“Yes, Tom. And then, you see, when I was afloat, I didn’t think any good of your mother, and I was glad to keep out of her way; and then I didn’t care about my children, for I didn’t know them; but now I’ve other thoughts, Tom. I don’t think your mother so bad, after all; to be sure, she looks down upon me ’cause I’m not genteel; but I suppose I aren’t, and she has been used to the company of gentlefolks; besides she works hard, and now that I don’t annoy her by getting tipsy, as I used to do, at all events she’s civil; and then I never knew what it was to have children until I came here, and found Virginia and you; and I’m proud of you both, and love you both better than anything on earth; and, although I may not be so well brought up or so well taught as you both are, still, Tom, I’m your father, and all I can say is, I wish for your sakes I was better than I am.”
“Don’t say so, father: you know that Virginia and I are both as fond of you as you are of us.”
“Well, mayhap you are; I don’t say no: you are both good children, and at all events would try to like me; but still I do feel that you can’t look up to me exactly; but that’s my misfortune, Tom, more than my fault. I haven’t larning like Anderson, or gentility like your mother: I’ve only a true heart to offer to you. You see, Tom, I’ve said all this because you are always after Anderson; not but that I like Anderson, for he’s a good man, and has been of sarvice to me, and I don’t think he would ever say anything to you that would make you think less of me.”
“No, indeed, father; on the contrary, I once asked him his opinion about you, and he spoke most highly of you; and whenever I go to him for advice, he always sends me to you to approve of what he has said.”
“Well, he is a good man, and I’m very sorry to have any feeling of envy in me, that’s the truth; but still a father must have a father’s feelings. Don’t let us say anything more about it, Tom; only try next time, when you want advice, whether I can’t give it. You can always go to Peter afterwards, and see whether I’m right or wrong.”
“I will indeed, my dear father, now I know that you wish it.”
I never felt so warm towards my father as after this conversation; there was so much affection towards me, and yet so much humility shown by him, as respected himself, that I was quite touched with it, and I began to think that he really had had occasion to complain, and that I had not treated him with that respect which he deserved.
“Now, Tom, I’ve something to say to you. When Anderson, Bramble, and I were taking a pipe together last night, Bramble said that he had a letter from the captain of the Indiaman, offering you a berth on board as guinea-pig, or midshipman. He said that he had not shown it to you as yet, because it was of no use, as he was sure you would not accept it. Well, Anderson and I said that at least you ought to know it, and have the refusal; and your mother pricked up her ears and said that it was much more genteel than being a pilot; so I now put the question to you.”
“Thank you, father; but Bramble was right. I shall not accept of it, although I am much obliged to the captain.”
Here my father stopped me. “First, Tom,” said he, “we must overhaul the pros and cons, as people call them. Old Anderson weighed them very closely, and now you shall hear them.” Here my father commenced a long story, with which I shall not tire the reader, as to the prospects on either side; but as soon as he had finished I replied:—