The following interesting narrative of the sufferings of the youth Jones,
whose indefatigable pursuit of knowledge, under the most discouraging
circumstances, has been the cause of his banishment to a distant shore, was
lately picked up at sea, in a sealed bottle, by a homeward-bound East
Indiaman, and since placed in our hands by the captain of the vessel; who
complimented us by saying, he felt such confidence in PUNCH'S honour and
honesty! (these were his very words), that he unhesitatingly confided to
him the precious document, in order that it might be given to the world
without alteration or curtailment.
We hasten to realise the captain's flattering estimate of our character.
_At see, on board the ship Apollo._
_June 30._--So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take
up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as nose
the misfortin wich as oc-_curd_ to me, may think off me wen I'm far a
_whey_. Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun, who
got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to _see_
for my _peeping_, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest
motiffs in what I did. The reel fax of the case is, I'm a young man of an
ighly cultiwated mind and a very _ink_-wisitive disposition, wich naturally
led me to the use of the _pen_. I ad also bean in the abit of reading "Jak
Sheppard," and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes to the perowsal
of that faxinating book. O! wot a noble mind the author of these wollums
must have!--what a frootful inwention and fine feelings he displays!--what
a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his ero, making petty
larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.
However, I don't mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this
egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a thust
for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should to be an
orthor. Unfortinnet delusion!--that thort has proved my rooin. It was the
_bean_ of my life, and the destroyer of my _pease_. From that moment I
could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and
wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message. Sleap
deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night
awake amongst my _flocks_. I had got hold of a single idear--it was the
axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon
it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i's about for a subject--they
fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field
for genus to sore into;--ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;--ear
was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for 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."
However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so
I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship--and, my wiskers! how
she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich
brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular
Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a
_lock_ of her air when I was a leaving of the _key_. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord
Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke
the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly
reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in
my _stommik_, and had nothing to rite on but my _chest_. I threw off as
follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of
"Willy Reilly:"--
Oakum to me[3], ye sailors bold,
Wot plows upon the sea;
To you I mean for to unfold
My mournful histo-ree.
So pay attention to my song,
And quick-el-ly shall appear,
How innocently, all along,
I vos in-weigle-ed here.
One night, returnin home to bed,
I walk'd through Pim-li-co,
And, twigging of the Palass, sed,
"I'm _Jones_ and _In-i-go_."
But afore I could get out, my boys
Pollise-man 20 A,
He caught me by the corderoys,
And lugged me right a-way.
My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and
On Jonny Russ-all-so,
That forc'd me from my native land
Across the vaves to go-o-oh.
But all their spiteful arts is wain,
My spirit down to keep;
I hopes I'll soon git back again,
To take another peep.
[3] The nautical mode of writing--"Oh! come to me."--PRINTER'S
DEVIL.
_2 o'clock._--Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I
never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner "a mess" on
broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look--no bread but hard biskit and
plenty of ship's _rolls_, besides biled pork and P-soop--both these
articles seemed rayther queer--felt my stommick growing quear too--got on
deck, and asked where we were--was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I
never was in such dreadful straits in my life--ship leaning very much on
one side, which made me feel like a man
[Illustration: GOING OFF IN A RAPID DECLINE.]
_3 o'clock._--Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy.
Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just
now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it's all dickey
with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made
fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn't refrain from
weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in
the cable _tiers_.
_5 o'clock._--I'm sure we shan't srwive this night, therefore I av
determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it
overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad
tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:--Let awl
yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany and
keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their bissnesses on
dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any _main_, like their
unfortinet
Servant,
THE BOY JONES.
* * * * *
[Illustration]