Here sits a stout gentleman, who looks as resolute as an oak log.  “These things are much the effect of imagination,” he tells you; “a little self-control and resolution,” &c.  Ah me! it is delightful, when these people, who are always talking about resolution, get caught on shipboard.  As the backwoodsman said to the Mississippi River, about the steamboat, they “get their match.”  Our stout gentleman sits a quarter of an hour, upright as a palm tree, his back squared against the rails, pretending to be reading a paper; but a dismal look of disgust is settling down about his lips; the old sea and his will are evidently having a pitched battle.  Ah, ha! there he goes for the stairway; says he has left a book in the cabin, but shoots by with a most suspicious velocity.  You may fancy his finale.

Then, of course, there are young ladies,—­charming creatures,—­who, in about ten minutes, are going to die, and are sure they shall die, and don’t care if they do; whom anxious papas, or brothers, or lovers consign with all speed to those dismal lower regions, where the brisk chambermaid, who has been expecting them, seems to think their agonies and groans a regular part of the play.

I had come on board thinking, in my simplicity, of a fortnight to be spent something like the fortnight on a trip to New Orleans, on one of our floating river palaces; that we should sit in our state rooms, read, sew, sketch, and chat; and accordingly I laid in a magnificent provision in the way of literature and divers matters of fancy work, with which to while away the time.  Some last, airy touches, in the way of making up bows, disposing ribbons, and binding collarets, had been left to these long, leisure hours, as matters of amusement.

Let me warn you, if you ever go to sea, you may as well omit all such preparations.  Don’t leave so much as the unlocking of a trunk to be done after sailing.  In the few precious minutes when the ship stands still, before she weighs her anchor, set your house, that is to say, your state room, as much in order as if you were going to be hanged; place every thing in the most convenient position to be seized without trouble at a moment’s notice; for be sure that in half an hour after sailing an infinite desperation will seize you, in which the grasshopper will be a burden.  If any thing is in your trunk, it might almost as well be in the sea, for any practical probability of your getting to it.

Moreover, let your toilet be eminently simple, for you will find the time coming when to button a cuff or arrange a ruff will be a matter of absolute despair.  You lie disconsolate in your berth, only desiring to be let alone to die; and then, if you are told, as you always are, that “you mustn’t give way,” that “you must rouse yourself” and come on deck, you will appreciate the value of simple attire.  With every thing in your berth dizzily swinging backwards and forwards, your bonnet, your cloak, your tippet, your gloves, all present