Deviation.—1° E. Wonderful the accuracy of the little instrument whereon men's lives do hang, wise in the lore of the firmament!
Patent Log.—O. Nothing—as yet! What will it register ere the day be done? Or will its speckless copper lie rusting in the grey chill of the sea's dank depths?
Revs.—I don't know, but the propellers swirl faithfully and unceasingly.
Wind.—W. by E. Bearing a message across the vast Atlantic of hope and present succour from our new great Ally, the mighty Republic of the West. America, ah America! But we of the sea are men of few words, and this is not the place.
Force.—3. A balmy zephyr, yet with the sharp salt tang of the sea that a sailor loves.
Sea.—2. Softly undulating is the swell, scarce perceptible to inexperienced eyes, such as those of the land-lubbers on the towering decks of the great liners; gleaming dead copper and blue in the morning sun, flecked with spectral white in the distance—the easy roll of untrammelled waters!
Weather.—C. Detached clouds. Almost had I written "B," seeing the perfect filmy blue all around the horizon; but a seaman's scrutiny showed me faint fluffy wisps o'erhead, luminous and marged with palest gold; and ever must a sailor be suspicious of the treacherous weather-god.
Thermometer.—42°. Not yet is Winter here, but its threat approaches.
Barometer.—30·01. Will it stay there?
Remarks.—Once more we set out on our ceaseless vigil, our never-ending mission of the sea!