Three days after this the admiral extended my leave for a fortnight, which I spent in a tour round this most glorious island with friend Aaron, whose smiling face, like the sun, (more like the nor’west moon in a fog, by the by,) seemed to diffuse warmth, and comfort, and happiness, wherever he went, while Sir Samuel and his charming family, and the general, and my dearie, and her aunt, returned home; and after a three weeks philandering, I was married, and all that sort of thing, and a week afterwards embarked with my treasure for I had half a million of dollars on freight, as well as my own particular jewel; and don’t grin at the former, for they gave me a handsome sum, and helped to rig us when we got to Ould England, where Lotus—Leaf was paid off, and I settled for a time on shore, the happiest, &c. &c. &c., until some years afterwards, when the wee Cringles began to tumble home so deucedly fast, that I had to cut and run, and once more betake myself to the salt sea. My aunt and her family returned at the same time to England, in a merchant ship under my convoy, and became our neighbours. Bang also got married soon after to Miss Lucretia Wagtail, by whom he got the Slap estate. But old Gelid and my other allies remain, I believe, in single blessedness until this hour.
MY TALE is told—my yarn is ended,—and were I to spin it longer, I fear it would be only bending it “end for end;” yet still I linger, “like the sough of an auld sang” on the ear, loath to pronounce that stern heart crushing word, that yet “has been, and must be,” and which, during my boisterous and unsettled morning, has been, alas! a too familiar one with me. I hope I shall always bless Heaven for my fair Blinks, although, as the day has wore on, I have had my own share of lee currents, hard gales, and foul weather; and many an old and dear friend has lately swamped alongside of me, while few new ones have shoved out to replace them. But suffering, that scathes the heart, does not always make it callous; and I feel much of the woman hanging about mine still, even now, when the tide is on the turn with me, and the iron voice of the inexorable First—Lieutenant, Time, has sung out, “Strike the bell eight,”—every chime smiting on my soul as if an angel spoke, to warn me, that my stormy forenoon watch is at length over—that the sun, now passing the meridian, must soon decline towards the western horizon, and who shall assure himself of a cloudless setting.
I have, in very truth, now reached the summit of the bald spray washed promontory, and stand on the slippery ledge of the cliff, that trembles to the thundering of the surge beneath; but the plunge must be made—so at once, Farewell all hands, and God bless ye. If, while chucking the cap about at a venture—but I hope and trust there has been no such thing—it has alighted on the head of some ancient ally, and pinched in any the remotest degree, I hereby express my most sincere and heartfelt regret; and to such a one I would say, as he said, who wrote for all time,
“I have shot Mine arrow o’er the house, and hurt my brother.”
Thus I cut my stick while the play is good, and before the public gets wearied of me; and, as for the Log, it is now launched, swim, or founder; if those things be good, it will float from its own buoyancy; if they be naught, let it sink at once and for ever—all that Tom Cringle expects at the hands of his countrymen is—A CLEAR STAGE, AND NO FAVOUR.
THE END.