Carey, and where does she rear her chickens?

9.--We are out of the Gulf-stream, and the ship is now rolling somewhat
less tumultuously than heretofore. For four days, we have been blest with
almost too fair a wind. A strong breeze, right aft, has been taking us
more than two hundred and forty miles a day on our course. But the
incessant and uneasy motion of the ship deprives us of any steady comfort.
In spite of all precautions, tables, chairs, and books, have tumbled about
in utter confusion, and the monotony is enlivened by the breaking of
bottles and crash of crockery. As some consolation, our Log Book shows
that we have made more than half of a thousand miles, within the last
forty-eight hours. Land travelling, with all the advantages of railroads,
can hardly compete with the continual diligence of a ship before a
prosperous breeze.

11.--Spoke an American brig from Liverpool, bound for New York. Though the
boat was called away, and our letters were ready, it was all at once
determined not to board her; and, after asking the captain to report us,
we stood on our course again. The newspapers will tell our friends
something of our whereabouts; or, at least, that on a certain day, we were
encountered at a certain point upon the sea.

13.--Wind still fair, and weather always fine. We have not tacked ship
once since leaving Sandy Hook, and are almost ready to quarrel with the
continual fair wind. There is nothing else to find fault with, except the
performances of our French cook in the wardroom, who came on board just
before we left New York, and made us believe that we had obtained a
treasure. He told us that he had cooked for a French Admiral. We swore him
to secrecy on that point, lest the Commodore should be disposed to engage
the services of so distinguished an artist for his own table. But our