Cady of the Indian bar is weary of attempting
to play the " Fair Laud of Poland" upon the
German flute. Old Colonel Straubenzee of
the Budderchowrie Irregulars has tired everybody
out with his droning stories of what his
uncle did at the siege of Seringapatam, and
what Sir David Baird said to him. Lady
Tolloddle and Miss Anne Tolloddle (wife and
daughter of Sir Gypes Tolloddle, Judge of
the Supreme Court), are evidently weary of
perusing their collection of tracts: " the
awakened Sikh," " the Clearstarcher of Boot-
erstown," the Wheelbarrow of Repentance,"
"Grace for Grenadiers," &c. They don't
say they are sick of those edifying works,
but they are, depend upon it. Mrs. Captain
Chutnee is weary of quarrelling with her
Ayah, and dosing her unfortunate baby with
deleterious medicaments. Mrs. Lechowder
(wife of X. P. Lechowder, Esq., Magistrate of
Mullagong), who has been generally weary
ever since she left her English finishing school
to come out to India on the matrimonial
speculation that terminated so prosperously, has
wearied of reading the novels of Miss Jane
Porter, of lying on the sofa with her shoes
off, of languidly assaulting her sallow little
daughter with a hairbrush. Even Captain
Chillumjee seems weary. He is testy with
his men, morose with Bult, the first mate,
whilom his boon companion; he tells no
more jovial stories; the finished and ceremonious
courtesy towards the ladies, by which
he inaugurated the voyage has subsided into
a moody respect; he looks vengefully among
the crew and the passengers, as if seeking a
quarrel; as if he wanted a mutiny to break
out, that he might put somebody in irons; or
a pirate to be signalled on the weatherbow,
that he might clear the decks for action. He
is weary. Private theatricals have been tried.
A weekly magazine of "Literature, Science,
and Art," has been tried. Flirtation has
been tried. Scandal, quarrelling (even to the
extent of challenges to fight), sing-songs,
debating societies, soirées musicales, magic
lantern exhibitions in the cuddy; quadrilles
and polkas on the poop; deep-sea-fishing;
going aloft; electro-magnetism; table-turning;
arguments about the Siege of
Pondicherry, about Dupleix and Lally-
Tollendal, about the case of the Begums and the
execution of Nuncomar, and the exploits of
Holkar; all these have been tried in succession,
and found wanting at last, through
weariness. The gallant teak-built vessel
becomes a phantom ship—a very Flying
Dutchman of boredom. The sea is no longer
open, fresh, or ever free: it is a dreadful
interminable prison-wall, painted blue. The
fresh-baked bread; the fowls and ducks; the
vegetables; the champagne on Wednesdays
and Sundays; the Reverend Mr.
Whackspang's sermons (he belongs to the Blunderpore
mission) all the delicacies, luxuries,
comforts, and appliances of an East Indiaman, teak-
built, copper-bottomed, registered A 1 at
Lloyd's, and under engagement to the honourable
company—all these delight the passengers
no longer; for they are a-weary, a-weary,
and wish that they were well out of the
Huccabadar, or dead. The only contented person
on board (excepting, of course, the sailors and
common people of that sort, who are not to
be named in the same breath with gentility)
seems to be Rammajee Bobbajee, from
Bombay, who is proceeding to England to hear
his appeal to the Privy Council tried, in the
interminable case of himself versus Lumpajee
Chostanjee Lall. He has rolled himself iuto
a white muslin ball; and eats rice; and in
his brown face there is no particular expression
of fatigue discernible; but a general,
stolid, immovable, impassible indifference,
combined with a settled and profound contempt
for the ship, the captain, the passengers, and
the crew.

The last subject of conversation has been
exhausted, when the Huccabadar has left St.
Helena behind; when the spot where the
Emperor's body isn't buried has been visited,
and when the life and adventures of Napoleon
Bonaparte have been recounted and discussed
for the five-thousandth time. All the books
have been read, all the jokes are stale, everybody
has quarrelled with everybody; there
seems to be nothing but shipwreck, fire, or
shortness of provisions that can come to the
rescue; when, even as the albatross appeared
on board the ship in Coleridge's immortal
rhyme, a bird of promise, of strange and
varied plumage appears on board the
Huccabadar, and gladdens the bored-out passengers.
It is the bird of play—the gamecock of the
seas.

And now, away with melancholy, away
with dullness, weariness, ennui—nunc est
ludendum. Surreptitiously at first, for
Captain Chillumjee is reported to have strict
notions of discipline, and to have set his
weather-embroidered face against gambling
entirely. In Mr. Pawkey's snug cabin, in
quiet corners of the cuddy and cosy
staterooms, noiseless hands at cards are sate down
to. Colonel Straubenzee happens to mention
that he likes a rubber at whist; Griffin and
Tiffin go into the maintop and toss for half-
crowns privately. Mofuzzle and the purser
go to backgammon furiously. Soon it begins
to be whispered about that all the passengers
are gambling like mad. They don't stop long
at dinner; you don't see much of them in the
cuddy or on deck: the fact is, they are all in
each other's cabins gambling. Mrs. Lechowder
makes up an apparently irreconcileable
quarrel with Mrs. Captain Chutnee, borrows
twenty pounds of her, and is reported to lose
it all before eight bells at vingt-et-un. There
is a wicked, scandalous rumour prevalent
that the exemplary spouse of Sir Gypes
Tolloddle has been lood—heavily lood. They say
that Cady of the Indian bar is a knowing hand
at cribbage, and that he is ruining that
inconsiderate lad Griffin. I hope that there is