ing over at an unpleasant angle
when the ship rolls, which she frequently does, and rather savagely.

Going upon deck next morning, I found the wind blowing strong from the
north, and the ship going through the water at a splendid pace. As
much sail was on as she could carry, and she dashed along, leaving a
broad track of foam in her wake. The captain is in high glee at the
speed at which we are going. "A fine run down to the Line!" he says,
as he walks the poop, smiling and rubbing his hands; while the middies
are enthusiastic in praises of the good ship, "walking the waters like
a thing of life." The spirits of all on board are raised by several
degrees. We have the pleasure of feeling ourselves bounding forward,
on towards the sunny south. There is no resting, but a constant
pressing onward, and, as we look over the bulwarks, the waves, tipped
by the foam which our ship has raised, seem to fly behind us at a
prodigious speed. At midday we find the ship's run during the
twenty-four hours has been 280 miles--a splendid day's work, almost
equal to steam!

We are now in latitude 39 deg. 16', about due east of the Azores. The air
is mild and warm; the sky is azure, and the sea intensely blue. How
different from the weather in the English Channel only a short week
ago! Bugs are now discarded, and winter clothing begins to feel almost
oppressive. In the evenings, as we hang over the taffrail, we watch
with interest the bluish-white sparks mingling with the light blue
foam near the stern--the first indications of that phosphorescence
which, I am told, we shall find so bright in the tropics.

An always interesting event at sea is the sighting of a distant ship.
To-day we signalled the 'Maitland,' of London, a fine ship, though she
was rolling a great deal, beating up against the wind that was
impelling us so prosperously forward. I hope she will report us on
arrival, to let friends at home know we are so far all right on our
voyage.

The wind still continues to blow in our wake, but not so strongly; yet
we make good progress. The weather keeps very fine. The sky seems to
get clearer, the sea bluer, and the weather more brilliant, and even
the sails look whiter, as we fly south. About midday on the eighth day
after leaving Plymouth we are in the latitude of Madeira, which we
pass about forty miles distant.

As the wind subsides, and the novelty of being on shipboard wears off,
the passengers begin to think of amusements.