[10] 5th.—Squally, and almost a gale all day. Felt no fear, but hope and confidence in the good hand which can deliver. Our first mate turned into the steerage for disobedience this morning, and a fight near at hand between himself and the captain. Our black steward is known as a champion of champions, having conquered a hero of his own colour by butting on all fours, like two rams, a mode of fighting common amongst blacks.
7th.—In the bay, off Spain, and 170 miles from the port of Corunna.
8th.—Lat. 44°. Bad day, wind a-head, blowing hard. Black superstition. Our steward has this moment lost a drop of red blood, which involuntarily fell from his black pug nose. "There," said he, "I have lost my mother—a good friend." This blood-losing he considers as a sure omen of death taking place, having more than once proved it.
9th.—All's in the wrong. Head wind. No fire in the cabin. So cold, that I am compelled to wear two pair of hose, and my large box-coat. Coals are few and our captain stingy, being one of those Yankees (says our first mate) who, in the Southern States, are said to skin a flea for the sake of its hide and tallow. My liver, however, seems on fire, through want of exercise and wholesome food. I am pained in all positions, and every breath is costly. This is an evil day. A small jug of water fell of itself to the floor from the table, at [11] which the captain in high rage rang for the poor absent broken-backed steward, and accused him of doing it. Then, doubling his fist, he knocked the steward down twice, by violent blows on the head, and, when down, set his foot on his neck, and stamped three times on it violently. The poor fellow gave no provocation, but only begged
