune. Study mechanics, my boy, a
little more than you have yet done, before venturing on further
inventions, and don't theorise too much. You have been revelling of
late in the regions of fancy. Take my advice, and don't do it."

"I wont," said I, fervently, "but I cannot give up my cherished
pursuits."

"There is no reason that you should," returned my friend, grasping my
hand, "and my earnest advice to you is to continue them; but lay in some
ballast if possible."

With these cheery words ringing in my ears, I rejoined my mother and
sister, and went off to Portsmouth.

It is well, however, to state here that my personal investigations in
the matter of explosives had at this time received a death-blow. I
went, indeed, with intense interest to see the display of our national
destructive powers at Portsmouth, but I never again ventured to add my
own little quota to the sum of human knowledge on such subjects; and the
reader may henceforth depend upon it, that in all I shall hereafter
write, there shall be drawn a distinct and unmistakable line between the
region of fact and fancy.

CHAPTER FOUR.

A DAY WITH THE TORPEDOES.

The sentence with which I finished the last chapter appears to me
essential, because what I am now about to describe may seem to many
readers more like the dreams of fancy than the details of sober fact.

When my mother and I, with Nicholas and Bella, arrived at Portsmouth, we
were met by my naval friend, a young lieutenant, who seemed to me the
_beau-ideal_ of an embryo naval hero. He was about the middle height,
broad, lithe, athletic, handsome, with a countenance beaming with
good-will to, and belief in, everybody, including himself. He was
self-possessed; impressively attentive to ladies, both young and old,
and suave to gentlemen; healthy as a wild stag, and happy as a young
cricket, with a budding moustache and a "fluff" on either cheek. Though
gentle as a lamb in peace, he was said to be a very demon in war, and
bore the not inappropriate name of Firebrand.

"All