reader, av you ever been on the otion?--"The sea, the sea, the open
sea!" as Barry Cromwell says. As soon as we entered our little
wessel, and I'd looked to master's luggitch and mine (mine was rapt
up in a very small hankercher), as soon, I say, as we entered our
little wessel, as soon as I saw the waives, black and frothy, like
fresh drawn porter, a-dashin against the ribs of our galliant bark,
the keal like a wedge, splittin the billoes in two, the sales a-
flaffin in the hair, the standard of Hengland floating at the mask-
head, the steward a-getting ready the basins and things, the
capting proudly tredding the deck and giving orders to the salers,
the white rox of Albany and the bathin-masheens disappearing in the
distans--then, then I felt, for the first time, the mite, the
madgisty of existence. Yellowplush my boy," said I, in a dialogue
with myself, "your life is now about to commens--your carear, as a
man, dates from your entrans on board this packit. Be wise, be
manly, be cautious, forgit the follies of your youth. You are no
longer a boy now, but a FOOTMAN. Throw down your tops, your
marbles, your boyish games--throw off your childish habbits with
your inky clerk's jackit--throw up your--"

. . . . . .

Here, I recklect, I was obleeged to stopp. A fealin, in the fust
place singlar, in the next place painful, and at last compleatly
overpowering, had come upon me while I was making the abuff speach,
and now I found myself in a sityouation which Dellixy for Bids me
to describe. Suffis to say, that now I dixcovered what basins was
made for--that for many, many hours, I lay in a hagony of exostion,
dead to all intense and porpuses, the rain pattering in my face,
the salers tramplink over my body--the panes of purgatory going on