the island.

“oh had i some sweet little isle of my own!”—moore.

if the author of the irish melodies had ever had a little isle so much his own as i have possessed, he might not have found it so sweet as the song anticipates. it has been my fortune, like robinson crusoe, and alexander selkirk, to be thrown on such a desolate spot, and i felt so lonely, though i had a follower, that i wish moore had been there. i had the honour of being in that tremendous action off finisterre, which proved an end of the earth to many a brave fellow. i was ordered with a boarding party to forcibly enter the santissima trinidada, but in the

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act of climbing into the quarter-gallery, which, however, gave no quarter, was rebutted by the butt-end of a marine’s gun, who remained the quarter-master of the place. i fell senseless into the sea, and should no doubt have perished in the waters of oblivion, but for the kindness of john monday, who picked me up to go adrift with him in one of the ship’s boats. all our oars were carried away, that is to say we did not carry away any oars, and while shot was raining, our feeble hailing was unheeded. in short, as shakspeare says, we were drifting off by “the current of a heady fight.” as may be supposed, our boat was anything but the jolly-boat, for we had no provisions to spare in the middle of an immense waste. we were, in fact, adrift in the cutter with nothing to cut. we had not even junk for junketing, and nothing but salt-water, even if the wind should blow fresh. famine indeed seemed to stare each of us

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in the ace; that is we stared at one another; but if men turn cannibals, a great allowance must be made for a short ditto. we were truly in a very disagreeable pickle, with oceans of brine and no beef, and, like shylock, i fancy we would have exchanged a pound of gold for a pound of flesh. the more we drifted nor, the more sharply we inclined to gnaw,—but when we drifted sow, we found nothing like pork. no bread rose in the east, and in the opposite point we were equally disappointed. we could not compass a meal anyhow, but got mealy-mouth’d notwithstanding. we could see the sea mews to the eastward, flying over what byron calls the gardens of gull. we saw plenty of grampus, but they were useless to all intents and porpusses, and we had no bait for catching a bottle-nose.