On soundings. A fog and a calm. Sky yellow, sea grey, dripping, damp, dingy, dark, and very disagreeable. Sat working, reading, and talking in our own cabin all day. Read part of a book called Adventures of a Younger Son. The gentlemen amused themselves with fishing, and brought up sundry hake and dog-fish. I examined the heart of one of the fish, and was surprised at the long continuance of pulsation after the cessation of existence. In the evening, sang, talked, and played French blind man's buff;—sat working till near one o'clock, and reading Moore's Fudge Family,—which is good fun. It's too hard to be becalmed within thirty hours of our destination.
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Why art thou weeping
Over the happy, happy dead,
Who are gone away
From this life of clay,
From this fount of tears,
From this burthen of years,
From sin, from sorrow,