8 LETTERS FROM ALABAMA. 
a cabin-boy is continually diving, by night and 
day, to find nobody knows what, to the infinite 
molestation of the sleepless passenger above. 
The same smutty Ganymede ever and anon dis- 
appears beneath the cabin-table, presently emerg- 
ing with a tub of potatoes, a tallow-candle, or 
something of more dubious character. Stimulated 
by curiosity, I peeped under the table one day, and 
saw a ring fixed in the floor, which I pulled, and 
up came a piece of the plank, uncovering the 
“ lazarette,” a dark and musty pit, into which 
one glance was sufficient for that and all future 
occasions. 
Pleasant society will make amends for many in- 
conveniences, but in my case the skipper was a 
churlish, vulgar, illiterate fellow, and his crew of 
the very same stamp as himself. The fact of my. 
being a Britisher” was quite enough to warrant 
an incessant display of petty annoyance, which 
just kept short of actual insult. The conversation 
was of the lowest sort ; and it was not the smallest 
infliction, that every night I was compelled to 
hear, as I lay in my wretched berth, the inter- 
change of obscene narratives between the skipper 
and his mate, before I could close my eyes in 
sleep. Dirt, dirt, was the rule everywhere ; dirt in 
the cabin, dirt in the caboose, dirt in the water- 
cask ; dirt doubly begrimed on the table-cloth, on 
the cups and glasses, the dishes and plates that 
served the food ; while the boy who filled the double 
office of cook and waiter, was the very imperso- 
nation of dirt. The only resource was to eat with 
as little thought as possible, to see as little as 
possible, and to be upon deck as much of the time 
as possible ; and this last habit was facilitated by 
