and that if this is once received into the lungs and
breathed out again, it cannot be breathed a second time, till it is
mixed with the common atmospheric air. When I considered that our
number amounted to an hundred, I could not drive from my mind this
calculation, and the result of it nearly deprived me of my reason. The
horrors of the _Black Hole of Calcutta_ have been long celebrated,
because _Englishmen_ suffered and perished in it. Now the English have
more than a _thousand_ black holes into which they unfeelingly thrust
their impressed men, and their prisoners of war. Their tenders that
lay in the Thames, off Tower-wharf, are so many _black holes_ into
which they thrust their own people, whom their press gangs seize in
the streets of London, and crowd into them like so many live rabbits
or chickens carrying in a cart to market. My reflections on these
things have greatly changed my opinion of the English character in
point of humanity.

After passing a wretched night, one of the petty officers came down to
us, by which event we learnt that it was morning. I found myself much
indisposed; my tongue was dry and coated with a furr; my head ached
violently, and I felt no inclination to take any thing but cold water.
A degree of calmness, however, prevailed among my fellow prisoners.
They found lamentations unavailing, and complaints useless. Few of
them, beside myself, had lost their appetites, and several expressed a
wish for some breakfast. Preparations were soon made for this
delicious repast. The first step was to divide us into messes, six in
a mess. To each mess was given a wooden _kid_, or _piggin_, as our
farmers call them, because it is out of such wooden vessels that they
feed their pigs that are fatting for the market. At 8 o'clock one was
called from each mess, by the whistle of the boatswain's mate, to
attend at the galley, the nautical name for the kitchen and fire
place, to receive the breakfast for the rest. But what was our
disappointment to find instead of coffee, which we were allowed by our
own government at Melville prison, a piggin of _swill_, for we
farmers' sons can give no other name to the disgusting mess they
brought us. This breakfast was a pint of liquid which they call
_Burgoo_, which is a kind of oatmeal gruel, about the consistence of
the swill which our farmers give their hogs, and not a whit better in
its quality. It is made of oatmeal, which we Americans very generally
detest. Our p