inside. When we'd been about four hours in this sityouation (it
seam'd to me four ears), the steward comes to that part of the deck
where we servants were all huddled up together, and calls out
"Charles!"

"Well," says I, gurgling out a faint "yes, what's the matter?"

"You're wanted."

"Where?"

"Your master's wery ill," says he, with a grin.

"Master be hanged!" says I, turning round, more misrable than ever.
I woodn't have moved that day for twenty thousand masters--no, not
for the Empror of Russia or the Pop of Room.

Well, to cut this sad subjik short, many and many a voyitch have I
sins had upon what Shakspur calls the "wasty dip," but never such a
retched one as that from Dover to Balong, in the year Anna Domino
1818. Steemers were scarce in those days; and our journey was made
in a smack. At last, when I was in a stage of despare and
exostion, as reely to phansy myself at Death's doar, we got to the
end of our journey. Late in the evening we hailed the Gaelic
shoars, and hankered in the arbor of Balong sir-mare.

It was the entrans of Parrowdice to me and master: and as we
entered the calm water, and saw the comfrabble lights gleaming in
the houses, and felt the roal of the vessel degreasing, never was
two mortials gladder, I warrant, than we were. At length our