But the spirit of discord hovered round the ship, and through the agency of Mr. Dickens, his disciple, turned all comfort once more awry. The master's cabin was a neat little apartment on one side of the vessel, near to the great cabin, fitted up for officers; and here the party messed. This small room, furnished in a warm and comfortable manner, formed a pleasing contrast to the wide cold cabin of the officers, stripped of every thing (which is technically called by the transport board, “fitting up”) except a huge deal table, a few oak chairs, and births on each side, made of half-planed deal. Lieutenant Dickens, who was very fond of playing a handsome flageolet, to the great annoyance of all on board who had “music in their souls,” when the ship was on the starboard tack and heeling much on one side, would fix himself all day in the seat which was next the vessel's planks; for the deck was too raw—too cold—too sailorish for his nerves to bear. In this seat he would tongue over and over such tunes as “_Malbrooke_,” and “_Away with Melancholy_,” as if he were teaching a bulfinch to pipe—bar after bar, until the man at the helm above him was ear-cracked by the monotonous sounds. One day, it so happened, that Mr. Dickens did not remain in this lee-seat after breakfast, but sat on deck wrapped up in his horse cloak, feeling himself too bilious to remain below. However, he was not so bilious as to remain on deck when dinner was announced: down he went, ready to eat any thing, or any body, that came in his way. Mr. Smith was sitting in the leeward seat, occupied in writing, that being the most steady for the purpose, and in this seat he had sat for the whole of the day. Being intent upon the paper, he did not observe the Dragoon enter the cabin, or perhaps he would have given up the seat, merely because it was the custom of the other to sit in it at dinner; but as he did not observe the gentleman, he continued to write. At this moment, the cook entered with a tureen of soup, smoking hot, and an unlucky sea having struck the vessel as he was placing it for dinner, away he and the soup went sliding under the table. A quantity of the savoury fluid bedaubed the face and breast of the Dragoon—its warmth tickled him rather unpleasantly, and acting on a bilious cockaignee temperament, produced a petulant attack upon Mr. Smith. He insolently “desired” that gentleman to quit _his_ seat. This was received as it should have been: Mr. S. remarked that the table at which they sat was that of the master, and one seat was just the same as another; but that as Mr. D. had demanded it so impertinently, he was determined not to give it up. The Dragoon retorted with great asperity, and, frothing with passion, called Mr. S. an insolent “fellow.” Mr. S. (who was only a lad of nineteen) lost his temper, and retorted with warmth, still keeping the seat. The dragoon instantly lodged a blow upon Mr. S.'s face, which, from the situation of the parties, could