1–6 January 1833

I rose at sunrise, and under the lee of the spencer-sheet had a solitary, thoughtful hour. All right thought is devout.

I like the latitude of 37° better than my bitter native 42°. We have sauntered all this calm day at one or two knots the hour, and nobody on board well pleased but I, and why should I be pleased ? I have nothing to record. I have read little. I have done nothing. What then ? Need we be such barren scoundrels that the whole beauty of heaven, the main, and man, cannot en- tertain us unless we too must needs hold a candle and daub God's world with a smutch of our own insignificance. Not I, for one. I will be pleased, though I do not deserve it. I will act in all up to my conceit of last week, when I exulted in the power and art with which we rode tilting over this January ocean, albeit, to speak truth, our in- dividual valours lay very sick the while, lodged each in the waistcoat pocket of the brave brig's transom. So that each passenger's particular share in the glory was much the same as the sutler's or grocer's who turns his penny in the army of Leonidas or Washington. The southing latitude does notyet make early mornings. The steward's lanthorn and trumpery matutinal preparations are to me for the rosy ray, the silver cloud, or chaunt of earliest bird. But days will come.

Lat. 37° 23; long- 39° 59 W.