“I maybe kend it a wee better fifteen years syne, when Dandie Wilson was in the firth wi’ his clean-ganging lugger. I mind Dandie had a wild young Englisher wi’ him, that they ca’d—”
“If you chatter so much,” said Sir George Staunton, “you will have the boat on the Grindstone—bring that white rock in a line with the steeple.”
“By G—,” said the veteran, staring, “I think your honour kens the bay as weel as me.—Your honour’s nose has been on the Grindstone ere now, I’m thinking.”
As they spoke thus, they approached the little cove, which, concealed behind crags, and defended on every point by shallows and sunken rocks, could scarce be discovered or approached, except by those intimate with the navigation. An old shattered boat was already drawn up on the beach within the cove, close beneath the trees, and with precautions for concealment.
Upon observing this vessel, Butler remarked to his companion, “It is impossible for you to conceive, Sir George, the difficulty I have had with my poor people, in teaching them the guilt and the danger of this contraband trade—yet they have perpetually before their eyes all its dangerous consequences. I do not know anything that more effectually depraves and ruins their moral and religious principles.”
Sir George forced himself to say something in a low voice about the spirit of adventure natural to youth, and that unquestionably many would become wiser as they grew older.
“Too seldom, sir,” replied Butler. “If they have been deeply engaged, and especially if they, have mingled in the scenes of violence and blood to which their occupation naturally leads, I have observed, that, sooner or later, they come to an evil end. Experience, as well as Scripture, teaches us, Sir George, that mischief shall hunt the violent man, and that the bloodthirsty man shall not live half his days—But take my arm to help you ashore.”
Sir George needed assistance, for he was contrasting in his altered thought the different feelings of mind and frame with which he had formerly frequented the same place. As they landed, a low growl of thunder was heard at a distance.
“That is ominous, Mr. Butler,” said Sir George.
“Intonuit laevum—it is ominous of good, then,” answered Butler, smiling.