uires, and merchants,
called "_John Bull_," but I never before knew that the name originated
from this piece of wit of Dean Swift's. Now I learnt, for the first
time, that the English king, court and nation, taken collectively,
were characterized under the name of _John Bull_; and that of France
under the name of _Louis Baboon_; and that of the Dutch of _Nick
Frog_; and that of Spain under _Lord Strut_; that the church of
England was called _John's mother_; the parliament his WIFE; and
Scotland his poor, ill-treated, raw-boned, mangy _Sister Peg_. While I
was shaking my sides at the comical characteristical painting of the
witty Dean of St. Patrick, the Frenchmen would come around me to know
what the book contained, which so much tickled my fancy; they thought
it was an obscene book, and wished some one to translate it to them:
but all they could get out of me was the words "_John Bull_ and _Louis
Baboon_!"

It is now the 30th of November, a month celebrated to a proverb in
England, for its gloominess. We have had a troubled sky and foggy for
several weeks past. The pleasant prospect of the surrounding shores
has been obscured a great portion of this month. The countenances of
our companions partake of our dismal atmosphere. It has even sobered
our Frenchmen; they do not sing and caper as usual; nor do they swing
their arms about, and talk with strong emphasis of every trifle. The
thoughts of home obtrude upon us; and we feel as the poor Jews felt on
the banks of the Euphrates, when their task-masters and prison-keepers
insisted upon their singing a song. We all hung up our fiddles, as the
Jews did their harps, and sat about, here and there, like barn-door
fowls, when molting.

Our captivity on the banks of the river _Medway_, bordered with
willows, brought to my mind the plaintive song of the children of
Israel, in captivity on the banks of the river _Euphrates_, which
psalm, among others, I used to sing with my mother and sisters, on
Sunday evenings, when an innocent boy, and long before the wild notion
of rambling, from a comfortable and plentiful home, came into my head.
It is the 137th Psalm, Tate and Brady's version.

When we our weary limbs to rest
Sat down by proud Euphrates' stream,
We wept, with doleful thoughts opprest,
And _Salem_ was our mournful theme.

Our harps, that, when with joy we sung,
Were wont their tuneful parts to bear,
With silent strings, neglected hung