However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship—­and, my wiskers! how she did whizz along.  Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a lock of her air when I was a leaving of the key.  Oh!  Lord Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever!  This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in my stommik, and had nothing to rite on but my chest.  I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of “Willy Reilly:”—­

  Oakum to me[3], ye sailors bold,
    Wot plows upon the sea;
  To you I mean for to unfold
    My mournful histo-ree. 
  So pay attention to my song,
    And quick-el-ly shall appear,
  How innocently, all along,
    I vos in-weigle-ed here.

  One night, returnin home to bed,
    I walk’d through Pim-li-co,
  And, twigging of the Palass, sed,
    “I’m Jones and In-i-go.” 
  But afore I could get out, my boys
    Pollise-man 20 A,
  He caught me by the corderoys,
    And lugged me right a-way.

  My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and
    On Jonny Russ-all-so,
  That forc’d me from my native land
    Across the vaves to go-o-oh. 
  But all their spiteful arts is wain,
    My spirit down to keep;
  I hopes I’ll soon git back again,
    To take another peep.

    [3] The nautical mode of writing—­“Oh! come to me.”—­PRINTER’S
        DEVIL.

2 o’clock.—­Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner.  Thought I never saw dirtier hands in my life.  They call their dinner “a mess” on broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look—­no bread but hard biskit and plenty of ship’s rolls, besides biled pork and P-soop—­both these articles seemed rayther queer—­felt my stommick growing quear too—­got on deck, and asked where we were—­was told we were in the Straits of Dover.  I never was in such dreadful straits in my life—­ship leaning very much on one side, which made me feel like a man

[Illustration:  GOING OFF IN A RAPID DECLINE.]

3 o’clock.—­Weather getting rather worse than better.  Mind very uneasy.  Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it’s all dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog.  The idear of being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn’t refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable tiers.