As I entered the airy and commodious apartment of the commander-in chief, I beheld a sight to make the muses stare like the behemoth of the Scriptures, and cause genius to take another nip of old rye. There was the cantankerous captain, my boy, seated on a keg of gunpowder, with his head laid sideways on a table; one hand grasping a bottle half full of the Oath, and the other writing something on a piece of paper laid at right angles with his nose.
"Hallo, my interesting infant," says I, "are you drawing a map of Pensacola for an enlightened press?"
"Ha!" says Villiam, starting up, and eyeing me closely through the bottom of a bottle, "you behold me in the agonies of composition. Read this poickry," says he, "and if it aint double X with the foam off, where's your Milton?"
I took the paper, my boy, which resembled a specimen-card of dead flies, and read this poem:
"The God of Bottles be our aid,
When rebels crack us;
We'll bend the bottle-neck to him,
And he will Bacchus.
"By Capt. Villiam Brown, Eskevire."
I told Villiam that everything but the words of his poem reminded me of Longfellow, and says he: