8th. Found, on getting up, that the kitchen garden had been stripped by thieves, but had the luck at night to catch some one in the garden, by walking into my own trap. Afraid to call out, for fear of being shot at by the gardener, who would have hit me to a dead certainty--for such is my luck! 10th. Agricultural distress is a treat to mine. My old friend Bill--I must henceforth call him Corn-bill--has, this morning, laid his unfeeling wooden leg on my tenderest toe, like a thresher. In spite of Dibdin, I don’t believe that oak has any heart; or it would not be such a walking tread-mill! [Illustration: A CORNISH MAN.] 12th. Two pieces of “my usual.” First knocked down by a mad bull. Secondly, picked up by a pick-pocket. Anybody but me would have found one honest humane man out of a whole crowd; but I am born to suffer, whether done by accident or done by design. Luckily for me and the pick-pocket, I was able to identify him, bound over to prosecute, and had the satisfaction of exporting him to Botany Bay. I suppose I performed well in a court of justice, for the next day--“_Encore un coup_!”--I had a summons to serve with a Middlesex jury, at the Old Bailey, for a fortnight. 14th. My number in the lottery has come up a capital prize. Luck at last--if I had not lost the ticket. A TRUE STORY. Whoe’er has seen upon the human face The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black, May form a notion of old Colonel Case With nigger Pompey waiting at his back. Case,--as the case is, many time with folks From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay, Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say, And show’d two cheeks as yellow as eggs’ yolks. Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block, In hue was like his master’s stiff cravat, And might indeed have claimed akin to _that_, Coming, as _he_ did, of an old _black stock_. Case wore the liver’s livery that such Must wear, their past excesses to denote, Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much, And then do penance in a yellow coat. Pompey’s, a deep and permanent jet dye, A stain of nature’s staining--one of those, We call _fast_ colours--merely, I suppose, Because such colours never _go_ or _fly_. Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey’s black husk, and the old Colonel’s yellow. The Colonel, once a penniless beginner, From a long Indian rubber rose a winner, With plenty of pagodas in his pocket, And homeward turning his Hibernian thought, Deem’d _Wicklow_ was the very place that ought To harbour one whose _wick_ was in the socket. [Illustration: CAPTAIN ROCK.]