a great nash-ional picture!  I had got a splendid title, too—­not for myself—­I’ve a sole above such trumperry—­but for my book.  Boox is like humane beings—­a good title goes a grate way with the crowd:—­the one I ad chose for my shed-oove, was “Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,” with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill.  Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen’leman, whose “name” shall be “never heard,” offered to go shears with me, if I’d consent to cut-uup the Cort ladies.  “No,” ses I, indignantly, “I leave Cort scandle to my betters—­I go on independent principals into the Palass, and that’s more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.

That’s what I said then,—­but now I think, what a cussed fool I was.  All my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the wigs, “into thin hair.”

Nong port! We gets wiser as we gets * * *

Genteel Reader,—­I beg your parding.  I’m better now.  Bless me, how the ship waggles!  It’s reelly hawful; the sailors only laff at it, but I suppose as they’re all tars they don’t mind being pitched a little.

The capting tells me we are now reglarly at see, having just passt the North 4 land; so, ackording to custom, I begin my journal, or, as naughtical men call it—­to keep my log.

12 o’clock.—­Wind.—­All in my eye.  Mate said we had our larburd tax aboard—­never herd of that tax on shore.  Told me I should learn to box the compass—­tried, but couldn’t do it—­so boxt the cabbing boy insted.  Capting several times calld to a man who was steering—­“Port, port;” but though he always anserd, “Eye, eye, sir,” he didn’t bring him a drop.  The black cook fell into the hold on the topp of his hed.  Everybody sed he was gone to Davy Jones’s locker; but he warn’t, for he soon came to again, drank 1/2 a pint of rumm, and declared it was—­

[Illustration:  THE REAL BLACK REVIVER.]

Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts—­thort of Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn’t

  “The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?”

Man laff’d, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant halliards.

1 o’clock.—­Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook—­find I labored under a groce mistake—­they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes.  When I beheld the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to heave-too, I cuddn’t help repeting the varse of the old song—­which fitted my case egsactly:—­

  “There’s the capt’n he is our kimmander,
    There’s the bos’n and all the ship’s crew,
  There’s the married men as well as the single,
    Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through.”