"It will never do," said he; "you cannot raise it, Brainard. Come, here's sixpence—take that, and go to the barber's and get it shaved off! It will smooth your cheek, and ease your conscience."
Brainard drew himself up, and said with great dignity—as Smith held out the sixpence on the point of his forefinger—"No, sir, you had better keep it for the Bishops' Fund!"
In Brainard's editorial career—though he was negligent, dilatory, sometimes almost imbecile, from a sort of constitutional inertness—still a train of inextinguishable light remains to gleam along his path. Many a busy, toiling editor has filled his daily columns for years, without leaving a living page behind him; while Brainard, with all his failings and irregularities, has left a collection of gems which will be cherished to immortality. And among all that he wrote idly and recklessly, as it might seem—there is not a line that, "dying, he could wish to blot." His love of parents, of home, of kindred, was beautiful indeed; his love of nature, and especially of the scenes of his childhood, was the affection of one never weaned from the remembrance of his mother's breast. He was true in friendship, chivalrous in all that belonged to personal honor. I never heard him utter a malignant thought—I never knew him to pursue an unjust design. At the early age of eight-and-twenty, with a submissive spirit, he resigned himself to death, and in pious, gentle, cheerful faith, he departed on the 26th of September, 1828.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
MY FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE—HURRICANE—ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL—LONDON—TRAVEL ON THE CONTINENT—RETURN TO BRISTOL—INTERVIEW WITH HANNAH MORE—DESIGN IN TRAVELLING—VISIT TO IRELAND AND SCOTLAND.
It was on the 16th of November, 1823, that I set sail in the "Canada," Captain Macy, on my first visit to Europe. I have now before me four volumes of notes made during my tour; which I might, perhaps, have ventured to publish when they were fresh; but since that period the world has been inundated with tales of travels, I shall therefore only indulge in a rapid outline of my adventures, and a few sketches of men and things, which may perchance be of interest to the reader.
Our voyage was, as usual at that season of the year, tempestuous. As we approached the British Islands we were beset by a regular hurricane. On the 5th of December, the Captain kindly informed us that we were almost precisely in the situation of the "Albion," the day before she was wrecked on the rocky headland of Kinsale, at the south-east extremity of Ireland; an event which had spread a general gloom throughout the United States. As night set in we were struck by a squall, and with difficulty the vessel was brought round, so as to lie to. The storm was fearful; and the frequent concussions of the waves upon the ship, sounding like reports of artillery, made her reel and stagger like a drunken man. The morning came at last, and the weather was fair, but our deck was swept of its boats, bulwarks, and hen-coops. Our old cow in her hovel, the covering of the steerage, and that of the companion-way, were saved. The next morning we took a pilot, and on the 8th of December entered the dock at Liverpool.
I had suffered fearfully by sea-sickness, and had scarcely strength to walk ashore. I felt such horror—such disgust of the sea—that I could easily have pledged myself never to venture upon it again. However, this all passed away like a dream: my strength revived; and even my constitution, shattered by long suffering, seemed to be renovated. With the return of health and spirits, my journey to London was delightful. Though it was December, the landscape was intensely green, while the atmosphere was dark as twilight. And this was England! Oh, what emotions filled my breast as I looked on Kenilworth, Warwick, and Lichfield, and at last on London!