a few years ago this same plan was adopted by the bay whalemen of new zealand, who, upon descrying the game, gave notice to the ready-manned boats nigh the beach. but this custom has now become obsolete; turn we then to the one proper mast-head, that of a whale-ship at sea. the three mast-heads are kept manned from sun-rise to sun-set; the seamen taking their regular turns (as at the helm), and relieving each other every two hours. in the serene weather of the tropics it is exceedingly pleasant the mast-head; nay, to a dreamy meditative man it is delightful. there you stand, a hundred feet above the silent decks, striding along the deep, as if the masts were gigantic stilts, while beneath you and between your legs, as it were, swim the hugest monsters of the sea, even as ships once sailed between the boots of the famous colossus at old rhodes. there you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves. the tranced ship indolently rolls; the drowsy trade winds blow; everything resolves you into languor. for the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinner—for all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.