as a snug dinner at sea!—what so droll and
amusing as a dancing dinner-table! I have
learned "A White Sheet and a Flowing Sail,"
and feel certain that I shall be able to sing that
eminently nautical ditty as steadily and
vociferously in a "whole gale" off the North
Foreland, as I now do at the piano-forte of
my sweet little cousin and accompanist.

How have I acquired this sudden affection
for nautical habiliments; this enviable
defiance of the rolling waves, and the rolling,
pitching steamer? How? I owe it to the
British Association for the Advancement of
Science, and to the French Academy of
Sciences. I owe it to Monsieur M. J. Curie,
who in the Comptes Rendus has explained
that sea-sickness arises from the upward and
downward movements of the diaphragm acting
on the nerves of the brain in an unusual manner.
I owe it especially to the cure he recommends:—
he instructs me to draw in my breath
as the vessel descends, and to exhale it when
the vessel ascends each billow—to keep in
exact time and tune with the sea and the ship.
Such is my first lesson; my second, I derive
from the paper of Mr. J. Atkinson, read
before the British Association at its last
meeting. That gentleman declares, that the
chief reason of sea-sickness is because one's
motions on board of ship, instead of being
voluntary, are involuntary. Swinging and
riding in a carriage often produce nausea,
because the body, he says, is made to move
about in spite of itself; while the voluntary
operations performed by mechanics and
labourers, involving the same kind of
movements of the diaphragm, do not cause
similar unpleasant results. If, then, we can
introduce the voluntary system afloat, we
shall obviate the most detestable incident
of a sea voyage. Let, instructs Mr. Atkinson,
a person on shipboard, when the vessel is
bounding over the waves, seat himself, and
take hold of a tumbler nearly filled with
water or other liquid, and at the same time
make an effort to prevent the liquid from
running over, by keeping the mouth of the
glass horizontal, or nearly so. When doing
this, from the motion of the vessel, his hand
and arm will seem to be drawn into different
positions, as if the glass were attracted by a
powerful magnet. Continuing his efforts to
keep the mouth of the glass horizontal, let
him allow his hand, arm, and body to go
through the various movements—as those
observed in sawing, planing, pumping, throwing
a quoit, &c.— which they will be impelled,
without fatigue, almost irresistibly to
perform; and he will find that this has the
effect of preventing the giddiness and nausea
that the rolling and tossing of the vessel
have a tendency to produce, in inexperienced
voyagers. If the person is suffering from
sickness at the commencement of his experiment,
as soon as he grasps the glass of liquid
in his hand, and suffers his arm to take its
course, and go through the prescribed
movements, he feels as if he were performing them
of his own free will: the nausea abates
immediately, very soon ceases entirely, and
does not return so long as he suffers his
arm and body to assume the postures into
which they seem to be drawn. Should he,
however, resist the free course of his hand, he
instantly feels a thrill of pain of a peculiarly
stunning kind shoot through his head, and
experiences a sense of dizziness and returning
nausea.

"The reading of this paper," says the
report of it, "caused a short discussion on the
nature of sea-sickness; and some of the
members promised to give it an early trial."

Permit me modestly to state that I was
one of the number who performed this
promise.

Behold me on board. We are steaming
down the river in gallant style. There is a
fresh but gusty wind. I and the man at the
helm have agreed that it will be smart work
in the Channel. All the better. The boat
behaves well in a rough sea, I should think.
Dear me! we are only half a mile beyond
the Nore, and the ladies begin to make
precipitate retreats into the cabin. It
is time to look after my sou'-wester; for
ahead I see the crisp waves with fringes of
foam—a sure sign of a chopping sea. Now,
the vessel heaves a little. Now, she shakes
and recovers herself, ashamed of being
disturbed by a wave so insignificant. The flag
at the mast-head stands out as stiff as a board.
The men are closing the ports. I thought it
was time to set that sail. Her head dips now,
decidedly. That Frenchman has thrown his
cigar overboard; I thought he would. Pshaw!
brandy-and-water already? What a pale and
consumptive set of passengers we have on
board! They must be excursionists from the
Hospital for Consumption. A lady in a pink
bonnet implores me to see her down the
cabin-stairs. My head is very bad; the voyage
will do me good, decidedly. I am very
awkward with the pink bonnet. How she
stumbles! She begs my pardon—she thought
I was a sailor. She is quite right; I am
thoroughly "ship-shape;" but my arm
is weak, and I find it difficult to hold her.
That weak ankle of mine begins to trouble
me; how I stumble! It is as well to take
up my position near the helmsman, and
prove myself a sailor. Now, the vessel dips;
I must draw in my breath. Now, she rises;
I must exhale it. The helmsman wants to
know what I am about, and calls my attention
to "a brig that is behaving capitally to
wind'ard;" but our vessel dips again, and
again I must draw in my breath: she rises,
and again I must exhale it.

Monsieur Curie is quite right; the upward
and downward movements of the diaphragm
act on the phrenetic nerves in an unusual
manner. Yet I feel that I must take care of
myself, lest I belie the anchors on my buttons.
I think it would have been better to put to sea