The wisest thing would have been for the officers to have said nothing about the matter, and let it blow by. But angry people are seldom judicious—so they made a formal complaint to the captain, who, to do him justice, was not a little puzzled how to settle the affair. The reputed author, however, was called up, and the captain said to him— “Pray, sir, are you the writer of these lines?” “I am, sir,” he replied, after a little consideration. “Then—all I can say is,” remarked the captain, “they are clever enough, in their way—but take my advice, and write no more such verses.” So the affair ended. The satirist took the captain’s hint in good part, and confined his pen to topics below the surface of the water. As in the course of a few months the war broke out, there was no longer time for such nonsense, and our generous protector, old Daddy, some time after this affair of Shakings took place, was sent off to Halifax, in charge of a prize. His orders were, if possible, to rejoin his own ship, the Leander, then lying at the entrance of New York harbour, just within Sandy Hook light-house. Our good old friend, accordingly, having completed his mission, and delivered his prize to the authorities at Halifax, took his passage in the British packet sailing from thence to the port in which we lay. As this ship sailed past us, on her way to the city of New York, we ascertained, to our great joy, that our excellent Daddy was actually on board of her. Some hours afterwards, the pilot-boat was seen coming to us, and, though it was in the middle of the night, all the younger mids came hastily on deck to welcome their worthy messmate back again to his ship.