The conversation generally becomes more lively on those evenings when the moon, placid friend of the sailor, appears on the distant horizon, shedding her silvery beams over the unbroken expanse of water. The influence which she exercises on the state of the weather, even the prejudices and superstitions connected with our satellite, offer subjects of interesting debate; involuntarily the mariner looks with grateful feelings towards that heavenly luminary, the mild soothing light of which diminishes the number of his anxious nights, protects him in present, warns him of remote dangers, and influences so powerfully that vast element on which he passes the greater part of his life. Indeed he who has ever spent a dark and stormy night on the ocean, when the ship, lashed by the fury of the waves, and borne resistlessly along, stands in constant peril of coming in violent collision with a vessel similarly circumstanced, or of being dashed to pieces on some iron-bound coast of rugged rock, easily comprehends and will excuse the sailor who ascribes to the moonlight somewhat of a supernatural and mysterious power. In this manner, and notwithstanding the continued sameness, days and months glide away like hours, until we again cast anchor, and only the work accomplished gives an idea of the length of time which has been passed at sea. Sunday alone breaks the monotony of life on board, when, after the diurnal cleaning of the ship, and the inspection of the crew, the officers, and all the men who are not on duty, assemble for divine service on the lower gun-deck, where the chaplain says mass on a temporary altar, whilst the ship's band performs sacred music. In the afternoon the men off duty amuse themselves for a couple of hours with the "_tombola_," a game much liked by our sailors. Between 6 and 7 P.M. the band plays on deck, whilst the sailors are cutting grotesque figures to the music. The singular capers by which all evince their happiness; the good-humoured awkwardness with which each clings to the brawny arm of his companion; the mock graceful air those who enact the gentler sex assume in the dance, and, finally, the affected attitude with which the cavaliers bow to their partners as if they really were of the gentler sex--all this is most ludicrous and amusing. The playing the national dance "Monferina" always elicits a particularly hearty reception. There is a peculiar charm in national melodies, even though they awaken no political reminiscences like the Marseillaise, or the Rakoczy; they electrify alike the educated and the men of the people; a thousand pleasing recollections suddenly crowd into the memory, and when the well-known tunes strike the ear, the heart seems to live again in bygone times! As if touched by magic, the sailor from the Adriatic, as soon as the Monferina is struck up, seizes his neighbour by the arm with a noisy shout and hurls him about in wild hilarity; his