Rain, rain; snow, snow; hail, hail. No end of it in sight. The aneroid has risen to 30 inches, which, with an increase of nine degrees in the temperature, would indicate a northerly wind; but we have long since given up hoping for such good luck. At 1.30 this afternoon we saw the pale sun at an altitude of about seven degrees for a moment, but he quickly drew over his face the cowl of nimbus cloud, as though terrified at the sight of Cape Horn. However, like the Ancient Mariner, “we hailed it in God’s name,” and were comforted at knowing that the orb is still in existence. Captain Scruggs and the mate often now have very turbulent and passionate arguments, not to say quarrels, at meals. It is apparently impossible for the mate to get his reckoning right or anywhere near right, and to-day when the dinner-bell had clanged through the cabin, the skipper asked him suddenly and angrily what his longitude was. Mr. Goggins, after emptying his grimy vest-pockets of bits of tobacco, twine, and infinitesimal pencils, quakingly produced a morsel of ragged, dirty brown paper, upon which appeared a variety of rare and hitherto unknown characters, which he twisted and turned at inconceivable angles, with horrible facial contortions. There was a dead, portentous silence, “Well, sir?” rapped out the skipper “I--I--I, er--er, about 71° 22′, sir.” “About 71° 22′, eh? That’s your idea of the ship’s position, is it? Just let me tell you that this has gone far enough. Do you understand? How in the devil’s name can you make it 71° with Cape Spencer right under your nose? Don’t you know enough yet to take a new departure from a landmark? I did think you had enough sense for that, but I see I was wrong,” etc., etc.