XXIV. 



ONE of the best Ions mots that I ever remember to 

 have read was entitled, ' Punch's Address to the 

 Ocean ' 



1 With all thy faults I love thee still.' 



Any landsman who finds himself occupying a seat in 

 a fishing-smack or oyster-boat while a stifSsh breeze 

 is blowing will, I am sure, with great mental fervour 

 echo the above sentiment. 



For myself, I can never take even a short trip 

 on the water without experiencing some unpleasant- 

 ness proving to me that the sea is not ' my ele- 

 ment/ Still, I am one of those to whom the ' salt 

 ocean' is endeared by early recollections, having 

 been, when a child, frequently among the aged and 

 mutilated veterans of our country who vegetate on 

 the banks of the ' silver Thames/ 



From the tobacco-stained mouths of some of these 

 old blue-jackets (all of whom, I may mention, accord- 

 ing to their own account, had fought c alongside of 

 the galyant Nelson'), many strange stories have been 



