the nicer feelings they take pride in disregarding, both in themselves and others.  A thin-skinned man could hardly live on shipboard.  One would be torn raw unless he had the hide of an ox.  A moment of natural feeling for home and friends, and then the frigid routine of sea life returned.  Jokes were made upon those who showed any interest in the expected news, and everything near and dear was made common stock for rude jokes and unfeeling coarseness, to which no exception could be taken by any one.

Supper, too, must be eaten before the letters were read; and when, at last, they were brought out, they all got round any one who had a letter, and expected to hear it read aloud, and have it all in common.  If any one went by himself to read, it was—­ ``Fair play, there, and no skulking!’’ I took mine and went into the sailmaker’s berth where I could read it without interruption.  It was dated August, just a year from the time I had sailed from home, and every one was well, and no great change had taken place.  Thus, for one year, my mind was set at ease, yet it was already six months from the date of the letter, and what another year would bring to pass who could tell?  Every one away from home thinks that some great thing must have happened, while to those at home there seems to be a continued monotony and lack of incident.

As much as my feelings were taken up by my own news from home, I could not but be amused by a scene in the steerage.  The carpenter had been married just before leaving Boston, and during the voyage had talked much about his wife, and had to bear and forbear, as every man, known to be married, must, aboard ship; yet the certainty of hearing from his wife by the first ship seemed to keep up his spirits.  The California came, the packet was brought on board, no one was in higher spirits than he; but when the letters came forward, there was none for him.  The captain looked again, but there was no mistake.  Poor ``Chips’’ could eat no supper.  He was completely down in the mouth. ``Sails’’ (the sailmaker) tried to comfort him, and told him he was a bloody fool to give up his grub for any woman’s daughter, and reminded him that he had told him a dozen times that he’d never see or hear from his wife again.

``Ah!’’ said Chips, ``you don’t know what it is to have a wife, and—­ ‘’

``Don’t I?’’ said Sails; and then came, for the hundredth time, the story of his coming ashore at New York, from the Constellation frigate, after a cruise of four years round the Horn,—­ being paid off with over five hundred dollars,—­ marrying, and taking a couple of rooms in a four-story house,—­ furnishing the rooms (with a particular account of the furniture, including a dozen flag-bottomed chairs, which he always dilated upon whenever the subject of furniture was alluded to),—­ going off to sea again, leaving his wife half-pay like a fool,—­ coming home and finding her ``off, like Bob’s horse, with nobody to pay the reckoning’’;