or as Mr. Slick would say "for everlastinly;" but to make
my bow and retire very soon from the press altogether.
I might assign many reasons for this modest course, all
of them plausible, and some of them indeed quite dignified.
I like dignity: any man who has lived the greater part
of his life in a colony is so accustomed to it, that he
becomes quite enamoured of it, and wrapping himself up
in it as a cloak, stalks abroad the "observed of all
observers." I could undervalue this species of writing
if I thought proper, affect a contempt for idiomatic
humour, or hint at the employment being inconsistent with
the grave discharge of important official duties, which
are so distressingly onerous, as not to leave me a moment
for recreation; but these airs, though dignified, will
unfortunately not avail me. I shall put my dignity into
my pocket, therefore, and disclose the real cause of this
diffidence.

In the year one thousand eight hundred and fourteen, I
embarked at Halifax on board the Buffalo store-ship for
England. She was a noble teak built ship of twelve or
thirteen hundred tons burden, had excellent accommodation,
and carried over to merry old England, a very merry party
of passengers, _quorum parva pars fui_, a youngster just
emerged from college.

On the banks of Newfoundland we were becalmed, and the
passengers amused themselves by throwing overboard a
bottle, and shooting at it with ball. The guns used for
this occasion, were the King's muskets, taken from the