and turn over, with a groan of disgust, to the wall.

I wonder if any one has ever written down on paper his seasick
reveries. There are "Evening Reveries," "Reveries of a Bachelor," and
"Seaside Reveries" in abundance; but no one, so far as I know, has
ever even attempted to do his seasick reveries literary justice. It is
a strange oversight, and I would respectfully suggest to any aspiring
writer who has the reverie faculty, that there is here an unworked
field of boundless extent. One trip across the North Pacific in a
small brig will furnish an inexhaustible supply of material.

Our life thus far has been too monotonous to afford a single
noticeable incident. The weather has been cold, damp, and foggy, with
light head winds and a heavy swell; we have been confined closely to
our seven-by-nine after-cabin; and its close, stifling atmosphere,
redolent of bilge-water, lamp oil, and tobacco smoke, has had a most
depressing influence upon our spirits. I am glad to see, however,
that all our party are up today, and that there is a faint interest
manifested in the prospect of dinner; but even the inspiriting strains
of the Faust march, which the captain is playing upon a wheezy old
accordion, fail to put any expression of animation into the woebegone
faces around the cabin table. Mahood pretends that he is all
right, and plays checkers with the captain with an air of assumed
tranquillity which approaches heroism, but he is observed at irregular
intervals to go suddenly and unexpectedly on deck, and to return every
time with a more ghastly and rueful countenance. When asked the object
of these periodical visits to the quarter-deck, he replies, with a
transparent affectation of cheerfulness, that he only goes up "to look
at the compass and see how she's heading." I am surprised to find that
looking at the compass is attended with such painful and melancholy