The youthful orator sat down amidst what the press would very properly designate as "tumultuous applause." He had evidently made a favorable impression as well in behalf of himself as of his paper, and we were all the more eager than ever for the reading. After the rattling of the tin cups had subsided, the reading began, and it was not interrupted except by those marks of approbation in which men are always apt to indulge when possessed of a satisfactory dinner, and are listening afterward to good stories. The only regret expressed was that it should come so quickly to an end. The expressions of approval were universal, a vote of thanks was bestowed upon the editors, the orator was toasted, and the occasion wound up in a very lively manner. Having but one copy of the paper, this was handed over to the sailors as soon as Knorr had finished reading it in the cabin, and the marks of approbation were equally reassuring from that quarter. It contains sixteen pages of closely written matter, a somewhat ambitious picture of our winter harbor, a portrait of Sir John Franklin, and a spirited likeness of the General, with his wounded paw in a sling. There is a fair sprinkling of "enigmas," "original jokes," "items of domestic and foreign intelligence," "personals," "advertisements," &c., &c., among a larger allowance of more pretentious effusions. Among these latter there is an illustrated prospectus by the senior editor, a poem by the steward, and a song which is addressed to the General. This last the men are now singing, and they seem to take special delight in the chorus, which runs thus:-- "Hang up the harness and the whip, Put up the sledge on the ship; There's no more work for poor Gen-e-ral, For he's going for his wind for to slip." I am sorry to say that the prophecy therein contained is likely to prove true, for the General is very sick. Poor fellow! he hears every word of this unpitying merriment over his misfortunes, and, could he speak, I have no doubt that he would sigh with Gray's cat,-- "Alas!-- A favorite has no friends!" However, there is a verse coming, to which he is listening attentively, and the very tears mount to his eyes with this unexpected mark of sympathy. For his sake I give it a place here:-- "Sad times there will be when the General slips his wind, And is gathered to his fathers down below; And is gone far away with his broken leg and all, And is buried underneath the cold snow." November 12th.