_Wednesday, November 15th_.--Pleasant as we have found life at sea in
the South Pacific hitherto, it is, I fear, monotonous to read about,
and I dare say you will find it difficult to realise how quickly the
days fly past, and how sorry we are when each one comes to an end. I
am afraid they are among those things which do not repeat themselves.
At any rate, they afford a golden opportunity for reading, such as we
are not likely to have again often, if ever, in our busy lives; and
Tom and I are endeavouring to make the best use of it by getting
through as many of the seven hundred volumes we brought with us as
possible. The weather favours us in our endeavours to be industrious;
for, while it is sufficiently warm to indispose one for a very severe
course of study, it has never been so hot as to compel us to lie down
and do nothing but gasp for breath--which is what we were warned to
expect. There is indeed one slight drawback to the perfect enjoyment
of our present state of existence, and that is the incessant motion of
the vessel. When she rolls as quickly as she has done to-day, it is
difficult to settle down steadily to any occupation, and at last one
cannot help feeling aggravated at the persistent manner in which
everything, including one's self, refuses to be still for a single
instant.
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