Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 16

by Unknown

A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY.

CHAP I.—A WAY OF MAKING MONEY.

All the world knows that Mandeville, the author of the "Fable of the Bees," and Shaftesbury, the author of the "Characteristics," divided a great portion of mankind on a question which is now no question at all. That there are, assuredly, some instances to be met with of rational bipeds, who exhibit scarcely any traces of a moral sense, and act altogether upon the principle of selfishness, we do not deny; but this admission does not bind us to the selfish theory, for the very good reason, that we hold these creatures to be nothing better than a species of monsters. Nor do we think the world, with the tendency to self-love that prevails in it, would have been the better for the want of these living, walking exemplars of their patron—the devil; for, of a surety, they show us the fallen creature in all his naked deformity, and make us hate the principle of evil through the ugly flesh-case in which it works, and the noisome overt acts it turns up in the repugnant nostrils of good men. Now, if you are an inhabitant of that scandalous freestone village that lies near Arthur Seat, and took its name from the Northumbrian king, Edwin—corrupted, by the conceit of the inhabitants, into Edin—you will say that we mean something personal in these remarks; and, very probably, when we mention the name of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who, about twenty years after Mr John Neal introduced to the admiring eyes of the inhabitants of the Scottish metropolis the term haberdasher, carried on that trade in one of the principal streets of the city, our intention will be held manifest. And what then? We will only share the fate, without exhibiting the talent, of Horace, and shall care nothing if we return his good-humour—a quality of far greater importance to mankind than even that knowledge "which is versant with the stars."

Now, this Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who took up, as we have already signified, the trade designated by the strange appellative introduced by the said John Neal, was one of those dabblers in morals who endeavour to make the whole system of morality accord with their own wishes. As to the moral sense, so strongly insisted for by the noble author of the "Characteristics," he considered it as a taste something like that for vertù, which a man might have or not have, just as it pleased Dame Nature or Mr Syntax Pedagogue, but which he could pretend to have as often and in as great profusion as it pleased himself. It was, he acknowledged, a very good thing to have, sometimes, about one, but there were many things in the world far better—such as money, a good house, good victuals, good clothing, and so forth. It was again, sometimes, a thing a man might be much better without. It formed a stumbling-block to prosperity; and when, at the long run, a man had made to it many sacrifices, and become a beggar, "rich in the virtue of good offices," he did not find that it got him a softer bed in an almshouse, or a whiter piece of bread at the door of the rich. These sentiments were probably strengthened by the view he took of the world, and especially of our great country, where there is a mighty crying, and a mighty printing, about virtue, magnanimity, and honesty, in the abstract, while there is, probably, less real active honesty than might be found among the Karomantyns—yea, or the Hottentots or Cherokees. Then, too, it could not be denied that "riches cover a multitude of sins;" why, then, should not Mr Thriven strive to get rich?

Upon such a theory did Mr Samuel Thriven propose to act. It had clearly an advantage over theories in general, insomuch as it was every day reduced to practice by a great proportion of mankind, and so proved to be a good workable speculation. That he intended to follow out the practical part of his scheme with the same wisdom he had exhibited in choosing his theory of morals, may be safely doubted. Caution, which is of great use to all men in a densely-populated country, is an indispensable element in the composition of one who would be rich at the expense of others. A good-natured man will often allow himself to be cheated out of a sum which is not greater than the price of his ease; and there are a great number of such good-natured men in all communities. It is upon these that clever men operate—without them a great portion of the cleverest would starve. They are the lambs with sweet flesh and soft wool, making the plains a paradise for the wolves. A system of successful operations carried on against these quiet subjects, for a number of years, might have enabled Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven to have retired, with his feelings of enjoyment blunted, and his conscience quickened, to some romantic spot, where he might have turned poetical. An idle man is always, to some extent, a poet; and a rogue makes often a good sentimentalist.

This ought clearly to have been the course which worldly caution should have suggested as the legitimate working out of the theory of selfishness. But Mr Thriven was not gifted with the virtue of patience to the same extent that he was with the spirit of theorising on the great process of getting rich. He wanted to seize Plutus by a coup de main, and hug the god until he got out of him a liberal allowance. The plan has been attended with success; but it is always a dangerous one. The great deity of wealth has been painted lame, blind, and foolish, because he gives, without distinction, to the undeserving as well as to the worthy—to the bad often more than to the good. It is seldom his godship will be coaxed into a gift; and if he is attempted to be forced, he can use his lame leg, and send the rough worshipper to the devil. Neither can we say that Mr Thriven's scheme was new or ingenious, being no other than to "break with the full hand"—a project of great antiquity in Scotland, and struck at for the first time by the act 1621, cap. 18. It existed, indeed, in ancient Rome, and was comprehended under the general term of stellionate, from stelio, a little subtle serpent, common in Italy. Always in great vogue in our country, it at one time roused the choler of our judges to such an extent, that they condemned the culprits either to wear the yellow cap and stockings of different colours, or be for ever at the mercy of their creditors. But these times had gone by, and a man might make a very respectable thing of a break, if he could manage it adroitly enough to make it appear that he had himself been the victim of misplaced confidence. So Mr Samuel having given large orders to the English houses for goods, at a pretty long credit, got himself in debt to an amount proportioned to the sum he wished to make by his failure. There is no place in the world where a man may get more easily in debt than in Scotland. We go for a decent, composed, shrewd, honest people; and, though we are very adequately and sufficiently hated by the volatile English, whom we so often beat on their own ground, and at their own weapons, we enjoy a greater share of their confidence in mercantile matters than their own countrymen. Vouchsafe to John the privilege of abusing Sawney, and calling him all manner of hard names, and he will allow his English neck to be placed in the Scottish noose with a civility and decorum that is just as commendable as his abuse of our countryman is ungenerous and unmanly. Mr Thriven's warehouses were accordingly soon filled with goods from both England and Scotland; and it is no inconsiderable indication of a man's respectability that he is able to get pretty largely in debt. When a man is to enter upon the speculation of failing, the step we have now mentioned is the first and most important preliminary. Debt is the Ossa from which the successful speculator rolls into the rich vale of Tempe. There are some rugged rocks in the side of his descent to independence—such as the examinations under the statutes—that are next to be guarded against, and the getting over these is a more difficult achievement than the getting himself regularly constituted a debtor. The running away of a trusty servant with a hundred pounds, especially if he has forged the cheque, may be the making of a good speculator in bankruptcy, because the loss of a thousand or two may be safely laid to the charge of one who dare not appear to defend himself. The failure and flight of a relation, to whom one gives a hundred pounds to leave him in his books a creditor in a thousand, is also a very good mode of overcoming some of the difficulties of failing; and a clever man, with a sharp foresight, ought to be working assiduously for a length of time in collecting the names of removing families, every one of whom will make a good "bad debtor." These things were not unknown to Mr Thriven; but accident did what the devil was essaying to do for him, or rather, speaking in a more orthodox manner, the great enemy, taking the form of the mighty power yclept Chance, set the neighbouring uninsured premises, belonging to Miss Fortune, the milliner, in a blaze; and a large back warehouse, in which there was scarcely anything save Mr Thriven's ledgers, was burned so effectually, that no person could have told whether they were full of Manchester goods or merely atmospheric air of the ordinary weight—that is, thirty-one grains to a hundred cubic inches.

When a respectable man wishes ardently for a calamity, he arrays his face in comely melancholy, because he has too much respect for public decorum to outrage the decencies of life. Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven accordingly looked the loss he had sustained with a propriety that might have done honour to a widower between whom and a bad wife the cold grave has been shut for the space of a day, and then set about writing circulars to his creditors, stating that, owing to his having sustained a loss through the burning of a warehouse where he had deposited three thousand pounds' worth of goods, he was under the necessity of stopping payment. No attorney ever made more of letter-writing than Mr Samuel did on that day: in place of three shillings and fourpence for two pages, every word he penned was equal to a pound.

CHAP. II.—THE INSCRIPTION.

"Well," said Mr Samuel Thriven, after he had retired to his house, "this has been hard and hot work; but a man has a satisfaction in doing his duty, and that satisfaction may not be diminished by a bottle of port."

Now the port was as good as Ofleys; and Mr Thriven's thirst was nothing the less for the fire of the previous night, which he had done his utmost not to extinguish, and as he was in good spirits, he, like those people in good health who, to make themselves better, begin to take in a load of Morrison's pills, drew another cork, with that increased sound which belongs peculiarly to second bottles, and in a short time was well through with his potation. "How much, now," said he, as he pretended, in a knowing way, to look for a dead fly in the glass, which he held up between him and the candle, shutting, in the operation, the left eye, according to the practice of connoisseurs—"how much may I make of this transanction in the way of business?—Let me see—let me see."

And, as he accordingly tried to see, he took down from the mantelpiece an ink-bottle and a pen, and, having no paper within reach—he laid hold of a small book, well known to serious-minded people, and which was no other, in fact, than the "Pilgrim's Progress." But it was all one to Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, in the middle of his second bottle, what the book was, provided it had a blank leaf at the beginning or end thereof. It might, indeed, have been the "Louping-on-Stone for Heavy-Bottomed Believers," or the "Economy of Human Life," or the "Young Man's Best Companion," or "A New Way to Pay Old Debts;" or any other book or brochure in the wide republic of letters which the wisdom or wit of man has ever produced. It may verily be much doubted if he knew himself what book it was.

"Well, let me see," he said again, as he seized the pen, and held the blank leaf open before him. "The three thousand pounds lost by the fire is a very good item; I can easily make a very good list of very bad debts to the extent of five hundred pounds; I have three thousand of good banknotes in the house; and if I get off with a dividend of five shillings in the pound, which I can pay out of my stock, I may clear by this single transaction, in the way of business, as much as may make me comfortable for the whole period of my natural life."

And having made some monologue of this kind, he began to jot down particulars; laying on the table his pen, occasionally, to take another glass of the port wine, and resuming his operation again, with that peculiar zest which accompanies a playfulness of the fancy on a subject of darling interest. So he finished his arithmetical operation and dream, just about the time when the wine finished him; fell sound asleep; and awoke about two in the morning, with a headache, and no more recollection of having committed his secret to the blank leaf of the "Pilgrim's Progress," than if he had never written a word thereon at all.

CHAP. III.—THE FACING OF CREDITORS.

Of all men in the world, a bankrupt requires to wear a lugubrious look. It is proper, too, that he should keep the house, hold out the flag of distress, and pretend that he is an unfortunate mortal, who has been the prey either of adverse fate or designing rogues. Of all this Mr Thriven was well aware as ever man could be; no man could have acted the dyvour better than he, even though he had been upon the pillory, with the bankrupt's yellow cap on his head. Creditors kept calling upon him—some threatening imprisonment, and some trying to cajole him out of a preference; but Mr Samuel was a match for them all.

"It is all very well to look thus concernedly," said Mr Horner, a large creditor; "but will this pay the two hundred pounds you owe me?"

"Would to heaven that it might!" replied Mr Thriven, drawing his hand over his eyes; "but, alas! it is the peculiar feature of the misfortune of bankruptcy, that a man who has been himself ruined—ay, burned out of his stock by a fire that he had no hand in raising, and thus made a beggar of, probably for ever—receives not a single drop of sympathy in return for all the tears he sheds for his unfortunate creditors. Your case concerns me, sir, most of all; and, were it for nothing in the wide world but to make up your loss, I will strive with all my energies, even to the urging of the blood from the ends of my laborious fingers, and to the latest period of a wretched existence."

And Mr Horner being mollified, he was next attacked by Mr Wrench.

"It is but fair to inform you, sir," said the vulture-faced dealer in ginghams, "that I intend to try the effect of the prison upon you."

"That is because the most wicked of nature's elements-fire—has rendered me a beggar," replied Mr Samuel, rubbing again his eyes. "It is just the way of this world; when fate has rendered a man unfortunate, his fellow-creature, man, falls upon him to complete his wretchedness; even like the creatures of the forest, who fall upon the poor stag that has been wounded by the fall from the crags, man is ever cruellest to him who is already down. Yet you, who threaten to put me in jail, are the creditor of all others whose case concerns me most. The feeling for my own loss is nothing to what I suffer for yours; and I will never be satisfied till, by hard labour, I make up to you what I have been the unwilling and unconscious instrument of depriving you of."

And having got quit of Wrench, who declared himself not satisfied, though his threat, as he departed, was more feebly expressed, he was accosted by Mr Bairnsfather.

"Your face, sir, tortures me," said Mr Samuel, turning away his head, "even as one is tortured by the ghost of the friend he has murdered with a bloody and relentless hand. All my creditors put together do not furnish me matter of grief equal to your individual case. Do not I know that you are the father of ten children, whom probably I have ruined. Yet am I not also ruined, and all by a misfortune whose origin is beyond the ken of mortals?"

"You have spoken a melancholy truth, Mr Thriven," replied the father; "but will that truth feed my children?"

"No, sir; but I will feed them, when once discharged under a sequestration," rejoined Mr Thriven. "Your case above all the others, it shall be my care to assuage. Nor night nor day shall see my energies relaxed, till this wrong shall be made right."

"Our present necessities must be relieved," rejoined "the parent." "Could you not give us a part of our debt, in the meantime."

"And be dishonest in addition to being unfortunate!" ejaculated Mr Samuel. "That, sir, is the worst cut of all. No, no. I may be imprisoned, I may be fed on bread and water, I may be denied the benefit of the act of grace, but I shall never be forced to give an undue preference to one creditor over another. You forget, Mr Bairnsfather, that a bankrupt may have a conscience."

After much more of such converse, Mr Bairnsfather retired. And the next who came for the relief which she was not destined to receive, was Widow Mercer.

"This is a dreadful business, Mr Thriven," said she, as she ran forward in the confusion of unfeigned anguish.

"Dreadful, indeed, my good lady," answered he; "and who can feel it more than myself—that is, after you."

"You are a man, and I am a woman," rejoined the disconsolate creditor; "a woman who has struggled, since the death of her good husband, to support herself and a headless family, who, but for their mother's industry, might have, ere now, been reduced to seek their bread as the boon of pity. But ah, sir, it cannot be that you are to class me with the rest of your creditors. They are men, and may make up their losses in some other way. To me the loss of fifty pounds would be total ruin. Oh, sir, you will!—I know by that face of sympathy, you will make me an exception. Heaven will bless you for it; and my children will pray for you to the end of our lives."

"All this just adds to my misery," replied Mr Samuel; "and that misery, Heaven knows, is great enough already. Your case is that of the mother and the widow; and what need is there for a single word to tell me that it stands apart from all the others. But, madam, were I to pay your debt, do not you see that both you and I would be acting against the laws of our country. What supports me, think ye, under my misfortune, but the consciousness of innocence. Now, you would cruelly take away from me that consciousness, whereby, for the sake of a fifty-pound note, you would render me miserable here, and a condemned man hereafter. A hotter fire, of a verity, there is than that which burned up my stock. But I am bound to make amends for the loss I have brought upon you; and you may rest assured that, as soon as I am discharged, I will do my best for you and your poor bereaved sons and daughters."

And thus Mr Thriven managed these importunate beings, termed creditors, in a manner that he, doubtless, considered highly creditable to himself, in so far as he thereby spread more widely the fact that he had been ruined by no fault of his own, at the same time that he proved himself to be a man of feeling, justice, and sentiment. Meanwhile, his agent, Mr Sharp, was as busy as ever an attorney could be, in getting out a sequestration, with the indispensable adjunct of a personal protection, which the lords very willingly granted upon the lugubrious appeal, set forth in the petition, that Mr Thriven's misfortunes were attributable to the element of fire. A fifty-pound note, too, sent his shopman, Mr Joseph Clossmuns, over the Atlantic; and, the coast being clear, Mr Thriven went through his examinations with considerable eclat.

CHAP. IV.—THE WINDFALL.

"These men," said Mr Thriven, after he got home to dinner, "have worried me so by their questions, that they have imposed upon me the necessity of taking some cooling liquor to allay the fervour of my blood. I must drink to them, besides, for they were, upon the whole, less severe than they might have been; and a bottle of cool claret will answer both ends. And now," he continued, after he drank off a bumper to the long lives of his creditors—"the greatest part of my danger being over, I can see no great risk of my failing in getting them to accept a composition of five shillings in the pound. But what then? I have no great fancy to the counter. After all, a haberdasher is at best but a species of man-milliner; and I do no see why I should not, when I get my discharge in my pocket, act the gentleman as well as the best of them. All that is necessary is to get the devout Miss Angelina M'Falzen, who regenerates the species by distributing good books, to consent to be my wife. She has a spare figure, a sharp face, and a round thousand. Her fortune will be a cover to my idleness; and then I can draw upon the sum I have made by my failure, just as occasion requires."

At the end of this monologue, a sharp broken voice was heard in the passage; and Mr Samuel Thriven's bottle of claret was, in the twinkling of an eye, replaced by a jug of cool spring water.

"Ah, how do you do, my clear Miss M'Falzen?" cried Mr Samuel, as he rose to meet his devout sweetheart.

"Sir," responded the devout distributor of tracts, stiffly and coldly, "you are in far better spirits than becomes one who is the means of bringing ruin on so many families. I expected to have found you contrite of heart, and of a comely sadness of spirits and seriousness of look."

"And yet I am only feasting on cold water," replied Samuel, letting the muscles of his face fall, as he looked at the jug. "But you know, Miss Angelina, that I am innocent of the consequences of the fire, and, when one has a clear conscience, he may be as happy in adversity over a cup of water, as he may be in prosperity over a bottle of claret."

"A pretty sentiment, Mr Thriven—la! a beautiful sentiment," replied Miss Angelina; "and satisfied as I am of your purity, let me tell you that our intercourse shall not, with my will, be interrupted by your misfortune. I would rather, indeed, feel a delight in soothing you under your affliction, and administering the balm of friendship to the heart that is contrite, under the stroke which cannot be averted."

"And does my Angelina," cried Samuel, "regard me with the same kindness and tenderness in my present reduced circumstances, as when I was engaged in a flourishing trade, which might have emboldened me to hope for a still more intimate, ay, and sacred connection?"

"Mr Thriven," replied the other, gravely, "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer." Samuel's face underwent some considerable change. "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer, who has reported to me some sentiments stated by you to her, of so beautiful and amiable a character, and so becoming a Christian, that I admire you for them. You promised to do your utmost, after you are discharged, to make amends to her and her poor family for the loss she will sustain by your bankruptcy. Ah, sir, that alone proves to me that you are an honest, innocent, and merely unfortunate insolvent; and to show you that I am not behind you in magnanimity, I have paid her the fifty pounds wherein you were indebted to her, and got an assignation to her debt. You may pay me when you please; and, meanwhile, I will accept of the composition you intend to offer to your creditors."

"Fifty pounds off her tocher," muttered Samuel between his teeth, and then took a drink of the cold water, in the full memory of the claret.

"It scarcely beseems a man," said he, "to be aught but a silent listener, when his praise is spoken by one he loves and respects. But, is it possible, Miss M'Falzen, that my misfortune has not changed those feelings—those—excuse me, Miss Angelina—those intentions with which, I had reason to believe, you regarded me."

And, with great gallantry, he seized the fair spinster round the waist, as he had been in the habit of doing before he was a bankrupt, to show, at least, that he was now no bankrupt in affection.

"To be plain with you, sir," replied she, wriggling herself out of his hands, "my intention once was to wait until I saw whether you would come unscathed and pure out of the fiery ordeal; but, on second thoughts, I conceived that this would be unfair to one whom I had always looked upon as an honest man, though, probably, not so seriously-minded a Christian as I could have wished; therefore," she added, smiling—yet no smiling matter to Samuel—"I have, you see, trusted you fifty pounds—a pretty good earnest—he! he!—that my heart is just where it was."

Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven kissed Miss Angelina M'Falzen.

"But oh, sir," she added, by way of protest, "I hope and trust that not one single spot shall be detected in your fair fame and reputation, and that you will come forth out of trial as unsullied in the eyes of good men, as you were pure in the estimation of one who thus proves for you her attachment."

"Never doubt it," replied Mr Samuel. "Innocence gives me courage and confidence."

He placed, theatrically, his hand on his heart.

"And what think you," added Miss Angelina, "of John Bunyan's book, which I lent you, and which I now see lying here? Is it not a devout performance—an extraordinary allegory? How much good I do by that kind of books! Ha, by the by, Mrs Bairnsfather, good creature, wishes to read it. So I shall just put it in my pocket. To be plain with you, she is much cast down, poor creature, by the loss her husband has sustained through your involuntary failure; and I have said that she will find much comfort in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"A staunch book, madam," replied Samuel, seriously—"an extraordinary allegory, worth a piece of the vellum of the old Covenant. I have derived great satisfaction and much good from it. I have no doubt it will support her, as it has done me, under our mutual affliction."

"Oh, how I do love to hear you talk that way," replied Miss Angelina. "It is so becoming your situation. When do you think you will get a discharge? I will answer for Mr Bairnsfather agreeing to the composition; and you know I am now a creditor myself in fifty pounds. Of course you have my vote; but you will tell me all about it afterwards. Good-day, Mr Thriven."

"Good-day, Miss M'Falzen."

The which lady was no sooner out, than was the bottle of claret. In a few minutes more Mr Thriven was laughing over his replenished glass, as totally oblivious of the secret carried away by his lover, on the blank leaf of the good old tinker's book, as he was on that night when he made free with the two bottles of port as good as Ofleys.

"The matter looks well enough," said he. "I can make no manner of doubt that my composition will be accepted; and then, with the two thousand five hundred, at least, that I will make of my bankruptcy, and the round thousand possessed by Miss Angelina M'Falzen, I can perform the part of a walking gentleman on the great stage of the world."

"Is Mr Thriven within?" he now heard asked at the door.

"Ho, it is Sharp!" muttered he, as he shoved the bottle and the glass into a recess, and laid again hold of the water-jug.

"Water, Thriven!" cried the attorney, as he bounded forward, and seized the bankrupt by the hand. "Water! and Mrs Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie dead, of a dead certainty, this forenoon; and you her nephew, and a will in her drawers, written by Jem Birtwhistle, in your favour, and her fortune ten thousand; and the never a mortal thought the old harridan had more than a five hundred."

"The devil a drop!" cried Mr Samuel Thriven. "The devil a drop of water; for, have I not in this press a half bottle of claret, which I laid past there that day of the fire, and never had the courage to touch it since. But me her heir! Ho, Mr Joseph Sharp, you are, of a verity, fooling a poor bankrupt, who has not a penny in the world after setting aside his composition of five shillings in the pound. Me her heir! Why, I was told by herself that I was cut off with a shilling; and you must say it seriously ere I believe a word on't."

"I say it as seriously," replied the writer, "as ever you answered a homethrust to-day in the sheriff's office, as to the amount of stock you lost by the burning of your premises—as sure as a decree of the Fifteen. I say your loss had made her repent; so come away with the claret."

Mr Thriven emptied the whole of the half bottle, at one throw, into a tumbler.

"Drink, thou pink of an attorney!" said he, and then fell back into his chair, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed on the roof, and his two hands closed in each other, as if they had been two notes for five thousand each.

"Are you mad, Mr Thriven?" cried Sharp, after he had bolted the whole tumbler of claret.

"Yes!" answered Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven.

"Have you any more of this Bordeaux water in the house?"

"Yes!" answered Mr Thriven. "Open that lockfast" (pointing to a press), "and drink till you are only able to shout 'M'Whirter'—'Cockenzie'—'Thriven'—'ten thousand'—'hurra!'—and never let a word more come out of you, till you fall dead drunk on the floor."

The first part of the request, at least, was very quickly obeyed, and two bottles were placed on the table, one of which the attorney bored in an instant, and had a good portion of it rebottled in his stomach by the time that Mr Thriven got his eyes taken off the roof of the chamber.

"Hand me half-a-tumbler!" cried he, "that I may gather my senses, and see the full extent of my misfortune."

"Misfortune!" echoed Sharp.

"Ay!" rejoined Samuel, as he turned the bottom of the tumbler to the roof. "Why did Grizel M'Whirter die, sir, until I got my discharge?"

"Ah, sir!" replied Sharp, on whom the wine was already beginning to operate, "you have thus a noble opportunity of being the architect of a reputation that might be the envy of the world. You can now pay your creditors in full—twenty shillings in the pound, and retain five thousand to yourself, with the character of being that noblest work of nature—an honest man.'

"When a thing is utterly beyond one's reach," rejoined Samuel, looking, with a wry face, right into the soul of the attorney, "how beautiful it appears."

Sharp accepted coolly the cut, because he had claret to heal it, otherwise he would have assuredly knocked down Mr Samuel Thriven.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Sharp!" continued his friend; "but I felt a little pained, sir, at the high-flown expression of the great good that awaits me, as if I were not already conscious of being, and known to be, that noblest work of nature. The cut came from you, Mr Sharp, and I only returned it. All I regret, sir, is, that my aunt did not live till I got my discharge, because then, not being bound to pay my creditors one farthing, I might have paid them in full, without obligation at all, and thereby have proved myself what I am—a generous man. No more of the claret. You must away with me to Cockenzie, to see that the repositories are sealed, and the will safe."

"By my faith, I forgot that!" replied Sharp; "a pretty good sign that, if you are a generous man, I am not a selfish one. We had better," he added, "let the claret alone till we return from Cockenzie. What think you?"

Now Samuel had already told Sharp that he was to have no more of the wine; and the question of the attorney, which was a clear forestaller, would have angered any man who was not an heir (five minutes old) of ten thousand. But Samuel knew better than to quarrel with the attorney at that juncture; so he answered him in the affirmative; and, in five minutes afterwards, the heir and the lawyer were in a coach, driving off to Cockenzie. The bankrupt was, in a few minutes more, in a dream—the principal vision of which was himself in the act of paying his creditors in full with their own money, and earning a splendid reputation for honesty. The sooner he performed the glorious act, the greater credit he would secure by it; his name would be in the "Courant" and "Mercury," headed by the large letters—"Praiseworthy instance of honesty coming out, in full strength, from the ordeal of fire."

"What has Miss Angelina M'Falzen been doing at the house of Mrs Bairnsfather?" cried Sharp, as he turned from the window of the carriage (now in the Canongate) to the face of Samuel, whose eyes were fixed by the charm of his glorious hallucination.

"Lending her the 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" answered Samuel, as he started from his dream.

Now Sharp could not for the life of him understand this ready answer of his friend, for he had put the query to awaken him from his dream, and without the slightest hope of receiving a reply to a question which savoured so much of the character of questions in general; so he left him to his dream, and, in a short time, they were at Cockenzie.

CHAP. V.—THE TEA-PARTY.

"Well, my dear," said Mr Bairnsfather to his wife, when he came home to tea on that same afternoon of which we have now been narrating the incidents, "I hope you are getting over our losses; yet I have no very good news for you to-day—for all that Thriven intends to offer of dividend is five shillings in the pound."

"It is but a weary world this we live in," said the disconsolate wife. "We are all pilgrims; and there is for each of us some slough of despond, through which we must struggle to the happy valley."

"What, ho!" rejoined the husband; "I have come home to tea, and you are giving me a piece of Bunyan. Come, lay down your book, for Mr Wrench and Mr Horner are to be here to get some of your souchong."

"And I," replied the good-wife, "asked Miss Angelina M'Falzen to come back and get a cup with us. I could not do less to the devout creature; for she took the trouble of going to Mr Thriven's to-day, and getting from him the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' that she might bring it to me, to reconcile me to the evils of life, and, among the rest, the loss which we have sustained by her friend's failure."

"Poh! I hate all 'Pilgrim's-Progress'-reading insolvents!" rejoined the husband, taking the book out of his wife's hands. "Go, love, and get ready the tea, while I sojourn with the Elstow tinker in the valley of humiliation, out of which a cup of China brown stout and some converse will transport me to the 'house beautiful.'"

And Mr Bairnsfather, while his wife went to prepare tea, and his many children were dispersed here and there and everywhere, got very rapidly into "Vanity Fair," of the which, being somewhat aweary, as he said, with a yawn, he turned the leaves over and over, and at last fixed his eyes on the leaf that had once been, though it was now no longer, blank. The awl of the Elstow tinker himself never could have gone with greater determination through the leather of a pair of bellows, than did Mr Bairnsfather's eye seem to penetrate that written page. Like the seer of the vision of a ghost in the night, he drew his head back, and he removed it forwards, and he shut his eyes, and opened his eyes, and rubbed his eyes; and the more he did all this, the more he was at a loss to comprehend what the writing on the said blank leaf was intended to carry to the eyes of mortals. It was of the handwriting of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, for a certainty—he could swear to it; for the bill he had in his possession—and whereby he would lose three-fourth parts of two hundred pounds—was written in the same character. What could it mean?

"What can it mean?" he said, again and again.

"How should I, if you, who are a cleverer man, do not know, Mr Bairnsfather," said Mr Wrench, who was standing at his back, having entered in the meantime. "I have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' which Mrs B. says you are reading, more than once, and fairly admit that there are obscure passages in it. But here comes Mr Horner, who can perhaps unravel the mystery, if you can point out what limb of the centipede allegory it is which appears to you to have a limp."

"By my faith, it is in the tail," said Mr Bairnsfather, as he still bored his eyes into the end of the book.

"Let me see the passage," said Mr Horner.

And all the three began to look at the writing, which set forth the heads and particulars of Mr Samuel Thriven's gain by his bankruptcy.

"A very good progress for a pilgrim," said Mr Horner; and they looked at each other knowingly, and winked their six eyes, and nodded their three heads.

Miss M'Falzen and the tea came in at this moment. The three creditors were mute, and the devout spinster was talkative. Mrs Bairnsfather then filled up and handed round the tea-cups (they sat all close to the table), and her husband handed round to his two friends the book.

"What an interest that book does produce," said Miss Angelina, apparently piqued by the attention shown to the genius of the tinker.

"Come, now, Miss Angelina," said Mrs Bairnsfather, "confess that that copy produces no small interest in yourself, considering the hands it was in to-day."

"Fie! fie, ma'am!" rejoined the blushing spinster. "How could the touch of a man's fingers impart a charm to mere paper. If Mr Thriven had appended some pretty piece of devout or poetical sentiment to it, why, you know, that would have made all the difference in the world, ma'am. He is really an excellent man, Mr Thriven; though we have all suffered in consequence of his loss, yet, I daresay, we all feel for his unmerited misfortune."

The three creditors were too much absorbed in Bunyan even to smile.

"When did you lend this copy to Mr Thriven?" inquired Mr Wrench; and the two others fixed their eyes, filled with awful import, on the face of the devout spinster.

"Just the day before the fire," replied she; "and ah, sir! how delighted I am that I did it! for he assures me that it has sustained him wonderfully in his affliction."

The three men smiled, rose simultaneously, and retired to a parlour, taking Bunyan with them. Their looks were ominous; and Mrs Bairnsfather could not, for the world, understand the mystery. After some time, they returned, and looked more ominously than before.

"It is worth three thousand pounds, if it is worth a penny," said Mr Horner, seriously.

"Every farthing of it," rejoined Mr Wrench. "The most extraordinary book I ever saw in my life."

"An exposition miraculous, through the agency of Heaven," added Mr Bairnsfather.

Now all this time their tea was cooling, and the hostess examined and searched the eyes of her husband and guests. Have they all got inspired or mad, thought she; but her thought produced no change, for the men still looked and whispered, and shook their heads, and nodded, and winked, and left their tea standing, till she began to think of the state of the moon.

"How delighted I am," ejaculated Miss M'Falzen; "for I never saw such an effect produced by the famous allegory in any family into which I ever introduced it. You see the effect of agitation in devout matters, Mrs Bairnsfather."

"You know not half the effect it has produced on us, ma'am," said Mr Horner. "It has electrified us—so much so, indeed, that we cannot remain longer to enjoy your excellent society. You will, therefore, ladies, excuse us if we swallow our tea cleverly, and go to promulgate in the proper quarters the information afforded us by this wonderful production."

"The sooner we are away the better," added Mr Wrench, drinking off his cup. "We must call a private meeting, and lay it secretly before them."

"Certainly," added Mr Bairnsfather; "and you, Miss M'Falzen, authorise us to tell the peregrinations of the book—into whose hands it has been—and how it came here."

"Bless you, sir!" cried the devout spinster; while Mrs Bairnsfather kept staring at her husband and guests, unable to solve the strange mystery, "you do not know a tithe of the good that this little book has achieved. It has been in half the houses in the Cowgate and Canongate. It is relished by the poor, and sought after by the rich; it mends the heart, improves the understanding, and binds up the wounds of those that are struck by the hands of the archers. Oh! I agitate in the good work mightily with it, and others of the same class; and may all success attend your efforts, also, in so excellent a cause. Call meetings by all means, read, expound, examine, exhort, entreat, and, hark ye, take Mr Samuel Thriven with you, for his heart is in the cause of the improvement of his fellow-creatures, and he knows the value of the allegory of the devout tinker of Elstow.

"We cannot do without Mr Thriven," replied Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile; and while Mrs Bairnsfather was calling out to them to take another cup, and explain to her the meaning of their conduct, the creditors rose all together, and, taking their hats and Bunyan, were on the point of leaving the room, in great haste and manifest excitement, when the door opened, and the soft voice of Widow Mercer saluted them.

"Have you heard the news?" said she.

"Does it concern Mr Thriven?" replied more than one.

"Yes, to be sure it does," rejoined she. "We will all now get full payment of our debts; what think ye of that, sirs?"

"Hush, hush," said Mr Bairnsfather, in the ear of the widow. "Say nothing of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You know Miss M'Falzen is a friend of Mr Thriven's."

"The 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" ejaculated the widow.

"Alas! he is, of a verity, mad," rejoined Mrs Bairnsfather.

"The 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" again cried Mrs Mercer.

"Tush, we knew all about it," whispered Mr Wrench. "You also have seen the book?"

"Yes," replied the widow, "I have, as who hasn't? but Lord bless me!"—and she whispered in his ear—"what, in the name of wonder, has the 'Pilgrim's Progress' to do with Mr Thriven having got ten thousand pounds left him by Mrs Grizel M'Whirter."

The whisper was communicated to the two other creditors by Mr Wrench. The three merchants, stimulated at the same moment by the same impulse of joy, laid hold of the good widow, and whirled her like a top round the room, snapping their fingers the while, and exhibiting other perfectly innocent demonstrations of gladness.

"The most extraordinary method of proselytising," said the spinster, "that I, who have carried on the trade of mending the species for many years, have ever yet seen."

"It is all beyond my poor wits together," added the wife.

And beyond her poor wits the creditors allowed it to remain; for they immediately went forth upon their intended mission. In some hours afterwards, accordingly, there was a secret meeting in the "White Horse," not less dangerous to Mr Samuel Thriven than was that held in the Trojan one to old Troy.

CHAP. VI.—THE PAYMENT.

Now all this time, while Mr Thriven's creditors were in the "White Horse," he himself was in heaven; for Sharp and he having found all right at Cockenzie, returned, and sat down to finish the claret which had been forestalled by the attorney before setting out. They resolved upon consigning Mrs Grizel M'Whirter to the cold earth a day sooner than custom might have warranted; and the reason for this especial care was simply that Mr Samuel wished, with all the ardour inspired by the Bordeaux waters, to make a grand and glorious display of his honesty, by calling all his creditors together, and paying them principal and interest—twenty shillings in the pound. They even, at this early period, set about making a draft of the circular letter which was to announce the thrilling intelligence.

"Heavens! what a commotion this will produce among the trade!" said Samuel, as he threw himself back in his chair, and fixed his enchanted eye on Sharp's copy. "It will electrify them; and, sir, the editors of the newspapers are bound, as patrons of public virtue, to set it forth as an example to others, to induce them to do the same in time coming. And now, since we have discussed so much business and claret, we will retire to our beds; I to enjoy the satisfaction of having resolved on a noble action, and you the hope of making a few six-and-eightpences by the death of Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie."

"A few!" cried Sharp, in an attorney's heroics. "You will see, when you count them, I am not less honest or generous than yourself."

The friends thereupon separated, to enjoy in their beds the two pleasures incident to their peculiar situations.

At the end of the period—less by one day than the customary time of corpses being allowed to remain on the face of the earth—Mrs Grizel M'Whirter was buried; and as her will contained a specific assignation to the greater part of her money, the same was in a day or two afterwards got hold of by Mr Thriven, and out went the round of circulars to the creditors, announcing that on the following Thursday, Mr Thriven would be seated in his house, ready to pay all his creditors their debts, and requesting them to attend and bring with them their receipts. Among these circulars was one to Miss Angelina M'Falzen—the very woman he had promised, before he succeeded to Mrs Grizel M'Whirter's fortune, to make a wife of; a pretty plain proof that now, when he had become rich, he intended to shake off the devout spinster who had attempted to reform him by lending him the allegory of the Tinker of Elstow. The eventful day at length arrived, when Mr Thriven was to enjoy the great triumph he had panted for—namely to pay the creditors in full every farthing, with their own money; and at the hour appointed a considerable number arrived at his house, among whom not a few knew, as well as they did the contents of their own Bibles, the nefarious device of the haberdasher. When the creditors were seated—

"It ill becomes a man," said Mr Thriven, affecting a comely modesty—"it ill becomes one who resolves merely to do an act of ordinary justice, to take credit to himself for the possession of uncommon honesty. Therefore, I say, away with all egotistical assumption of principles, which ought to belong to a man, merely (as we say in trade), as part and parcel of humanity; for, were it a miracle to be honest, why should we not tolerate dishonesty, which yet is, by the voice of all good men, condemned and put down. The debts due to you I incurred, why then should I not pay them? It makes not a nail of difference that I lost three-fourths of the amount thereof by fire; because, what had you to do with the fire? You were not the incendiaries. No; the fault lay with me; I should have insured my stock, in gratitude for the credit with which you honoured me. It is for these reasons that I now disdain to take any credit to myself for coming thus cleverly forward to do you an act of justice, which the will of Heaven has put in my power, by the demise of that lamented woman, Mrs Grizel M'Whirter, and which you could by law have forced me to do, though, probably, not so soon as I now propose to do of my own free will and accord."

Mr Thriven paused, for a burst of applause; and Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile on his face, stood up.

"It is all very well," said he, glancing to his friends, "for Mr Thriven to pretend that no merit attaches to one who acts in the noble and generous way he has resolved to follow on this occasion. Every honest act deserves applause, were it for nothing else in the world than to keep up the credit of honesty. No doubt we might have compelled Mr Thriven to pay us out of the money to which he has succeeded, and to this extent we may admit his plea of no merit; but the readiness, if not precipitancy, he has exhibited on the measure, is not only in itself worthy of high commendation, but, by a reflex effect, it satisfies us all of that of which we probably were not very sceptical, that his failure was an honest one, and that he is not now making a display of paying us out of any other money than his own."

"Shall we not accord to these sentiments of our brother creditor?" said Mr Wrench, rising with great seriousness. "How seldom is it, in the ordinary affairs of life, that we find the true Mr Greatheart of the 'Pilgrim's Progress!' But when we do find him, shall we not say to him, let him have his reward—and what shall that reward be? Empty praise? No! Mr Thriven needs not that, because he has the voice of conscience sounding within him—far more musical, I deem, to the ear of honesty than the hollow notes of external applause. A piece of plate? Very good for praise-devouring politicians to place on the table when the clique is carousing and settling the affairs of the state, but altogether unsuitable for the gratification of meek, self-denied, retiring honesty. A book of morals? What say ye to that, friends? I throw it out merely as a hint."

"And I second the suggestion," said Mr Horner, "with the amendment, that there shall be an inscription on a blank leaf, setting forth in detail the merits of the individual; and where could we find a better than the allegory of the progress of the pilgrim, written by the tinker of Elstow?"

A round of applause, fully suitable to the appetite of Mr Samuel, followed Mr Horner's amendment. The process of payment commenced, and was completed to the satisfaction of all parties; and when the creditors went away, Mr Thriven sat down to consider the position in which he stood. He had got applause; but he did not well understand it. Above all, he could not comprehend the allusion to the book written by John Bunyan.

"Well," he said, as he took up the "Mercury," "it is beyond my comprehension; and, after all, the good people may only mean to present me with some suitable gift, in consideration of the act of justice I have this day done them. Let me see if there be any news." And he fell back in his chair in that delightful langueur d'esprit to which a newspaper of all things is the most acceptable. "Why," he continued, as he still searched for some racy bit, "did not Sharp undertake to get a notice inserted, by way of an editor's advertisement of three lines, to immortalise me, and pave my way to the hand of Miss Clarinda Pott?" And he wrung the muscles of his face as if they had been a dish-clout filled with the humour of his bile. At length his eye stood in his head, his mouth opened, and he became what artists would call "a living picture." The part of the paper which produced this strange effect consisted of merely a few lines, to this import:—

"New Light.—The matter which the fire in ——- Street failed to illumine has, we understand, been illustrated by no less an individual than John Bunyan, Tinker at Elstow. Everything may be reduced to an allegory; the world itself is an allegory; and this scrap of ours is nothing but an allegory."

Samuel laid down the paper.

"What can this mean?" said he. "If this be not an allegory, I know not what is."

"Ah, sir, you are a man this day to be envied," said Miss M'Falzen, who now entered. "You have proved yourself to be an honest man. I was sure of it; and you know, Samuel, when all deserted you, I stuck fast by you, and even gave the—the—excuse me, sir—the consent you asked of me, while you had no prospect before you in this bad world other than beggary."

"What consent, ma'am?" replied Mr Thriven, with a face that displayed no more curiosity than it did love.

"Bless me, Mr Thriven, do you forget?—Is it possible that you can have forgotten so interesting an occasion?"

"I believe, by the by, ma'am, you have called for your debts," said Mr Thriven.

"Debt!" ejaculated the devout spinster. "Why should there be any debt between two people situated as we are. Why should not all claims be extinguished by the mixture of what Mr Sharp calls the goods in communion. If I take this money from you to-day, won't I be giving it back after the ceremony. True, my small fortune is now nothing to yours; yet I will remember with pleasure, and you will never surely forget, that all I had was at your service when you had lost all you had in the world; so, you see, my dear Samuel, if you have this day proved yourself to have a noble spirit, I am not behind you."

"What is the exact amount of your claim, Miss M'Falzen?" said Mr Thriven, with a determination to distance sentiment.

"And would you really pay it, cruel, cruel man?" said she, somewhat alarmed.

"Certainly, ma'am," replied he, dryly.

"Are you serious?" said she again, looking him full and searchingly in the face.

"Yes," answered he, more dryly than ever.

"Can it be possible that your sentiments towards me have undergone a change, Mr Thriven?" rejoined she. "Ah! I forgot. You are now a man of ten thousand pounds, and I have only one. The film is falling off my eyes. O deluded Angelina!"

"Then you will see the better to count the money I am to pay you," said he, attempting to laugh. "Fifty pounds, ma'am. Here it is; I will thank you for Mr Mercer's bill."

"Well, sir, since it has come to this, I will none of the money. Alas! this is the effect of John Bunyan's famous book. Good-day—good-day, Mr Samuel;" and the spinster, covering her face with her handkerchief, rushed out of the room.

CHAP. VII.—THE DENOUEMENT.

"Thus have I got quit of the spinster," said Mr Thriven, "and thus have I too got quit of my creditors. But how comes this? She also talks of Bunyan; everybody talks of Bunyan. But this paper? No, spite—spite—let them present me with an inscription on a blank leaf. It will do as well as a piece of plate. I will get the words of praise inserted in another newspaper, and then begin to act the gentleman in earnest on my ten thousand. I shall instantly engage a buggy with a bright bay; and a man-servant, with a stripe of silver lace round his hat, shall sit on my sinister side. Let them stare and point at me. They can only say, there rides an honest man, who failed, and paid his creditors twenty shillings the pound. Ho! here comes Sharp."

"What is the meaning of this?" said he, holding out the paper. "Some wretched joke of an editor who would take from me the honour intended for me by my creditors. I see by your face that you smell an action of damages."

"Joke!" echoed Sharp. "That copy of Bunyan which Miss M'Falzen was lending to Mrs Bairnsfather that day when we went to Cockenzie, is now in the hands of the procurator-fiscal."

"Oh, the devout maiden lends it to everybody," replied Samuel. "She will be to get the fiscal to reclaim sinners by it, rather than to punish them by the arm of the law."

"Is it possible, Mr Thriven, that you can thus make light of an affair that involves banishment?" said Sharp. "Did you really write on a blank leaf of that book the details of the profit you were to make of the burning?"

Samuel jumped at least three feet from the floor; and when he came down again, he muttered strange things, and did strange things, which no pen could describe, because they were unique, had no appropriate symbols in language, had never been muttered or done before since the beginning of the world, and, probably, will never be again. It might, however, have been gathered from his ravings, that he had some recollection of having scribbled something about his failure, but that he thought it was in the blank leaf of a pocket-book, the which book he grasped and examined, but all was a dead blank. He then threw himself on a chair, and twisted himself into all possible shapes, cursing Miss Angelina M'Falzen, himself, his creditors, every one who had the smallest share in this tremendous revolution from wealth, hopes of a high match, buggy, servant with silver lace, even to disgrace, confiscation, and banishment.

"You are renowned for the quickness, loopiness, subtleness, of thy profession. Can you not assist me, Sharp? A man's scrawls are not evidence of themselves."

"But, with the testimony of Clossmuns, who has returned from Liverpool, they will be conclusive," replied the attorney, whose game now lay in Mr Samuel's misfortunes. "Such evidence never went before a jury since the time of the regiam majestatem.

"What then is to be done?" inquired Samuel.

"Fly! fly! and leave me a power of attorney to collect your moneys. There is two thousand of Grizel M'Whirter's fortune still to uplift—your stock in trade is to be disposed of—I will manage it beautifully for you, and, in spite of an outlawry, get the proceeds sent to you wheresoever you go."

"Dreadful relief!" ejaculated the other, "to fly one's country, and leave one's affairs in the hands of an attorney!"

"Better than banishment," replied Sharp, grinding his teeth as if sharp set for the quarry that lay before him. "What do you resolve on? Shall I write out the power of attorney, or will you wait till the officers are on you?" muttering to himself, in conclusion, "A few six-and-eight-pences! I'faith I have him now!"

"Then there is no alternative?" rejoined Samuel.

"None," replied Sharp. "I have it on good authority that the warrant against you was in the act of being written out, when I hurried here, as you find, to save you. Shall I prepare the commission?"

"Yes, yes! as quick as an ellwand that leaps three inches short of the yard."

And, while he continued in this extremity of his despair, Sharp set about writing out the factory—short and general—giving all powers of uplifting money, and reserving none. It was signed. In a few minutes more, Mr Thriven was in a post-chaise, driving on to a seaport in England. The news of the flight of the honest merchant, with all the circumstances, soon reached the ear of the devout spinster, even as she was weeping over the result of the interview she had had with her cruel lover. She wiped her eyes and repressed her sobs, and congratulated herself on the consequences of her devout labours. Mr Thriven was not heard of again; neither was his cash.

---

THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN.

In the calm clear evenings of June and July, when the heat of the day has been abated, it has been my custom to walk forth to brace my nerves after the cares and fatigues of the day. Pent up for these thirty years in one of the dingy shops of the Luckenbooths, I have toiled to gain wealth enough to enable me to exchange the chimes of St Giles' bells for the singing of the larks; but, alas! I fear my ears will be too hard, and my eyes too dim, ere that time come when I may seek to enjoy the melody of the songsters, or the verdure of their habitations. Gradually already have they been becoming less cheering to me than they were in those young sunny days of my apprenticeship, when I used to sally forth as soon as I had given the keys to my master. I have still, however, the impressions of memory; and this summer they are as vivid as when they were real perceptions. While sitting at my desk, I wander, in fond recollection, around Arthur Seat, and fondly think that such evenings in June may be yet for me as I have enjoyed them. Such is the folly of men of business. From the month I commenced for myself, the lark has been singing less sweetly, and my loved haunts have been becoming less and less engaging. Have the vocalists of these times degenerated, and the fields become aged? The change cannot be in me; I am still in my vigour, and a bachelor. Fifty-two is not an old man—so spoke the heart's wishes—yet this fact is otherwise. Since that period when I took the cares of the world upon my own shoulders, I have, in general, been lost to everything else around me. The incubus of the counter and desk mounts upon my shoulders, and whispers in my ears of bills and debts unpaid, or to pay; and immediately, in place of the visions of my youth, ledgers and slips of paper, spangled with columns of figures, occupy what were once the sad recesses of love. Thus hag-ridden, yet still in search of happiness, have I stalked over the loveliest of the lovely scenes that abound around Edinburgh, almost unconscious of where I have been. And what has been the reward of all my cares? I have accumulated three thousand pounds, and some properties that yield what some would call good interest; and the making of this has been the unmaking of the sensibilities of enjoyment, without which it is nothing.

Such were my reflections before I had reached the last stile next to Samson's Ribs. Early visions of Duddingston Loch had haunted me through the day; and hence I had sought again the scene that so sweetly combines the Alpine and champaign, as if they here met to embrace. I had passed up through the valley between the Craigs and Arthur Seat, and continued sauntering along the narrow road, like one cast forth by all the world, gloomy and dissatisfied—my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed vacantly upon the ground, and my hands at my back. Some maidens and their swains were dancing beneath at the Wells of Weary,[3] to the measure of their own "wood-notes wild." My heart was touched almost to tears. The demon that drove enjoyment from my walks fled, and a flood of tender recollections flowed in upon it. On that verdant spot, thirty-two years before, I had been as happy and as joyous as the group before me, dancing to the same heart-stirring air, with one I had loved with all the fervour of a youthful heart, until the chilling influence of what the world calls prudence damped my flame, but could not extinguish it. She was now the dispenser of happiness and comfort to another, and the mother of a lovely family—not so rich in what the world calls wealth; how much richer was she in peace and joy! I had for years kept her heart in suspense, until it sickened at my undecided courtship and shuffling delays. I know she loved me better than all the world beside, and would have consented to be mine, whatever had been my lot—faithful and kind to me, also a soother of my soul, in all conditions, she would have been. To riches I had sacrificed her and myself. Alas! I found now their heart-searing consolations. Again and again have I striven to persuade myself that I acted wisely in delaying our union. I at the time even took praise for vanquishing the warmth of my love, that we might feel less the delay. Alas! I knew not woman's heart. My coolness pained and piqued her; and while I was all-intent upon acquiring wealth which she was to enjoy with me, another was warming that heart which I had chilled. She was wed unknown to me. I met the marriage party in the church. What would I have given, to have been able to roll back the wheels of Time, and throw upon them all my hopes of wealth, with the curse which they deserved.

In this reverie I stumbled upon an artist. He was drawing the scene of my dreams. A few words passed. He resumed; and I gazed upon the happy group which he was ably sketching, till early recollections raised a sigh almost amounting to a groan. The stranger started, and inquired if I was unwell. The sincere and sympathising tone of his voice interested me, and I requested to have the pleasure of looking at his sketch.

"You are most welcome," he replied: "but it is a mere scratch. I will be enabled to do much better soon. I mean it for the foreground of a picture I am painting, sir. I am one of the most fortunate fellows in the world; I always get what I wish just at the moment I want it, or at least soon after it."

This speech struck me as a most singular one from the person who made it. He was apparently about thirty years of age, with an open, generous countenance, which, though not handsome, exhibited the glance of the eye and lofty brow that spoke intellect and feeling.

"I am no judge of painting or drawing further than of what gives me pleasure," said I; and I looked upon his sketch with a melancholy delight; for he had drawn the group as they really were—true to nature—and fancy enabled me to see, in one of the females, her I had lost. I spoke my praise in the warmth of my feelings; for I again enjoyed the scene so much, that it conquered my love of money, and I at once, and for the first time in my life, resolved to purchase a picture.

I looked from the sketch to the artist, to examine the man I was to deal with, that I might judge how to make my bargain; for, strong as my inclination was to have the picture, my mercantile habits were equally strong. His dress was much the worse for the service it had seen; and there was an appearance of penury about him that made me anticipate a good bargain.

"Do you paint for amusement only," said I, "or do you dispose of them?"

"I paint for fame and fortune, my good sir," said he; "but I am yet only a novice in the noble art, however long I may have been an admirer."

"Is your present work bespoke?" again said I.

"Oh no, sir," replied he; "but I will soon get it off my hands when it is finished; for I am, as I told you, a fortunate man."

"How much do you expect for it?"

"If I had as much money as purchase a frame for it," said he, "I might get five pounds; but, as that is not the case, I must take what I can get from a dealer—perhaps a pound, or less."

For the first time for many years, I felt the generous glow of doing good to a fellow-creature at the expense of my cash; but, if the truth will be told, it was the recollection of the good and gentle Helen that at this moment operated upon me.

"Well, sir, if you will sell me this sketch and the finished picture for two pounds, I will be the purchaser," said I.

"I accept your offer," was his reply, "and I feel grateful for your patronage, as I am yet unknown; but I feel confident I shall succeed at length in this my present aim at fame and fortune. The goddess has eluded me often, doubtless even when I was sure I held her in my grasp. But that is nothing. I was happy, as I am at present, in the pursuit; for all my life has been a series of anticipations supremely happy."

We had stood during this discourse; my eye was on him; and I could see the glow that was upon his face. How strange to me it seemed: I, too, had lived in anticipation of being rich, yet never felt the thrill, the full joy, of hope which possession banishes. How justly may anticipation and fruition be compared to youth and age!—the one, joyous and buoyant, moves along the rough walks of life, with hope pointing the way and smoothing his path; fruition, like an aged traveller, feeble and spent, sees ever a length of way before him, rendered rougher by cares for what he has attained, while all behind him is nothing. One of my gloomy fits was coming over me—my mind was turning in upon itself, when he aroused me, by inquiring where he should have the pleasure of bringing his work to me. I gave him my address, and we began to return to the city. Long before we reached the last stile, he had so won upon my regard, that I invited him home with me to supper, under promise that he should give me an outline of his life. He redeemed his pledge thus:—

My father, Andrew Elder (said he), lived in one of the villages not far from town, where I was born. He was not rich, but well enough to do; by trade a joiner, tolerably well read, of a shrewd and argumentative turn of mind, and the oracle of the village, at a time when it was distracted by the politics of the period, which ran high between the aristocrats and democrats. The French Revolution had attained the climax of its horrors, and the best blood of France was poured forth as water. Once a democrat, he had changed his former opinions, and his antipathy was as intense against the bloody miscreants who, in the public commotion, had wriggled themselves into their bad pre-eminence, as his sympathy had been strong at the commencement in favour of an enslaved people. I was scarce seventeen—an anxious listener to all that passed in the shop between my father and his opponents. All he said was to me true as holy writ; and those hearers who doubted one word he said were deemed worthy only of my pity. Well do I recollect—it was the beginning of May, 1794, and our dinner hour; the newspaper had just arrived; a number of neighbours were seated on or standing around the bench on which the all-engrossing paper was spread. My father gave a shout of triumph, and looked contempt upon the democratic part of his audience, who were ranged on the opposite side. They again looked, their anxiety not unmixed with fear.

"Hurrah!" cried my father, "the bloody monsters will soon be put down and die by their own accursed guillotine. James, run into the house and bring me my Gazetteer; I wish to see the map."

I was not slow to obey, for I was as eager to learn the cause of my father's joy as the oldest politician present.

He read, with exultation, the arrival of the Emperor of Germany at Brussels on the 9th of April, and his advance to Valenciennes, to join the Duke of York, who lay there with the Allied Army under his command. Then, opening Guthrie's well-thumbed volume, and laying it before his auditors, he seized his compasses, as a marshal would his truncheon, waved them in triumph, then spread out the map, measuring on the scale a number of leagues to illustrate his demonstration.

"Now, attention, you blacknebs," he said, "and do not interrupt me;" and immediately all eyes were bent upon the map. "Now, here is Valenciennes," said he; "and here is Paris, the den of the murderers. The Allies will be there in three weeks at farthest; what can stay them? Tell me, ye democrats!" They hung their heads, as he struck the bench, to give his demonstration force. "In four months," he continued, "the king, Louis XVII., will be in Paris, to avenge his brother's blood; and peace will be restored before the corn is off the ground. Hurrah!"

There might have been some grave humour in his earnestness, but his prophecy made an impression on me he little dreamed of; while he spoke, a voice seemed to sound in my ear that made me start—"Here is an opportunity for you to see the world you have often wished for. The contest will not last four months; you may enter the navy, which will be paid off at the end of the war; be home before winter, and boast to your father of all you have seen and done." The impulse was so strong that I left the politicians in keen debate—for the dinner hour was not expired—and, putting on my coat and hat, set off for Leith as quick as I could walk. My only fear was that I might be too late to be received; the account of the Allies having entered Paris might have arrived; peace might be made before I could join, and my golden dreams be dissipated.

It was nearly dark before I reached the rendezvous upon the shore. A throb of joy gave new spirit to me when I saw the union-jack hanging over the door. I entered at once, and inquired if I was not too late to go on board of a man-of-war?

"By no means," said the active Captain Nash, who was present at the time. "Were you ever at sea, my spirited lad?"

"No, sir," said I; "but I hope that will be no objection."

"Oh, none in the least," said he. "You shall, in an hour or two, be put on board the tender which sails for the Nore to-morrow. Here, mate, give this volunteer something to drink his majesty's health."

I was now seated at a long table, at which were some of the most forbidding individuals I had ever seen: several were evidently intoxicated, spoke in phrases I could not comprehend, and uttered oaths that made my heart tremble. I became bewildered; the situation in which I had placed myself was not what I had anticipated. I loathed the liquor they offered me, began to think I had done a foolish action, and wished to be at my bench again, a free agent.

How long my mind continued in this state I know not; but I was soon roused to a fuller sense of the situation in which I had so rashly placed myself. I soon saw enough to make me weep. Six of the gang entered, swearing, and threatening two young sailors, whom they dragged in with them, and who, as well as several of their captors, were severely cut, bruised, and bleeding. They had, doubtless, fought stoutly to escape the gang. I was there a voluntary victim, and any little fortitude that had until now sustained me fled, as I gazed upon the painful sight. They were both about the same age, and stout, active young men; they spoke not one word; but their countenances were sad, gloomy, and desponding; and, at times, I could perceive a shade of sullenness, bordering on ferocity, pass over their faces, as they lifted their eyes from the floor towards the men who were busy removing the stains of the conflict. In a short time after, we were taken to the Ferry Stairs, and put into their boat. It was now, for the first time, that I began to doubt if my father was correct in his eulogiums of British liberty. I soon understood that the cases of these lads were peculiarly hard; yet, after all, not so very hard as that of many I afterwards knew. They were brothers, and belonged to Leith, where their parents still lived. They had been absent three years upon a whaling expedition in the South Seas; and, anxious to see their father and mother (the former of whom was stretched on a sick-bed), had, with circumspection, and in disguise, reached their home, when, only after a few hours, some unfeeling wretch, for the paltry reward, became informer, and the gang secured their prey. The sick, if not dying, parent entreated in vain; and the mother's tears and groans, as she saw her loved and manly sons struggling against an overwhelming force (for what, my father oft had said, was the birthright of every British subject), were equally unavailing. I kept my eyes on the two youths who, for no offence, were thus treated as felons, and compelled, against their wills and interests, to leave their homes, and all that they held dear; yet, so strangely are we constituted, this train of thought passed off, as I surveyed the clear night, with the full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and reflected by the waters of the placid Frith. My young heart even felt a glow of pleasure: I hoped the worst of my new life was past, and that I would soon be again with my father, to recount to him the sights I had seen.

When we reached the tall dark sides of the (to my inexperienced mind) gigantic tender, all my regrets were fled, and expectation again filled my breast. Having hailed, and been answered by the watch on board, the two pressed men were forced to ascend from the boat, which they did with an ease and facility that astonished me. I attempted to stand up, but fell across the thwarts—the motion of the boat, inconsiderable as it was, throwing me off my balance at every effort. Forced to hold on by one of the gang, I had my ears filled with a volley of oaths. A rope was at last lowered from the deck, and made fast under my arms, and thus I partly climbed, and was partly hoisted up, until I could hold on by the bulwarks—furnishing merriment to those on board, and greeted by no kindly voice, my feelings were again damped. For the first time in my life I felt that I was alone in the world, and must rely upon my own energies for protection. Ordered below, I staggered, as I moved upon the deck, like one intoxicated, still grasping at everything to prevent me falling, and bewildered at all I saw and heard. How unlike were these things to what I had found in books, or dreamed of in my enthusiasm, of the noble navy of my country. My mind was all confusion. My native language, spoken by those around me, was mixed with such terms and phrases, that it was all but incomprehensible. When I reached the hatch, and was in the act of descending the ladder, I missed my hold, fell to the deck, and a laugh sounded in my ears—all the pity I received, though I lay sick, stunned, and bruised among my fellow-creatures. I crawled out of the way, lest I should be trampled upon by those who had occasion to pass up and down. No kindly hand was held out to me; and there upon the bare boards I passed my first night from home. Youth and health triumphed, and I soon fell sound asleep.

Well, not to be too circumstantial, this rough initiation into my naval adventures was of immense advantage to me. Follow out my course I must, whether I now willed or not. I had the consolation of my father's prophecy, that the war would terminate before the winter commenced; and if I wished to see the world, I must take things as they come. It has ever been my nature to look upon every event on the sunny side. I anticipate pleasure even amidst privations and discomfort; and I have thus enjoyed hours and days of happiness, when those who suffered with me have been driven almost to despair. When day dawned, I was awakened by the noise and bustle around me. I looked at the murky den in which I had passed the night close by a gun-carriage. Some were extended on the deck here and there; a greater number snugly hung in their hammocks were the regular seamen; the others were landsmen like myself, unprovided with anything—their all on their backs, and as ignorant of life at sea as their purses were empty. I will not say that I was pleased with the turn my adventure had assumed; yet I was not discouraged; I knew that thousands passed their lives in the navy, and I would not be worse off than my equals in rank. I arose, and, seated upon the gun-carriage, began to be amused by what was passing around. As the day advanced, my interest began to increase, and I formed a few friendships with my fellows. One of these, a young seaman who had been impressed a few days before out of a West Indiaman, was of vast service to me, in giving me instruction how to conduct myself, and allowed me to sleep with him. I had left home without one shilling; was provided with nothing, and must remain so until rated in some ship after we reached the Nore.

No person who has not seen, can conceive the scenes of wickedness and folly that are acted on board a tender, where all are crowded together with no regular messes formed, and no routine of duty laid down to engage the mind or dispel the tedium. The careless act their parts, but the thoughts are forced in upon the serious thinker. Some sat in deep abstraction, unconscious of all that was passing around them, fetching a deep sigh occasionally, and looking mournfully at their merry mates; others were walking backwards and forwards, with a restless cast of countenance, like a caged animal; while here and there were small groups, deep plunged in the excitement of gambling for small sums, and swearing over their well-thumbed dirty cards; others were carousing in secret, with ardent spirits, brought secretly on board, by boats which were continually arriving from or departing for the shore with the friends of those on board; and very many passed their time listlessly leaning over the nettings, gazing upon the shore they were so soon to see, perhaps, for the last time, yet caring not whether they ever saw it again or not. At length the boatswain piped to weigh anchor. The foresheet was shaken out, and we stood down the Frith. As the shores receded from us, some became more sad, but the greater number seemed as if a load had been taken from their minds. As for myself, I felt my spirits increase as we gallantly bounded over the waters.

When we reached the Nore, I, along with several others, was draughted into a frigate, which had received orders to sail for the West Indies. As soon as I was rated, I received from the purser what necessaries I required, which was placed to my account to be deducted from my wages. I felt my importance much increased as I put on my new dress and got my station on board; yet a qualm of disappointment came over me as I thought of the distance I was to be carried from home, and I began to doubt if I could return to Scotland before winter, when the peace I had anticipated would take place. My sailor life presented many features that belied my expectations. At this time a war-ship was managed in the most tyrannical manner, by the caprice of the captain and first-lieutenant. The rattan of the boatswain was in constant play; and it often seemed as if he struck the men more for his own gratification than their correction. Standing at the foot of the rattlins when they were ordered aloft, he invariably struck the last, whether in ascending or descending. This was to make them look sharp. The same course was followed in regard to every duty to which he called them; and a dozen or more of lashes were often given for what the most microscopic eye could not have detected as a fault: the cat was seldom out of use, and never a day passed without several punishments. A chit of a midshipman, if he took an umbrage at a man, would order him to stand while he mounted a gun-carriage to strike him about the head or face; and if the gallant fellow moved on, he was reported to the officer on duty as mutinous, tied to the grating, and received a dozen or two. Our provisions too were very scanty, and not of the best quality; while a complaint would have been mutiny. Before we reached the Island of Jamaica, custom overcame disgust. I saw, besides, that it was the rule of the service—officers were not, in their station, better off than the men; midshipmen were cobbed or ordered aloft with as little compunction or inquiry as the men were flogged. The only individual on board who stood not in fear of some other alongside was the captain; yet he feared the admiral, and the admiral crouched to the Lords of the Admiralty, who succumbed to the ministry, who crouched to the king; and, as a landsman on board a man-of-war, all being in a circle, I was next to him again to complete it. The whole I saw to be an intricate system of coercion and discipline; and I submitted with all the cheerfulness I could; but there was a messmate of mine, who claimed the sympathy I disregarded. Poor James! I am to this hour sad when I think of him. Who or what he was I never knew; for his years, he was the best learned and most intelligent person I have ever met with in the world. Every genteel accomplishment was his. About two years my senior, he was an age in advance of me; and I looked up to him with a reverence I have never felt since for any human being, as we have sat on a gun-carriage, I listening to the knowledge that flowed from his lips, and which he took a pleasure in imparting to me. Thus, when it was not our watch, he stored my mind with truths and information, both ancient and modern, the benefit of which I feel even now. An exquisite draughtsman, he taught me the rudiments of the art, and practice has done the rest. Yet he was secret as the grave as to the cause of his sorrows; and though he knew that I wished to be acquainted with his history, not through idle curiosity, but to console him, if in my power, he shunned the subject. That he was born to a rank far above that in which I knew him, both the officers and the men allowed. He was prompt in his duties from an innate sense of honour; and there was a lofty bearing in all he did—not the effect of an effort, but of natural impulse—that extorted the respect of his shipmates; though, of all men, sailors are the quickest at perceiving peculiarity of character among themselves, and an appropriate sobriquet is generally the consequence. To his officers he was as politely humble as the strictest rules could require; but this manner was so different from the uncouth and crouching humility of the other men, that a stranger would have conceived he was the superior returning the civility. His soul was, indeed, truly Roman, and superior to his fate. Whether that fall was the effect of circumstances over which he had no control, or voluntarily chosen, from some secret reason, he would never avow. Once I heard him sigh heavily in his sleep, and murmur the name Matilda; from which I suspected he had been crossed in love, and was now a victim of consuming melancholy, which seemed only lightened by his activity, or when he was storing my mind with information. Books we had none; but I felt not the want. His memory was well stored and tenacious, and he was always ready for whatever subject was the study of the time for which we were at leisure. I feel conscious I learned much more, and infinitely faster, by this oral method, than if I had had the volumes, and read them myself. His vigorous and intelligent mind epitomised and digested my mental food—imparting to me thus the spirit of volumes, which I might in vain have endeavoured to comprehend after long study. But, to proceed:—

With this mixture of pleasure and suffering, we reached Kingston and cast anchor off the harbour, where we had remained only for a few days, when we sailed to cruise in quest of a French frigate, which had taken several of our merchantmen. We continued to range the seas for nearly three weeks, in quest of the enemy, without gaining either sight or intelligence of him, and had almost given up all hope, when, one afternoon, a dense fog came on, which obscured the horizon, and we could not see two lengths of the ship from her decks. It continued thus until a little after sunrise next morning, when a gentle breeze sprung up, which cleared all around, and, to our surprise, we saw a French forty-gun frigate about six or seven leagues to windward. We mounted only thirty guns. The odds were fearfully against us; but the captain resolved to engage the enemy. The boatswain piped all hands to quarters, the drum beat to arms, the bulkheads were taken down, and all was clear for action in a few minutes—every gun double-shotted, and the match waiting the orders to fire. James and I were stationed at the same gun on the quarterdeck, when I saw the enemy, under a cloud of sail, bearing down, with his formidable range of guns bristling his sides. I felt my breathing become short, and a strange sensation took hold of me, as if I doubted whether I could command another full respiration. I looked at James—there was a melancholy shade of satisfaction on his countenance, and I thought I saw a languid smile lurking around his lips, along with a sternness in his eye, that imparted to me a bold feeling of assurance. I stood with the ramrod in my hand. The interval of suspense was short. The Frenchman, as he ranged alongside, within pistol-shot, hailed us in good English to strike. The captain, who stood near me, looking over the nettings, with his speaking-trumpet in his hand, lifted it to his mouth, and roared—

"Ay! ay! I'll strike by and by;" then passed the word—"Now, my lads, give them a broadside."

Scarcely was the order given, when our little frigate quivered from the recoil, and we were enveloped in smoke; but I could hear the crash of our shot on the sides and rigging of the Frenchman, which did not return the fire for a minute or two.

"Well done," shouted the captain. "Another of the same."

And by the time the Frenchman fired his first volley, we were ready. The salute was simultaneous and fearful. The enemy did awful execution: five of our gun-ports were torn into one, and several of our men killed and wounded. I have little recollection of what followed for some time—the smoke was too dense for observation, and my exertions in working our gun were too unremitting to allow of extraneous attentions. At length the shot in the locker being expended, I called for more; and, on looking round, saw my companion, James, lying extended behind the gun, bleeding. There was not one moment to spare—the balls were supplied as quick as called for—and, at the sight of my wounded friend, my dogged resolution was roused to revenge. I urged those who were still able for duty to redouble their fire.

"Well done, Elder!" said the captain; "you are a noble fellow."

At this moment, a small splinter struck my hand, as I withdrew the rammer, and almost divided my forefinger and thumb. I plucked it out—the blood poured—but I felt less pain from that source than from my mouth, which was so dry and parched, that I would have given worlds for a drop of water.

"For God's sake," I cried, "bring me a mouthful of water, for I will not leave my gun."

You may smile at my folly, for who was there to serve me? Yet, patience—the captain, who kept the quarterdeck, as cool as if we had been lying at anchor; nay, cooler, for he was then always finding fault, or in a passion—heard me, and taking a lime from his pocket, cut it in two, and put one-half into my mouth, as I was ramming home the charge.

"Here, my lad," said he, "you deserve it, were it a diamond;" and put the other half into my cut hand. The sting of the pain almost made me cry out. He smiled, and said it would cure it; then remarked to the first lieutenant, who had just come up to him, "I have often heard that the Scots fight best when they are hungry, or see their own blood; there is an instance; look at Elder's hand, and see how he works at his gun."

At this moment I heard a crash—it was our foremast nearly gone by the board.

"These Frenchmen fire well," he said, with the greatest coolness.

"That stroke is very unfortunate," replied the first lieutenant; "but it cannot last long."

"No," said the captain; "they must either strike soon, or blow us out of the water. How is my ship below."

"Much cut up, sir; but our remaining hands work their guns well. The enemy must have suffered severely."

I can convey no impression of the calmness with which these few words were spoken in the middle of this carnage and noise. We had already, as I afterwards learned, been engaged two glasses. All conception of the time, from the first broadside until the last gun was fired, seemed to have been banished from our minds. Scarcely had the conversation between the captain and lieutenant finished, when the Frenchman's mizzenmast fell forward, their fire began to slacken, and we, in a clear interval, could see a bustling on board.

"Boarders, arm," shouted the captain; then, in a lower voice, to one of the officers—"They are either going to run for it, or board us; were our rigging not so much cut up, she might be ours." It was at this moment he first showed his impatience:—"Aim at her rigging," he cried—"she shuns the contest—ten guineas to the gun that disables her;" but her sails began to fill, and she bore away before the wind, leaving us too much disabled to follow her.

When the first firing ceased, I felt so fatigued and faint, from the loss of blood and the pain of my hand, that I leaned upon my gun, almost incapable of exertion. A double allowance of grog was now served out to the survivors. I felt revived, though still unable for duty, and went to the cockpit to see James, who had been carried there, and to have my own hand dressed. A cockpit scene has been often described, but description is a burlesque of the reality. We had twelve killed, and twenty wounded, more or less severely. I found my poor friend lying upon a mattress, calm and resigned—no groan or sob escaped him. One of his legs had been broken and cut by a splinter, and there was a wound from a musket-ball in his shoulder. Both had been dressed by the surgeon, who was a humane, active, and skilful man. When my own scratch was cleaned and dressed, all my attention was bestowed upon James and others. An hospital was rigged out, and every care humanity could suggest paid to the wounded; and our otherwise austere captain was as mild and kindly by the side of the victims as a nurse. James lay, for the most part, silent and in deep thought. When he did speak, it was of indifferent subjects; and, to my frequent inquiries how he felt his wounds, he replied, that they engaged not his thoughts further than that he feared he might recover.

"That I do not wish," said he. "It is long since I received the wound that is destined to prove mortal, independently of these disruptions of the flesh, which merely confine me to this sick-bed, and are come rather as a remedy. Elder, think not I am ungrateful for your kindness: I thank you from my heart. There is one favour you must promise to do me; and I feel assured I may trust you."

"Name it," answered I; "and if I should die in the attempt, I shall not fail to do all in my power to accomplish your smallest wish." He pressed my hand, which was grasped in his.

"Enough, Elder," said he; "all I request is easily done; yet I was not the less anxious to find one whom I could confide in. As soon as this oppressed heart ceases to beat, you must take this locket and ring"—and he uncovered his bosom, upon which they lay, besmeared with his blood. Smiling, he continued: "The blood is a proper envelope for them; and I am only so far happy that I was not killed out-right—for then they might have fallen into hands which would have done them no justice. These baubles and I must be forgotten together, whether I die here at sea, or survive until we reach Jamaica. You must, when I am to be consigned to my abode of peace and rest, place them where they lie at present. You will do this for me?"

I pressed his hand, for words were denied me. My tears fell upon his pale face, as I stooped to kiss his forehead; a sigh was all that passed between us; but our eyes told more than our lips could have uttered. I left him alone, to enjoy his own reflections, and went upon deck. In a few hours the surgeon's worst fears were realised; tetanus came on, and he died the following morning in my arms. I fulfilled his last request, and his body was launched into the restless ocean on the day before we reached Kingston. His man-of-war's name, as the seamen call it, when one—a different from their real one—is assumed for any reason that requires concealment, was James Walden, by which he was rated in the ship's books. Next day, when his effects, scanty as they were, were put up for sale, I bought a small prayer-book, which I had often seen him use, for less money than I have seen a few needles and a little thread bring at the mainmast. Amongst all that he possessed, there was not a single scrap of paper, or anything by which I could be led to guess who he was. On a blank page of the prayer-book there was written, in a small, beautiful female hand, "Matilda Everard;" but whether it was written by the individual he had once mentioned in his sleep, or some other, it was impossible to say.

We had spoken, on our return to Jamaica, several merchant vessels, so that the account of our action with the French frigate was before us. We were, accordingly, received as conquerors—the sailors complimented in the streets, and our officers invited to all entertainments. As for myself, I felt alone after the loss of my friend, and fretted a little at the news of peace not having been yet received. I had not yet called my father's political sagacity in question. It was now the month of September; our frigate was once more, if possible, in better trim than she was before the action; we had our water on board, and everything ready for sea to cruise amongst the French islands. All was joy and hope of prize-money. We were to have sailed next morning, when the accounts of Admiral Howe's glorious victory of the first of June arrived, when all became a scene of excitement and exultation. Salutes were fired; every vessel was hung with as many flags as she could muster, along her stays, from the bowsprit to the taffrail. Kingston was to be illuminated in the evening; and we requested leave, and were allowed, to have an illumination on board of our ship. My spirits recovered in some degree—every one was of opinion that the republicans of France never could recover the blow they had received—my father's prediction was verified—and I would soon be free, and at home. During the afternoon, which was as lovely as a warm day in Jamaica can be, all was bustle on board, each mess procuring candles, and each striving who could exhibit the greatest number. The ingenuity of one of our number was exercised on some empty barrels, which, with their bottoms pierced, filled with lights, and placed opposite the port-holes, shamed the bottles and candles of the others, and gave us the victory. Just before sundown, all was ready. As soon as all the candles were lit, every port was opened; and our little frigate and the other ships of war produced a sight truly beautiful—sitting upon the waters, which reflected the glare like glowing furnaces, and sending all around their so regular and intense beams. Meanwhile our decks were crowded with dancers, who, footing it away to the music of our fiddles, exhibited, in the strange mixture of white European and dark Kingston girls, all brought out in full relief by the lights, one of the most extraordinary scenes I had ever seen. At a late hour the lights were doused, and all was as still as death; and the late refulgent vessels floated a number of black masses under the moonbeams.

Next morning found us under weigh, and the Island of Jamaica sinking under our stern. I missed my friend sadly, having formed no new intimacy; for there was not one on board, in my estimation, to supply his place. He had formed my mind for higher enjoyments than could have been relished or shared with me by any of my shipmates; yet we had on board a mass of talent, in all its variety, debased, no doubt, by evil passions and low dissipation. There were, indeed, among us some rough but honest, unsophisticated children of nature; but they were like jewels dug from the mine, placed in a package with flints, and shaken on a rough road, losing by attrition their asperities, but taking no polish. A few, too, there were who had, with care, been bred by their parents for higher objects, but had sunk from their station, by vice and folly, even to a lower level than the standard of our crew. I had thus small choice, and fell back on the memory of the pleasures I had enjoyed in the conversation of my friend. We had been out from port about three weeks, without seeing anything save one or two of our merchant ships, and one from Liverpool bound for New York, with passengers, from the latter of which we impressed six stout young men, who were on their way for the New World. Such are the miseries of war, that liberty is invaded and all human ties severed by the necessity it engenders. The case of one of these young men was truly hard. He was on his way to New York, to take possession of some property left him by an uncle, who had died there the year before; and his intention was to remain and settle upon his late uncle's farm. A few days before he had left his native village, in Ayrshire, with a young woman whom he had long loved, and at last married. Their all had been expended in their passage money and outfit, but young hope, love, and joy, were the companions of their voyage, until our boat, under the command of our second lieutenant, appeared as the demon that was to put these to flight. The crew and passengers were mustered upon the deck, and many forced from their hiding-places, where they had stowed themselves away below among the cargo. George Wilson (for that was his name), fearful for his Jane, had remained by her side; he was ordered into the boat; his supplications were as nothing; and the tears and agonies of his young wife, if possible, less. It is a fact worthy of the consideration of the philosopher, that the actions of men, forced to perform an unpleasant duty, are often fretted into greater harshness by appeals to feeling. We were short of hands, and, goaded by necessity and duty, I verily believe that some who seized the youth more sharply when he was attempted to be taken from them by the female, would not have been slow to weep for her in other circumstances. There was another case not less cruel—that of an only son of a family, called Grant, who were emigrating, consisting of a father and mother, two sisters, and this young lad, their hope and stay. He too was ordered into the boat. I noticed the two as they came up the ship's side. It is seldom that human nature is exhibited under such circumstances of trial. Description, in such cases, is almost impertinent. It may be doubted if the young men themselves are then conscious of one-half of the evil that had befallen them: they were stupid with despair.

But I did not know what was awaiting myself. Some few days after this event, we were standing under easy sail, listlessly gazing over the immense expanse of waters, with all eyes sharp for a sail of some kind or other, to break the monotony of our listless life. The look-out from the mast-head sang out—

"Sail, ahoy!"

"Where away?" cried the officer on duty.

"Nor-west, on our lee-beam."

"Can you make her out?"

"Nay, sir; she is yet hull down; but she appears English rig, as her top-royals rise out of the water."

"Stretch every inch of canvas; haul taut," cried the officer.

And her bows were crowded by the anxious seamen. There was now an object to engage their attention, while the captain and officers kept their glasses steady in the direction pointed out. In a short time, the points of her masts and sails began to appear above the horizon, like black patches, where the bounding line between the ocean and sky terminates. We continued our progress for several hours, manifestly not making fast on her; yet we could see that her sails rose almost imperceptibly out of the water. She kept her distance so well that the captain became excited and piqued. The wind blew pretty fresh, and we were both on a wind. She was now made out to be either a privateer or a merchant vessel; but her superior sailing led strongly to the opinion that she was the former. Our deck guns were now run aft to raise our bows, and every effort that skill could put to account was tried. Still we gained but slowly upon her; and the afternoon was far advanced without our being satisfied of more than that she was an enemy; for she must have seen us for some hours, and our ensign was flying at our royal mast-head. Now great masses of gorgeously-coloured clouds began to gather around the brilliant luminary in the far west. It was close upon sundown, when the darkness almost immediately follows in the twilightless latitudes. The tall masts of the chase were between us and the brilliant scene, like a dark spirit crossing the path of heaven. The captain, striking the bulwarks of the quarterdeck with his hand, said aloud—

"I'd give a hundred guineas to have her within range of my long eighteens at this moment, or when I shall see your beams again in the morning." He looked to the broad disk of the sun, which was just sinking in the dense mass of resplendent clouds, while his last rays shot like long broad ribands over the edge of the highest, and undulated upon the long swell that was raised by the breeze, which covered its top with masses of white foam, resembling flocks at play in an immense meadow.

Anxious to obtain the last glance of this magnificent panorama, I had got upon the nettings in which the hammocks are stowed, and stood so long holding on by the mizzen-rattlins, absorbed in pleasing dreamy thoughts, not unmixed with regret, that it was quite dark before I was conscious of the change. My mind had again turned in upon itself, and the lovely harvest nights of my regretted home came before me, more chastened in their grandeur, but not the less lovely on that account. Wilson and Grant were conversing in whispers near the spot where I stood, talking of their blighted hopes, as if they felt that nature, in the grand aspect she now exhibited, looked lovely in mockery of their woes. We still held on as we had done through the afternoon—the surges rising and sprinkling our foredeck as we passed swiftly through the waters, urged on by an increasing gale. Weary of my position, I was in the act of descending to the deck, when, by some accident, I lost my hold, and fell overboard, striking against the dead-eyes, and wounding my tongue so severely in my fall that it was bit through. When I rose to the surface, stunned and confused, the water was hissing in my ears, and my mouth full of blood. I attempted to call out for help; but my efforts were vain. My tongue was unfit for its office; I only uttered unintelligible sounds, not to be distinguished amidst the noise of the waves. Still hope was strong in me, for I could hear the cries on deck, "A man overboard!" though I could distinguish no object in the darkness. The sounds became faint and more faint. The vessel's way was so great, she shot from the spot like a bird; and I could at intervals see the lights that they had hung out as I rose to the top of the waves, which I buffeted with all my energies. The frigate had evidently laid to. I strove to make for the lights. I saw, far astern, a boat had been lowered, and hope again braced my nerves. Could I have called out, I had been saved; for I heard their voices shouting for me, and even the plash of their oars; but I was dumb. My tongue had almost instantly swelled so as to fill my mouth; yet still I struggled amidst the waves to reach the source of the sounds. At that moment they could not have been many yards distant from me, if I could have judged from the distinctness with which I heard them call. At last they ceased for a few minutes, as if in consultation. Moment of horrid agony! I was in the grasp of inevitable death, and those who were anxious for my rescue were within hail, and that hail I could not utter. The struggle for life is not easily terminated, and my exertions were almost superhuman. A flash, and the report of a gun now fell on my ears, and it came as my doom; it was a signal for the boats to return. I felt as if my arms had become powerless. My heart failed, and I was sinking, when again the stroke of the oars revived me. Again I attempted to shout—vain effort! "Poor Elder!" I heard uttered by my shipmates, amidst the sweltering of the waves that were about to engulf me. The oar-dip gradually died away—and where was I?

Tired and exhausted, and almost suffocated by the water and blood that flowed from my tongue, I turned upon my back, but sunk deep in the water from the weight of my jacket and trousers, and thus floated at the will of the swell, that often almost turned me over. I attempted to pray, but could not collect my thoughts. All I could say was, "Lord be merciful to me—a sinner!" I almost felt as if already dead; for all energy had fled, both mental and bodily; and the little I did to place me on my back, when the surge turned me over, seemed the involuntary efforts of sinking nature. In this state I was aroused from my stupor by my coming in contact with a hard body. I stretched forth one of my hands, which had been crossed upon my breast, and grasped it with the energy of despair. It was a large hencoop, which had been thrown over in the hope that I might reach it until the boat arrived. New life began to revive in my heart. I got upon it; and, taking my silk neckerchief from my neck, which I fortunately had on when I fell, lashed myself to it. My thoughts now became, in some degree, collected, and a slight beam cheered the gloom of that fearful night, as I floated, a miserable speck of human nature, on that boundless, unfathomable waste of troubled waters. I thought that I was not forgot by my Creator, who had in his mercy sent me this assurance in my last extremity, frail as it was, to be the means of my deliverance. It was now that my whole soul poured forth in prayer; and tears, not of anguish, but of love and gratitude, flowed from my eyes, as I was drifted along before the wind, and tossed by the waves. Through that long and dreadful night, nothing but this pious feeling could have sustained me; for my limbs were benumbed and cramped; my tongue still almost filled my mouth, and pained me.

Day at length dawned; but it did not bring with it renewed hope. I had prayed and longed for it, in the expectation that I might be seen and picked up by some vessel; but my heart did not rise in my bosom as the beams of the sun shot over the waters around me. No sight met my eyes but the sky, bounded at a short distance around by my low position in the water. The breeze had considerably abated, the sea was much smoother, and the fears of a lingering death by hunger and thirst began to assail me. As the morning advanced, my faith in my deliverance began to fail, and terrible thoughts crowded upon my mind. I tremble yet when I revert to them. It seemed as if the great tempter of mankind had been with me in this hour of trial, and whispered in my ears thoughts foreign to my nature. I even began to doubt the mercy and goodness of God; despair was again busy with me, and my clasp-knife suggested a short and ready remedy for my misery. I clutched it in my hand, and opened it; but my hand was stayed; my feelings had again undergone a revolution. I dropped the instrument, and wept. I now thought I heard a rushing sound in the air, and looked up. An immense albatross, with his huge extended wings, was suspended over me, attracted by the strange sight I exhibited. In any other situation, would I have been alarmed at the sight of a bird? Now, my heart sunk when I saw the creature circling high above my head. I thought he was examining the object previous to his pouncing upon it. I thought he might strike my head, and my woes would be ended: he might alight, and tear me piece by piece with his strong-hooked bill. The terror of the waters was merged in that of my new enemy; and such is man, that, though I had reconciled myself to the one, I felt my courage and resolution rise within me when I saw a visible and tangible enemy to grapple with. His circles round me became more and more narrow; and, as he descended, I seized my open knife. This precaution was, doubtless, unnecessary. The bird probably only wanted to ascertain what strange inhabitant of the waters now appeared to it. Still, however, it kept up its surveillance, receding now by large circles, and again approaching me, only again to betake itself to a greater distance, and again to renew its approach. I cannot tell how long this continued: but a full hour, at least, must have passed—during all which time I remained under the unaccountable apprehension that I would, unless I defended myself, fall a victim to this gigantic bird of prey. At length he took a long sweep, and I saw him sailing away on his solitary journey, as if he despised the poor object he had left alone on the waste of waters.

From the scorching rays upon the exposed part of my body, I began to suffer much, and my thirst became excessive; my strength gradually declined, and by the time the sun reached his meridian, I had again made up my mind to my fate, commending my soul to its Maker, through my Redeemer. I closed my eyes, as I thought, for ever upon all earthly things. I had lain thus only a short time, when, raising myself up as far as I could upon my raft, and gazing around upon what I thought was to be my tomb, an involuntary cry of joy burst from me. There was a vessel in sight; my weakness and misery were forgot. I saw them lower a boat; and from that moment my mind became a tumult of thoughts and sensations, which I have often since attempted in vain to analyse. The horrors of my late situation were still upon me, and I could with difficulty persuade myself that my delivery was real.

So exquisitely soothing was the feeling that now possessed me, that I feared to open my eyes or move, lest I might break the spell that was upon me, and awaken in the misery I had so lately endured. But I even tired of enjoyment, for my position became irksome. I attempted to turn, but the effort was so painful, that a groan escaped me. A gentle hand wiped the perspiration from my brow, and inquired if I wished to be turned. The sound of that voice was like a beam of light upon my bewildered mind. I opened my eyes, and saw a young female in widow's weeds standing by the side of my cot.

"Generous being," I said, "is it to you that I owe my deliverance?"

A sad smile passed over her face as she gazed at me, and said, "I am happy to see you restored to recollection; but you must not speak." And she gently withdrew from the side of the cot.

I wished much to make inquiries; but felt so weak that I did not persist, but sunk again into the same dreamy state. It is of no use detailing the events of the few days that were passed in this helpless state. By the kind nursing of the female and the kindness of the captain, I slowly recovered, and learned that, by the merest accident, I had been discovered by them as I floated upon the waves; and that, had I not been seen to move when I had raised myself up, they would have passed me; and that I was now on board the Betsy and Ann of Leith, bound from Quebec to that port. My heart overflowed with love and gratitude to that merciful God who had delivered me; for what the kind captain called accident, I felt in my heart was his loving-kindness; now I firmly believe there is no such thing as what men call chance or accident. We are taught by Scripture that all things are ordered and directed by the Creator of the universe, from the fall of a sparrow to the fall of an empire; and, in the eye of Omnipotence, nothing is great or small, all being directed to one great end.

I was now able to leave my cot for a short time, but not the cabin. The young widow was ever by my side, to minister to my wants. I felt much for her sorrows, which she bore with pious resignation; but I had no power to minister to her comforts as my gratitude prompted me, when I observed her, as I lay in my cot, weeping in silence, when she thought me asleep. It was the third day after I was picked up, as I sat in the cabin, and felt myself much recovered, that I gave her an account of my leaving home, and my adventures since. She sat and listened with interest, and seemed much affected by my account of my friend, James Walden. She sighed heavily as I proceeded, and her tears fell fast. When I mentioned his untimely death, she uttered a piercing cry, and fell insensible upon the floor. I cried loudly for help; and her servant and the captain, who were on deck, came quickly to my aid. After some time she recovered, but was so ill that she was forced to be put to bed by her maid. Her mind seemed quite unsettled by what I had said of my friend's death; for she spoke strangely and incoherently, unconscious of what she uttered; often repeating, "James, I shall never see you more. How could I hope? I wished, but dared not hope, humbled as I was—yet frown not on me so; I am more to be pitied than hated." Thus she continued during the greater part of the day.

Towards evening, she became more composed, but was so ill that she could not leave the state-room without the support of her servant, which she did contrary to the remonstrances of the captain; only replying—

"What is life now to me but a dreary blank? O that I were at rest under these rolling waves! O Mr Elder! have you strength to tell me all you know of James before my heart bursts?"

I could myself have wept; but her eyes were dry, yet heavy and languid; her face pale as marble, with a ghastly composure upon it, more heart-moving than clamorous grief. Again I went over every circumstance, and concluded by regretting the prayer-book, as the only article I valued, left on board. She heard me the second time without altering a muscle of her face. When I finished, she said—

"I was Matilda Everard; these fingers wrote the name upon the prayer-book, which I gave to James Everard, my cousin. Walden was the name of his mother; he was an orphan, the ward of my father; I am an only daughter. We were brought up together. I was my father's only child—an heiress; he had little more than his own abilities to depend upon. I was a spoiled child, thoughtless and volatile. I loved him then as a brother. He was some years older than I; he loved me as never man loved woman. I sported with his misery; for I knew not love. My father discovered his passion, and banished him from the house. I regretted him as a brother—no, not as a brother—as a playmate. His feelings of honour were so high, he took no covert means to meet me again; but I saw him often at church, and elsewhere. I used to kiss my hand to him; but we never exchanged words. Urged by my father, I married a rich merchant. He was much older than I. The cold, haughty, and money-making habits of my husband first turned my thoughts to James. I contrasted the joy that used to beam in his eyes, when I smiled upon him, with the indifference of my husband; and my love, once that of a sister, became all that James could have desired, had I been still a maid. Upon my marriage, James disappeared. Neither my father nor any one else knew where he had gone. It is now three years—long, long years—since then. Circumstances called my husband to Quebec, that, if not looked after, might involve him in ruin. Jealous and morose, he took me with him. Months of misery I dragged on there. My husband sickened and died. I am now on my way to my father; but I feel we shall never meet. My heart, I feel, is broken, and life ebbs fast. Farewell! and may you be blessed for your kindness to James. Bury me in the waves; I long to sleep by his side."

Having taken farewell of the captain, she retired, and we never saw her again in life. Some time after, agreeable to her request, she slept with James under the waves of the Atlantic. For some days I was much affected by the melancholy event; but my spirits, with my health, gradually returned. A few weeks more would bring me to my father's house, and I resolved never again to trust to any political prognosticator, even of my own father, for I had never known him so much deceived before. I had been eighteen months away, and the war, so far from being over, was, if possible, fiercer than ever; and the democrats of France were carrying murder and desolation wherever their armies went.

---

THE ANGLER'S TALE.

Never did boy long more anxiously for the arrival of the happy day which was to free him from the trammels of school discipline than I, a grey-haired man, always do for the return of bright and beautiful summer—that happy season when all nature seems to sympathise with the fortunate citizen who can escape from the confinement, bustle, and excitement of the crowded haunts of men, to soothe his spirit and forget his cares amid the beautiful scenery and calm retirement of the country. I always allow myself, if possible, a holiday in the summer months; and with rod in hand, and knapsack on back, I wander wherever whim or chance may lead me. Oh! the delight I experience, when the city is left far behind me!—the buoyancy, the springiness of feeling, with which I whistle along my path, rejoicing in my freedom! The very birds seem to welcome me with their song; the fields, the streams, all seem breathing of delight; I forget my grey hairs; and the spirit of youth and the freshness of youthful feeling are again upon me.

In one of my fishing excursions, a few years since, I became accidentally acquainted with a worthy farmer of the name of Thompson, who lived on the banks of the Esk, in the neighbourhood of the beautifully-situated town of Langholm. He was a good, though by no means a rare, specimen of the class of men to which he belonged—a shrewd, sensible, well-informed man, frank and friendly in his address, and with an air of quiet, unobtrusive independence.

He made up to me with such kindness and hospitality, and was so cordial and pressing in urging me to repeat my visit, that I have ever since made his comfortable house my head-quarters during the fishing season. His cottage was beautifully situated on a gentle rise, surrounded by lofty trees; immediately below ran the winding Esk, dashing and foaming over a bed of limestone, and spanned, at a short distance, by a lofty bridge of one arch, commanding a view of the ruins of the famed tower of Gilnockie. The neat and cheerful exterior of the cottage bespoke comfort and plenty within; and kinder and more hospitable people never existed than its inmates. Elsie Thompson, the good-wife, in her plain but neat "mournings," and her close white mutch, mild and gentle in her manner, looked the very personification of benevolence and hospitality. She had been a very handsome woman; but the hand of affliction had been heavy upon her, and had left its marks upon her careworn features: four of her children had been carried off by a contagious disorder, and her sole remaining comfort, besides her husband, was her daughter.

Ellen was one of the loveliest creatures my eye ever rested upon. Hers was a face of sunny beauty. The braids of her rich brown hair rested upon a brow of more than common whiteness, from beneath which her large blue eyes sparkled with the light of pure and innocent joyousness. The whole of her features bore the impress of light-hearted mirth; and yet at times a passing shade of sadness flitted across them, which, while it softened their beauty, gave an additional charm to their expression. But it was not Ellen's beauty alone that rendered her interesting: a kinder-hearted, more attentive and affectionate daughter never existed; her whole soul seemed to be wrapped up in her parents; her every action had reference to some wish or habit of theirs. She was equally exemplary in the performance of all her household duties, and was the pride and blessing of her parents.

Ellen and I soon became intimate; for, in the country, untrammelled by the forms of etiquette, acquaintance soon ripens into friendship. Fortunate was it for me that my days of romance were over, or she would have been a dangerous companion; as it was, I could gaze upon her as I would upon a beautiful picture, admiringly, not lovingly. Many a happy evening have I spent, sitting in the mild summer sunset, under the shade of the large beech-tree at Edward Thompson's door, listening to the brawling of the foaming waters, with Ellen by my side. It was at such times that I more particularly remarked the melancholy I have before mentioned. Her thoughts were evidently far from the scene she looked upon, and a tear would sometimes steal down her cheek. Whenever I asked her the occasion of her grief, she would answer, with a languid attempt at a smile, "Oh, naething ava!" and immediately began to talk in a strain of forced liveliness and indifference. I saw that she had some secret cause of unhappiness; but, as she did not volunteer her confidence, I did not consider myself justified in attempting to force it, and set her unhappiness down in my own mind to that general and all-powerful disturber of youthful feelings—love for some absent one.

Last summer, I had been engaged in my favourite amusement of fishing, and had wandered some distance down the Esk, when certain inner warnings admonished me that it was time to recruit my energies. As I am rather an epicure, however, and enjoy my crust with more gout, the more beautiful the scenery by which I am surrounded, I resisted the cravings of appetite until I had reached a situation the beauty of which tempted my stay, and then, laying my rod on the bank, I proceeded to examine the contents of my knapsack. It was high noon; but the sun was partially shrouded by light fleecy clouds, and threw a softened light on the green bank on which I seated myself. Immediately at my feet ran the clear stream, fringed a little higher up with willows and trees of a larger growth; opposite to me were the rich woods and lawns of Netherby; to the left, on the other side of the river, was a picturesque, ivy-covered, turreted building, called the fishing tower; to the right, far down the river, were seen the bridge and buildings of Longtown; and in the distance, the beautiful hills of Cumberland. The high-road was only a few yards distant, immediately behind me; but I was shut out from its view by a substantial stone wall, with a neat gate opening to the water-side. Scarcely had I seated myself, when I heard the sound of coming footsteps on the high-road. The sound ceased; and, turning round, I saw a traveller looking over the green gate behind me. I am a great disciple of Lavater, and flatter myself, notwithstanding the many mistakes I have been led into, that I can sometimes read a man's countenance, almost as well as a "written book." To me, a good countenance is always a letter of recommendation, and one to which, in spite of the whisperings of prudence, I always pay instant attention. There was something particularly prepossessing in the countenance and appearance of the stranger. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, with a laughing dark eye, hair black as the raven's wing, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to sun and clime. He was dressed like a sailor, in a neat blue jacket, a narrow-rimmed glazed hat, and with a small bundle on the stick over his shoulder. Seeing me look round, and encouraged, I suppose, by the friendly interest with which I regarded him, he remarked upon the fineness of the day, and asked if I had had good sport.

"Yes," replied I, "tolerable; and now I have a tolerable appetite. Will you come and join my mess?"

"Thank ye kindly, sir—wi' a' my heart. I've travelled far to-day, and I'll be a' the better of an elevener."[4]

After a hearty and simple meal, washed down with a dram of Connal's best,[5] and a draught of pure river water, I lighted my cigar, and, giving my new messmate one, to keep me in countenance, I lounged in luxurious ease upon my grassy couch, while he seated himself with modest frankness beside me.

"Your face tells of other climates, my friend," says I; "it was not an English sun that bronzed it thus."

"It's five years noo, sir, sin' I left the banks o' the bonny Esk; and weel ye ken that a wanderer by land and sea sees mair in a year than a man that aye sits at the ingle-cheek will in his lifetime. Gude be thankit, I haena felt muckle care or sorrow mysel! but I hae had my ain share o' hardships."

"You seem not to have forgot your mother-tongue, however. You are a native of this part of the country, I suppose?"

"I am, sir; and though I've been lang aneugh amang the Englishers to hae been half English mysel, I couldna mak up my mouth to speak their daft-like lingo; and noo the sicht o' my ain dear river, the thocht that I'm but a few miles frae my ain hame, has dung what little I did ken o't clean oot o' my head."

"I wonder you are not in a greater hurry to get onwards," said I. "I think, if I were in your situation, I should be eager to reach my home as soon as possible."

"Oh, sir, I maun gang and see puir Geordie Gordon's folk before I gang hame. It's ill news I hae to tell them, and I maun wait till the gloamin."

"And who is Geordie Gordon?"

"He was the kindest-hearted o' messmates, and the best o' freends. A better seaman, or a kinder, never stepped atween stem and stern o' a ship. Puir Geordie!" And he hastily passed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes.

"Suppose you let me hear some of your adventures," said I; "it will pass away the time, and I should like much to know something of the ways of you sailors, and the customs on board a ship."

"Oh, sir, I hae nae adventures to tell. Could you but hae heard puir Geordie—he was the lad for spinning yarns, as we ca' it."

"Well, but you can tell me what took you first to sea, and what you thought of the life of a sailor after you had joined a ship."

"Weel, sir! I'll just begin at the beginning, and tell ye a' aboot it; and if ye're wearied wi' my clavers, ye maun just tell me:—"

There was a large family o' us, and a happy family we were—for my faither was an industrious farmer, weel to do in the world, and weel respeckit by a' wha kenned him; and my mither was a kind-hearted, worthy woman, wha dearly lo'ed us a', but never let her luve blind her to our fauts. She aye taught us that idleness was the root o' a' mischief, and that we needna fear man as lang's we did our duty to our Maker.

I was about seventeen when Geordie Gordon cam hame frae the sea, to see his folk, wha lived in our parishen. A heartsome and a weel-faured lad was Geordie, wi' a merry ee, and a laugh—I maist think I hear't noo—that cam ringing frae the heart. He was a favourite wi' auld and young; and mony was the bright ee that blinked o'er on him as he sat in the kirk wi' his roun blue jacket, and his checkit sark, and his smiling happy face. Jenny Birrel was his sweetheart; a blithe lass and a bonny was Jenny, and guid as she was bonny. Wae'll be her heart when she hears what has happened her Joe!

Weel, sir, I was like the lave—I likit Geordie, and Geordie likit me, and we were aye thegither. It garred my vera heart loup to hear him spin yarns, as he ca'd it, about the dangers he had escapit, and the unco sichts he had seen; till, frae less to mair, I felt an eager wish to gang wi' him on his neist voyage, and to witness the wonders o' the deep, and to veesit forran lands. Besides, I saw that a' the lassies thocht mair o'ane who had been leading a life o' danger and hardship, than o' the douce lads wha keepit following the pleuch, or thumping wi' the flail a' the days o' their lives. And I thocht that my ain wee Joe wad lo'e me better, and that I micht earn something to mak us comfortable; and that, after I had seen a' the ferlies o' forran lans, I wad come hame laden wi' braws to mak her my wife. Bonny wee thing! I wonder if she minds me yet! In storm, in darkness, in danger, I never forgot her.

Sair did my mither greet when I tell't her I was for awa wi' Geordie; and aft, aft did she beg me to change my min'.

"Stay at hame, Tam, my bairn," said she, "and tak care o' yer auld mither. A' the lave are gane but yersel, and if ye gang too, what'll become o' us!" But I wadna be persuaded; the spirit o' change was upon me, and gang I wad.

"I winna hinder ye, my bairn," said my faither; "if yer min' is made up to gang for a sailor, gang, and His blessing gang wi' ye. Ye'll be as safe in the midst o' the raging sea as ye wad be by yer ain fireside, as lang's ye trust in Him."

But the warst was to come. I maist repented o' my determination when I gaed for the last time to the trysting tree, whar I had sae aft met my dear lassie. She was there, wi' her face buried in her hans, sabbing as if her young heart would break. Oh, sir, it was a sad sicht to me!

It was a bonny nicht: the moon was at the full, and the stars were a' glinting roun' her; there wasna a cloud, but on our ain hearts; the hail holm was ae bleeze o' licht, amaist as licht as day; the leaves were just soughing o'er our heads; and the soun' o' the burn wimpling near us cam clear upon our ears. Our hearts were owre sair for muckle speaking; she sabbit, and I tried to comfort her—but a' in vain. I wanted comfort mysel; and at last I could stan' it nae langer—I just grat in company.

But this couldna last for lang. We vowed to be leal to ilk ither; and, wi' ae last kiss, I forced mysel awa.

Neist morn, Geordie Gordon and I took foot in han' and awa to Leith, and frae that worked our passage to Lunnon. Weel, sir, it's an awsome bit that Lunnon! The streets just like hedgeraws, and the kirk steeples like poplar-trees; and then the folk as thrang on the planestanes on a week-day as if a' the kirks were scaling at ance! Ye'll hae been in Lunnon, I'se warran, sir? Min', I'm just telling ye hoo I thocht and felt then, for I ken better sin' syne. Then the ships a' crooding on ane anither, like sheep in a fauld, their masts as thick as the trees in yon wud: and the muckle barges wi' but ae man to guide them; and the wee bit cockleshells o' wherries skimming alang, loaded wi' passengers sitting amaist upon the water; and the noise o' men, and the thunner o' carriages, and the smoke o' ten thousand chimlas! 'Od, sir, I used to think Car'il a grand toun, but it's naething ava to Lunnon.

Weel, sir, ae day, Geordie and me were walkin on a place they ca' Tower Hill—whar there's a grand auld castle they ca' the Tower o' Lunnon, where they say a sodger chiel, o' the name o' Julius Cæsar, was beheadit langsyne, in the time o' ane o' our auld Scottish kings—when a weel-faured, sonsy-looking chiel, dressed like a provost, wi' a hat on his head might serve a duke, cam up till us, and seeing us glowering aboot, and just doing naething ava, began colloquying wi' us.

"It's a fine day, my lads," said he, looking as blithe as the sun in a May morning. "You seem to be strangers in London. I like your honest looks; and, as I am an idler myself, I will go with you, if you like, and show you the lions."

"The lions! 'od, sir, are there ony lions hereawa?" said I.

"Many that you know nothing of," said he, stuffing his pocket-napkin into his mouth, to keep the dust oot, I thocht. "Come with me, and we'll drink to our better acquaintance."

Wi' that he taks us into a bit public near by, and tells us to ca' for what we likit; and then he crackit awa, and was unco jocose and blithe.

"Have you got plenty of money, lads?" said he at last. And we lookit like twa fules, for Geordie had but twa shillins left, and I had nae mair mysel. He saw, for he had a gleg ee in his head, that we werna weel provided; so cried he, "Never mind, my boys—I'll stand treat; the landlord o' this house is my friend; you can have whatever you call for, and stay with him as long as you like."

Wi' that he ca'ed for mair drink; and, frae ae thing to anither, what wi' laughing and drinking, we got gey and fou, and were weel pleased to win till oor beds.

"Troth, Geordie, lad," says I, "I think we've lichted on oor feet this time; it's no every day in the week we'll meet sic a freend."

"I dinna ken what to mak o' him," said Geordie, wha kenned mair aboot the warld than mysel, as he had been three years sailing atween Dumfries and America; "he's owre ceevil by half. I've aye heard tell that there's a set o' born deevils in Lunnon. It's a' vera weel as far as it's gane; but I'm feared for the aftercome."

Weel, the neist morning, oor kind freend ordered breakfast for us, and then asked us if we'd like to tak a walk and look aboot us. "But," said he, "you must have better toggery than that you have on." And wi' that he took us into a shop, where he ordered a jacket and trousers for each o' us; and, when we had putten them on, we cam oot, looking as braw as the best. In the coorse o' oor cracks, we had tell't him we wanted to go to forran parts.

"Well," said he, "there's a fine East Indiaman at Gravesend, just going to sail for China. I can get you a berth on board of her."

Now, though Geordie and I were baith keen to gang to sea, yet we wanted to choose oor ain ship; and, besides, we had resolved no to gang in ane o' the East India Company's ships; for the lads on board the smack, coming frae Leith, had tell't us to keep clear o' the Indiamen, for that they were manned wi' the sweepings o' Newgate, and that there was mair flogging on board o' them than in the navy.

"We're no for sailing in a Company's ship, sir," said I; "we'll choose for oursels."

"Very well, lads," said he; "but before we part, we must 'square yards,' if you please. Pay me what you owe me." And, wi' that, he pulls oot a bill as lang's my airm, for sae muckle meat, sae lang lodging, and sae muckle for claithes.

"'Od, sir," said I, "did ye no treat us? Ye ken vera weel we haena a bodle to pay ye wi'."

"Then you must either tramp to prison, or go on board the Indiaman. What say you?"

"Weel, if we maun gang, we maun, and there's an end o't; but ye ha'ena behaved to us like a gentleman and a Christian."

"A gentleman and a Christian!" said he, girning; "why, you Scotch noodle, I'm a crimp!"

("And what, in the name of wonder, is a crimp?" said I, interrupting Tom in his long-winded story.

"A crimp, sir!" said Tom; "d'ye no ken what's a crimp? Why, sir, a crimp is, ye ken—a crimp is—hoot, he's just a crimp."[6]

"Very satisfactory, certainly," replied I. "However, go on with your story.")

Neist morning, Geordie and I, wi' mony ithers, were put into a Gravesend boat, and sent down tae a bit ca'ed Northfleet, whar the Indiaman was lying at the buoys. She was the first large ship I'd ever seen—and eh! but I was astonished. I hae seen mony a ane since, and far bigger anes; but she aye seems to my min' the biggest o' them a'. She was ca'd the True Briton; and grand she did look, wi' her tall masts, and her colours a' fleeing abroad, and the muckle guns peeping out o' the holes in her sides they ca' ports. When we speeled up her sides, it was maist like munting a hill; and when we got on board, I was fairly 'mazed, and stood glowring frae the gangway as if I were bewitched, till a chiel, wi' a face like a foumart, and a siller pipe hanging round his neck wi' a black riband (he was a boatswain's mate), ca'd out to me—

"What are you staring at, you great fool? Come down from the gangway!"

And wi' that he gied me a pu' by the jacket, that maist garred me fa' on the deck. My bluid was up in a moment; and I was just gaun to gie him as guid's he brocht, when Geordie, wha was at my elbow, said—

"Haud yer hand, Tam! Never heed him. Do as ye see me do."

Wi' that he touched his hat to an officer who was walking the deck and tell't him that we wished to ship as seamen.

"Can you hand, reef, steer, and heave the lead, my man?" said he.

"Yes, sir," said George; "but this callant has never been to sea afore."

"Oh, then, he won't do for us; besides, he is too light a hand. How long have you been at sea?"

"Six years, sir—three in a collier, and three in a Dumfries trader to America. But, if Tom here is not shipped, I'll no go either."

"Well, you are a smart, stout-looking fellow yourself; and, as we want a boy or two, we'll take Tom, too, as you call him. Midshipman, take these men to the doctor."

"Ay, ay, sir!" said a smart wee boy, wi' a gilt loop and cockade in his hat—"follow me, my lads!"

"What in a' the yirth is the doctor gaun to do till us? He's no gaun to put a mark upon us, is he, Geordie?" whispered I.

"Whisht, ye great gowk!" was a' the answer I got; and I followed, as I thocht, like a lamb to the slaughter, doun a ladder, till anither flat deck, where a' the officers' cabins were.

'Od, sir, I never was sae astonished in a' my days! It was just like a street in a toun; the cabins, on each side, like raws o' houses; and, farder on, as far as ane could see, a raw o' muckle guns a' standing abreast. It was unco low o'erhead, and I maist brak my head twice or thrice or I won to the doctor's cabin. 'Od, I've aften laughed sin' syne, to think how queer everything lookit to me then!

Weel, sir, the doctor felt our pulses, and lookit in our mouths, and punchit us in the ribs, and examined us just as a horse-dealer wad a beast, to see gin we war sound, wind and limb. And when he was satisfied—

"Mr Noodle," said he to the midshipman, "tell Mr Douglas these men will do."

And awa we gaed up the ladder again.

The ship was only waiting for men to mak up her complement; and, as we were the last, we signed the contract for the voyage, and received twa months' pay as arles. Our kind freend, the crimp, was waiting at the pay-table wi' his bill, and sune eased us o' maist o' our money. The morning after, two steamboats cam alangside, and were lashed to the ship; we cut from the buoy, and in a few minutes the ship was whirring doun the water wi' twa lang cluds o' smoke fleeing awa ahint, and the red ensign just glinting now and then through them in the sunshine. We cam to anchor at a place they ca' the Lower Hope; and in the afternoon the boatswain and his three mates went about chirping wi' their siller pipes, and ca'in, "All hands to muster, ahoy!" and the men a' cam skelping up frae below, and went on the quarterdeck, where the officers were a' standing on the ane side, and the men ranged themsels on the ither.

"All up, sir," said the third mate, touching his hat to the chief.

"Very well—go on, steward." And the ship's steward ca'd out the names o' a' the men, and they went round the capstan, touching their hats as they answered. The chief mate afterwards tell't them a' their stations, for reefing, furling, and tacking, and divided them into starboard and larboard watches. Geordie Gordon being an able seaman, and a smart, active chiel, was made a forecastle-man, and I was stationed in the mizzentop.

At daylight neist morning we were roused out o' our hammocks by the boatswain and his mates calling out on the upper-deck, "All hands up anchor, ahoy! Up all hammocks, ahoy!" And then they cam doun below, and made noise aneugh to wauken the dead or my auld deaf grannie, crying, "Tumble up! tumble up!—show a leg!—lash and carry!" (Meaning the hammocks.) Then the men jumpit out, and began hurrying on their claes, and lashing up their hammocks. I had never been in a hammock afore that nicht, and I had just been dreaming o' hame, when I was waukened by the noise as if a' the deevils had broken loose, and I started up and jumpit out o' my ain bed at hame, as I thocht, but I cam doun wi' sic a thud on the deck as maist brak my head.

As soon as the hammocks were a' up, and put awa in the nettings on deck, the capstan bars were shipped and manned, and the chief mate shouted down the hatchway—

"Are you all ready there below?"

"All ready, sir!" replied the third mate.

"Heave taut for unbitting!"

As soon as the cable was unbitted, "Heave round!" was the cry from the lower-deck.

"Heave round!" said the mate; "step out, my hearts!"

The fifes struck up "The girl I left behind me," the men stamped round the capstan with a cheerful, steady step, and in a very short time the cable was nearly up and doun.

"Up and down, sir!" shouted the boatswain from the forecastle.

"Heave and paul!" cried the chief mate. "Out bars, out bars! bear a hand, my lads!—Up there, topmen—loose sails! Send everybody up from below to make sail!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

Eh! but I was dumfoundered to see the lads rinning up the rigging like sae mony monkeys. And while I was standing glowering at them, a young midshipman ca'd to me, "Holloa! you, Wilson!—don't you know you're a mizzentopman?—Spin up and loose the topsail!"

"Me gang up, sir!—I canna, sir, I'd tumble."

"Can't, sir! there's no such word on board ship. Up you go; and if you're afraid of falling, hold on with your teeth!"

"So I was obleeged to gang up; but I was a' in a tremble, and just was up to the top in time to creep doun again; for the sails were a' loose, and a' the lads coming doun. Eh! hoo the sailors did laugh at me! But, in a fortnight's time, there wasna ane amang them could lay saut on my tail. But what's the use o' my fashing yer honour wi' a' thae idle clavers? Nae doot ye're tired o' them already."

"Oh no, Tom!" said I, "go on; I am much amused, I assure you; but you'd better moisten your lips out of my flask before you go on."

"Thank ye, sir!"

Eh, but I thocht it a bonny sicht, when I lookit frae the rigging, where I was hauding on wi' a' my fingers, like a fleyed kitlin, to see the men a' lying oot on the different yards, loosening the rapes that keep the sails rowed up—(they ca' them gaskets). Then the chief mate cried oot, "Are you all ready there, forward!"

"All ready, sir."

"Are you ready in the maintop?"

"All ready, sir."

"Ready abaft?"

"All ready, sir."

"Let fall!"—And then the boatswain and his mates gied a loud skirl wi' their pipes, and doun cam a' the sails flaffing at ane and the same time; and in five minutes the masts that lookit afore as bare as trees in winter, were a' cled in canvas frae tap to bottom. Weel, sir, the sails were a' set, and just swelled out bonnily wi' the light breeze, and the yards were trimmed, as they ca' it, for casting.

"Man the capstan bars!" shouted the chief mate. "Hold on there below!"

"All ready, sir!—heave round!" And away went the men again to the soun o' the fife, till the boatswain gied a loud chirrup wi' his pipe, as much as to say the anchor was up; and the paul o' the capstan clinkit, and the bars were ta'en oot, and the men ran aboot a' gaets as they war ordered, and the anchor was made fast, and in a short time the ship was snooving through the water, bobbing and frisking like a fine leddy dressed in a' her braws in a kintra dance.

'Od, sir, a muckle ship's a queer thing when ye come to think on't; it's just, for a' the warl, like a toun afloat. If ye gang to the ane end, ye hear the quacking o' ducks, and the cheep-cheeping o' turkeys, and the crawing o' cocks;—gang to the ither, and there's the baaing o' sheep, and the grumphing o' pigs, and the kye rowting as natural like as if they war in a farm-steading at hame. Then there's Jemmy Ducks, a kind o' henwife, only he's a man; and a butcher, and a baker, and cooks, and carpenters, and joiners, and sail-makers, and blacksmiths (armourers they ca' them), and a smiddy, and a' things like a place on shore. Then, if ye want yer shoon clouted, or yer jacket mendit, or yer hair clippit, ye're safe to fin' tailors, and cobblers, and shavers amang the crew.

We had a vera crooded ship; there war near five hundred sodgers, wi' some o' their wives, on board; and an awfu time we had on't at first.

We had just got fairly oot into the Channel, whan it beguid to blaw great guns, as they say, and the sail was a' taen in but the maintopsail, and the ship tossed and tumbled in the water like a strong man warstlin wi' his enemy. Whiles an awfu sea, as big's a hill-side, wad come rampaging and raining doun upon her, as if it was gaun to swallow her up a'thegither; and, wi' an awsome thud agen her bow, wad send a shower o' thick spray owre her hail length; then she tumbled owre, graining and maning like a leeving thing, till her side went deep into the water, as if she war never gaun to rise mair; then up she wad come again, whirring, and roll owre the tither way, dauring the sea, as 'twere, to anither tussle, while the lang masts were whisking aboot as if they wad sweep the heavens abune oor heads.

The sodgers, puir bodies, were doun on the lowest deck—they ca't the hollup (orlop)—wi' nae licht nor air but what cam doun the hatchways, so that we were obliged to keep the hatch off, and every time a sea struck the ship, a great body o' water ran doun below, till the hollup was rinning maist foot deep; and there were the puir mithers sitting hauding on by the stanchions in the midst o' the deck, and trying to catch the helpless bit weans as they were carried frae side to side by the rolling o' the ship and the rushing o' the water. Eh, it was a sad sicht to see the bits o' things! Mony a puir wean died afterwards.

I could tell ye a feck o' queer things about the voyage; but I hae nae time enow. But I'll just tell ye twa bit stories, ane about a sodger, and the ither about puir Geordie Gordon; they baith affected me much at the time.

Amang the sodgers there was a serjeant—a colour-serjeant, they ca'd him—wha was weel likit by a' the crew. His name was George Hastie; he was a weel-faured, douce, canny body, wi' twa mitherless weans.

Oh, but it was a pleasant sicht to see how carefu he was o' the bairns!—and bonny bairns they were. He kamed their hair, and washed the bit faces and hands, and keepit them aye as trig and clean as their ain mither could hae dune. There was a wee bit shuffling luftennan on board, wha likit his glass weel, and aye lookit twa inches taller after denner, and as proud as a wee bantam cock. Weel, ae day the puir serjeant, what wi' the heat o' the day and the strength o' the grog, was a thocht the waur o' drink, and was maybe no exactly sae respectfu to the bit offisher as he sud hae been; and—I kenna hoo it was, but he was had afore a court-martial, and the stripes were taen aff the airm o' his coat, and he was reduced to the ranks to do duty as a common sentry. Puir fallow! we were a' terrible ill-pleased about it, and nane mair than the vera offishers that condemned him.

Eight days after cam the 23d of April, when the king's birth-day, that's dead, was keepit. At daylicht in the morning, in place o' the drums and fifes striking up what the sodgers ca' the revilly, the hail band o' music—twenty-twa instruments, forby drums—beguid playing, "God Save the King," the colours o' the regiment were fleeing on the poop, and the offishers a' dressed oot in their gran coats. After breakfast, the leddies—bless their blithe looks and bonny faces!—war a' walking up and doun the poop, when the bugles sounded to parade, and a' the sodgers fell in on the quarterdeck. A grand set o' fallows they war—as neat and clean as if they'd just turned oot o' a barrack-yard, wi' their belts as white as snaw, and their brass muntings glinting in the sun, quite dazzling to look at. They war formed into three sides o' a square, as near as micht be, and the colonel and a' the offishers were standing at the open end, a' in full dress. The colonel's breast was just covered a' owre wi' orders.

When the men war a' settled, there was a dead silence; and the onlookers wondered what was coming neist.

"Call Private George Hastie of Captain Thomas's company to the front," said the colonel. And oot afore them a' steppit puir Hastie, pale as a sheet, but firm, erect, and sodger-like.

"George Hastie," said the colonel, "I have been induced, by the solicitations of the ladies, and of the captain and officers of the ship, as well as by the wishes of your own officers, to pardon the transgression of military discipline of which you have been guilty, and to restore you to the rank of flag-serjeant. I hope your temporary degradation will act as a warning to you for the future, and that you will not again run the risk of forfeiting the good opinion which, I am happy to say, your officers have hitherto had of you."

Wi' that, oot whiskit the regimental tailor, and in a jiffey the bit stripes war on Geordie's arm, and he was a made man again.

He just touched his cap to the colonel, puir chiel, and said nought; but a tear cam intil his ee, and gaed stealing owre his cheek, that spak mair and better than words could hae dune. Everybody was delighted at his restoration; it was an act o' mercy wordy o' the occasion;—the king's birth-day couldna hae been better celebrated. The sodgers war then dismissed, and gaed below; and in the evening the band was up, and an extra pint o' grog, to drink the king's health, was served out; and there was naething but joy and diversion from ae end o' the ship to the ither. Sae much for George Hastie! And noo I maun tell ye aboot puir Geordie.

One evening we war comin near ane o' the shoals that's put doun in the chart—but it wasna weel kent whether there really was ane there or no—and the captain cam oot aboot sax in the evening, and tell't the offisher o' the watch to shorten sail, and hae a' ready for lowering the larboard cutter. I was standing on the poop at the time, and heard him gie the order.

Weel, sir, we beguid to shorten sail, while the cutter's crew were clearing awa the boat. We took in a' the stun-sails, and hauled up the courses, and furled the royals; then the mainyard was laid aback, and the boat was lowered and hauled up to the gangway. Geordie Gordon was ane o' the crew o' the boat—and sax o' the finest young lads in the ship they war. Ane o' the mates and a midshipman were sent in the boat, wi' orders to mak sail, and keep ahead o' the ship, sounding for the shoal. They had a compass, twa or three muskets, and some blue lichts for signals, wi' them.

It was a fine evening; a licht, steady breeze was blawing, and the ship, under her topgallantsails, was gaun aboot four knots an hour through the water; and the wee boat danced merrily owre the waves a gey bit ahead, wi' her white sails glinting in the sun, like the wings o' a bonny sea-bird.

Whan the darkening cam on, the captain, afore he turned in, said to the offisher o' the watch, "Keep your eye on the boat, Mr Bowline, and on no account let the ship go faster through the water than she does at present. Let me know if the boat makes any signal, or if the breeze should freshen."

"Ay, ay, sir!—Keep a good look-out for the boat there, forward!"

Weel, sir, the breeze keepit steady, and the ship gaed cannily through the water, and the boat was easy to be seen—till aboot seven-bells—that's half-past eleven—the sky beguid to be o'ercast, and the breeze to freshen; but still through the darkness the bit white sail was seen.

At eight-bells, that's twal o'clock, the watch was relieved, and anither officer came up to tak charge o' the ship.

"A cloudy night, Bowline. What are the orders?"

"You're to keep the ship the same course" (I dinna just min' what it was), "and not to lose sight of the boat on any account."

"Very well. But where is the boat?"

"There she is, just under that dark cloud. Good-night!"

"Don't be in such a hurry. I can't see the boat!"

"Why, there she is!"

"I can't see her," said the other; "and what's more, I won't take charge of the deck till I do."

"I'm sure I saw her two minutes ago," said Bowline.

Weel, sir, they lookit and lookit, and we a' lookit, and they gat up their nicht-glasses; but a' in vain, for the boat wasna to be seen.

The offisher o' the deck was maist demented, and ran in to the captain—"We've lost sight of the boat, sir!"

"The devil!" said he, starting oot o' his cot, and rinning on deck—"burn a blue light directly!"

The gunner's mate ran doun for a blue licht; and, in a minute, it was fizzing awa on the quarter, throwing a bricht glare o' licht a' owre the ship. The nicht was dark by this time; but you could see every rape in her, and the faces o' the men at the far end looking a' blue and ghaist-like.

Lang and sair we lookit for an answer to the signal; ye micht hae heard a whisper, we war sae quiet wi' fear and hope; but there was nowther sicht nor sound in reply. Anither was burned—but still nae answer.

A gloom fell upon us a', a fear o' we didna ken what. We durstna speak our thochts to ane anither; and, as for our captain, I thocht he wad hae gane clean oot o' his mind—for a kinder-hearted man never steppit a quarterdeck. We hove the ship to, as they ca't, and fired guns every two or three minutes, in hopes the lads in the boat wad hear; and sair and sadly we langed for the morning licht.

It cam at last; but there was naething to be seen but the lift and the water. The ship was hauled to the wind; and the hail o' that day we made short tacks backward and forward across our auld course, wi' signals fleeing at our mastheads, and firing guns every hauf-hour, and a' the men straining their een to get a gliff o' the boat—but a' for nocht—we never saw them mair! Whether the boat was capsised in a sudden squall, or the ship had struck her, or whatever it was, will never be kent till the sea gies up her dead!

Oh, sir, was it no an awfu thing to think that sae mony fine lads, wha had left us a few hours afore, fu' o' life and speerit, should be hurried awa at a moment's warning, and buried in the waves o' the sea! There was an unco gloom owre the ship a' that day and the neist—the men gaed about whispering to ilk ither, as if they were feared to hear the sound o' their ain voices—and the bauldest amang them were sobered for a time. But oh, sir, to see how sune the dearest and best are forgotten! In a few days the maist o' the men were as heartsome and blithe as if naething had happened. Puir Geordie! aft hae I thocht o' you when it was my look-out on deck, and o' the merry ee and the heartsome laugh that I'll ne'er see or hear mair. But it's getting weel on in the day, sir; so I maun cut short my yarn, as we sailors say, and leave ye. I left the ship in China, and volunteered on board a man-o'-war, and, after being three years on a forran station, I was paid aff a fort-nicht past, and am now on my way hame, to share my savings wi' my wee lass, if she hasna forgotten me. Guid afternoon, sir. I'll maybe meet ye again ere lang, and then, if ye like to listen to them, I'll gie ye mair o' my cracks. I maun awa to puir Geordie's faither.

And, before I had time to question him as to the whereabouts of his home, and how or when I was to meet him again, he bounded over the gate, and disappeared.

That same evening, I was sitting in Edward Thompson's comfortable parlour, reading my favourite, Burns; Elsie was knitting near me, and Ellen was preparing some of the trout that I had brought home for supper. The sun had long set, and the twilight was only just beginning to fade into night; the window was open to admit the mild evening air; and the song of the thrush and blackbird had usurped the place of all other sounds with sweet melody.

Just as we were about to seat ourselves at the plain but comfortable board, we heard some one at a short distance whistling the air of

"Dinna think, bonny lass,
I'm gaun to leave you."

And immediately afterwards, a fine, clear, manly voice sang—

"I'll tak my stick into my hand,
And come again and see you."

Ellen started, and turned pale.

"What ails the lass?" said her father, when the door burst open, and, glowing with health and exercise, my friend of the morning stood before us.

The old people stared with surprise; their memory was at fault. Not so Ellen: she blushed, turned pale; and burst into tears.

"Faither, d'ye no mind Tam?—Tam Wilson?" And the next moment Tom—her Tom—was at her side, and fondling her to his heart.

That was a happy night at Fairyknowe. Tom was in all his glory; the old man indulged in an extra glass of toddy while listening to his yarns; and Ellen looked the joy she felt—there was no shade on her features now. Next Sunday, which was only two days afterwards, the gossips of the parish were quite astonished when they heard the names of Tom Wilson and Ellen Thompson cried three times in the kirk.

"Whatna Tam Wilson can that be, I wonder?" Nobody knew. But next Sabbath-day all their "wonderings" were satisfactorily silenced, by witnessing the gay kirking party, with Tom and Ellen at their head—the handsomest couple, so they all said, they had seen this "mony a lang day." I was present at the wedding, which took place on the Friday preceding, and a happy scene it was. Tom has left ploughing the sea, to follow the plough on shore, and he and Ellen are settled in a small and comfortable farm with every prospect of happiness before them.

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PERSEVERANCE;