Volume Two--Chapter Fifteen.

Volume Two--Chapter Fifteen.LookUpon this child I saved her, must not leaveHer life to chance; but point me out some nookOf safety, where she less may shrink and grieve....This child, who parentless, is therefore mine.Byron.A few minutes after Newton had quitted the chambers of his uncle the clerk made his appearance, announcing to Mr John Forster that a gentleman requested to speak to him.“I asked the gentleman’s name, sir,” observed the clerk, shutting to the door, “but he did not choose to give it. He has a little girl with him.”“Very well, Scratton, the little girl cannot concern me,” replied the old lawyer; “ask him to walk in;”—and he again conned over the brief, not choosing to lose the minute which might elapse before he was again to be interrupted. The door was reopened, and Edward Forster, with Amber holding him by the hand, entered the room.“Your servant, sir. Scratton, a chair—two chairs, Scratton. I beg your pardon, young lady.”When the clerk had retired, Mr John Forster commenced as usual. “Now, sir, may I request the favour of asking your business with me?”“You do not recollect me; nor am I surprised at it, as it is fifteen years since we last met. Time and suffering, which have worn me to a skeleton, have also worn out the remembrance of a brother. I am Edward Forster.”“Edward Forster!—humph! Well, I did not recollect you; but I’m very glad to see you, brother. Very strange never have heard of one of my family for years, and now they all turn up at once! No sooner get rid of one than up starts another. Nicholas came from the Lord knows where, the other day.”Edward Forster, who was better acquainted with his brother’s character than Newton, took no notice of the abruptness of his remarks, but replied:—“Nicholas! Is he then alive? I shall be delighted to see him.”“Humph!” replied John, “I was delighted to get rid of him. Take care of your watch or spectacles when you meet him.”“Indeed, brother! I trust he is not such a character.”“But he is a character, I can tell you; not what you suppose—he’s honest enough. Let me see if my memory serves me, brother Edward, we last met when you were passing through London on your way to —, having been invalided, and having obtained a pension of forty pounds per annum for a severe wound received in action. And pray, brother, where have you been ever since?”“At the same spot, from which I probably never should have been induced to remove, had it not been for the sake of this little girl who is now with me.”“And pray who may be that little girl? is she your daughter?”“Only by adoption.”“Humph, brother! for a half-pay lieutenant that appears rather an expensive whim!—bad enough to maintain children of our own begetting.”“You say true,” replied Edward; “but if in this instance I have incurred an expense and responsibility, it must be considered to be more my misfortune than my fault.” Edward Forster then entered into the particulars connected with Amber’s rescue. “You must acknowledge, brother John,” observed Edward, as he closed his narrative, “that I could not well have acted otherwise; you would not have yourself.”“Humph! I don’t know that; but this I do know, that you had better have stayed at home!”“Perhaps so, considering the forlorn prospects of the child; but we must not judge. The same Providence which willed that she should be so miraculously saved, also willed that I should be her protector;—why otherwise did the dog lay her at my feet?”“Because it had been taught to ‘fetch and carry,’ I suppose: but, however, brother Edward, I have no right to question your conduct. If the girl is as good as she is pretty, why all the better for her; but, as I am rather busy, let me ask if you have any more to say to me?”“I have, John; and the discourse we have had is preliminary. I am here with a child, forced upon me I may say, but still as dear to me as if she were mine own. You must be aware that I have nothing but my pension and half-pay to subsist upon. I can save nothing. My health is undermined and my life precarious. Last winter I never expected to quit my bed again and, as I lay in it, the thought naturally occurred of the forlorn and helpless state in which this poor little girl would be in case of my decease. In a lonely cottage,—without money—without family or friends to apply to—without any one near her being made acquainted with her unfortunate history. What would have become of her? It was this reflection which determined me, if my life was spared, as soon as my health would permit, to come to you, the only relative I was certain of still having in the world, that I might acquaint you with her existence, and, with her history, confide to you the few articles of dress which she wore when rescued, and which may eventually lead to her recognition:— a case of extreme doubt and difficulty, I grant; but the ways of Providence are mysterious, and her return to the arms of her friends will not be more wonderful than her preservation on that dreadful night. Brother! I never have applied to you in my own behalf, although conscious how ample are your means—and I never will; but I do now plead in favour of this dear child. Worn out as I am, my pilgrimage on earth can be but short; and if you would smooth the pillow of a dying brother, promise him now that you will extend your bounty to this poor orphan, when I’m no more!”Edward Forster’s voice was tremulous at the close of his appeal, and his brother appeared to be affected. There was a silence of a minute, when the customary “humph!” was ejaculated, and John Forster then continued: “A very foolish business, brother—very foolish indeed. When Nicholas and his son came here the other day and applied to me—why, it was all very well there was relationship;—but really, to put another man’s child upon me!”“Not while it pleases Heaven to sparemylife, brother.”“‘May you live a thousand years!’ then, as the Spanish say; but, however, brother Edward, as you say, the poor thing must not starve; so, if I am to take care of a child of another man’s begetting, as soon as you are dead, I can only say, it will very much increase my sorrow at your loss. Come here, little one: What’s your name?”“Amber.”“Amber! who the devil gave you that fool’s name?”“I did, brother,” replied Edward, “I thought it appropriate.”“Humph! really can’t see why. Why did you not call her Sukey, or some name fit for a Christian? Amber! Amber’s a gum, is it not? Stop, let’s see what Johnson says.”The lawyer went to a case of books which were in the next room, and returned with a quarto.“Now,” said he, seating himself; “AG—AL—AM—Ambassador—Ambassadress—Amber! humph! here it is, ‘A yellow transparent substance of a gummous or bituminous consistence, but of a resinous taste, and a smell like oil of turpentine; chiefly found in the Baltic sea or the coast of Prussia.’ Humph! ‘Some have imagined it to consist of the tears of birds; others the’—humph!—‘of a beast; others the scum of the Lake Cephesis, near the Atlantic; others a congelation in some fountains, where it is found swimming like pitch.’ Really, brother,” continued the lawyer, fixing his eyes on the little girl, and shutting the book, “I can’t see the analogy.”“Be her godfather, my dear brother, and call her any name you please.”“Humph!”“Pray, papa,” said Amber, turning to Edward Forster, “what’s the meaning of humph?”“Humph!” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at Amber.“It implies yes or no, as it may be,” replied Edward Forster, smiling.“I never heard any one say it before, papa. You’re not angry with me, sir?” continued Amber, turning round to John Forster.“No, not angry, little girl; but I’m too busy to talk to you—or indeed with you, brother Edward. Have you any thing more to say?”“Nothing, my dear brother, if I have your promise.”“Well, you have it; but what am I to do with her, God only knows! I wish you had kept better hours. You mentioned some clothes which might identify her to her relations; pray let me have them, for I shall have the greatest pleasure in restoring her to them, as soon as possible, after she is once in my hands.”“Here they are, brother,” replied Edward, taking a small packet from his coat-pocket: “you had better take charge of them now; and may God bless you for having relieved my mind from so heavy a load!”“Humph! by taking it on my own shoulders,” muttered John, as he walked to the iron safe, to deposit the packet of linen; then returning to the table, “Have you any thing more to say, brother?”“Only to ask you where I may find my brother Nicholas?”“That I can’t tell; my nephew told me somewhere down the river; but, it’s a long way from here to the Nore. Nephew’s a fine lad; I sent him off to the East Indies.”“I am sorry then that I have no chance of seeing him:—but you are busy, brother?”“I have told you so three times, as plain as I could speak?”“I will no longer trespass on your time. We return home to-morrow morning; and, as I cannot expect ever to see you again, God bless you, my dear John! and farewell, I am afraid I may say, in this world at least, farewell for ever!”Edward held out his hand to his brother. It was taken with considerable emotion. “Farewell, brother, farewell!—I’ll not forget.”“Good-bye, sir,” said Amber, going close up to John Forster.“Good-bye, my little girl,” replied he, looking earnestly in her face; and then, as if thawing towards her, as he scanned her beautiful and expressive features, removing his spectacles and kissing her, “Good-bye.”“Oh! papa,” cried Amber, as she went out of the room, “he kissed me!”“Humph!” said John Forster, as the door closed upon them.The spectacles were put on, and the reading of the brief immediately continued.

LookUpon this child I saved her, must not leaveHer life to chance; but point me out some nookOf safety, where she less may shrink and grieve....This child, who parentless, is therefore mine.Byron.

LookUpon this child I saved her, must not leaveHer life to chance; but point me out some nookOf safety, where she less may shrink and grieve....This child, who parentless, is therefore mine.Byron.

A few minutes after Newton had quitted the chambers of his uncle the clerk made his appearance, announcing to Mr John Forster that a gentleman requested to speak to him.

“I asked the gentleman’s name, sir,” observed the clerk, shutting to the door, “but he did not choose to give it. He has a little girl with him.”

“Very well, Scratton, the little girl cannot concern me,” replied the old lawyer; “ask him to walk in;”—and he again conned over the brief, not choosing to lose the minute which might elapse before he was again to be interrupted. The door was reopened, and Edward Forster, with Amber holding him by the hand, entered the room.

“Your servant, sir. Scratton, a chair—two chairs, Scratton. I beg your pardon, young lady.”

When the clerk had retired, Mr John Forster commenced as usual. “Now, sir, may I request the favour of asking your business with me?”

“You do not recollect me; nor am I surprised at it, as it is fifteen years since we last met. Time and suffering, which have worn me to a skeleton, have also worn out the remembrance of a brother. I am Edward Forster.”

“Edward Forster!—humph! Well, I did not recollect you; but I’m very glad to see you, brother. Very strange never have heard of one of my family for years, and now they all turn up at once! No sooner get rid of one than up starts another. Nicholas came from the Lord knows where, the other day.”

Edward Forster, who was better acquainted with his brother’s character than Newton, took no notice of the abruptness of his remarks, but replied:—

“Nicholas! Is he then alive? I shall be delighted to see him.”

“Humph!” replied John, “I was delighted to get rid of him. Take care of your watch or spectacles when you meet him.”

“Indeed, brother! I trust he is not such a character.”

“But he is a character, I can tell you; not what you suppose—he’s honest enough. Let me see if my memory serves me, brother Edward, we last met when you were passing through London on your way to —, having been invalided, and having obtained a pension of forty pounds per annum for a severe wound received in action. And pray, brother, where have you been ever since?”

“At the same spot, from which I probably never should have been induced to remove, had it not been for the sake of this little girl who is now with me.”

“And pray who may be that little girl? is she your daughter?”

“Only by adoption.”

“Humph, brother! for a half-pay lieutenant that appears rather an expensive whim!—bad enough to maintain children of our own begetting.”

“You say true,” replied Edward; “but if in this instance I have incurred an expense and responsibility, it must be considered to be more my misfortune than my fault.” Edward Forster then entered into the particulars connected with Amber’s rescue. “You must acknowledge, brother John,” observed Edward, as he closed his narrative, “that I could not well have acted otherwise; you would not have yourself.”

“Humph! I don’t know that; but this I do know, that you had better have stayed at home!”

“Perhaps so, considering the forlorn prospects of the child; but we must not judge. The same Providence which willed that she should be so miraculously saved, also willed that I should be her protector;—why otherwise did the dog lay her at my feet?”

“Because it had been taught to ‘fetch and carry,’ I suppose: but, however, brother Edward, I have no right to question your conduct. If the girl is as good as she is pretty, why all the better for her; but, as I am rather busy, let me ask if you have any more to say to me?”

“I have, John; and the discourse we have had is preliminary. I am here with a child, forced upon me I may say, but still as dear to me as if she were mine own. You must be aware that I have nothing but my pension and half-pay to subsist upon. I can save nothing. My health is undermined and my life precarious. Last winter I never expected to quit my bed again and, as I lay in it, the thought naturally occurred of the forlorn and helpless state in which this poor little girl would be in case of my decease. In a lonely cottage,—without money—without family or friends to apply to—without any one near her being made acquainted with her unfortunate history. What would have become of her? It was this reflection which determined me, if my life was spared, as soon as my health would permit, to come to you, the only relative I was certain of still having in the world, that I might acquaint you with her existence, and, with her history, confide to you the few articles of dress which she wore when rescued, and which may eventually lead to her recognition:— a case of extreme doubt and difficulty, I grant; but the ways of Providence are mysterious, and her return to the arms of her friends will not be more wonderful than her preservation on that dreadful night. Brother! I never have applied to you in my own behalf, although conscious how ample are your means—and I never will; but I do now plead in favour of this dear child. Worn out as I am, my pilgrimage on earth can be but short; and if you would smooth the pillow of a dying brother, promise him now that you will extend your bounty to this poor orphan, when I’m no more!”

Edward Forster’s voice was tremulous at the close of his appeal, and his brother appeared to be affected. There was a silence of a minute, when the customary “humph!” was ejaculated, and John Forster then continued: “A very foolish business, brother—very foolish indeed. When Nicholas and his son came here the other day and applied to me—why, it was all very well there was relationship;—but really, to put another man’s child upon me!”

“Not while it pleases Heaven to sparemylife, brother.”

“‘May you live a thousand years!’ then, as the Spanish say; but, however, brother Edward, as you say, the poor thing must not starve; so, if I am to take care of a child of another man’s begetting, as soon as you are dead, I can only say, it will very much increase my sorrow at your loss. Come here, little one: What’s your name?”

“Amber.”

“Amber! who the devil gave you that fool’s name?”

“I did, brother,” replied Edward, “I thought it appropriate.”

“Humph! really can’t see why. Why did you not call her Sukey, or some name fit for a Christian? Amber! Amber’s a gum, is it not? Stop, let’s see what Johnson says.”

The lawyer went to a case of books which were in the next room, and returned with a quarto.

“Now,” said he, seating himself; “AG—AL—AM—Ambassador—Ambassadress—Amber! humph! here it is, ‘A yellow transparent substance of a gummous or bituminous consistence, but of a resinous taste, and a smell like oil of turpentine; chiefly found in the Baltic sea or the coast of Prussia.’ Humph! ‘Some have imagined it to consist of the tears of birds; others the’—humph!—‘of a beast; others the scum of the Lake Cephesis, near the Atlantic; others a congelation in some fountains, where it is found swimming like pitch.’ Really, brother,” continued the lawyer, fixing his eyes on the little girl, and shutting the book, “I can’t see the analogy.”

“Be her godfather, my dear brother, and call her any name you please.”

“Humph!”

“Pray, papa,” said Amber, turning to Edward Forster, “what’s the meaning of humph?”

“Humph!” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at Amber.

“It implies yes or no, as it may be,” replied Edward Forster, smiling.

“I never heard any one say it before, papa. You’re not angry with me, sir?” continued Amber, turning round to John Forster.

“No, not angry, little girl; but I’m too busy to talk to you—or indeed with you, brother Edward. Have you any thing more to say?”

“Nothing, my dear brother, if I have your promise.”

“Well, you have it; but what am I to do with her, God only knows! I wish you had kept better hours. You mentioned some clothes which might identify her to her relations; pray let me have them, for I shall have the greatest pleasure in restoring her to them, as soon as possible, after she is once in my hands.”

“Here they are, brother,” replied Edward, taking a small packet from his coat-pocket: “you had better take charge of them now; and may God bless you for having relieved my mind from so heavy a load!”

“Humph! by taking it on my own shoulders,” muttered John, as he walked to the iron safe, to deposit the packet of linen; then returning to the table, “Have you any thing more to say, brother?”

“Only to ask you where I may find my brother Nicholas?”

“That I can’t tell; my nephew told me somewhere down the river; but, it’s a long way from here to the Nore. Nephew’s a fine lad; I sent him off to the East Indies.”

“I am sorry then that I have no chance of seeing him:—but you are busy, brother?”

“I have told you so three times, as plain as I could speak?”

“I will no longer trespass on your time. We return home to-morrow morning; and, as I cannot expect ever to see you again, God bless you, my dear John! and farewell, I am afraid I may say, in this world at least, farewell for ever!”

Edward held out his hand to his brother. It was taken with considerable emotion. “Farewell, brother, farewell!—I’ll not forget.”

“Good-bye, sir,” said Amber, going close up to John Forster.

“Good-bye, my little girl,” replied he, looking earnestly in her face; and then, as if thawing towards her, as he scanned her beautiful and expressive features, removing his spectacles and kissing her, “Good-bye.”

“Oh! papa,” cried Amber, as she went out of the room, “he kissed me!”

“Humph!” said John Forster, as the door closed upon them.

The spectacles were put on, and the reading of the brief immediately continued.

Volume Two--Chapter Sixteen.Strickland.“These doings in my house distract me.I met a fine gentleman, when I inquired whoHe was—why, he came to Clarinda. I metA footman too, and he came to Clarinda.My wife had the character of a virtuousWoman—”Suspicious Husband.“Let us no more contendEach other, blamed enough elsewhere, but striveIn offices of love, how we may lightenEach other’s burden in our share of woe.”Milton.I do not know a spot on the globe which astonishes and delights, upon your first landing, as the island of Madeira. The voyager embarks, and is in all probability confined to his cabin, suffering under the dreadful protraction of seasickness. Perhaps he has left England in the gloomy close of the autumn, or the frigid concentration of an English winter. In a week, or even in a shorter period, he again views that terra firma which he had quitted with regret, and which in his sufferings he would have given half that he possessed to regain. When he lands upon the island, what a change! Winter has become summer, the naked trees which be left are exchanged for the most luxuriant and varied foliage, snow and frost for warmth and splendour; the scenery of the temperate zone for the profusion and magnificence of the tropics; fruit which he had never before seen, supplies for the table unknown to him; a bright sky, a glowing sun, hills covered with vines, a deep-blue sea, a picturesque and novel costume; all meet and delight the eye, just at the precise moment, when to have been landed even upon a barren island would have been considered as a luxury. Add to all this, the unbounded hospitality of the English residents, a sojourn too short to permit satiety and then is it to be wondered that the island of Madeira is a “green spot” in the memory of all those who land there, or that they quit it with regret?The Bombay Castle had not been two hours at anchor before the passengers had availed themselves of an invitation from one of the English residents, and were quartered in a splendid house, which hooked upon a square and one of the principal churches in the city of Funchal. While the gentlemen amused themselves at the extensive range of windows with the novelty of the scene, and the ladies retired to their apartments to complete the hasty toilet of their disembarkation, Captain Drawlock was very busy in the counting-house below, with the master of the house. There were so many pipes of Madeira for the Honourable Company; so many for the directors’ private cellars, besides many other commissions for friends, which Captain Drawlock had undertaken to execute; for at that period Madeira wine had not been so calumniated as it latterly has been.A word upon this subject.—I am a mortal enemy to every description of humbug; and I believe there is as much in the medical world as in any other. Madeira wine had for a century been in high and deserved reputation, when on a sudden some fashionable physician discovers that it contained more acid than sherry. Whether he was a sleeping partner in some Spanish house, or whether he had received a present of a few pipes of sherry, that he might turn the scale of public favour towards that wine, I know not; but certain it is, that it became fashionable with all medical gentlemen to prescribe sherry; and when once any thing becomes fashionable,c’est une affaire decidé.I do not pretend to be much of a pathologist; but on reading Mr F—’s analysis on the component parts of wine, I observed that in one hundred parts there are perhaps twenty-two parts of acid in Madeira, and nineteen in sherry; so that, in fact, if you reduce your glass of Madeira wine, justone sipin quantity, you will imbibe no more acid than in a full glass of sherry; and when we consider the variety of acids in sugar and other compounds, which abound in culinary preparations, the fractional quantity upon which has been grounded the abuse of Madeira wine, appears to be most ridiculous.But if not a pathologist, I have a most decided knowledge of what is good wine; and if the gout should some day honour me with a visit, I shall at least have the consolation to know that I have by potation most honestlyearnedit.But allowing that the medical gentlemen are correct, still their good intentions are frustrated by the knavery of the world; and the result of their prescriptions is, that people drink much more acid than they did before. I do every justice to good old sherry when it does make its appearance at table; it is a noble wine when aged and unsophisticated from its youth; but for once that you meet with it genuine, you are twenty times disappointed. When Madeira wine was in vogue, the island could not produce the quantity required for consumption, and the vintage from the north side of the island, or of Teneriffe, was substituted. This adulteration no doubt was one cause of its losing its well established reputation. But Madeira wine has a quality which in itself proves its superiority over all other wines—namely, that although no other wine can be passed off as Madeira, yet with Madeira the wine-merchants may imitate any other wine that is in demand. What is the consequence? that Madeira, not being any longer in request as Madeira, now that sherry is the “correct thing,” and there not being sufficient of the latter to meet the increased demand, most of the wine vended as sherry is made from the inferior Madeira wines. Reader, if you have ever been in Spain, you may have seen the Xerez or sherry wine brought from the mountains to be put into the cask. A raw goat-skin, with the neck-part and the four legs sewed up, forms a leathern bag, containing perhaps from fifteen to twenty gallons. This is the load of one man, who brings it down on his shoulder exposed to the burning rays of the sun. When it arrives, it is thrown down on the sand, to swelter in the heat with the rest and remains there probably for days before it is transferred into the cask. It is this proceeding which gives to sherry that peculiar leather twang which distinguishes it from other wines—a twang easy to imitate by throwing into a cask of Cape wine a pair of old boots, and allowing them to remain a proper time. Although the public refuse to drink Madeira, as Madeira, they are in fact drinking it in every way disguised—as port, as sherry, etcetera; and it is a well-known fact that the poorer wines from the north side of the island are landed in the London Docks, and shipped off to the Continent, from whence they reappear in bottles as “peculiarly fine flavoured hock!”Now, as it is only the indifferent wines which are thus turned into sherry,—and the more inferior the wine, the more acid it contains,—I think I have made out a clear case that people are drinking more acid than they did before this wonderful discovery of the medical gentlemen, who have for some years led the public by the nose.There are, however, some elderly persons of my acquaintance who are not to be dissuaded from drinking Madeira, but who continue to destroy themselves by the use of this acid, which perfumes the room when the cork is extracted. I did represent to one of them, that it was a species of suicide, after what the doctors had discovered; but he replied, in a very gruff tone of voice, “May be, sir; but you can’t teach an old dog new tricks!”I consider that the public ought to feel very much indebted to me for thisexposé. Madeira wine is very low, while sherry is high in price. They have only to purchase a cask of Madeira and flavour it with Wellington boots or ladies’ shippers, as it may suit their palates. The former will produce the high-coloured, the latter the pale sherry. Further, I consider that the merchants of Madeira are bound to send me a letter of thanks, with a pipe of Bual, to prove its sincerity. Now I recollect Stoddart did promise me some wine when he was last in England; but I suppose he has forgotten it.But from the produce I must return to the island and my passengers. The first day of their arrival they eat their dinner, took their coffee, and returned to bed early to enjoy a comfortable night after so many of constant pitching and tossing. The next morning the ladies were much better, and received the visits of all the captains of the India ships, and also of the captain of the frigate who escorted them.The officers of the Bombay Castle had been invited to dinner; and the first-mate not being inclined to leave the ship, Newton had for one accepted the invitation. On his arrival he discovered in the captain of the frigate his former acquaintance, Captain Carrington, in whose ship he had obtained a passage from the West Indies, and who on the former being paid off had been appointed to the command of the Boadicea, Captain Carrington was delighted to meet Newton; and the attention which he paid to him, added to the encomiums bestowed when Newton was out of bearing, raised him very high in the opinion, not only of Captain Drawlock, but also in the estimation of the ladies. At the request of Captain Carrington Newton was allowed to remain on shore till their departure from the island; and from this circumstance he became more intimate with the ladies than he would in all probability have otherwise been in the whole course of the voyage. We must pass over the gallop up to Nostra Senhora da Monte, an expedition opposed by Captain Drawlock on the score of his responsibility; but he was over-ruled by Captain Carrington, who declared that Newton and he were quite sufficient convoy. We must pass over the many compliments paid to Isabel Revel by Captain Carrington, who appeared desperately in hove after an acquaintance of four-and-twenty hours, and who discovered a defect in the Boadicea which would occupy two or three days to make good, that he might be longer in her company; but we will not pass over one circumstance which occurred during their week’s sojourn at this delightful island.A certain Portuguese lady of noble birth had been left a widow with two daughters, and a fine estate to share between them. The daughters were handsome; but the estate was so much handsomer, that it set all the mandolins of the Portuguese inamoratos strumming under the windows of the lady’s abode from sunset to the dawn of day.Now it did so occur that a young English clerk in a mercantile house, who had a fresh complexion and a clean shirt to boast of (qualifications unknown to the Portuguese), won the heart of the eldest daughter; and the old lady, who was not a very strict Catholic, gave her consent to this heretical union. The Catholic priests, who had long been trying to persuade the old lady to shut up her daughters in a convent, and endow the church with her property, expressed a holy indignation at the intended marriage. The Portuguese gentlemen, who could not brook the idea of so many fair hills of vines going away to a stranger were equally indignant: in short, the whole Portuguese population of the island were in arms; but the old lady, who had always contrived to have her way before her husband’s death, was not inclined to be thwarted now that she was her own mistress; and, notwithstanding threats and expostulations from all quarters, she awaited but the arrival of an English man-of-war that the ceremony might be performed, there being at that time no Protestant clergyman on the island; for the reader must know that a marriage on board of a king’s ship, by the captain duly entered in the log-book, is considered as valid as if the ceremony were performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury.I once married couple on board of a little ten-gun brig of which I condescended to take the command, to oblige the first lord of the Admiralty; offered, I believe toprovidefor me, and rid the Board of all future solicitations for employment or promotion.It was one of my sailors, who had come to a determination to make an honest woman of Poll and an ass of himself, at one and the same time. The ceremony took place on the quarter-deck. “Who gives this woman away?” said I, with due emphasis, according to the ritual. “I do,” cried the boatswain in a gruff voice, taking the said lady by the arm and shoving her towards me, as if he thought her not worth keeping. Every thing went on seriously, nevertheless. The happy pair were kneeling down on the union-jack, which had been folded on the deck in consideration of the lady’s knees, and I was in the middle of the blessing, when two pigs which we had procured at St. Jaco’s, being them off that island (creatures more like English pigs on stilts than any thing else, unless you could imagine a cross between a pig and a greyhound), in the lightness of their hearts and happy ignorance of their doom, took a frisk, as you often see pigs do on shore, commenced a run from forward right aft, and galloping to the spot where we were all collected, rushed against the two just made one, destroying their centre of gravity, and upsetting them; and, indeed, destroying the gravity and upsetting the seriousness of myself and the whole of the ship’s company. The lady recovered her legs, damned the pigs, and, taking her husband’s arm, hastened down the hatchway; so that I lost the kiss to which I was entitled for my services. I consoled myself by the reflection that, “please the pigs,” I might be more fortunate the next time that I officiated in my clerical capacity. This is a digression I grant, but I cannot help it; it is the nature of man to digress. Who can say that he has through life kept in the straight path? This is a world of digression; and I beg that critics will take no notice of mine, as I have an idea that my digressions in this work are as agree able to my readers, as my digressions in life have been agreeable to myself.When Captain Carrington anchored with his convoy in Funchal roads, immediate application was made by the parties for the ceremony to be performed on board of his ship. It is true that, as Mr Ferguson had arrived, it might have taken place on shore; but it was considered advisable, to avoid interruption and insult, that the parties should be under the sanctuary of a British man-of-war. On the fourth day after the Boadicea’s arrival the ceremony was performed on board of her by Mr Ferguson; and the passengers of the Bombay, residing at the house of Mr —, who was an intimate friend of the bridegroom, received and accepted the invitation to the marriage-dinner. The feast was splendid, and after the Portuguese custom. The first course wasboiled: it consisted of boiled beef, boiled mutton, boiled hams, boiled tongues, boiled bacon, boiled fowls, boiled turkeys, boiled sausages, boiled cabbages, boiled potatoes, and boiled carrots. Duplicates of each were ranged in opposition, until the table groaned with its superincumbent weight. All were cut up, placed in one dish, and handed round to the guests. When they drank wine, every glass was filled, and every body who filled his glass was expected to drink the health of every guest separately and by name before he emptied it. The first course was removed, and the second made its appearance all roasted. Roast beef, roast veal, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast joints of pork, roasted turkeys, roasted fowls, roasted sausages, roasted every thing; the centre dish being a side of a large hog, rolled up like an enormous fillet of veal. This too was done ample justice to by the Portuguese part of the company, at least, and all was cleared away for the dessert, consisting of oranges, melons, pine-apples, guavas, citrons, bananas, peaches, strawberries, apples, pears, and indeed of almost every fruit which can be found in the whole world, all of which appear to naturalise themselves at Madeira. It was now supposed by the uninitiated that the dinner was over; but not so; the dessert was cleared away, and on came anhusteron proteronmedley of pies and puddings, in all their varieties, smoking hot, boiled and baked, custards and sweetmeats, cheese and olives, fruits of all kinds preserved, and a hundred other things, from which the gods preserve us! At last the feast was really over; the Portuguese picked their teeth with their forks, and the wine was circulated briskly. On such an occasion as the marriage of her daughter, the old lady had resolved to take a pipe of Madeira, which was, at the very least, fifty years old, very fine in flavour, but, from having been so long in the wood, little inferior in strength to genuine Cogniac. The consequence was, that many of the gentlemen became noisy before the dinner was over; and their mirth was increased to positive uproar upon a message being sent by the bishop, ordering upon pain of excommunication, that the ceremony should proceed no further. The ladies retired to the withdrawing room; the gentlemen soon followed; but the effects of the wine were so apparent upon most of them, that Captain Drawlock summoned Newton to his assistance, and was in a state of extreme anxiety until his “responsibilities” were safe at home. Shortly afterwards, Captain Carrington and those who were the least affected, by persuasion or force, removed the others from the house; and the bridal party were left to themselves, to deliberate whether they should or should not obey the preposterous demands of the reverend bishop.Captain Carrington was excessively fond of a joke, and never lost the opportunity when it occurred; now it happened, that in the party invited there was a merchant of the name of Sullivan, who, upon his last visit to England, had returned with a very pretty, and at the same time, a very coquettish young lady as his wife. It happened, in the casualties of a large dinner party, that the old colonel (Ellice was his name, if I have not mentioned it before) was seated next to her, and, as usual, was remarkably attentive. Mr Sullivan, like many other gentlemen, was very inattentive to his wife, and, unlike most Irishmen, was very jealous of her. The very marked attention of the colonel had not escaped his notice; neither did his fidgeting upon this occasion escape the notice of those about him, who were aware of his disposition. The poor colonel was one of those upon whose brain the wine had taken the most effect, and it was not until after sundry falls, and being again placed upon his legs, that he had been conveyed home, between Captain Carrington and Mr —, the merchant at whose house the party from the Bombay Castle were residing. The ensuing morning he did not make his appearance at breakfast; and the gentlemen residing on the island, commenting upon the events of the evening before, declared in a joking way that they should not be surprised at Mr Sullivan sending him a challenge in the course of the morning; that was, if he was up so soon, as he had quitted the house in a greater state of inebriety than even the colonel. It was upon this hint that Captain Carrington proposed to have some amusement; and having arranged with one of the junior partners of the house, he went into the room of the colonel, whom he found still in bed.“Well, colonel, how do you find yourself?” said Captain Carrington, when he had roused him.“Oh! very bad indeed: my head is ready to split: never felt such a sensation in my head before, except when I was struck with a spent ball at the battle of—”“I am very sorry for your headache, colonel, but more sorry that the wine should have played you such a trick last night.”“Trick indeed!” replied the colonel; “I was completely overcome: I do not recollect a word that passed after I had quitted the dinner table.”“Are you serious? Do you not recollect the scene with Mrs Sullivan?”“Mrs Sullivan! My dear sir, what scene? I certainly paid every attention due to a very pretty woman; but I recollect no further.”“Not the scene in the drawing-room?”“God bless me!—No—I do not even recollect ever going into the drawing-room! Pray tell me what I said or did: I hope nothing improper.”“Why that depends very much whether a lady likes it or not: but in the presence of so many people—”“Merciful powers! Captain Carrington, pray let me know at once what folly it was that I committed.”“Why, really, I am almost ashamed to enter into particulars: suffice to say, that you used most unwarrantable freedom towards her.”“Is it possible?” cried the colonel.—“Now, Captain Carrington, are you not joking?”“Ask this gentleman; he was present.”The assertion of the captain was immediately corroborated, and the colonel was quite aghast.“Excuse me, gentlemen, I will run immediately—that abominable wine; I must go and make a most ample apology. I am bound to do it, as a gentleman, as an officer, and as a man of honour.”Captain Carrington and his confederate quitted the room, satisfied with the success of their plot. The colonel rose, and soon afterwards made his appearance. He swallowed a cup of coffee, and then proceeded on his visit, to make theamende honorable.When Mr Sullivan awoke from the lethargy produced from the stupefying effects of the wine, he tried to recollect the circumstances of the preceding evening; but he could trace no further than to the end of the dinner, after which his senses had been overpowered. All that he could call to memory was, that somebody had paid great attention to his wife, and that what had passed afterwards was unknown. This occasioned him to rise in a very jealous humour; and he had not been up more than an hour, when the colonel sent up his card, requesting, as a particular favour that the lady would admit him.The card and messenger were taken by the servant to Mr Sullivan, whose jealousy was again roused by the circumstance; and wishing to know if the person who had now called was the same who had been so attentive to his wife on the preceding evening, and the motives of the call, he requested that the colonel might be shown in, without acquainting his wife, whom he had not yet seen, with his arrival. The colonel, who intended to have made an apology to the lady without the presence of a third person, least of all of her husband, ascended the stairs, adjusting his hair and cravat, and prepared with all the penitent assurance and complimentary excuses of a too ardent lover. The fact was, that, although the colonel had expressed to Captain Carrington his regret and distress at the circumstance, yet, as an old Adonis, he was rather proud of this instance of juvenile indiscretion. When therefore he entered the room, and perceived, instead of the lady. Mr Sullivan raised up to his utmost height, and looking any thing but good humoured, he naturally started back, and stammered out something which was unintelligible. His behaviour did not allay the suspicions of Mr Sullivan, who requested, in a haughty tone, to be informed of the reason why he had been honoured with a visit. The colonel became more confused, and totally losing his presence of mind, replied:—“I called, sir,—on Mrs Sullivan,—to offer an apology for my conduct last night; but as I perceive that she is not visible, I will take a more favourable opportunity.”“Any apology you may have to offer to my wife, sir,” replied Mr Sullivan, “may be confided to me. May I inquire the circumstances which have occurred to render an apology necessary?” and Mr Sullivan walked to the door and closed it.“Why, really, Mr Sullivan, you must be aware that circumstances may occur,” replied the colonel, more confused: “the fact is, that I consider it my duty, as a gentleman and a man of honour, to express my regrets to your fair lady.”“My fair lady! for what, sir, may I ask?”“Why, sir,” stammered the colonel, “to state the truth, for, as a gentleman, and a man of honour, I ought not to be ashamed to acknowledge my error—for—the very improper behaviour which I was guilty of last night.”“Improper behaviour, sir!—damnation! with my wife?” roared Mr Sullivan, in his rage. “What behaviour, sir? and when, sir?”“Really, sir, I was too much affected with the wine to know any thing which passed. I did hope to have addressed the lady in person on the subject, and I came here with that intention.”“I dare say you did, sir?”“But,” continued the colonel, “as it appears I am not to have that honour, I consider that I have done my duty in requesting that you will convey my sentiments of regret for what has passed;—and, now, sir, I wish you a good morning.”“Good morning,” retorted the husband, with a sneer; “and observe, sir, I will not trouble you to call again, William, show this gentleman outside the door.”The colonel, who was descending the stairs, turned round to Mr Sullivan at the latter part of his speech, and then, as if thinking better of it, he resumed his descent, and the door was immediately closed upon him.Mr Sullivan, as soon as he was satisfied that the colonel was shut out, immediately repaired to his wife’s dressing-room, where he found her reading.“Madam,” said he, fixing his eyes sternly on her, “I have been informed of what took place last night.”“I’m sure I do not know what that was,” replied the lady, coolly, “except that you were very tipsy.”“Granted, madam: you took advantage of it; and your conduct—”“My conduct, Mr Sullivan!” replied his wife, kindling with anger.“Yes, Mrs Sullivan, your conduct. A married woman, madam, who allows gentlemen—”“Gentlemen, Mr Sullivan! I allow no gentlemen but yourself. Are you sure that you are quite sober?”“Yes, madam, I am; but this affected coolness will not avail you: deny, if you can, that Colonel Ellice did not last night—”“Well, then, I do deny it. Neither Colonel Ellice nor any other man ever did—”“Did what, madam?” interrupted the husband, in a rage.“I was going to observe, if you had not interrupted me, that no one was wanting in proper respect towards me,” replied the lady, who grew more cool as her husband increased in choler. “Pray, Mr Sullivan, may I inquire who is the author of this slander?”“The author, madam! look at me—to your confusion look at me!”“Well, I’m looking.”“’Twas, madam—the colonel himself.”“The colonel himself!”“Yes, madam, the colonel himself, who called this morning to see you, and renew the intimacy, I presume; but, by mistake, was shown up to me, and then made an apology for his conduct.”“It’s excessively strange! first the colonel is rude, without my knowledge, and then apologises to you! Mr Sullivan, I’m afraid that your head is not right this morning.”“Indeed, madam, I only wish that your heart was as sound,” replied the husband with a sneer; “but, madam, I am not quite blind. An honest woman—a virtuous woman, Mrs Sullivan, would have immediately acquainted her husband with what had passed—not have concealed it; still less have had the effrontery to deny it, when acknowledged by herparamour.”“Paramour!” cried the lady, with an hysterical laugh; “Mr Sullivan! when I select aparamour, it shall be a handsome young man—not an old, yellow-faced—”“Pshaw, madam! there’s no accounting for taste; when once a woman deviates from the right path—”“Right path! if ever I deviated from the right path, as you call it, it was when I married such a wretch as you! Yes, sir! continued the lady, bursting into tears, I tell it you now—my life has been a torment to me ever since I married (sobbing)—always suspected for nothing (sob, sob)—jealous, detestable temper (sob)—go to my friends (sob)—hereafter may repent (sob)—then know what you’ve lost” (sob, sob, sob).“And, madam,” replied Mr Sullivan, “so may you also know what you have lost, before a few hours have passed away; then, madam, the time may come when the veil of folly will be rent from your eyes, and your conduct appear in all its deformity. Farewell, madam—perhaps for ever!”The lady made no reply; Mr Sullivan quitted the room, and, repairing to his counting-house, wrote a challenge to the colonel, and confided the delivery of it to one of his friends, who unwillingly accepted the office of second.

Strickland.“These doings in my house distract me.I met a fine gentleman, when I inquired whoHe was—why, he came to Clarinda. I metA footman too, and he came to Clarinda.My wife had the character of a virtuousWoman—”Suspicious Husband.“Let us no more contendEach other, blamed enough elsewhere, but striveIn offices of love, how we may lightenEach other’s burden in our share of woe.”Milton.

Strickland.“These doings in my house distract me.I met a fine gentleman, when I inquired whoHe was—why, he came to Clarinda. I metA footman too, and he came to Clarinda.My wife had the character of a virtuousWoman—”Suspicious Husband.“Let us no more contendEach other, blamed enough elsewhere, but striveIn offices of love, how we may lightenEach other’s burden in our share of woe.”Milton.

I do not know a spot on the globe which astonishes and delights, upon your first landing, as the island of Madeira. The voyager embarks, and is in all probability confined to his cabin, suffering under the dreadful protraction of seasickness. Perhaps he has left England in the gloomy close of the autumn, or the frigid concentration of an English winter. In a week, or even in a shorter period, he again views that terra firma which he had quitted with regret, and which in his sufferings he would have given half that he possessed to regain. When he lands upon the island, what a change! Winter has become summer, the naked trees which be left are exchanged for the most luxuriant and varied foliage, snow and frost for warmth and splendour; the scenery of the temperate zone for the profusion and magnificence of the tropics; fruit which he had never before seen, supplies for the table unknown to him; a bright sky, a glowing sun, hills covered with vines, a deep-blue sea, a picturesque and novel costume; all meet and delight the eye, just at the precise moment, when to have been landed even upon a barren island would have been considered as a luxury. Add to all this, the unbounded hospitality of the English residents, a sojourn too short to permit satiety and then is it to be wondered that the island of Madeira is a “green spot” in the memory of all those who land there, or that they quit it with regret?

The Bombay Castle had not been two hours at anchor before the passengers had availed themselves of an invitation from one of the English residents, and were quartered in a splendid house, which hooked upon a square and one of the principal churches in the city of Funchal. While the gentlemen amused themselves at the extensive range of windows with the novelty of the scene, and the ladies retired to their apartments to complete the hasty toilet of their disembarkation, Captain Drawlock was very busy in the counting-house below, with the master of the house. There were so many pipes of Madeira for the Honourable Company; so many for the directors’ private cellars, besides many other commissions for friends, which Captain Drawlock had undertaken to execute; for at that period Madeira wine had not been so calumniated as it latterly has been.

A word upon this subject.—I am a mortal enemy to every description of humbug; and I believe there is as much in the medical world as in any other. Madeira wine had for a century been in high and deserved reputation, when on a sudden some fashionable physician discovers that it contained more acid than sherry. Whether he was a sleeping partner in some Spanish house, or whether he had received a present of a few pipes of sherry, that he might turn the scale of public favour towards that wine, I know not; but certain it is, that it became fashionable with all medical gentlemen to prescribe sherry; and when once any thing becomes fashionable,c’est une affaire decidé.

I do not pretend to be much of a pathologist; but on reading Mr F—’s analysis on the component parts of wine, I observed that in one hundred parts there are perhaps twenty-two parts of acid in Madeira, and nineteen in sherry; so that, in fact, if you reduce your glass of Madeira wine, justone sipin quantity, you will imbibe no more acid than in a full glass of sherry; and when we consider the variety of acids in sugar and other compounds, which abound in culinary preparations, the fractional quantity upon which has been grounded the abuse of Madeira wine, appears to be most ridiculous.

But if not a pathologist, I have a most decided knowledge of what is good wine; and if the gout should some day honour me with a visit, I shall at least have the consolation to know that I have by potation most honestlyearnedit.

But allowing that the medical gentlemen are correct, still their good intentions are frustrated by the knavery of the world; and the result of their prescriptions is, that people drink much more acid than they did before. I do every justice to good old sherry when it does make its appearance at table; it is a noble wine when aged and unsophisticated from its youth; but for once that you meet with it genuine, you are twenty times disappointed. When Madeira wine was in vogue, the island could not produce the quantity required for consumption, and the vintage from the north side of the island, or of Teneriffe, was substituted. This adulteration no doubt was one cause of its losing its well established reputation. But Madeira wine has a quality which in itself proves its superiority over all other wines—namely, that although no other wine can be passed off as Madeira, yet with Madeira the wine-merchants may imitate any other wine that is in demand. What is the consequence? that Madeira, not being any longer in request as Madeira, now that sherry is the “correct thing,” and there not being sufficient of the latter to meet the increased demand, most of the wine vended as sherry is made from the inferior Madeira wines. Reader, if you have ever been in Spain, you may have seen the Xerez or sherry wine brought from the mountains to be put into the cask. A raw goat-skin, with the neck-part and the four legs sewed up, forms a leathern bag, containing perhaps from fifteen to twenty gallons. This is the load of one man, who brings it down on his shoulder exposed to the burning rays of the sun. When it arrives, it is thrown down on the sand, to swelter in the heat with the rest and remains there probably for days before it is transferred into the cask. It is this proceeding which gives to sherry that peculiar leather twang which distinguishes it from other wines—a twang easy to imitate by throwing into a cask of Cape wine a pair of old boots, and allowing them to remain a proper time. Although the public refuse to drink Madeira, as Madeira, they are in fact drinking it in every way disguised—as port, as sherry, etcetera; and it is a well-known fact that the poorer wines from the north side of the island are landed in the London Docks, and shipped off to the Continent, from whence they reappear in bottles as “peculiarly fine flavoured hock!”

Now, as it is only the indifferent wines which are thus turned into sherry,—and the more inferior the wine, the more acid it contains,—I think I have made out a clear case that people are drinking more acid than they did before this wonderful discovery of the medical gentlemen, who have for some years led the public by the nose.

There are, however, some elderly persons of my acquaintance who are not to be dissuaded from drinking Madeira, but who continue to destroy themselves by the use of this acid, which perfumes the room when the cork is extracted. I did represent to one of them, that it was a species of suicide, after what the doctors had discovered; but he replied, in a very gruff tone of voice, “May be, sir; but you can’t teach an old dog new tricks!”

I consider that the public ought to feel very much indebted to me for thisexposé. Madeira wine is very low, while sherry is high in price. They have only to purchase a cask of Madeira and flavour it with Wellington boots or ladies’ shippers, as it may suit their palates. The former will produce the high-coloured, the latter the pale sherry. Further, I consider that the merchants of Madeira are bound to send me a letter of thanks, with a pipe of Bual, to prove its sincerity. Now I recollect Stoddart did promise me some wine when he was last in England; but I suppose he has forgotten it.

But from the produce I must return to the island and my passengers. The first day of their arrival they eat their dinner, took their coffee, and returned to bed early to enjoy a comfortable night after so many of constant pitching and tossing. The next morning the ladies were much better, and received the visits of all the captains of the India ships, and also of the captain of the frigate who escorted them.

The officers of the Bombay Castle had been invited to dinner; and the first-mate not being inclined to leave the ship, Newton had for one accepted the invitation. On his arrival he discovered in the captain of the frigate his former acquaintance, Captain Carrington, in whose ship he had obtained a passage from the West Indies, and who on the former being paid off had been appointed to the command of the Boadicea, Captain Carrington was delighted to meet Newton; and the attention which he paid to him, added to the encomiums bestowed when Newton was out of bearing, raised him very high in the opinion, not only of Captain Drawlock, but also in the estimation of the ladies. At the request of Captain Carrington Newton was allowed to remain on shore till their departure from the island; and from this circumstance he became more intimate with the ladies than he would in all probability have otherwise been in the whole course of the voyage. We must pass over the gallop up to Nostra Senhora da Monte, an expedition opposed by Captain Drawlock on the score of his responsibility; but he was over-ruled by Captain Carrington, who declared that Newton and he were quite sufficient convoy. We must pass over the many compliments paid to Isabel Revel by Captain Carrington, who appeared desperately in hove after an acquaintance of four-and-twenty hours, and who discovered a defect in the Boadicea which would occupy two or three days to make good, that he might be longer in her company; but we will not pass over one circumstance which occurred during their week’s sojourn at this delightful island.

A certain Portuguese lady of noble birth had been left a widow with two daughters, and a fine estate to share between them. The daughters were handsome; but the estate was so much handsomer, that it set all the mandolins of the Portuguese inamoratos strumming under the windows of the lady’s abode from sunset to the dawn of day.

Now it did so occur that a young English clerk in a mercantile house, who had a fresh complexion and a clean shirt to boast of (qualifications unknown to the Portuguese), won the heart of the eldest daughter; and the old lady, who was not a very strict Catholic, gave her consent to this heretical union. The Catholic priests, who had long been trying to persuade the old lady to shut up her daughters in a convent, and endow the church with her property, expressed a holy indignation at the intended marriage. The Portuguese gentlemen, who could not brook the idea of so many fair hills of vines going away to a stranger were equally indignant: in short, the whole Portuguese population of the island were in arms; but the old lady, who had always contrived to have her way before her husband’s death, was not inclined to be thwarted now that she was her own mistress; and, notwithstanding threats and expostulations from all quarters, she awaited but the arrival of an English man-of-war that the ceremony might be performed, there being at that time no Protestant clergyman on the island; for the reader must know that a marriage on board of a king’s ship, by the captain duly entered in the log-book, is considered as valid as if the ceremony were performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I once married couple on board of a little ten-gun brig of which I condescended to take the command, to oblige the first lord of the Admiralty; offered, I believe toprovidefor me, and rid the Board of all future solicitations for employment or promotion.

It was one of my sailors, who had come to a determination to make an honest woman of Poll and an ass of himself, at one and the same time. The ceremony took place on the quarter-deck. “Who gives this woman away?” said I, with due emphasis, according to the ritual. “I do,” cried the boatswain in a gruff voice, taking the said lady by the arm and shoving her towards me, as if he thought her not worth keeping. Every thing went on seriously, nevertheless. The happy pair were kneeling down on the union-jack, which had been folded on the deck in consideration of the lady’s knees, and I was in the middle of the blessing, when two pigs which we had procured at St. Jaco’s, being them off that island (creatures more like English pigs on stilts than any thing else, unless you could imagine a cross between a pig and a greyhound), in the lightness of their hearts and happy ignorance of their doom, took a frisk, as you often see pigs do on shore, commenced a run from forward right aft, and galloping to the spot where we were all collected, rushed against the two just made one, destroying their centre of gravity, and upsetting them; and, indeed, destroying the gravity and upsetting the seriousness of myself and the whole of the ship’s company. The lady recovered her legs, damned the pigs, and, taking her husband’s arm, hastened down the hatchway; so that I lost the kiss to which I was entitled for my services. I consoled myself by the reflection that, “please the pigs,” I might be more fortunate the next time that I officiated in my clerical capacity. This is a digression I grant, but I cannot help it; it is the nature of man to digress. Who can say that he has through life kept in the straight path? This is a world of digression; and I beg that critics will take no notice of mine, as I have an idea that my digressions in this work are as agree able to my readers, as my digressions in life have been agreeable to myself.

When Captain Carrington anchored with his convoy in Funchal roads, immediate application was made by the parties for the ceremony to be performed on board of his ship. It is true that, as Mr Ferguson had arrived, it might have taken place on shore; but it was considered advisable, to avoid interruption and insult, that the parties should be under the sanctuary of a British man-of-war. On the fourth day after the Boadicea’s arrival the ceremony was performed on board of her by Mr Ferguson; and the passengers of the Bombay, residing at the house of Mr —, who was an intimate friend of the bridegroom, received and accepted the invitation to the marriage-dinner. The feast was splendid, and after the Portuguese custom. The first course wasboiled: it consisted of boiled beef, boiled mutton, boiled hams, boiled tongues, boiled bacon, boiled fowls, boiled turkeys, boiled sausages, boiled cabbages, boiled potatoes, and boiled carrots. Duplicates of each were ranged in opposition, until the table groaned with its superincumbent weight. All were cut up, placed in one dish, and handed round to the guests. When they drank wine, every glass was filled, and every body who filled his glass was expected to drink the health of every guest separately and by name before he emptied it. The first course was removed, and the second made its appearance all roasted. Roast beef, roast veal, roast mutton, roast lamb, roast joints of pork, roasted turkeys, roasted fowls, roasted sausages, roasted every thing; the centre dish being a side of a large hog, rolled up like an enormous fillet of veal. This too was done ample justice to by the Portuguese part of the company, at least, and all was cleared away for the dessert, consisting of oranges, melons, pine-apples, guavas, citrons, bananas, peaches, strawberries, apples, pears, and indeed of almost every fruit which can be found in the whole world, all of which appear to naturalise themselves at Madeira. It was now supposed by the uninitiated that the dinner was over; but not so; the dessert was cleared away, and on came anhusteron proteronmedley of pies and puddings, in all their varieties, smoking hot, boiled and baked, custards and sweetmeats, cheese and olives, fruits of all kinds preserved, and a hundred other things, from which the gods preserve us! At last the feast was really over; the Portuguese picked their teeth with their forks, and the wine was circulated briskly. On such an occasion as the marriage of her daughter, the old lady had resolved to take a pipe of Madeira, which was, at the very least, fifty years old, very fine in flavour, but, from having been so long in the wood, little inferior in strength to genuine Cogniac. The consequence was, that many of the gentlemen became noisy before the dinner was over; and their mirth was increased to positive uproar upon a message being sent by the bishop, ordering upon pain of excommunication, that the ceremony should proceed no further. The ladies retired to the withdrawing room; the gentlemen soon followed; but the effects of the wine were so apparent upon most of them, that Captain Drawlock summoned Newton to his assistance, and was in a state of extreme anxiety until his “responsibilities” were safe at home. Shortly afterwards, Captain Carrington and those who were the least affected, by persuasion or force, removed the others from the house; and the bridal party were left to themselves, to deliberate whether they should or should not obey the preposterous demands of the reverend bishop.

Captain Carrington was excessively fond of a joke, and never lost the opportunity when it occurred; now it happened, that in the party invited there was a merchant of the name of Sullivan, who, upon his last visit to England, had returned with a very pretty, and at the same time, a very coquettish young lady as his wife. It happened, in the casualties of a large dinner party, that the old colonel (Ellice was his name, if I have not mentioned it before) was seated next to her, and, as usual, was remarkably attentive. Mr Sullivan, like many other gentlemen, was very inattentive to his wife, and, unlike most Irishmen, was very jealous of her. The very marked attention of the colonel had not escaped his notice; neither did his fidgeting upon this occasion escape the notice of those about him, who were aware of his disposition. The poor colonel was one of those upon whose brain the wine had taken the most effect, and it was not until after sundry falls, and being again placed upon his legs, that he had been conveyed home, between Captain Carrington and Mr —, the merchant at whose house the party from the Bombay Castle were residing. The ensuing morning he did not make his appearance at breakfast; and the gentlemen residing on the island, commenting upon the events of the evening before, declared in a joking way that they should not be surprised at Mr Sullivan sending him a challenge in the course of the morning; that was, if he was up so soon, as he had quitted the house in a greater state of inebriety than even the colonel. It was upon this hint that Captain Carrington proposed to have some amusement; and having arranged with one of the junior partners of the house, he went into the room of the colonel, whom he found still in bed.

“Well, colonel, how do you find yourself?” said Captain Carrington, when he had roused him.

“Oh! very bad indeed: my head is ready to split: never felt such a sensation in my head before, except when I was struck with a spent ball at the battle of—”

“I am very sorry for your headache, colonel, but more sorry that the wine should have played you such a trick last night.”

“Trick indeed!” replied the colonel; “I was completely overcome: I do not recollect a word that passed after I had quitted the dinner table.”

“Are you serious? Do you not recollect the scene with Mrs Sullivan?”

“Mrs Sullivan! My dear sir, what scene? I certainly paid every attention due to a very pretty woman; but I recollect no further.”

“Not the scene in the drawing-room?”

“God bless me!—No—I do not even recollect ever going into the drawing-room! Pray tell me what I said or did: I hope nothing improper.”

“Why that depends very much whether a lady likes it or not: but in the presence of so many people—”

“Merciful powers! Captain Carrington, pray let me know at once what folly it was that I committed.”

“Why, really, I am almost ashamed to enter into particulars: suffice to say, that you used most unwarrantable freedom towards her.”

“Is it possible?” cried the colonel.—“Now, Captain Carrington, are you not joking?”

“Ask this gentleman; he was present.”

The assertion of the captain was immediately corroborated, and the colonel was quite aghast.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I will run immediately—that abominable wine; I must go and make a most ample apology. I am bound to do it, as a gentleman, as an officer, and as a man of honour.”

Captain Carrington and his confederate quitted the room, satisfied with the success of their plot. The colonel rose, and soon afterwards made his appearance. He swallowed a cup of coffee, and then proceeded on his visit, to make theamende honorable.

When Mr Sullivan awoke from the lethargy produced from the stupefying effects of the wine, he tried to recollect the circumstances of the preceding evening; but he could trace no further than to the end of the dinner, after which his senses had been overpowered. All that he could call to memory was, that somebody had paid great attention to his wife, and that what had passed afterwards was unknown. This occasioned him to rise in a very jealous humour; and he had not been up more than an hour, when the colonel sent up his card, requesting, as a particular favour that the lady would admit him.

The card and messenger were taken by the servant to Mr Sullivan, whose jealousy was again roused by the circumstance; and wishing to know if the person who had now called was the same who had been so attentive to his wife on the preceding evening, and the motives of the call, he requested that the colonel might be shown in, without acquainting his wife, whom he had not yet seen, with his arrival. The colonel, who intended to have made an apology to the lady without the presence of a third person, least of all of her husband, ascended the stairs, adjusting his hair and cravat, and prepared with all the penitent assurance and complimentary excuses of a too ardent lover. The fact was, that, although the colonel had expressed to Captain Carrington his regret and distress at the circumstance, yet, as an old Adonis, he was rather proud of this instance of juvenile indiscretion. When therefore he entered the room, and perceived, instead of the lady. Mr Sullivan raised up to his utmost height, and looking any thing but good humoured, he naturally started back, and stammered out something which was unintelligible. His behaviour did not allay the suspicions of Mr Sullivan, who requested, in a haughty tone, to be informed of the reason why he had been honoured with a visit. The colonel became more confused, and totally losing his presence of mind, replied:—

“I called, sir,—on Mrs Sullivan,—to offer an apology for my conduct last night; but as I perceive that she is not visible, I will take a more favourable opportunity.”

“Any apology you may have to offer to my wife, sir,” replied Mr Sullivan, “may be confided to me. May I inquire the circumstances which have occurred to render an apology necessary?” and Mr Sullivan walked to the door and closed it.

“Why, really, Mr Sullivan, you must be aware that circumstances may occur,” replied the colonel, more confused: “the fact is, that I consider it my duty, as a gentleman and a man of honour, to express my regrets to your fair lady.”

“My fair lady! for what, sir, may I ask?”

“Why, sir,” stammered the colonel, “to state the truth, for, as a gentleman, and a man of honour, I ought not to be ashamed to acknowledge my error—for—the very improper behaviour which I was guilty of last night.”

“Improper behaviour, sir!—damnation! with my wife?” roared Mr Sullivan, in his rage. “What behaviour, sir? and when, sir?”

“Really, sir, I was too much affected with the wine to know any thing which passed. I did hope to have addressed the lady in person on the subject, and I came here with that intention.”

“I dare say you did, sir?”

“But,” continued the colonel, “as it appears I am not to have that honour, I consider that I have done my duty in requesting that you will convey my sentiments of regret for what has passed;—and, now, sir, I wish you a good morning.”

“Good morning,” retorted the husband, with a sneer; “and observe, sir, I will not trouble you to call again, William, show this gentleman outside the door.”

The colonel, who was descending the stairs, turned round to Mr Sullivan at the latter part of his speech, and then, as if thinking better of it, he resumed his descent, and the door was immediately closed upon him.

Mr Sullivan, as soon as he was satisfied that the colonel was shut out, immediately repaired to his wife’s dressing-room, where he found her reading.

“Madam,” said he, fixing his eyes sternly on her, “I have been informed of what took place last night.”

“I’m sure I do not know what that was,” replied the lady, coolly, “except that you were very tipsy.”

“Granted, madam: you took advantage of it; and your conduct—”

“My conduct, Mr Sullivan!” replied his wife, kindling with anger.

“Yes, Mrs Sullivan, your conduct. A married woman, madam, who allows gentlemen—”

“Gentlemen, Mr Sullivan! I allow no gentlemen but yourself. Are you sure that you are quite sober?”

“Yes, madam, I am; but this affected coolness will not avail you: deny, if you can, that Colonel Ellice did not last night—”

“Well, then, I do deny it. Neither Colonel Ellice nor any other man ever did—”

“Did what, madam?” interrupted the husband, in a rage.

“I was going to observe, if you had not interrupted me, that no one was wanting in proper respect towards me,” replied the lady, who grew more cool as her husband increased in choler. “Pray, Mr Sullivan, may I inquire who is the author of this slander?”

“The author, madam! look at me—to your confusion look at me!”

“Well, I’m looking.”

“’Twas, madam—the colonel himself.”

“The colonel himself!”

“Yes, madam, the colonel himself, who called this morning to see you, and renew the intimacy, I presume; but, by mistake, was shown up to me, and then made an apology for his conduct.”

“It’s excessively strange! first the colonel is rude, without my knowledge, and then apologises to you! Mr Sullivan, I’m afraid that your head is not right this morning.”

“Indeed, madam, I only wish that your heart was as sound,” replied the husband with a sneer; “but, madam, I am not quite blind. An honest woman—a virtuous woman, Mrs Sullivan, would have immediately acquainted her husband with what had passed—not have concealed it; still less have had the effrontery to deny it, when acknowledged by herparamour.”

“Paramour!” cried the lady, with an hysterical laugh; “Mr Sullivan! when I select aparamour, it shall be a handsome young man—not an old, yellow-faced—”

“Pshaw, madam! there’s no accounting for taste; when once a woman deviates from the right path—”

“Right path! if ever I deviated from the right path, as you call it, it was when I married such a wretch as you! Yes, sir! continued the lady, bursting into tears, I tell it you now—my life has been a torment to me ever since I married (sobbing)—always suspected for nothing (sob, sob)—jealous, detestable temper (sob)—go to my friends (sob)—hereafter may repent (sob)—then know what you’ve lost” (sob, sob, sob).

“And, madam,” replied Mr Sullivan, “so may you also know what you have lost, before a few hours have passed away; then, madam, the time may come when the veil of folly will be rent from your eyes, and your conduct appear in all its deformity. Farewell, madam—perhaps for ever!”

The lady made no reply; Mr Sullivan quitted the room, and, repairing to his counting-house, wrote a challenge to the colonel, and confided the delivery of it to one of his friends, who unwillingly accepted the office of second.

Volume Two--Chapter Seventeen.He’s truly valiant, that can wisely sufferThe worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongsHis outsides; to wear them, like his raiment, carelessly,And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart,To bring it into danger.Shakespeare.The colonel, in the meantime, had returned to the house where he was residing, when he was immediately accosted by Captain Carrington, and the other gentlemen who had been let into the secret of the plot. During his walk home the colonel had been ruminating on his dismissal, and had not quite made up his mind whether he ought or ought not to resent the conduct of Mr Sullivan. Naturally more inclined for peace than war, by the time that he arrived home he had resolved to pocket the affront, when Captain Carrington called him on one side, and obtained from him a recapitulation of what had passed; which probably never would have been given if the colonel had not considered the communication as confidential. This, however, did not suit the intentions of Captain Carrington, who felt inclined for more mischief; and when the colonel had concluded his narrative, he replied, “Upon my word, colonel, as you observe, this conduct on the part of Mr Sullivan, is not exactly what can be permitted by us military men. I hardly know bow to advise; indeed I would not take the responsibility; however, I will consult with Mr S— and Mr G—, and if you will leave your honour in our hands, depend upon it we will do you strict justice:” and Captain Carrington quitted the colonel, who would have expostulated, and, walking up to the other gentlemen, entered into a recapitulation of the circumstances. A wink of his eye, as his back was turned to the colonel, fully expressed to the others the tenor of the advice which they were to offer.“Well, gentlemen, what is your opinion?” said the captain, as he concluded his narrative.“I think,” replied Mr S—, with a serious face, “there can be but one—our gallant friend has been most grossly insulted. I think,” continued he, addressing the colonel, who had quitted the sofa, in his anxiety to know the issue of their debate, “that I should most decidedly ask him what he meant.”“Or rather demand an apology,” observed Mr G—.“Which Mr Sullivan as a man of honour is bound to offer, and the colonel as a gentleman and an officer has a right to insist upon. Do you not think so, Captain Carrington?” said Mr S—.“Why, I always have been more inclined to be a peacemaker than otherwise, if I can,” replied Captain Carrington. “If our gallant friend the colonel is not sure that Mr Sullivan did use the words, ‘I won’t trouble you to call again,’—are you positive as to the exact words, colonel?”“Why, to the best of my recollection,” replied the colonel, “I rather think those were the words.—I may be mistaken:— it was certainly—most certainly—something to that effect.”“Were they, ‘requesting you to call again?’” said Captain Carrington.“No, no,—that they certainly were not.”“Well, they could be but one or the other.—Then, gentlemen, the case is clear—the words were uttered,” said Mr S—, “Now, Captain Carrington, what would you advise?”“I really am vexed to say, that I do not see how our friend, Colonel Ellice, can do otherwise than demand an apology, or a meeting.”“Could not I treat him with contempt, Captain Carrington?” demanded the colonel.“Why, not exactly,” replied Mr S—. “Sullivan is of good family; the Sullivans of Bally cum Poop. He was some time in the 48th regiment, and was obliged to retire from it for challenging his colonel.”“Well, gentlemen,” replied the colonel, “I suppose I must leave my honour in your hands, although it does appear to me that our time is very short for such arrangements. We sail early to-morrow morning; Captain Carrington; at daylight, I think you said, and it will be too late to-night.”“My dear colonel, I will risk a rebuke from the Admiralty,” replied the captain, “rather than not allow you to heal your wounded honour. I will stay till the day after to-morrow, should it be requisite for the arrangement of this business.”“Thank you: many thanks,” replied the colonel, with an expression of disappointment. “Then I had better prepare the letter?”“Carta por senhor commandante,” interrupted a Portuguese, presenting a letter to the colonel; “O senhor embaixo; queir risposta.”The colonel opened the letter, which contained Mr Sullivan’s challenge,—pistols—to-morrow morn, at daylight—one mile on the road to Machico.The colonel’s countenance changed two or three shades less yellow as he read the contents: recovering himself with a giggle, he handed the letter to Captain Carrington. “You see, captain, the gentleman has saved me the trouble—He, he, he! these little affairs are common to gentlemen of our profession—He, he! and since the gentleman wishes it, why, I presume—He, he! that we must not disappoint him.”“Since you are both of one mind, I think there will be some business done,” observed Mr S—. “I perceive that he is in earnest by the place named for the meeting. We generally settle our affairs of honour in the Loo-fields; but I suppose he is afraid of interruption.—They want an answer, colonel.”“Oh! he shall have one,” replied the colonel, tittering with excitement; “he shall have one. What hour does he say?”“Oh! we will arrange all that. Come, colonel,” said Captain Carrington, taking him familiarly by the arm, and leading him away.The answer was despatched, and they sat down to dinner. Many were the friendly and encouraging glasses of wine drank with the colonel, who recovered his confidence, and was then most assiduous in his attentions to the ladies to prove his perfect indifference. He retired at an early hour nevertheless.In the mean time Mr Sullivan had received the answer, and had retired to his counting-house, to arrange his affairs in case of accident. He had not seen his wife since the fracas. And now we will leave them both for awhile, and make a few remarks upon duelling.Most people lament, many abuse the custom as barbarous; but barbarous it is not, or it would not be necessary in a state of high civilisation. It is true that by the practice we offend laws human and divine; but at the same time, it must be acknowledged, that neither law nor religion can keep society in such good order, or so restrain crime. The man who would defy the penalty of the law, and the commandments of his God against seduction, will, however pause in his career when he finds that there are brothers to avenge an injured sister. And why so?—because in this world we live as it were in a tavern, careless of what the bill is which we run up, but dreading the day of reckoning, which the pistol of our adversary may bring at once. Thus duelling may be considered as a necessary evil, arising out of our wickedness; a crime in itself rare in occurrence, but which prevents others of equal magnitude from occurring every day; and until the world is reformed, nothing can prevent it. Men will ever be governed by the estimation of the world: and until the whole world decide against duelling—until it has become the usage to offer the other cheek upon the first having been smitten, then, and not till then, will the practice be discontinued. When a man refuses to fight a duel, he is stigmatised as a coward, his company is shunned; and, unless he is a wretch without feeling, his life becomes a burden. Men have refused from purely conscientious motives, and have subsequently found themselves so miserable from the neglect and contumely of the world, that they havebackslided, and have fought to recover their place in society. There have been some few, very few, who, having refused from conscientious motives, have adhered to these resolutions, because they feared God and not man. There was more courage in their refusal than if they had run the gauntlet of a hundred duels; a moral courage, which is most rare, preferring the contempt of man to the wrath of God. It is, however, the most trying situation on this side of the grave. To refuse to fight a duel, is in fact to obey the stern injunction, “leave all, and follow me.”For my part, I never have and never will fight a duel, if I can help it. I have a double motive for my refusal; in the first place, I am afraid to offend the Deity; and in the next, I am afraid of being shot. I have therefore made up my mind never to meet a man except upon what I consider fair terms; for when a man stakes his life, the gambling becomes rather serious, and an equal value should be laid down by each party. If, then, a man is not so big—not of equal consequence in the consideration of his fellow mites—not married, with five small children, as I am—not having so much to lose—why it is clear that I risk more than he does; the stake is not equal, and I therefore shall not meet him. If, on the contrary, he presents a broader target,—if he is my superior in rank, more patriarchal at home, or has so many hundreds per annum more, why then the disadvantages will be on his side; and I trust I am too much of a gentleman, even if he offers to waive all these considerations, to permit him to fight. It would beswindlingthe man out of his life.The best advice I can offer to my friends under these unpleasant circumstances is, first to try if they cannot persuade their adversaries to make an apology: and if he will not, why then let them make one themselves; for although the making an apology creates a very uneasy sensation, and goes very muchagainstthe stomach, yet, depend upon it, a well-directed bullet creates a much more uneasy feeling, and, what is worse, goesdirectly into it.We left Mrs Sullivan sobbing in her anger, when her husband bounded out of the room in his heroics. At the time that he made the threat she was in no humour to regard it; but as her anger gradually subsided, so did her alarm increase. Notwithstanding that she was a coquette, she was as warmly attached to her husband as he was to her; if she trifled, it was only for her amusement, and to attract that meed of admiration to which she had been accustomed previous to her marriage, and which no woman can renounce on her first entry into that state. Men cannot easily pardon jealousy in their wives; but women are more lenient towards their husbands. Love, hand-in-hand with confidence, is the more endearing; yet, when confidence happens to be out of the way, Love will sometimes associate with Jealousy; still, as this disagreeable companion proves that Love is present, and as his presence is what a woman and all a woman asks, she suffers Jealousy, nay, sometimes even becomes partial to him for the sake of Love.Now that Mrs Sullivan had been most unjustly accused, the reader must know, and moreover, that she had great reason to feel irritated. When her tears had subsided, for some time she continued in her chair, awaiting with predetermined dignity the appearance and apology of Mr Sullivan. After some time had elapsed, she wondered why he did not come. Dinner was announced, and she certainly expected to meet him then, and she waited for some minutes to see if he would not take this opportunity of coming up to her;—but no. She then presumed that he was still in the sulks, and had sat down to table without her, and therefore, as he would not come—why, she went; but he was not at the table. Every minute she expected him:— Had he been told?—Where was he?—He was in the counting-house, was the reply. Mrs Sullivan swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned up stairs. Tea was made—announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not. It remained on the table; the cup poured out for him was cold. The urn had been sent down, with strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away. Mrs Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy. He never had been at variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for nothing! At last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.—“Where was Mr Sullivan?”—“In the counting-house.”—“Tell him that I wish to speak with him.” Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was locked inside. This intelligence created a little irritation, and checked the tide of affection. “Before all the servants—so inconsiderate—it was quite insulting!” With a heavy heart, Mrs Sullivan lighted the chamber candle, and went up stairs to bed. Once she turned down the stairs two or three steps, intending to go to the counting-house door; but her pride restrained her, and she re-ascended. In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her husband every minute, listening at the slightest sound for his footstep; but two o’clock came and he was still away. She could bear up against her suspense and agitation no longer; she rose, threw on herrobe de nuit, and descended the stairs. All the family had long retired, and every thing was still: her light foot made no noise as she tripped along. As she neared the door, she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole. Whether to peep or to speak first—he might be fast asleep. Curiosity prevailed—she looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband very busy writing. After he had finished his letter he threw down the pen, pressed his forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply. Mrs Sullivan could refrain no longer. “William! William!” cried she, in a soft imploring voice: but she was not answered. Again and again did she repeat his name, until an answer, evidently wrung from him by impatience, was returned—“It is too late now.”“Too late, dear William! Yes, it is very late, it’s almost three o’clock. Let me in William,—pray do!”“Leave me alone: it’s the last favour I probably shall ever request of you.”“The last favour! Oh, William! you frighten me so:— dear William—do—do let me in. I’m so cold, I shall die:— only for one moment, and I’ll bless you. Pray do, William!”It was not until after repeated and repeated entreaties of this kind, that Mr Sullivan, worn out by importunity, at last opened the door.“Mary, I am very busy; I have opened the door to tell you so, and to request that you will not interrupt me. Now oblige me by going to bed.”But getting in was every thing; and a young and pretty wife, in dishabille and in tears, imploring, entreating, conjuring, promising, coaxing, and fondling, is not quite so easy to be detached when once she has gained access. In less than half an hour Mr Sullivan was obliged to confess that her conduct had been the occasion of a meeting being agreed for upon that morning, and that he was arranging his affairs in case of a melancholy termination.“You now, Mary, must see the consequences of your conduct. By your imprudence, your husband’s life is risked, probably sacrificed; but this is no time to be at variance. I forgive you, Mary,—from my soul, I do, as I hope for pardon myself.”Mrs Sullivan burst into a paroxysm of tears; and it was some time before she could answer. “William,” cried she energetically, “as you well say, this is no time to be at variance, neither is it a time for falsehood. What I stated to you this morning was true:— if not, may I never hope for pardon! and may Heaven never be opened to me! You have been deceived, grossly deceived; for what purpose, I know not; but so it is. Do not therefore be rash. Send for all who were present, and examine them; and if I have told you a falsehood, put me away from you, to the shame and seclusion I shall so well deserve.”“It is too late, Mary; I have challenged him, and he has accepted it. I fain would believe you; but he told me so himself.”“Then he told a lie! a base cowardly lie! which sinks him beneath the notice of a gentleman. Let me go with you and confront him. Only let him dare to say it to my face: ’tis all I ask, William, that I may clear my fame with you. Come to bed—nay, nay, don’t refuse me;” and poor Mrs Sullivan again burst into tears.We must leave the couple to pass the remaining hours in misery, which, however, reclaimed them both from faults. Mrs Sullivan never coquetted more, and her husband was, after this, never jealous but on trifles.The colonel was just as busy on his side, in preparing for the chances of the morrow: these chances however were never tried; for Captain Carrington and his confederates had made their arrangements. Mr Sullivan was already dressed, his wife clinging to him in frantic despair, when a letter was left at his door, the purport of which was that Colonel Ellice had discovered that his companions had been joking with him, when they had asserted that during his state of inebriety, he had offered any rudeness to Mrs Sullivan. As therefore no offence had been committed, Colonel Ellice took it for granted that Mr Sullivan would be satisfied with the explanation.Mrs Sullivan, who devoured the writing over her husband’s shoulder, sunk down on her knees in gratitude, and was raised to her husband’s arms, who, as he embraced her, acknowledged his injustice.The same party who wrote this epistle also framed another in imitation of Mr Sullivan’s hand-writing, in which Mr Sullivan acquainted the Colonel, that having been informed by a mutual friend that he had been in error relative to Colonel Ellice’s behaviour of the night before, he begged to withdraw the challenge, and apologise for having suspected the colonel of incivility, etcetera. That having been informed that Colonel Ellice embarked at an early hour, he regretted that he would not be able to pay his respects to him, and assure him, etcetera.The receipt of this letter, just as the colonel had finished a cup of coffee, preparatory to starting, made him, as a single man, quite as happy as the married couple; he hastened to put the letter into the hands of Captain Carrington, little thinking that he was handing it over to the writer.“You observe, Captain Carrington, he won’t come to the scratch. Perhaps as well for him that he does not,” said the colonel, chuckling in his glee.The breakfast was early; the colonel talked big, and explained the whole affair to the ladies, quite unconscious that every one in the company knew that the hoax had been played upon him. Before noon, every one had re-embarked on board of their respective ships, and their lofty sails were expanded to a light and favouring breeze.

He’s truly valiant, that can wisely sufferThe worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongsHis outsides; to wear them, like his raiment, carelessly,And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart,To bring it into danger.Shakespeare.

He’s truly valiant, that can wisely sufferThe worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongsHis outsides; to wear them, like his raiment, carelessly,And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart,To bring it into danger.Shakespeare.

The colonel, in the meantime, had returned to the house where he was residing, when he was immediately accosted by Captain Carrington, and the other gentlemen who had been let into the secret of the plot. During his walk home the colonel had been ruminating on his dismissal, and had not quite made up his mind whether he ought or ought not to resent the conduct of Mr Sullivan. Naturally more inclined for peace than war, by the time that he arrived home he had resolved to pocket the affront, when Captain Carrington called him on one side, and obtained from him a recapitulation of what had passed; which probably never would have been given if the colonel had not considered the communication as confidential. This, however, did not suit the intentions of Captain Carrington, who felt inclined for more mischief; and when the colonel had concluded his narrative, he replied, “Upon my word, colonel, as you observe, this conduct on the part of Mr Sullivan, is not exactly what can be permitted by us military men. I hardly know bow to advise; indeed I would not take the responsibility; however, I will consult with Mr S— and Mr G—, and if you will leave your honour in our hands, depend upon it we will do you strict justice:” and Captain Carrington quitted the colonel, who would have expostulated, and, walking up to the other gentlemen, entered into a recapitulation of the circumstances. A wink of his eye, as his back was turned to the colonel, fully expressed to the others the tenor of the advice which they were to offer.

“Well, gentlemen, what is your opinion?” said the captain, as he concluded his narrative.

“I think,” replied Mr S—, with a serious face, “there can be but one—our gallant friend has been most grossly insulted. I think,” continued he, addressing the colonel, who had quitted the sofa, in his anxiety to know the issue of their debate, “that I should most decidedly ask him what he meant.”

“Or rather demand an apology,” observed Mr G—.

“Which Mr Sullivan as a man of honour is bound to offer, and the colonel as a gentleman and an officer has a right to insist upon. Do you not think so, Captain Carrington?” said Mr S—.

“Why, I always have been more inclined to be a peacemaker than otherwise, if I can,” replied Captain Carrington. “If our gallant friend the colonel is not sure that Mr Sullivan did use the words, ‘I won’t trouble you to call again,’—are you positive as to the exact words, colonel?”

“Why, to the best of my recollection,” replied the colonel, “I rather think those were the words.—I may be mistaken:— it was certainly—most certainly—something to that effect.”

“Were they, ‘requesting you to call again?’” said Captain Carrington.

“No, no,—that they certainly were not.”

“Well, they could be but one or the other.—Then, gentlemen, the case is clear—the words were uttered,” said Mr S—, “Now, Captain Carrington, what would you advise?”

“I really am vexed to say, that I do not see how our friend, Colonel Ellice, can do otherwise than demand an apology, or a meeting.”

“Could not I treat him with contempt, Captain Carrington?” demanded the colonel.

“Why, not exactly,” replied Mr S—. “Sullivan is of good family; the Sullivans of Bally cum Poop. He was some time in the 48th regiment, and was obliged to retire from it for challenging his colonel.”

“Well, gentlemen,” replied the colonel, “I suppose I must leave my honour in your hands, although it does appear to me that our time is very short for such arrangements. We sail early to-morrow morning; Captain Carrington; at daylight, I think you said, and it will be too late to-night.”

“My dear colonel, I will risk a rebuke from the Admiralty,” replied the captain, “rather than not allow you to heal your wounded honour. I will stay till the day after to-morrow, should it be requisite for the arrangement of this business.”

“Thank you: many thanks,” replied the colonel, with an expression of disappointment. “Then I had better prepare the letter?”

“Carta por senhor commandante,” interrupted a Portuguese, presenting a letter to the colonel; “O senhor embaixo; queir risposta.”

The colonel opened the letter, which contained Mr Sullivan’s challenge,—pistols—to-morrow morn, at daylight—one mile on the road to Machico.

The colonel’s countenance changed two or three shades less yellow as he read the contents: recovering himself with a giggle, he handed the letter to Captain Carrington. “You see, captain, the gentleman has saved me the trouble—He, he, he! these little affairs are common to gentlemen of our profession—He, he! and since the gentleman wishes it, why, I presume—He, he! that we must not disappoint him.”

“Since you are both of one mind, I think there will be some business done,” observed Mr S—. “I perceive that he is in earnest by the place named for the meeting. We generally settle our affairs of honour in the Loo-fields; but I suppose he is afraid of interruption.—They want an answer, colonel.”

“Oh! he shall have one,” replied the colonel, tittering with excitement; “he shall have one. What hour does he say?”

“Oh! we will arrange all that. Come, colonel,” said Captain Carrington, taking him familiarly by the arm, and leading him away.

The answer was despatched, and they sat down to dinner. Many were the friendly and encouraging glasses of wine drank with the colonel, who recovered his confidence, and was then most assiduous in his attentions to the ladies to prove his perfect indifference. He retired at an early hour nevertheless.

In the mean time Mr Sullivan had received the answer, and had retired to his counting-house, to arrange his affairs in case of accident. He had not seen his wife since the fracas. And now we will leave them both for awhile, and make a few remarks upon duelling.

Most people lament, many abuse the custom as barbarous; but barbarous it is not, or it would not be necessary in a state of high civilisation. It is true that by the practice we offend laws human and divine; but at the same time, it must be acknowledged, that neither law nor religion can keep society in such good order, or so restrain crime. The man who would defy the penalty of the law, and the commandments of his God against seduction, will, however pause in his career when he finds that there are brothers to avenge an injured sister. And why so?—because in this world we live as it were in a tavern, careless of what the bill is which we run up, but dreading the day of reckoning, which the pistol of our adversary may bring at once. Thus duelling may be considered as a necessary evil, arising out of our wickedness; a crime in itself rare in occurrence, but which prevents others of equal magnitude from occurring every day; and until the world is reformed, nothing can prevent it. Men will ever be governed by the estimation of the world: and until the whole world decide against duelling—until it has become the usage to offer the other cheek upon the first having been smitten, then, and not till then, will the practice be discontinued. When a man refuses to fight a duel, he is stigmatised as a coward, his company is shunned; and, unless he is a wretch without feeling, his life becomes a burden. Men have refused from purely conscientious motives, and have subsequently found themselves so miserable from the neglect and contumely of the world, that they havebackslided, and have fought to recover their place in society. There have been some few, very few, who, having refused from conscientious motives, have adhered to these resolutions, because they feared God and not man. There was more courage in their refusal than if they had run the gauntlet of a hundred duels; a moral courage, which is most rare, preferring the contempt of man to the wrath of God. It is, however, the most trying situation on this side of the grave. To refuse to fight a duel, is in fact to obey the stern injunction, “leave all, and follow me.”

For my part, I never have and never will fight a duel, if I can help it. I have a double motive for my refusal; in the first place, I am afraid to offend the Deity; and in the next, I am afraid of being shot. I have therefore made up my mind never to meet a man except upon what I consider fair terms; for when a man stakes his life, the gambling becomes rather serious, and an equal value should be laid down by each party. If, then, a man is not so big—not of equal consequence in the consideration of his fellow mites—not married, with five small children, as I am—not having so much to lose—why it is clear that I risk more than he does; the stake is not equal, and I therefore shall not meet him. If, on the contrary, he presents a broader target,—if he is my superior in rank, more patriarchal at home, or has so many hundreds per annum more, why then the disadvantages will be on his side; and I trust I am too much of a gentleman, even if he offers to waive all these considerations, to permit him to fight. It would beswindlingthe man out of his life.

The best advice I can offer to my friends under these unpleasant circumstances is, first to try if they cannot persuade their adversaries to make an apology: and if he will not, why then let them make one themselves; for although the making an apology creates a very uneasy sensation, and goes very muchagainstthe stomach, yet, depend upon it, a well-directed bullet creates a much more uneasy feeling, and, what is worse, goesdirectly into it.

We left Mrs Sullivan sobbing in her anger, when her husband bounded out of the room in his heroics. At the time that he made the threat she was in no humour to regard it; but as her anger gradually subsided, so did her alarm increase. Notwithstanding that she was a coquette, she was as warmly attached to her husband as he was to her; if she trifled, it was only for her amusement, and to attract that meed of admiration to which she had been accustomed previous to her marriage, and which no woman can renounce on her first entry into that state. Men cannot easily pardon jealousy in their wives; but women are more lenient towards their husbands. Love, hand-in-hand with confidence, is the more endearing; yet, when confidence happens to be out of the way, Love will sometimes associate with Jealousy; still, as this disagreeable companion proves that Love is present, and as his presence is what a woman and all a woman asks, she suffers Jealousy, nay, sometimes even becomes partial to him for the sake of Love.

Now that Mrs Sullivan had been most unjustly accused, the reader must know, and moreover, that she had great reason to feel irritated. When her tears had subsided, for some time she continued in her chair, awaiting with predetermined dignity the appearance and apology of Mr Sullivan. After some time had elapsed, she wondered why he did not come. Dinner was announced, and she certainly expected to meet him then, and she waited for some minutes to see if he would not take this opportunity of coming up to her;—but no. She then presumed that he was still in the sulks, and had sat down to table without her, and therefore, as he would not come—why, she went; but he was not at the table. Every minute she expected him:— Had he been told?—Where was he?—He was in the counting-house, was the reply. Mrs Sullivan swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned up stairs. Tea was made—announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not. It remained on the table; the cup poured out for him was cold. The urn had been sent down, with strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away. Mrs Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy. He never had been at variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for nothing! At last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.—“Where was Mr Sullivan?”—“In the counting-house.”—“Tell him that I wish to speak with him.” Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was locked inside. This intelligence created a little irritation, and checked the tide of affection. “Before all the servants—so inconsiderate—it was quite insulting!” With a heavy heart, Mrs Sullivan lighted the chamber candle, and went up stairs to bed. Once she turned down the stairs two or three steps, intending to go to the counting-house door; but her pride restrained her, and she re-ascended. In an hour Mrs Sullivan was in bed, expecting her husband every minute, listening at the slightest sound for his footstep; but two o’clock came and he was still away. She could bear up against her suspense and agitation no longer; she rose, threw on herrobe de nuit, and descended the stairs. All the family had long retired, and every thing was still: her light foot made no noise as she tripped along. As she neared the door, she perceived the light gleaming through the key-hole. Whether to peep or to speak first—he might be fast asleep. Curiosity prevailed—she looked through the key-hole, and perceived her husband very busy writing. After he had finished his letter he threw down the pen, pressed his forehead with both hands, and groaned deeply. Mrs Sullivan could refrain no longer. “William! William!” cried she, in a soft imploring voice: but she was not answered. Again and again did she repeat his name, until an answer, evidently wrung from him by impatience, was returned—“It is too late now.”

“Too late, dear William! Yes, it is very late, it’s almost three o’clock. Let me in William,—pray do!”

“Leave me alone: it’s the last favour I probably shall ever request of you.”

“The last favour! Oh, William! you frighten me so:— dear William—do—do let me in. I’m so cold, I shall die:— only for one moment, and I’ll bless you. Pray do, William!”

It was not until after repeated and repeated entreaties of this kind, that Mr Sullivan, worn out by importunity, at last opened the door.

“Mary, I am very busy; I have opened the door to tell you so, and to request that you will not interrupt me. Now oblige me by going to bed.”

But getting in was every thing; and a young and pretty wife, in dishabille and in tears, imploring, entreating, conjuring, promising, coaxing, and fondling, is not quite so easy to be detached when once she has gained access. In less than half an hour Mr Sullivan was obliged to confess that her conduct had been the occasion of a meeting being agreed for upon that morning, and that he was arranging his affairs in case of a melancholy termination.

“You now, Mary, must see the consequences of your conduct. By your imprudence, your husband’s life is risked, probably sacrificed; but this is no time to be at variance. I forgive you, Mary,—from my soul, I do, as I hope for pardon myself.”

Mrs Sullivan burst into a paroxysm of tears; and it was some time before she could answer. “William,” cried she energetically, “as you well say, this is no time to be at variance, neither is it a time for falsehood. What I stated to you this morning was true:— if not, may I never hope for pardon! and may Heaven never be opened to me! You have been deceived, grossly deceived; for what purpose, I know not; but so it is. Do not therefore be rash. Send for all who were present, and examine them; and if I have told you a falsehood, put me away from you, to the shame and seclusion I shall so well deserve.”

“It is too late, Mary; I have challenged him, and he has accepted it. I fain would believe you; but he told me so himself.”

“Then he told a lie! a base cowardly lie! which sinks him beneath the notice of a gentleman. Let me go with you and confront him. Only let him dare to say it to my face: ’tis all I ask, William, that I may clear my fame with you. Come to bed—nay, nay, don’t refuse me;” and poor Mrs Sullivan again burst into tears.

We must leave the couple to pass the remaining hours in misery, which, however, reclaimed them both from faults. Mrs Sullivan never coquetted more, and her husband was, after this, never jealous but on trifles.

The colonel was just as busy on his side, in preparing for the chances of the morrow: these chances however were never tried; for Captain Carrington and his confederates had made their arrangements. Mr Sullivan was already dressed, his wife clinging to him in frantic despair, when a letter was left at his door, the purport of which was that Colonel Ellice had discovered that his companions had been joking with him, when they had asserted that during his state of inebriety, he had offered any rudeness to Mrs Sullivan. As therefore no offence had been committed, Colonel Ellice took it for granted that Mr Sullivan would be satisfied with the explanation.

Mrs Sullivan, who devoured the writing over her husband’s shoulder, sunk down on her knees in gratitude, and was raised to her husband’s arms, who, as he embraced her, acknowledged his injustice.

The same party who wrote this epistle also framed another in imitation of Mr Sullivan’s hand-writing, in which Mr Sullivan acquainted the Colonel, that having been informed by a mutual friend that he had been in error relative to Colonel Ellice’s behaviour of the night before, he begged to withdraw the challenge, and apologise for having suspected the colonel of incivility, etcetera. That having been informed that Colonel Ellice embarked at an early hour, he regretted that he would not be able to pay his respects to him, and assure him, etcetera.

The receipt of this letter, just as the colonel had finished a cup of coffee, preparatory to starting, made him, as a single man, quite as happy as the married couple; he hastened to put the letter into the hands of Captain Carrington, little thinking that he was handing it over to the writer.

“You observe, Captain Carrington, he won’t come to the scratch. Perhaps as well for him that he does not,” said the colonel, chuckling in his glee.

The breakfast was early; the colonel talked big, and explained the whole affair to the ladies, quite unconscious that every one in the company knew that the hoax had been played upon him. Before noon, every one had re-embarked on board of their respective ships, and their lofty sails were expanded to a light and favouring breeze.

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