From some secret presentiment, however, which I conceived at the moment I was about to step in the jolly-boat, I hurried down to my chest, and hastily filling a clothes-bag with linen, gave it to one of the boys, as if to take to the washerwoman, and immediately quitted His Majesty’s ship Astræa (as the event proved) never more to return. I procured a man to carry my bag to Dartford, a post town three miles from Greenhithe, and fifteen from London; from whence I took a chaise, and in less than two hours found myself in the arms of my fair enslaver. In order to give the reader leisure to reflect on the blindness of mankind to their own welfare, and to revile me in particular, as I deserve, for this mad and unjustifiable conduct, I shall put an end to this Chapter.
CHAPTER VIII.
Consequences of my imprudent Secession.—Reduced to great Distress.—Become a Billiard-player.—Associate with Sharpers.—Engage with a Country Attorney.—Take leave of London once more.
The reader will here observe that I had left behind me, on my desertion, a valuable chest of clothes, books, &c. &c., the purchase of which, but sixteen months before, had cost my affectionate friends a large sum; and I had now, by this rash act, defeated their fondest hopes, and brought disgrace as well on them as on the worthy officer who procured me the appointment. It is impossible, however, for my reader to condemn my folly, or rather wickedness, in stronger terms than my own conscience has ever since done. Surely there must, let moralists argue as they will, be something like a fatality which governs the fortunes of some, if not all, men; and which impels them headlong to their ruin, against the voice of reason and of conscience, and the dictates of common sense. But the retrospect affects me too much: I must not aggravate my present sufferings by dwelling longer on what will not bear reflection. All I can now do is to repent of all my errors; and I trust that Divine Power will accept my repentance who best knows its sincerity.
Before I resume the thread of my narrative, I will just venture to give the reader a few lines, descriptive of a midshipman’s life, which will require, I trust, no apology, when I state that they were the production of some of the junior members of our mess, and composed in the space of a very few hours.—Of the correctness of the picture therein drawn, I can truly say, probatum est.
VERSES
Written on Board His Majesty’s Ship, the
Astræa, by the younger Midshipmen
of that Frigate, 1798.
I.
When in the Cockpit[7] all was dim,