fellowship over a glass of grog, and are staunch supporters of _cannon_ law. We found several of these well filled volumes--_damme-quart-hos_--already ranged in the room before our arrival, and, like our old friend Colburn, they were mighty busy in _puffing_ off their works, as if trying to hide the authors under a cloud of smoke. “Ay, ay,” exclaimed a crojack-eyed old blade, “them there pursers’ accounts of prize-money showed but a poor figure in the foremast-man’s log, whatever they did in the skipper’s journal. They used to sift it through a hatchway grating,--all that went down was for the officers, and all that stayed above came to the tarry jackets.” “You’re right there, Jem,” said a veteran boatswain’s-mate, whose voice was not unlike a gale of wind sighing to a kitchen fire through the hollow of a chimney-pot, “perfectly right; and then they make out the prize-list much in the same way as the nigger accounted for his pig. D’ye see, his master gave him three dollars to go to market and buy a pig; but the black rascal came back drunk, without his money and without his cargo. ‘Holla!’ said his master, ‘how came you drunk, sir? and where’s the pig?’ ‘Ah, massa,’ says the nigger, ‘me nebber drunk, but giddy wid long chase.’ ‘Where’s the dollars I gave you?’ asked the master. ‘Me gie ’em to buy pig,’ said the black. ‘What, three dollars?’ cried the master. ‘Tan littly bit, massa, me telle you. First me gib dollar for pig’ ‘Well, that’s only one dollar,’ said the master. ‘Tan littly bit,’ puzzled the nigger; ‘den me hab pig for dollar,--dat two dollar, massa; den de pig run away, and gib dollar for catch a pig--dat tree dollar, massa. Den him dam pig run in a bush like a debbil, and nebber see him no more noder time.’ So it was with the prize-money; there was dollar for Jack, and Jack for dollar; and if Jack ran away, he lost all, and was made to look _dolor_-ous into the bargain, if ever they cocht him again. My best sarvice to your honour, and hope no offence.” He lifted his pewter to his lips, and took a most persevering draught to qualify the toast. “Jack Maberly,” said my worthy conductor, addressing the last speaker, “the gentleman wants to hear a little about the recapture of the Harmoine, and Bill Jennings is just agoing to tell his honour the long and the short of it, if you’ll be good enough to keep silence fore-and-aft.” “I wull, I wull, messmate,” replied the old boatswain’s-mate. Bill Jennings, the very _beau ideal_ of a main-topman in long togs, applied his muzzle to the grog, as he said, “to clear his throat of scupper-nails;” and having swallowed almost enough to float a jolly-boat, after sundry hems and divers sluings to make sure of his stowage, gave the following account of The Recapture of the Hermione.