When I was a youngster, I was sent out by my friends to join a mercantile house in Bombay, of which my father had formerly been a partner. After labouring for some years as clerk, I was admitted as junior member of the firm, and being considered a stirring man of business, I was sent by the heads of the house as supercargo of one of their ships trading to the Straits and China. It was in this way I acquired the sea-legs on which you have been pleased to compliment me; and, what was still more to the purpose, I managed well for my employers, and added considerably to my own resources.
Fortune smiled upon all my private mercantile speculations; and, in the course of a few years, I amassed what I considered a comfortable competency. As my constitution, although it had been severely tried, was still tolerably unimpaired, I thought it wiser to return home at once, to enjoy the moderate fruits of my labour, than to risk my health in the endeavour to add to my means. I accordingly retired from the firm, wound up my affairs, transferred my money to the English funds, and took my passage in a country ship to China. From thence I embarked in a fine Indiaman of 1000 tons burden, called the Columbine, bound to England, and to touch at the Cape of Good Hope. Our passage was quick and pleasant; and I greatly enjoyed our fortnight's stay at the Cape, where our party was increased, by the addition of a lady and gentleman to our cabin circle. The gentleman was a retired surgeon of the Indian army, and one of the funniest little Sancho Panza figures I ever beheld. When he first stepped over the gangway, there was a general titter among the crew at his strange appearance. He was dressed in a little scarlet shell-jacket; a pair of wide Indian-made continuations of nankeen, with stockings as nearly as possible of the same colour; a little black velvet hunting-cap, stuck on one side over his round, fat, rosy face; a walking-cane in one hand (a walking-cane on board a ship!); and a leather bottle, suspended by a belt from his shoulders. On further acquaintance, I found he was as odd in character as in appearance. He was a regular old bachelor, fidgety and particular. His countenance bespoke him a lover of the good things of this life—and it did not belie him, for dearly did he enjoy them all; nothing came amiss to him, that came in a perishable shape, provided it had all the "appliances and means to boot" of the culinary art. It was really quite a treat to hear the smack of genuine pleasure (a kind of parting-salute, a token of good-will and kindly feeling) which followed the engulfment of every mouthful of the captain's excellent claret—and his mouth, like the Irishman's, held exactly a glass; and then his little dark eye twinkled with anticipated delight, as it wandered discursively over the cuddy table, when the covers were raised at dinner. And yet with all this spice of epicurism and apparent selfishness, he was liberal, kind-hearted, and obliging. He had been so long absent from home that he had become completely Indianised; and his strange opinions and expectations respecting England, were in the highest degree ludicrous.
The lady was a young widow, who had accompanied her husband, a Madras civilian, many years her senior, to the Cape, in the hope of re-establishing his health; but it was too late—the hand of death was upon him, and he had been taken from her about six months before our arrival. She remained at the Cape, waiting for expected letters from Madras, and then determined upon proceeding to Europe. She came on board in mourning and in tears: the sight of the ship seemed to have re-awakened the memory of him she regretted; and she did not for some time take her place at the cuddy-table, nor appear among the other passengers. Now and then, in the calm moonlight evenings, she came stealing up like a shadow, and wandered listlessly up and down the deck, leaning on the captain's arm, or bending over the bulwark of the poop, gazing mournfully on the waves below. Time, with the absence of all objects that could revive her painful recollections, soon had the effect of soothing her grief; and after we had crossed the Line, she was persuaded to join the cuddy party. She was young, and without being decidedly beautiful, was one of the most interesting-looking females I had ever met with. There was an air of mild, uncomplaining resignation in her look and manner, which irresistibly attracted sympathy and admiration. During the bustling scenes of my life in various parts of the East, I had met with all varieties and shades of beauty, and, strange to say, had passed unharmed and "fancy-free" through the ordeal of whole constellations of bright and beaming eyes. Love had hitherto been a stranger to me; I had read of it, talked of it, heard of it, but had never felt its overpowering influence; and I had begun to doubt whether I had a heart at all, at least for the tender passion. But I now soon found that I had been mistaken, and that I had feelings, and tender ones too, as well as those whom I had been in the habit of ridiculing for them. I could hardly analyse them at first, they were so various and contradictory. I began with admiration of the widow's expressive countenance and gentle manner. I was loud in her praise to every one who would listen to me: "If ever there was an angel on earth" (afloat I should have said), "she is one." I eagerly sought every opportunity of throwing myself in her way, till I happened to hear one of the officers calling me "the widow's shadow." Then, all at once, I felt confused whenever her eyes met mine; the warm blood rushed to my cheeks, and a flutter of nerve came over me, whenever she spoke to me. I gradually withdrew from her society; lost my appetite; became fond of solitary walks; and was seized with a most extraordinary oppression of the lungs, which obliged me to sigh continually.
"Holloa, Wentworth!" said the officer of the deck to me one night, "what is the matter with you? There was a sigh like the blowing of a grampus!"
He was an old friend of mine, and as kind-hearted a rough diamond as ever breathed.
"I don't know, Wildman," replied I; "I'm afraid my liver is terribly out of order."
"Liver!" said he, with a loud laugh—"tell that to the marines; I suspect it's the heart that's out of trim more than the liver." And so saying, he walked forward to hail the foretop, and left me to my meditations. He left me an enlightened man; his words had flashed conviction on my mind.
"And so," muttered I, "I am actually in love! How strange that the novelty of my emotions should so long have blinded me to their nature! Heigh-ho! But why the plague should I sigh about it? Love! No, no; I'm sure I'm going to have an attack of liver. I wonder if she likes me?"
"Why don't you ask her?" said my sailor friend, who had returned unobserved to his place at my elbow, and had overheard the last part of my soliloquy. "Come, come, Wentworth," said he, seeing that I looked rather annoyed, "don't be angry with me; you have been like the bird that hides its head in the sand, and fancies no one can see it; but I have long observed your growing partiality for the fair widow, and I admire your taste—she is a prize worth trying for. Take a friend's advice, and, if you are in a marrying mood, put your modesty under hatches, and make a bold stroke for a wife at once."
"Oh, nonsense, Wildman!—how can you talk so foolishly? She is in such affliction! I could not dream of following your advice; it would be indelicate in the extreme at present."