"MY DEAR BRAIL,—When you receive this, I shall be at rest far down amongst the tangleweed and coral branches at the bottom of the deep green sea, another sacrifice to the insatiable demon of this evil climate—another melancholy addition to the long list of braver and better men who have gone before me. Heaven knows, and I know, and lament with much bitterness therefor, that I am ill prepared to die, but I trust to the mercy of the Almighty for pardon and forgiveness.
"It is now a week since I was struck by a flash of lightning at noonday, when there was not a speck of cloud in the blue sky, that glanced like a fiery dart right down from the fierce sun, and not having my red woollen nightcap on, that I purchased three years ago from old Jabos of Belfast, the Jew who kept a stall near the quay, it pierced through the skull just in the centre of the bald spot, and set my brain a-boiling and poppling ever since, making a noise for all the world like a buzzing bee-hive. I therefore intend to depart this life at three bells in the middle watch this very night, wind and weather permitting. Alas, alas! who shall tell this to my dear old mother, Widow Donovan, who lives at No. 1050, in Sackville Street, Dublin, the widest thoroughfare in Europe?—or to poor Cathleen O'Haggarty? You know Cathleen, Benjie; but you must never know that she has a glass eye—Ah, yes, poor thing, she had only one eye, but that was a beauty; the other was a quaker;[[2]] but then she had five thousand good sterling pounds, all in old Peter Macshane's bank at the back of the Exchange; and so her one eye was a blessing to me; for where is the girl with two eyes, and five thousand pounds, all lodged in Peter Macshane's bank at the back of the Exchange, who would have looked at Dennis Donovan, a friendless, penniless lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and son of Widow Donovan, who lives at 1050, Sackville Street, Dublin, the widest thoroughfare in Europe?—Ah, how Cathleen will pipe her real eye—I wonder if she will weep with the false one—I am sure my story might bring tears from a stone, far more a piece of glass—Oh, when she hears I am gone, she will be after breaking her tender little heart—Oh, murder for the notion of it—that's the thought that I can't bear—that is the blow that kills Ned! The last words of Dennis Donovan, who has nothing on earth to brag of beside a mighty pretty person and a brave soul—that's a good one. Adieu, adieu. God bless the King and the Royal Family entirely.
"DENNIS DONOVAN,
"Lieutenant, R.N., and son of Widow Donovan,
who lives at 1050, Sackville Street, Dublin,
the widest thoroughfare in Europe."
[[2]] A sham wooden gun.
To return.
"And pray," said the commodore, "what captures may you have made in this redoubtable man-of-war of yours—in his Britannic Majesty's felucca, Midge?"
"Why, none, sir," said wee Middy, blushing; "but I hope you will soon put us in the way of having a brush, sir."
"We shall see, we shall see," said the good-hearted old sailor; "but come and take a glass of wine, Mr Binnacle, and after you have told Mr Lanyard all about the Midge, what she has, and wants, &c., get on board again, and keep near us for the evening.—I say, Mr Steelpen," to his clerk, who was lounging about, "Come to the cabin, now, will you, and draw out Mr Lanyard's instructions, as Mr Garboard is still confined to his cot."
This was the second lieutenant, who had been ill for a week with fever.