cert of snoring that it is possible to imagine.

No alternative was left for my unfortunate self but to lie awake
listening, and studying the character of the snore in each of the four
sleeping individuals. The snore of Mr. Migott I found to be superior to
the rest in point of amiability, softness, and regularity--it was a kind
of oily, long-sustained purr, amusing and not unmusical for the first
five minutes. Next in point of merit to Mr. Migott, came Bob Dobbs. His
note was several octaves lower than my friend's, and his tone was a
grunt--but I will do him justice; I will not scruple to admit that the
sounds he produced were regular as clockwork. Very inferior was the
performance of Sam Dobbs, who, as owner of the boat, ought, I think, to
have set a good example. If an idle carpenter planed a board very
quickly at one time, and very slowly at another, and if he groaned at
intervals over his work, he would produce the best imitation of Sam
Dobbs's style of snoring that I can think of. Last, and worst of all,
came Dick Dobbs, who was afflicted with a cold, and whose snore
consisted of a succession of loud chokes, gasps, and puffs, all
contending together, as it appeared to me, which should suffocate him
soonest. There I lay, wide awake, suffering under the awful nose-chorus
which I have attempted to describe, for nearly an hour. It was a dark
night: there was no wind, and very little air. Horrible doubts about the
sufficiency of our ventilation began to beset me. Reminiscences of early
reading on the subject of the Black Hole at Calcutta came back vividly
to my memory. I thought of the twelve feet by eight, in which we were
all huddled together--terror and indignation overpowered me--and I
roared for a light, before the cabin of the Tomtit became too mephitic
for flame of any kind to exist in it. Uprose they then my Merry Merry
Men, bewildered and grumbling, to grope for the match-box. It was found,
the lantern was lit, the face of Mr. Migott appeared serenely over the
side of his hammock, and the voice of Mr. Migott sweetly and sleepily
inquired what was the matter?

"Matter! The Black Hole at Calcutta is the matter. Poisonous, gaseous
exhalation is the matter! Outrageous, ungentlemanly snoring is the
matter! give me my bedding, and my drop of brandy, and my pipe, and let
me go on deck. Let me be a Chaldean shepherd, and contemplate the stars.
Let me be the careful watch who patrols the deck, and guards the ship
from