THE BOY JONES’S LOG.
PICKED UP AT SEA.
The following interesting narrative of the sufferings of the youth Jones, whose indefatigable pursuit of knowledge, under the most discouraging circumstances, has been the cause of his banishment to a distant shore, was lately picked up at sea, in a sealed bottle, by a homeward-bound East Indiaman, and since placed in our hands by the captain of the vessel; who complimented us by saying, he felt such confidence in PUNCH’S honour and honesty! (these were his very words), that he unhesitatingly confided to him the precious document, in order that it might be given to the world without alteration or curtailment.
We hasten to realise the captain’s flattering estimate of our character.
At see, on board the ship Apollo.
June 30.—So soon as the fust aggytation of my mind is woar off, I take up my pen to put my scentiments on peaper, in hops that my friends as nose the misfortin wich as oc-curd to me, may think off me wen I’m far a whey. Halass! sir, the wicktim of that crewel blewbeard, Lord Melbun, who got affeard of my rising poplarity in the Palass, and as sent me to see for my peeping, though, heaven nose, I was acktyated by the pewrest motiffs in what I did. The reel fax of the case is, I’m a young man of an ighly cultiwated mind and a very ink-wisitive disposition, wich naturally led me to the use of the pen. I ad also bean in the abit of reading “Jak Sheppard,” and I may add, that I O all my eleygant tastes to the perowsal of that faxinating book. O! wot a noble mind the author of these wollums must have!—what a frootful inwention and fine feelings he displays!—what a delicat weal he throws over the piccadillys of his ero, making petty larceny lovely, and burglarly butiful.
However, I don’t mean now to enter into a reglar crickitism of this egxtrornary work, but merely to observe, when I read it fust I felt a thust for literrerry fame spring up in my buzzem; and I thort I should to be an orthor. Unfortinnet delusion!—that thort has proved my rooin. It was the bean of my life, and the destroyer of my pease. From that moment I could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message. Sleap deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night awake amongst my flocks. I had got hold of a single idear—it was the axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i’s about for a subject—they fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field for genus to sore into;—ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;—ear was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for a great nash-ional picture! I had got a splendid title, too—not for myself—I’ve a sole above such trumperry—but for my book. Boox is like humane beings—a good title goes a grate way with the crowd:—the one I ad chose for my shed-oove, was “Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,” with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill. Mr. Bentley wantid to be engaged as monthly nuss for my expected projeny; and a nother gen’leman, whose “name” shall be “never heard,” offered to go shears with me, if I’d consent to cut-uup the Cort ladies. “No,” ses I, indignantly, “I leave Cort scandle to my betters—I go on independent principals into the Palass, and that’s more than Lord Melbun, or Sir Robert Peal, or any one of the insiders or outsiders ever could or ever can say of theirselves.
That’s what I said then,—but now I think, what a cussed fool I was. All my eye-flown bubbles were fated to be busted and melted, like the wigs, “into thin hair.”
Nong port! We gets wiser as we gets
Genteel Reader,—I beg your parding. I’m better now. Bless me, how the ship waggles! It’s reelly hawful; the sailors only laff at it, but I suppose as they’re all tars they don’t mind being pitched a little.
The capting tells me we are now reglarly at see, having just passt the North 4 land; so, ackording to custom, I begin my journal, or, as naughtical men call it—to keep my log.
12 o’clock.—Wind.—All in my eye. Mate said we had our larburd tax aboard—never herd of that tax on shore. Told me I should learn to box the compass—tried, but couldn’t do it—so boxt the cabbing boy insted. Capting several times calld to a man who was steering—“Port, port;” but though he always anserd, “Eye, eye, sir,” he didn’t bring him a drop. The black cook fell into the hold on the topp of his hed. Everybody sed he was gone to Davy Jones’s locker; but he warn’t, for he soon came to again, drank 1/2 a pint of rumm, and declared it was—
THE REAL BLACK REVIVER.
Saw a yung salor sitting on the top of one of the masts—thort of Dibdings faymos see-song, and asked if he warn’t
“The sweet little cherub that sits up aloft?”
Man laff’d, and said it wor only Bill Junk clearing the pennant halliards.
1 o’clock.—Thort formerly that every sailer wore his pigtale at the back of his head, like Mr. Tippy Cook—find I labored under a groce mistake—they all carry their pigtale in their backy-boxes. When I beheld the sailors working and heaving, and found that I was also beginning to heave-too, I cuddn’t help repeting the varse of the old song—which fitted my case egsactly:—
“There’s the capt’n he is our kimmander,
There’s the bos’n and all the ship’s crew,
There’s the married men as well as the single,
Ken-ows what we poor sailors goes through.”
However, I made up my mind not to look inward on my own wose any longer, so I put my head out of a hole in the side of the ship—and, my wiskers! how she did whizz along. Saw the white cliffs of Halbion a long way off, wich brought tiers in my i, thinking of those I had left behind, particular Sally Martin the young gal I was paying my attentions to, who gave me a lock of her air when I was a leaving of the key. Oh! Lord Melbun, Lord Melbun! how can you rest in youre 4-post bed at nite, nowing you have broke the tize of affexion and divided 2 fond arts for hever! This mellancholly reflexion threw me into a poeticle fitte, and though I was werry uneasy in my stommik, and had nothing to rite on but my chest. I threw off as follows in a few 2nds, and arterards sung it to the well-none hair of “Willy Reilly:”—
Oakum to me33. The nautical mode of writing—“Oh! come to me.”—PRINTER’S DEVIL., ye sailors bold,
Wot plows upon the sea;
To you I mean for to unfold
My mournful histo-ree.
So pay attention to my song,
And quick-el-ly shall appear,
How innocently, all along,
I vos in-weigle-ed here.
One night, returnin home to bed,
I walk’d through Pim-li-co,
And, twigging of the Palass, sed,
“I’m Jones and In-i-go.”
But afore I could get out, my boys
Pollise-man 20 A,
He caught me by the corderoys,
And lugged me right a-way.
My cuss upon Lord Melbun, and
On Jonny Russ-all-so,
That forc’d me from my native land
Across the vaves to go-o-oh.
But all their spiteful arts is wain,
My spirit down to keep;
I hopes I’ll soon git back again,
To take another peep.
2 o’clock.—Bell rung for all hands to come down to dinner. Thought I never saw dirtier hands in my life. They call their dinner “a mess” on broad ship, and a preshious mess it did look—no bread but hard biskit and plenty of ship’s rolls, besides biled pork and P-soop—both these articles seemed rayther queer—felt my stommick growing quear too—got on deck, and asked where we were—was told we were in the Straits of Dover. I never was in such dreadful straits in my life—ship leaning very much on one side, which made me feel like a man
GOING OFF IN A RAPID DECLINE.
3 o’clock.—Weather getting rather worse than better. Mind very uneasy. Capting says we shall have plenty of squalls to-night; and I heard him just now tell the mate to look to the main shrouds, so I spose it’s all dickey with us, and that this log will be my sad epilog. The idear of being made fish meat was so orrible to my sensitive mind, that I couldn’t refrain from weaping, which made the capting send me down stairs, to vent my sorros in the cable tiers.
5 o’clock.—I’m sure we shan’t srwive this night, therefore I av determined to put my heavy log into an M T rum-bottle, and throw it overbord, in bops it may be pickd up by some pirson who will bare my sad tail to my dear Sally. And now I conclewd with this short advice:—Let awl yung men take warning by my crewel fate. Let them avide bad kumpany and keep out of the Palass; and above all, let them mind their bissnesses on dri land, and never cast their fortunes on any main, like their unfortinet
Servant, THE BOY JONES.
