I have listened in my time with more or less pleasure to very rollicking songs about the sea, the flashing brine, the spray and the tempest’s roar, the wet sheet and the flowing sea, a life on the ocean wave, and all the rest of it.  To paraphrase a land proverb, let me write the songs of the sea, and I care not who goes to sea and sings ’em.  A square yard of solid ground is worth miles of the pitching, turbulent stuff.  Its inability to stand still for one second is the plague of it.  To lie on deck when the sun shines, and swing up and down, while the waves run hither and thither and toss their white caps, is all well enough to lie in your narrow berth and roll from side to side all night long; to walk uphill to your state-room door, and, when you get there, find you have got to the bottom of the hill, and opening the door is like lifting up a trap-door in the floor; to deliberately start for some object, and, before you know it, to be flung against it like a bag of sand; to attempt to sit down on your sofa, and find you are sitting up; to slip and slide and grasp at everything within reach, and to meet everybody leaning and walking on a slant, as if a heavy wind were blowing, and the laws of gravitation were reversed; to lie in your berth, and hear all the dishes on the cabin-table go sousing off against the wall in a general smash; to sit at table holding your soup-plate with one hand, and watching for a chance to put your spoon in when it comes high tide on your side of the dish; to vigilantly watch, the lurch of the heavy dishes while holding your glass and your plate and your knife and fork, and not to notice it when Brown, who sits next you, gets the whole swash of the gravy from the roast-beef dish on his light-colored pantaloons, and see the look of dismay that only Brown can assume on such an occasion; to see Mrs. Brown advance to the table, suddenly stop and hesitate, two waiters rush at her, with whom she struggles wildly, only to go down in a heap with them in the opposite corner; to see her partially recover, but only to shoot back again through her state-room door, and be seen no more;—­all this is quite pleasant and refreshing if you are tired of land, but you get quite enough of it in a couple of weeks.  You become, in time, even a little tired of the Jew who goes about wishing “he vas a veek older;” and the eccentric man, who looks at no one, and streaks about the cabin and on deck, without any purpose, and plays shuffle-board alone, always beating himself, and goes on the deck occasionally through the sky-light instead of by the cabin door, washes himself at the salt-water pump, and won’t sleep in his state-room, saying he is n’t used to sleeping in a bed,—­as if the hard narrow, uneasy shelf of a berth was anything like a bed!—­and you have heard at last pretty nearly all about the officers, and their twenty and thirty years of sea-life, and every ocean and port on the habitable globe where they have been.  There comes a day when you are quite ready for land, and the scream of the “gull” is a welcome sound.