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Six months at sea! Yes, reader, as I live, six months out of sight of land; cruising after thesperm whale beneath the scorching sun of the Line, and tossed on the billows of the wide-rolling Pacific--the sky above, the sea around, and nothing else! Weeks and weeks ago ourfresh provisions were all exhausted. There is not a sweet potato left; not a single yam.Those glorious bunches of bananas which once decorated our stern and quarter-deck,have, alas, disappeared! and the delicious oranges which hung suspended from our topsand stays--they, too, are gone! Yes, they are all departed, and there is nothing left us butsalt-horse and sea-biscuit.Oh! for a refreshing glimpse of one blade of grass--for a snuff at the fragrance of a handfulof the loamy earth! Is there nothing fresh around us? Is there no green thing to be seen?Yes, the inside of our bulwarks is painted green; but what a vile and sickly hue it is, as ifnothing bearing even the semblance of verdure could flourish this weary way from land.Even the bark that once clung to the wood we use for fuel has been gnawed off anddevoured by the captain's pig; and so long ago, too, that the pig himself has in turn beendevoured.