A great change has taken place in the temperature, for at eight this morning the thermometer stood at 38° in the air and 47° in the water,--a fall in thirty-six hours of 15° in the atmosphere and 16° in the sea. People who have never been exposed for consecutive hours to a temperature at sea of between 30° and 40° can have no just idea of how penetratingly cold the wind is when the mercury drops below 40°, or of how many clothes it is necessary to wear if one wants to stay on deck a long while without constant motion. For example, I have on now two suits of heavy underwear, pilot-cloth trousers, a heavy jersey, a whip-cord waistcoat, a padded leather jacket, and a mackintosh; the costume is completed with mention of knitted woollen gloves and socks and leather boots and ditto hat. Now, there are numerous brawny, burly individuals who will ridicule this mass of apparel, and insist that one ought to keep moving, which would make it unnecessary. But to begin with, our promenade is here limited to seventy-five feet instead of several hundred, as in the case of a transatlantic steamer; and, besides, I have not that maniac passion for pedestrianism which lays so fierce a hold on some people the instant that they set foot upon a vessel’s deck. When I want exercise, half an hour at the pumps, even in cold weather, is sufficient; and I’ll warrant that it would be enough for the brawny, burly individuals before noticed. Neither of us came to sea to stay below, so we pile on sufficient clothes to repel even the strongest blasts, and can sit comfortably and unruffled for hours on deck without a break.