"Uptorn, reluctant, from its oozy cave,
The ponderous anchor rises o'er the wave."
And soon the great iron flukes were dripping with glittering brine, as the ring rattled at the cathead; then the yards were trimmed; the larboard tacks were brought on board, and with a fine spanking breeze, that came from the burning shores of Benin, our fleet clipper ship bore away for Old England.
* * * * *
CONCLUSION.
Such were my adventures in the lands of snow and sunshine—the latitudes of ice and fire!
On the 17th of December, exactly nine months after the day on which Hartly and I had sailed through the Narrows of St. John, we found ourselves bowling along the crowded and busy streets of London in a hackney cab, with our African canoe—all the property we possessed—lashed on the roof thereof.
We separated for a time at the Bank; he to look after another ship, and I—like he of old, who came to the husks and the swine trough—to return to my father's house at Peckham (a tamer and wiser youth than when I left it) and to the circle of my family, who had long since gone into mourning for me.
I am delighted to add that my worthy Robert Hartly soon got another vessel. As sole survivors of the crew of the Leda, we obtained, after a world of trouble with the Red-tapists of the Circumlocution Office, the 500l. offered by the Governor of Newfoundland for the destruction of the Black Schooner.
My share I made over to Hartly, who invested it in the capital of his new owner.
He still preserves, with religious care, the ring of old Mother Jensdochter; and undeterred by all he has undergone, sails from Blackwall for China on the 10th of next month.