6 
LETTERS FROM ALABAMA. 
schooner pitching, and tossing, and diving, as if 
every dip would be her last. In vain did I seek 
refuge from the weather by going below ; the filthy 
hole called a cabin, hardly large enough to turn in, 
and not nearly high enough to stand upright in, was 
redolent of tar, grease, fusty cloths, mouldy bis- 
cuits, and a score other unendurable odours com- 
bined, which those only can imagine who, like me, 
have been the tenants of a little trading craft. The 
single berth or sleeping place on each side, in di- 
' mensions and appearance resembled a dog-kennel 
more than anything else, the state of the blankets 
in which, thanks to the grave-like darkness of the 
hole, was but partially revealed, to sight at least. 
The agony of sea-sickness, aggravated beyond 
measure by the closeness and fetor of the confined 
air below, drives me on deck again, where, shiver- 
ing as in an ague fit, I endeavour to screen myselt 
by crouching beneath the bulwarks (scarcely knee- 
high) from the sea, spray, and rain, which the gale 
is driving across the decks. We sometimes are 
made to feel how great an intensity of wretchedness 
can be condensed into a brief space, without any 
infliction more severe than a combination of what 
may be rightly termed trivial sufferings. 
Those who know the sea only in connexion with 
the spacious deck and gorgeously- furnished saloon 
of a packet steamer, can form but a poor notion of 
the accommodation of a little coasting schooner. 
Imagine a closet, of no geometrical shape, some 
seven feet by six, and about a yard and a half high, 
with huge beams at intervals, against which, until 
taught to stoop by painful experience, you thump 
your forehead every time you attempt to' cross. 
In the centre a deal table is screwed to the floor, 
