the Commodore of the Thames Yachts now pulling, within hail, in the Wenus! Or, the last Dibdin taking a chair-or the chair taking him-in this cabin! Or, Campbell essaying to write down a new sea-song on yon topsy-turvy table! And oh! to behold the author of "The deep deep Sea" sitting on the poop, singing to that floating Young Woman's head and bust, taken by mistake for a mermaid's!

Another shout. Pieter Petersoon, in heaving the lead, hath chucked himself in along with it! I do not wonder; he heaveth after my own fashion, by wholesale. Have I not within the last two hours rejected, discharged, and utterly cast from me in disgust, the whole ocean, nay all the oceans, German, Atlantic, Pacific-the Arctic last, its solid calms, the next best things to Terra Firma, not so violently disagreeing with me as the rest. And do I not know and feel that I am now about to give up Neptune, trident and all, with the whole salt-water mythology? I warrant, ere ten minutes do come, there shall not remain within me so much as a syren's mirror, or her tortoise-shell comb:-not one solitary Triton will be left on my stomach. Some unsavoury odour about the cabin-marvellously like the smell of oil painthath just given me a new turn, by conjuring up all the nauseous pictures of marine allegories, which, even on steady dry land, used to stir and provoke my spleen.

Oh! that they were all here, President, R. A., and A. R. A., in a string, climbing after me up this perilous slippery stair, to the more perilous slippery deck, there to crawl on all-fours to the ship's side, and clinging like cats or monkeys to the quarterboards, take a trembling peep at what Vandergroot calls "den wild zee!" What an awful sight! The tempest-tost sky is as troubled as the ocean: whilst betwixt the jagged base of the low

black cloud, and the still jaggeder crest of the sea, the red angry lightning restlessly darts to and fro, as if in search of whatever presuming mortal dares fare between them! Oh tell me, Mister Elias Martin-if you a'nt dead-is the tossing crest of yonder mad black billow, that comes racing after us, at all like the black worsted fringe which your brethren are apt to hang on the necks of their marine Arabians? But hush, yonder comes Neptune himself, in his state-coach-aye, hats off-the wind hath taught ye manners. Lo! yonder he stands,-Pshaw! no, no, no,-Zounds! you are all gaping at honest Hans Vander groot. Look to starboard—to the left hand! That's the gentleman, without his castor, nor indeed overwell togged otherwise for wet weather with his beard lathered but not shaved-standing up in an oyster-shell drag, and attempting, like a sorry whip as he is, to tool his team of bokickers with a potato-fork. Did you ever see four such unbroke brutes as he hath to keep together -neither reined-up, nor down, nor indeed, any ribbons to hold at all—and as I would have laid a pony to nothing, there they go, no pace at all, 'cause why they are just come to some invisible sea obelisk, and each horse is for going down a road of his own. Did you ever set eyes on such action! No stepping out -but all pawing and prancing and putting their feet down again where they pick them up, like Ducrow's dancing stud; as sure as 1 am a judge, they have all got the string-halt in their fore legs, because they can't have it in their hinder ones! You may swear safely that they have four bad colds besides, and look what a rabble of naked postilions are hanging on by their manes, because they have no saddles, and if they had, they would never be able to sit in them with those salmon tails! Between ourselves, Elias, 'tis no great shakes of a show; the Lord Mayor's

pageant on the water beats it all to sticks; and if you make a picture of it, you will be a fool for your pains. Yet have I seen paintings by first-rate hands as like to this same trumpery Sadler's Wells water spectacle

Murder! murder! Help! help! A surgeon and a shutter, if there be such comfortable things in this unneighbourly neighbourhood. O! oh! oh! oh! Woe is me! I am not-I am now certain and sure I am not a Ball! I have limbs and members! legs and arms! like other people's, only they're broke; and a very distinct back. My head! Oh! my head, my head; there are nine lumps thereon, and there are nine cabin stairs!

The real Sea-King, in resentment, I suppose, of my untimely caricature of him and his state-coach, after spitting nine gallons of foam in my face, knocked me flat with a wave, and then kicked me down stairs; and here I am again trying to anoint my bruises with trunks, and bind them up with stools and tables, on the hard-hearted oak planks of the cabin-floor. Yet it is easier with me than I first feared. My legs are not broken, but merely bent. I am only bandy, and not lame for life; but my sea-sickness is not cured. Am I likely to put up, better or worse, think you, with Neptune and his satellites, for this unhandsome usage?

The Jung Vrouw, meanwhile, is as giddy as ever, nay, worse ten times told. She hath taken a tinge of high-flying, deepdiving, German Romanticism into her wooden head, and is trying, plunge after plunge, to drown herself, and to make me commit wilful suicide along with her, whether I will or not. After that, there is no hope; but oh! yet oh, my Fates, let me die upon land. I have a horror of shipboard! The idea of severing all ties in this cabin is trebly agonizing. Why, the very table is tied to the floor, the candlestick to the table, the snuffers to the candle

stick, the extinguisher to the snuffers! Only the burning candle is unattached, and there-there it jumps into bed! No matter; it could as soon set fire to the Thames. Another squall!

"FRIEND! DOST THEE CALL THIS THE PACIFIC?"

How she groans, creaks, squeaks, strains, grinds, and squeezes, like a huge walnut in Neptune's crackers! Accursed Jung Vrouw! thou wilt be the widowing of my poor dear old one! Accursed Peter Stuckey, thou wilt be the murdering of my poor deaf old self!

I know not, for a surety, by reason that everything about me is quaking and shaking, but I suspect I am trembling like an aspen. It is impossible to hear, in the midst of this universal hubbub, but methinks, I am wailing and weeping aloud. But one may as well make a manly exit. Like other men, in such

sea extremities, I would fain betake me to the rum-cask; but either Hans Vandergroot sails on Temperance principles, or I have looked in the wrong place. I will try a stave or two instead.

Alas! it will not go down. I am too much out of sorts for even the "delicate Ariel." It was one thing for Shakspeare, sailing, hugging the shore, never out of sight of land, on the safe serene coasts of Bohemia, to compose such a sea-song for the wood and canvas Tempests of the stage; but it is another guess thing to hear it, as I do, howled through hoarse ship-ropes, by

THE BEST BOWER ANCHOR.

Boreas himself, in a real storm. What comfort to me that everything about me shall suffer a sea-change-that my bones shall