On shipboard you may rise as early or sleep as late as you choose, provided you do not extend your slumbers beyond the breakfast-hour; you are not by any means compelled to get up when the bell rings, but it is best to do so unless prevented by illness. You will find the fresh air of the deck invigorating, and a better appetizer than all the cordials or other stimulants in the possession of the bar-keeper, and besides, the room-steward desires to put your cabin in order sometime during the forenoon. Time is kept on shipboard by "bells," and those who wish to show their familiarity with the sea are in the habit of dropping the ordinary nomenclature of the hours and reckoning by the sound of the bell. The nautical day begins at noon, and all calculations regarding the movements of the ship are made with 12 M. as the starting-point. A little practice and observation will accustom the landsman to "ship's time," and afford him a slight distraction when inclined to think the voyage a monotonous one.

The bell strikes every half-hour from noon to noon again, the even strokes representing complete hours, and the odd numbers the half-hours. The marine day is divided into "watches" of four hours each, with the exception of the period from 4 P.M. to 8 P.M., which forms two divisions of two hours each, known as "dog-watches." The object of this arrangement is to prevent the same men being on duty at the same time day after day, as they would be if the whole twenty-four hours were divided into unbroken watches of four hours each. The crew is divided into "watches" that relieve each other every four hours, with the exception of the "dog-watch" just described. These divisions of the men are known as starboard and larboard, or starboard and port, and each watch has an officer in charge of it. The captain does not "stand his watch" like the other officers, and when the weather is fine and everything lovely he has little to do. But when a gale arises, or the ship is enveloped in fog, it is a time of great anxiety for him, and sometimes there are days together when he hardly leaves the bridge for more than a few minutes at a time. The prudent passenger will avoid speaking to him during this anxious period, and it is a good rule never to address the captain until he has first spoken to you. For the most part, the transatlantic captains are genial and inclined to be sociable, but you will now and then encounter one who evidently descended from a bear or some other ill-mannered animal, if the theories of Charles Darwin are correct.

To know the hour at sea by the bell remember the following: At half an hour past noon there is a single stroke of the bell, and at one o'clock there are two strokes. At half-past one we have three strokes, and at two o'clock four strokes. Thus it goes on, adding a single stroke every half-hour till four o'clock, when "eight bells" are struck. As before explained, the time from four to eight is divided into two short watches, and at eight o'clock a full watch begins, in which the hours are sounded the same as from noon to 4 P.M. This watch ends at midnight and is followed by another till 4 A.M.; from 4 to 8 A.M. is another, and from 8 A.M. till noon is another. If you happen to wake in the night and hear five bells you may know that it is half-past two, unless you have gone to bed very early, and slept briefly, in which case it may be half-past ten. But as the lights are not put out till 11 P.M., and on some ships at 11.30, you are not very liable to mistake the time of one watch for another.

And while we are talking about watches we will consider the one you have in your pocket. The change of longitude in a transatlantic voyage implies a corresponding change of time. There is a difference of four hours and fifty-six minutes between New York and London, i.e., when it is noon in New York it is fifty-six minutes past four in the afternoon at London. This variation of time is spread over the transatlantic voyage and amounts to not far from half an hour daily with the majority of steamers. When going to the east a ship's day is actually only twenty-three and a half hours long, while it is twenty-four and a half when she is on her westward course. This may account for the fact that steamers make their best daily runs when their prows are pointed towards the setting sun.

If you have a costly watch it is not well to change it daily to correspond with the ship's time. Let it run without alteration till you are at the end of the journey, and depend on the bells or the cabin clock for the actual hours. The writer has found that a cheap watch—such as can be bought for five or ten dollars—is an excellent adjunct to a valuable gold one when traveling. It can be altered daily to correspond with the change of longitude, and if it is left around carelessly there is little danger that any intelligent thief will care to steal it. In a journey around the world he changed the hour of his pocket-chronometer only five times—at San Francisco, Tokio, Calcutta, Naples, and Paris—and depended upon his "brass" watch for daily service.

So much for keeping time on shipboard; let us see how we can spend it. Carry enough books to give you ten or twelve hours reading every day, and if you get through a quarter of them you will be lucky. You will find an unaccountable disinclination to read, especially if you have been very active just previous to departure, and will develop a decided tendency for sleep. What with sleeping, and eating, and associating with other passengers, you find no great amount of time for literature, and unless you devote yourself to a blood-curdling novel, in which you are constantly on the strain to know how the plot ended, and whether she married him or the other man, you can only get through a few pages at a time. If you are going abroad for the first time it is advisable to confine the reading to descriptions of the countries you are about to visit, rather than to light literature, but, if you are determined to stick to fiction, you will find sea-stories more interesting than land ones, for the reason that you are on the great deep, and the pictures of the novel will be more vivid than if the book were read on shore.

A ship is a world, and the ocean is the measureless azure in which it floats. Sea and sky are your boundaries, and the horizon-line is ever the same. The weaknesses of human nature, as well as its noble qualities, are developed here, and sometimes they are limned in sharper outlines than on land. Persons whom you have known for years will develop on shipboard qualities that you never suspected them of possessing. You had always thought your neighbor on the right was a selfish mortal, but you now find that he is self-sacrificing to the extreme; on the other hand, the man whom you believed a model of politeness turns out to be quite the reverse. Never in your life have you heard as much gossip in a month as you now hear in a single week; the occupation, character, peculiarities, hopes, desires, and frailties of everybody are canvassed by a goodly proportion of busy tongues, and the ship will very likely impress you as a school for scandal which Sheridan might envy.

Don't take a share in the gossip, and don't concern yourself about the private affairs of anyone else. Be polite to everybody, but don't be in a hurry to make acquaintances; by so doing you will stand higher in their estimation, and will have time to find out those whom you would like the best. A shipful of passengers is generally broken into several parties of persons congenial to each other; sometimes the groups and parties are on the best of terms, and at other times there is considerable hostility, generally caused by a few turbulent spirits, not always of the sterner sex. The weather has much to do with the formation of cliques on an ocean steamer. When the sea is smooth for a day or two at the start the passengers become generally acquainted and are agreeable all around. But if the steamer puts her prow into a rough sea immediately on leaving port those of tender stomachs disappear before they have had time to exchange a word with a stranger. The unruffled ones get together, the men in the smoking-room, and the ladies in the cabin, and companionship begins. By the time the sea is level again, and the sea-sick ones appear, the circles have been formed, and some of them closed completely; then the new-comers form rings of their own, and out of these primary and secondary formations jealousies often grow.

Join in all the innocent sports that while away the time. By day, in fine weather, there are quoits, shuffle-board, and other games, for which the ship furnishes the material, and in the evening there are impromptu entertainments of a mixed character in the cabin. Contribute whatever you can to the general fund of amusement, and if you can neither sing, recite, tell stories, play on an instrument, or do anything else to please your fellow passengers, try and be a good integral part of the audience. You can look on and listen at any rate, and with a little practice you can do it well. Perhaps you can find diversion by investing in the daily pool on the run of the ship, and, when coming westward, there is the inevitable speculation as to the number of the boat from which you take the pilot. But this pool business is sometimes expensive, and if your purse is thinly lined you will do well to stay out of it. The smoking-room affords opportunities for dropping your spare cash to gentlemen of a playful turn of mind, and there are usually adepts at cards who will accommodate you with any game you like. The Atlantic is crossed every year by men who boast that they are always able to cover their expenses, and very often the boast is far below the reality. The fashionable steamers are sometimes the scenes of very high play, and gambling at sea seems to be on the increase in the last few years. They can never be made the field of operations similar to those of the river and railway gamblers of America, for the reason that there is no station or landing-place where a performer on the cards can disappear when he has fleeced his victim, but, at present, there is good reason to believe that the business of occasional passengers is less while ashore than when afloat.

If you have any complaints to make address them to the purser; it is his business to look after the welfare of the passengers, and he nearly always does it. Where you desire to make a first-class row you can appeal from the purser to the captain, and if they are not on the best of terms, and you lay your schemes carefully, a great deal of bad blood will be engendered. As a last resort, you can carry the affair up to the general management of the company, where complaints are investigated with more or less care, and satisfaction is given or refused. The great competition between the various lines causes them to be particularly attentive to the wants of passengers, and it is very rarely that one hears of a well-founded complaint against the captain or purser of a transatlantic steamer. If they err at all it is in paying too much attention to passengers who are often quite willing to be let alone after they have been comfortably settled on board.

Never attempt to go on the "bridge" which is exclusively reserved for the officers of the ship, and do not be anxious to penetrate the mysteries of the engine-room or handle the steering apparatus. On some of the ships notices are posted requesting passengers not to speak to the officers when on duty; it is well to heed these, and also well not to get too near the ropes when sails are being hoisted or taken in. When the ship is pitching violently in a head sea, avoid going forward on deck, as you may get a drenching unexpectedly, and possibly may be washed overboard. Be cautious about leaning over the taffrail or stern at any time, and especially in rough weather, as the ship may "jump from under you" without the least warning, and drop you in the sea. Old sailors as well as landsmen have been lost in this way.

The hours for meals vary on the different lines, but whatever the arrangement, there is no danger of starvation. Most of the English lines give you breakfast, lunch, dinner, and supper, four meals altogether, and all of them pretty "square" ones. The breakfast consists of fish, ham and eggs, steaks, chops, Irish stew, hot rolls, and a half dozen, or perhaps a dozen, other things, with all the tea or coffee you choose to drink. Lunch consists of cold meats and biscuits, and is not a very heavy affair, but the dinner is of that solid character which is one of the boasts of British liberty. You can eat yourself into dyspepsia without making any apparent impression on the abundance set before you, and if you try to go through the bill of fare without missing anything, you will wish you hadn't. Of soups, fish, roasts, boils, stews, and fries, there is apparently no end; the cooking is generally good, and leads the thoughtful passenger into a profound admiration of the culinary artists of the sea. And it also leads him to wonder why so much is prepared when comparatively little is eaten, especially in the first touch of rough weather, when half the passengers and more are confined to their rooms, and a goodly number of the other half display microscopic appetites. This matter has been discussed by the managers of the lines; it has been proposed to make the experiment of serving meals on the "European plan," and ultimately to abandon the old system, if the new one is found acceptable. Under this scheme the price of passage would be reduced, and include only the room and transportation; meals would be served as in a restaurant, and the traveler could spend much money or little, according to the dictates of his purse and appetite. The cost of feeding the passengers would be much less than at present, and all the waste would be borne by the public, instead of the company.

For supper you have toast and cold meats, with Welsh rarebits and other things, such as dreams are made of, and the strong-hearted Englishman generally washes it down with a bottle of ale to give him a good digestion. Some of the companies give an additional meal called tea, which runs closely into the supper; so close is the connection that you can go from the one to the other without leaving the table. In fact, the meals are so numerous that they are crowded against each other, and you are hardly through with one and settled into your chair on deck before you are summoned for the next. But if even these are not sufficient for the keen appetite and hearty digestion you have acquired at sea, you can get something to eat between times by application to the steward. Verily, there is little danger of starvation on a voyage by trans-Atlantic steamer.

On the French line the arrangement differs somewhat from the English. At seven in the morning, tea or coffee is given, with bread and butter and a bowl of soup. From half past nine to eleven breakfast is served, and consists of preliminary appetizers, such as radishes, anchovies, cold ham, and other trifles, followed by steaks, chops, eggs in every form, fish, chicken, and similar solids. Then comes a selection of cheeses and fresh and dry fruits, and the meal ends with a cup of black coffee. Dinner is at half past four, and resembles the continental table d'hote; it is served in courses, and is sufficiently comprehensive to cover the demands of any appetite not altogether unreasonable. Wine, either white or red, is included for both breakfast and dinner, and the passenger may drink as freely of it as he likes. Tea is served at eight in the evening, and there is a light lunch of cold meats at one o'clock. The writer has fared admirably on one of the ships of the French line, and on a subsequent voyage by the same steamer, he fared badly; on the whole, he believes the system a good one, and acceptable to the majority of the passengers.

The gastronomic service of the German steamers combines certain features of the French and English lines, and the hours for meals correspond very nearly to those of the latter. The cooking is Teutonic, and the bill of fare includes a liberal allowance of the toothsome sausage and the savory sour-kraut. There is less waste on the French and German steamers than on the English ones; and it has been remarked that the sea gulls understand the matter very clearly, and will always follow an English ship in preference to one of the others, for the reason that the chance of picking up a delicate morsel that has been tossed overboard is much greater.

Seats at table are assigned by the chief steward or taken by the passengers when they go on board. A card with the name of the individual is placed at the desired seat; the novice might suppose that this would be sufficient to retain the place, but it is not so by any means. Other passengers, who desire the same places, will remove the cards and substitute their own, and sometimes they display great "cheek" in the transaction. It is best to have the chief steward approve your selection at the time you make it, and then you will have an appeal in case of the removal of your card. The captain's table is the post of honor, and the location of the greatest dignity, but if you are not specially invited by the commander to a place there, and have no acquaintance with him, it is best not to seek it. Sometimes the purser's table is a pleasant one, and sometimes the reverse; and the same may be said of the doctor's table. Purser and doctor are proverbially good fellows, with very few exceptions, and wherever you may be seated, your fortune in eating depends more on the table steward than on any one of the officers. When you have once occupied a seat at dinner you retain it through the voyage unless you change with the approval of the steward. A seat in the middle of the saloon is preferred by some to one near the side, but there is really very little difference in the places, so far as the motion of the ship is concerned. Most of the best steamers have adopted the revolving seat, so that you may come to or leave your place without disturbing any one, which is not the case with the old-fashioned bench. Where the benches remain, the passenger should make an effort to secure an end seat, especially if he is liable to sea-sickness and may suddenly discover some day that he doesn't want any more dinner.

If the chief steward assists you to secure a desirable seat, he will expect a pecuniary compliment for the service; on most ships it is well to be on the right side of him, but on some it makes no difference. The first time you go forward beyond a certain line one of the sailors will chalk your boot, or draw a chalk-mark around you. This is a time-honored custom of extracting a shilling from the novice, and the money so obtained is invested in liquid refreshments for the crew. There is only a single chalking for each passenger on the voyage; after he has paid the penalty once he may go forward as much as he pleases without danger of molestation.

The days will run on with more or less monotony, according to circumstances. You will be interested in trivial matters; a sail that is a mere speck on the horizon will awaken a lively discussion, and the appearance of a shark, or a school of porpoises, is sure to draw at least half the passengers to the side of the ship to watch the movements of the inhabitants of the sea. The birds will be a source of amusement, and when a wearied land bird, driven far out to sea by the wind, and with strength nearly exhausted, lights on the rigging, the excitement rises to almost fever heat. What he is, and whence he came, are momentous questions, and if he can be caught and tamed, as sometimes happens, he becomes a popular pet throughout the ship. Some years ago, while a steamer was on her way to New York, a crow came on board a hundred miles or so from the Irish coast. He was caught by the sailors, and soon became perfectly tame and fearless. He liked his new home so well that he did not try to leave it when the ship returned to Ireland; he continued to cross and re-cross for several months, till he was accidentally killed on the dock in New York, where the ship was lying.

Land is in sight, and we will prepare for shore. The old clothing is packed away for deposit in the store-room of the company till our return, and the steamer chair is folded, tied, and tagged. We don our good garments and may cause a sensation to those who have seen us only in the habiliments of the sea, but as every one else will do likewise, the sensation is doubtful. We are ready for the tender that takes us to terra firma, where the formalities of the custom-house await us.

As we leave the ship that has brought us safely over the ocean, it will be no discredit to our manhood if we say good-bye to her, and wish her many prosperous voyages. A feeling akin to affection is not unfrequently developed by the traveler for the ship that has carried him, and ever after he will take a personal interest in her fortunes. A passenger on one of the transatlantic steamers once gave vent to his sentiments in some doggerel verses, of which the following was the concluding one:—