Chapter Twenty.This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.Henry IV. Part I.We must now descend to the steerage, where our hero is seated in the berth, in company with a dozen more (as they designated themselves, from the extreme heat of their domicile)perspiringyoung heroes, who were amusing themselves with crunching hard biscuits, and at the same time a due proportion of those little animals of the scaribee tribe, denominated weevils, who had located themselves in theunleavened bread, and which the midshipmen declared to be the only fresh meat which they had tasted for some time.Captain M—’s character stood so high at the Admiralty, that the major part of the youngaspirantswho had been committed to his charge were of good family and connections. At that time few of the aristocracy or gentry ventured to send their sons into the navy; whereas, at present, none but those classes can obtain admission.A better school for training young officers could not have been selected; and the midshipmen’s berth of theAspasiawas as superior to those in other ships, as Captain M— was himself to the generality of his contemporary captains in the service. But I cannot pay these young men the compliment to introduce them one by one, as I did the gun-room officers. It would be an anomaly unheard of. I shall, therefore, with every respect for them, describe them just as I want them. It was one bell after eight o’clock—a bottle of ship’s rum, a black jack of putrid water, and a tin bread-basket, are on the table, which is lighted with a tallow candle of about thirteen to the pound.“I say, Mr Jerry Sneak, what are you after there—what are you foraging for in that locker?” said one of the oldsters of the berth to a half-starved, weak-looking object of a youngster, whose friends had sent him to sea with the hopes of improving his stamina.“What for?—why, for my supper if you must know. D’ye think Ilook too fat? I stowed it away before I went on deck, that it might not fall into your ravenous maw.”“Mind your stops, my Jack of the Bonehouse, or I shall shy a biscuit at your head.”“Do, and prove your bravery; it will be so very courageous. I suppose you will expect to be gazetted for it.”The youngster who had been dignified with the above sobriquet, and who made these replies, was certainly a most miserable-looking object, and looked as if a top-gallant breeze would have blown him to atoms. But if his body was weak, his tongue was most powerful. He resorted to no other weapon, and used that skilfully. He was a species of Thersites, and no dread of punishment could control his railing. He offered no resistance, but bent down like the reed, and resumed his former position as soon as the storm was over. His keen and sarcastic remarks, although they occasionally subjected him to chastisement, to a certain degree served him as a defence, for he could always raise a laugh at the expense of the individual whom he attacked, with the formidable weapon which he had inherited direct from his mother.The oldster before mentioned put his hand into the breadbasket, and seized a handful of the biscuit. “Now I’ll bet you a glass of grog that you don’t throw a biscuit at my head,” cried Jerry, with a sneer.“Done,” replied the oldster, throwing the contents of his hand at Jerry with all his force.“I’ll just trouble you for that glass of grog, for you’ve lost,” said the youngster, taking it up from the table where it stood, before the oldster; “you’ve only thrown some pieces, and not a biscuit;” and following up his words with deeds, he swallowed down the whole contents of the tumbler, which he replaced very coolly before his opponent.“Fair bet, and fairly lost,” cried the rest of the berth, laughing.“You scarecrow! you’re not worth thrashing,” said the oldster, angrily.“Why, that’s exactly what I have been trying to impress upon your memory ever since I have joined the ship. There’s no credit to be gained by licking a half-starved wretch like I am; but there’s Bruce, now,” (pointing to one of the oldsters, between whom and his opponent a jealousy subsisted), “why don’t you lick him? There would be some credit in that. But you know better than to try it.”“Do I?” retorted the oldster, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment.“Yes, you do,” replied Bruce, jumping up in defiance; and there was every appearance of a disturbance, much to the delight of Jerry, who, provided that they fought, was quite indifferent which party was the victor. But a fortunate interruption took place, by the appearance of the master-at-arms.“Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please—the lights must be put out.”“Very well, master-at-arms,” replied one of the oldsters.The master-at-arms took his seat on a chest close to the door of the berth, aware that a second summons, if not a third, would be requisite, before his object was obtained. In a few minutes he again put his head into the berth. “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please. I must report you to the first-lieutenant.”“Very well, Byfield—it shall be out in a minute.”The master-at-arms resumes his station on the chest outside.“Why, it’s Saturday night,” cried Bruce. “Sweethearts and wives, my boys, though I believe none of us are troubled with the latter. Forster, pass the rum.”“I’ll pass the bottle, and you may make a bull of it, if you choose.”“Confound it, no more grog—and Saturday night. I must drink ‘Auld lang syne,’ by Heavens.”The master-at-arms again made his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must put the light out.”“Stop one minute, Byfield. Let us see whether we can get any more rum.”The excuse appeared reasonable to the jack in office, and he disappeared.“Boy, tell Billy Pitt I want him.”Billy Pitt had turned in, but was soon roused out of his hammock, and made his appearance at the berth door, with only his shirt on that he was sleeping in.“You want me, Massa Bruce?”“Billy, my beau, you know everything. We sent for you to tell us what’s the meaning of a repartee?”“Repartee, sir—repartee!—stop a bit—Eh—I tell you, sir. Suppose you call me dam nigger—then I call you one dam dirty white-livered son of a b—; dat a repartee, sir.”“Capital, Billy—you shall be a bishop. But Billy, has your master got any rum in his cabin?”“Which massa, sir? Massa Courtenay, or Massa Doctor?”“Oh! Courtenay, to be sure. The surgeon never has any.”“Yes, sar, I tink he have a little.”“Be quick, Billy; and fetch it. I will give it you back at the tub to-morrow.”“Suppose you forget, sar, you put me in very finepredicalament. Massa Courtenay look dam blue—no, he not look blue, but he look dam yellow,” replied Billy, showing his white teeth as he grinned.“But I won’t forget, Billy, upon my honour.”“Well, honour quite enough between two gentlemen. I go fetch the bottle.”Billy soon reappeared with a quart bottle of rum, just as three bells were struck. “By gad, I rattle the bottle as I take him out—wake Mr Courtenay—he say, dam black fellow he make everything adrift—cursed annoying, he say, and go to sleep again.”“Really, gentlemen, I cannot wait any longer,” resumed the master-at-arms; “the lights must be reported or I shall be in disgrace.”“Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a glass of grog?”“If you please,” replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, “Your health, gentlemen.”“Thank you,” replied the midshipmen.“Tank you,sir,” replied also Billy Pitt.“Well, Billy. What’s the last word you read in your dictionary?”“Last word? Let me see—Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?”“Commission! We all know what that is, Billy, and shall be glad to get it too, by-and-bye.”“Yes, sar; but there are two kind of commission. One you want, obliged to wait for; one I want, always have at once,—commission as agent, sar.”“Oh, I understand,” replied Bruce; “five per cent on the bottle, eh?”“Five per cent not make a tiff glass of grog, Massa Bruce.”“Well, then, Billy, you shall have ten per cent,” replied the midshipman, pouring him out anorth-wester. “Will that do?”The black had the politeness to drink the health of all the gentlemen of the berth separately, before he poured the liquor down his throat. “Massa Bruce, I tink doctor got a little rum in his cabin.”“Go and fetch it, Billy; you shall have it back to-morrow.”“Honour, Mr Bruce.”“Honour, Mr Pitt.”“Ten per cent, Massa Bruce,” continued Billy, grinning.“Ten per cent is the bargain.”“I go see.”Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.“I do—really—think—upon—my—word—that that—black—scoundrel—would—sell—his—own—mother—for—a—stiff—glass—of—grog,” observed a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words, which, “like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along.”“The lights, gentlemen, if you please,” resumed the master-at-arms, putting his head again into the door.“Another commission,” said Jerry: “a tax upon light. Billy Pitt has the best right to it.”A second glass of grog was poured out, and the bribe disappeared down Mr Byfield’s gullet.“Now we’ll put the light out,” said one of the oldsters, covering the candlestick with a hat.“If you will put your candle into my lantern,” observed the obsequious master-at-arms, “I can then report the lights out. Of course you will allow it to remain there?”The suggestion was adopted; and the light was reportedoutto the first-lieutenant, at the very moment that it was takenoutof the lantern again, and replaced in the candlestick. The duplicate supply began to have its effect upon our incipient heroes, who commenced talkingof their friends. Bruce, a fine manly, honourable Scotchman, had the peculiarity of always allying himself, when half drunk, to the royal house who formerly sat upon the throne of England; but, when quite intoxicated, he was so treasonable as to declare himself the lawful King of Great Britain. Glass after glass increased his propinquity to the throne, till at last he seated himself on it, and the uproar of the whole party rose to that height, that the first-lieutenant sent out, desiring the midshipmen immediately to retire to their hammocks.“Send me to bed! ‘Proud man, dressed in a little brief authority.’ If the Lord’s anointed had been respected, he, with millions, would be now bending the knee to me. Well, if I can’t be King of all England, at least I’ll be king in this berth. Tell me,” cried Bruce, seizing the unfortunate Prose by the collar, “am I not king?”“Why—according—to—the—best—of—my—belief,” said Prose, “I—should—rather—be—inclined—to—think—that—you are—not—the—king.”“Am not, base slave!” cried Bruce, throwing him on the deck, and putting his foot on his chest.“No—if—I die for it—I don’t care—but if you are—not king—I must own—that—you—are one of—my thirty tyrants,” drawled out Prose, half suffocated with the pressure.“I—do—declare,” cried Jerry, imitating Prose’s drawl, “that—he—has—squeezed—a pun—out—of—you.”“Am not I king?” resumed Bruce, seizing Jerry, who had advanced within reach, to laugh at Prose.“I feel that you ought to be,” replied Jerry: “and I don’t doubt your lineal descent: for you have all the dispositions of the race from which you claim descent. A boon, your gracious majesty,” continued Jerry, bending on one knee.“Thou shalt have it, my loyal subject,” replied Bruce, who was delighted with the homage, “even (as Ahasuerus said to Esther) to the half of my kingdom.”“God forbid that I should deprive your majesty of that,” replied Jerry, smiling at the idea ofhalving nothing. “It is only to request that I may not keep the middle watch to-night.”“Rise, Jerry, you shall not keep a night-watch for a fortnight.”“I humbly thank your most gracious majesty,” replied the astute boy, who was a youngster of the watch of which Bruce was mate.As the reader may be amused with the result of this promise, he must know, that Bruce, who did not recollect what had passed, when he perceived Jerry not to be on deck, sent down for him. The youngster, on his appearance, claimed his promise; and his claim was allowed by Bruce, rather than he would acknowledge himself to have been intoxicated. Jerry, upon the strength of the agreement, continued, for more than the prescribed time, to sleep in every night-watch, until, aware that he was no longer safe, he thought of an expedient which would probably insure him one night longer, and prevent a disagreeable interruption of his dreams. Prose, whose hammock was hung up next the hatchway, had a bad cold, and Jerry thought it prudent to shift his berth, that he might not be found.“It’s the draught from the hatchway that makes your cold so bad, Prose; you’ll never get well while you sleep there. I will give you my inside berth until it is better—’tis really quite distressing to hear you cough.”“Well, now, Jerry, that’s what I call very good-natured of you. I have not had such a friendly act done towards me since I joined the ship, and I do assure you, Jerry, that I shall not be ungrateful—I shall not forget it.”It happened that, on the very night that Prose exchanged berths with Jerry, Bruce made his calculation that the fortnight had elapsed three days back: and although he felt himself bound in honour to keep his promise, yet feeling rather sore at being over-reached, he now ordered the quarter-master to cut Jerry’s hammock down by the head. This was supposed to be done, and poor Prose, who had just fallen asleep after keeping the previous watch, awoke with a stunning sensation, and found his feet up at the beams and his head on the deck; while Jerry, who had been awakened by the noise, was obliged to cram the sheets into his mouth, that his laughter might be unperceived.“Well, now, I do declare, this is too bad—I most certainly will complain to the captain, to-morrow morning—as sure as my name is Prose. Sentry, bring me a light, and assist me to get my hammock up again—I will not put up with this treatment—I do declare;” and so saying, Prose once more resumed his position in his precarious dormitory.But, during our digression, the berth has become empty—some walking, and others, particularly his majesty, reeling to bed. So we shall close this chapter, from which the reader may perceive, that, even in the best-regulated ships, there is more going on in a midshipmen’s berth than a captain is acquainted with, or that comes between Heaven and his philosophy.
This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.Henry IV. Part I.
This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.
Henry IV. Part I.
We must now descend to the steerage, where our hero is seated in the berth, in company with a dozen more (as they designated themselves, from the extreme heat of their domicile)perspiringyoung heroes, who were amusing themselves with crunching hard biscuits, and at the same time a due proportion of those little animals of the scaribee tribe, denominated weevils, who had located themselves in theunleavened bread, and which the midshipmen declared to be the only fresh meat which they had tasted for some time.
Captain M—’s character stood so high at the Admiralty, that the major part of the youngaspirantswho had been committed to his charge were of good family and connections. At that time few of the aristocracy or gentry ventured to send their sons into the navy; whereas, at present, none but those classes can obtain admission.
A better school for training young officers could not have been selected; and the midshipmen’s berth of theAspasiawas as superior to those in other ships, as Captain M— was himself to the generality of his contemporary captains in the service. But I cannot pay these young men the compliment to introduce them one by one, as I did the gun-room officers. It would be an anomaly unheard of. I shall, therefore, with every respect for them, describe them just as I want them. It was one bell after eight o’clock—a bottle of ship’s rum, a black jack of putrid water, and a tin bread-basket, are on the table, which is lighted with a tallow candle of about thirteen to the pound.
“I say, Mr Jerry Sneak, what are you after there—what are you foraging for in that locker?” said one of the oldsters of the berth to a half-starved, weak-looking object of a youngster, whose friends had sent him to sea with the hopes of improving his stamina.
“What for?—why, for my supper if you must know. D’ye think Ilook too fat? I stowed it away before I went on deck, that it might not fall into your ravenous maw.”
“Mind your stops, my Jack of the Bonehouse, or I shall shy a biscuit at your head.”
“Do, and prove your bravery; it will be so very courageous. I suppose you will expect to be gazetted for it.”
The youngster who had been dignified with the above sobriquet, and who made these replies, was certainly a most miserable-looking object, and looked as if a top-gallant breeze would have blown him to atoms. But if his body was weak, his tongue was most powerful. He resorted to no other weapon, and used that skilfully. He was a species of Thersites, and no dread of punishment could control his railing. He offered no resistance, but bent down like the reed, and resumed his former position as soon as the storm was over. His keen and sarcastic remarks, although they occasionally subjected him to chastisement, to a certain degree served him as a defence, for he could always raise a laugh at the expense of the individual whom he attacked, with the formidable weapon which he had inherited direct from his mother.
The oldster before mentioned put his hand into the breadbasket, and seized a handful of the biscuit. “Now I’ll bet you a glass of grog that you don’t throw a biscuit at my head,” cried Jerry, with a sneer.
“Done,” replied the oldster, throwing the contents of his hand at Jerry with all his force.
“I’ll just trouble you for that glass of grog, for you’ve lost,” said the youngster, taking it up from the table where it stood, before the oldster; “you’ve only thrown some pieces, and not a biscuit;” and following up his words with deeds, he swallowed down the whole contents of the tumbler, which he replaced very coolly before his opponent.
“Fair bet, and fairly lost,” cried the rest of the berth, laughing.
“You scarecrow! you’re not worth thrashing,” said the oldster, angrily.
“Why, that’s exactly what I have been trying to impress upon your memory ever since I have joined the ship. There’s no credit to be gained by licking a half-starved wretch like I am; but there’s Bruce, now,” (pointing to one of the oldsters, between whom and his opponent a jealousy subsisted), “why don’t you lick him? There would be some credit in that. But you know better than to try it.”
“Do I?” retorted the oldster, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment.
“Yes, you do,” replied Bruce, jumping up in defiance; and there was every appearance of a disturbance, much to the delight of Jerry, who, provided that they fought, was quite indifferent which party was the victor. But a fortunate interruption took place, by the appearance of the master-at-arms.
“Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please—the lights must be put out.”
“Very well, master-at-arms,” replied one of the oldsters.
The master-at-arms took his seat on a chest close to the door of the berth, aware that a second summons, if not a third, would be requisite, before his object was obtained. In a few minutes he again put his head into the berth. “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please. I must report you to the first-lieutenant.”
“Very well, Byfield—it shall be out in a minute.”
The master-at-arms resumes his station on the chest outside.
“Why, it’s Saturday night,” cried Bruce. “Sweethearts and wives, my boys, though I believe none of us are troubled with the latter. Forster, pass the rum.”
“I’ll pass the bottle, and you may make a bull of it, if you choose.”
“Confound it, no more grog—and Saturday night. I must drink ‘Auld lang syne,’ by Heavens.”
The master-at-arms again made his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must put the light out.”
“Stop one minute, Byfield. Let us see whether we can get any more rum.”
The excuse appeared reasonable to the jack in office, and he disappeared.
“Boy, tell Billy Pitt I want him.”
Billy Pitt had turned in, but was soon roused out of his hammock, and made his appearance at the berth door, with only his shirt on that he was sleeping in.
“You want me, Massa Bruce?”
“Billy, my beau, you know everything. We sent for you to tell us what’s the meaning of a repartee?”
“Repartee, sir—repartee!—stop a bit—Eh—I tell you, sir. Suppose you call me dam nigger—then I call you one dam dirty white-livered son of a b—; dat a repartee, sir.”
“Capital, Billy—you shall be a bishop. But Billy, has your master got any rum in his cabin?”
“Which massa, sir? Massa Courtenay, or Massa Doctor?”
“Oh! Courtenay, to be sure. The surgeon never has any.”
“Yes, sar, I tink he have a little.”
“Be quick, Billy; and fetch it. I will give it you back at the tub to-morrow.”
“Suppose you forget, sar, you put me in very finepredicalament. Massa Courtenay look dam blue—no, he not look blue, but he look dam yellow,” replied Billy, showing his white teeth as he grinned.
“But I won’t forget, Billy, upon my honour.”
“Well, honour quite enough between two gentlemen. I go fetch the bottle.”
Billy soon reappeared with a quart bottle of rum, just as three bells were struck. “By gad, I rattle the bottle as I take him out—wake Mr Courtenay—he say, dam black fellow he make everything adrift—cursed annoying, he say, and go to sleep again.”
“Really, gentlemen, I cannot wait any longer,” resumed the master-at-arms; “the lights must be reported or I shall be in disgrace.”
“Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a glass of grog?”
“If you please,” replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, “Your health, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” replied the midshipmen.
“Tank you,sir,” replied also Billy Pitt.
“Well, Billy. What’s the last word you read in your dictionary?”
“Last word? Let me see—Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?”
“Commission! We all know what that is, Billy, and shall be glad to get it too, by-and-bye.”
“Yes, sar; but there are two kind of commission. One you want, obliged to wait for; one I want, always have at once,—commission as agent, sar.”
“Oh, I understand,” replied Bruce; “five per cent on the bottle, eh?”
“Five per cent not make a tiff glass of grog, Massa Bruce.”
“Well, then, Billy, you shall have ten per cent,” replied the midshipman, pouring him out anorth-wester. “Will that do?”
The black had the politeness to drink the health of all the gentlemen of the berth separately, before he poured the liquor down his throat. “Massa Bruce, I tink doctor got a little rum in his cabin.”
“Go and fetch it, Billy; you shall have it back to-morrow.”
“Honour, Mr Bruce.”
“Honour, Mr Pitt.”
“Ten per cent, Massa Bruce,” continued Billy, grinning.
“Ten per cent is the bargain.”
“I go see.”
Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.
“I do—really—think—upon—my—word—that that—black—scoundrel—would—sell—his—own—mother—for—a—stiff—glass—of—grog,” observed a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words, which, “like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along.”
“The lights, gentlemen, if you please,” resumed the master-at-arms, putting his head again into the door.
“Another commission,” said Jerry: “a tax upon light. Billy Pitt has the best right to it.”
A second glass of grog was poured out, and the bribe disappeared down Mr Byfield’s gullet.
“Now we’ll put the light out,” said one of the oldsters, covering the candlestick with a hat.
“If you will put your candle into my lantern,” observed the obsequious master-at-arms, “I can then report the lights out. Of course you will allow it to remain there?”
The suggestion was adopted; and the light was reportedoutto the first-lieutenant, at the very moment that it was takenoutof the lantern again, and replaced in the candlestick. The duplicate supply began to have its effect upon our incipient heroes, who commenced talkingof their friends. Bruce, a fine manly, honourable Scotchman, had the peculiarity of always allying himself, when half drunk, to the royal house who formerly sat upon the throne of England; but, when quite intoxicated, he was so treasonable as to declare himself the lawful King of Great Britain. Glass after glass increased his propinquity to the throne, till at last he seated himself on it, and the uproar of the whole party rose to that height, that the first-lieutenant sent out, desiring the midshipmen immediately to retire to their hammocks.
“Send me to bed! ‘Proud man, dressed in a little brief authority.’ If the Lord’s anointed had been respected, he, with millions, would be now bending the knee to me. Well, if I can’t be King of all England, at least I’ll be king in this berth. Tell me,” cried Bruce, seizing the unfortunate Prose by the collar, “am I not king?”
“Why—according—to—the—best—of—my—belief,” said Prose, “I—should—rather—be—inclined—to—think—that—you are—not—the—king.”
“Am not, base slave!” cried Bruce, throwing him on the deck, and putting his foot on his chest.
“No—if—I die for it—I don’t care—but if you are—not king—I must own—that—you—are one of—my thirty tyrants,” drawled out Prose, half suffocated with the pressure.
“I—do—declare,” cried Jerry, imitating Prose’s drawl, “that—he—has—squeezed—a pun—out—of—you.”
“Am not I king?” resumed Bruce, seizing Jerry, who had advanced within reach, to laugh at Prose.
“I feel that you ought to be,” replied Jerry: “and I don’t doubt your lineal descent: for you have all the dispositions of the race from which you claim descent. A boon, your gracious majesty,” continued Jerry, bending on one knee.
“Thou shalt have it, my loyal subject,” replied Bruce, who was delighted with the homage, “even (as Ahasuerus said to Esther) to the half of my kingdom.”
“God forbid that I should deprive your majesty of that,” replied Jerry, smiling at the idea ofhalving nothing. “It is only to request that I may not keep the middle watch to-night.”
“Rise, Jerry, you shall not keep a night-watch for a fortnight.”
“I humbly thank your most gracious majesty,” replied the astute boy, who was a youngster of the watch of which Bruce was mate.
As the reader may be amused with the result of this promise, he must know, that Bruce, who did not recollect what had passed, when he perceived Jerry not to be on deck, sent down for him. The youngster, on his appearance, claimed his promise; and his claim was allowed by Bruce, rather than he would acknowledge himself to have been intoxicated. Jerry, upon the strength of the agreement, continued, for more than the prescribed time, to sleep in every night-watch, until, aware that he was no longer safe, he thought of an expedient which would probably insure him one night longer, and prevent a disagreeable interruption of his dreams. Prose, whose hammock was hung up next the hatchway, had a bad cold, and Jerry thought it prudent to shift his berth, that he might not be found.
“It’s the draught from the hatchway that makes your cold so bad, Prose; you’ll never get well while you sleep there. I will give you my inside berth until it is better—’tis really quite distressing to hear you cough.”
“Well, now, Jerry, that’s what I call very good-natured of you. I have not had such a friendly act done towards me since I joined the ship, and I do assure you, Jerry, that I shall not be ungrateful—I shall not forget it.”
It happened that, on the very night that Prose exchanged berths with Jerry, Bruce made his calculation that the fortnight had elapsed three days back: and although he felt himself bound in honour to keep his promise, yet feeling rather sore at being over-reached, he now ordered the quarter-master to cut Jerry’s hammock down by the head. This was supposed to be done, and poor Prose, who had just fallen asleep after keeping the previous watch, awoke with a stunning sensation, and found his feet up at the beams and his head on the deck; while Jerry, who had been awakened by the noise, was obliged to cram the sheets into his mouth, that his laughter might be unperceived.
“Well, now, I do declare, this is too bad—I most certainly will complain to the captain, to-morrow morning—as sure as my name is Prose. Sentry, bring me a light, and assist me to get my hammock up again—I will not put up with this treatment—I do declare;” and so saying, Prose once more resumed his position in his precarious dormitory.
But, during our digression, the berth has become empty—some walking, and others, particularly his majesty, reeling to bed. So we shall close this chapter, from which the reader may perceive, that, even in the best-regulated ships, there is more going on in a midshipmen’s berth than a captain is acquainted with, or that comes between Heaven and his philosophy.
Chapter Twenty One.With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, and I must freely have the half of anything that this same paper brings you.Shakespeare.The castle which had been built by the ancestors of Mr Rainscourt, and which, in feudal times, had been one of strength and importance, was about two miles from the town of —, in the county of Galway, on the west coast of Ireland; and, as Mr Rainscourt had correctly surmised, when he returned to it, no officer could be found who was bold enough to venture his life by an attempt at caption, surrounded as he was by a savage and devoted peasantry, who had no scruples at bloodshed. Immured within its walls, with little to interest, and no temptation to expend money, Mr and Mrs Rainscourt lived for nearly two years, indulging their spleen and discontent in mutual upbraidings,—their feelings towards each other, from incessant irritation, being now rather those of hatred than any other term that could be applied. The jewels of Mrs Rainscourt, and every other article that could be dispensed with, had been sold, and the purse was empty. The good-will of the tenants of the mortgaged property had for some time supplied the ill-assorted couple with the necessaries of life; every day added to their wants, to their hatred, and their despair.They were seated at the table, having finished a dinner off some game which Mr Rainscourt had procured with his gun, and which had been their fare, with little variety, ever since the shooting season had commenced, when the old nurse, the only domestic they retained,—probably the only one who would remain with them without receiving wages,—made her appearance. “And sure there’s a letter for the master; Barney, the post-boy, is just bringing it.”“Well, where is it?” replied Rainscourt.“He says that it’s two thirteens that must be paid for it, and the dirty spalpeen of a postmaster told him not to give you the letter without the money for it in his fist.”“Tell Barney to step in here—have you two shillings, Mrs Rainscourt?”“Not one, Mr Rainscourt,” replied the lady, gloomily.The nurse reappeared with Barney.“Well, Barney, where’s the letter?” said Mr Rainscourt; “let me look at it.”“Sure, your honour, it’s not me that’s refusing it ye. But the master tould me—‘Barney,’ says he, ‘if you give his honour the letter without the two thirteens in your fist, it’s a good bating that I’ll give ye when ye come back.’”“Well, but, Barney, let me look at it, and see by the postmark where it’s from. I shall know, directly, whether I will take it up or not.”“And suppose that your honour should wish to open the letter! It’s not for gentlemen like ye to be standing against the temptation;—and then, the two thirteens, your honour.”“Well, Barney, since you won’t trust me, and I have no money, you must take the letter back. It might bring me good news—I have had nothing but bad of late.”“And sure enough it might bring you good news. Then, your honour shall take the letter and I’ll take thebating;” and the good-natured lad pulled out the letter from his pocket, and gave it to Rainscourt.Rainscourt, who first wished to ascertain whether it was one of his usual dunning correspondents, examined the post-mark and handwriting of the superscription, that he might return it unopened, and save poor Barney from the beating which he had volunteered to receive for his sake, but the hand was unknown to him, and the post-mark was so faint and illegible that he could not decipher it. He looked into the sides of the letter, and the few words which he could read whetted his curiosity.“I’m afraid, Barney, that I must open it.”“Good luck to your honour, then, and may it prove so.”The letter was opened, and the contents threw a gleam of pleasure, which had been rarely seen of late on the brow of the reader. His wife had watched his countenance. “Barney,” cried Rainscourt, with delight, “call to-morrow, and I’ll give you a guinea.”“Sure your honour’s in luck, and me too,” replied Barney, grinning, and backing out of the room. “I’ll go take my bating at once.”But, to explain the contents of this letter, we must narrate events of which we have lost sight in following up the naval career of our hero.About three weeks after the death of Admiral de Courcy, the line-of-battle ship in which old Adams had sailed with our hero under his protection, returned into port. The vicar, who anxiously awaited her arrival, immediately proceeded there, that he might claim Willy in the capacity of his guardian. Having obtained the address of Captain M—, he called upon him, and opened his case by requesting that the boy might be permitted to come on shore. He was proceeding to narrate the change which had taken place in his ward’s prospects, when he was interrupted by Captain M—, who, first detailing the death of old Adams, and the conduct of Willy, stated that he had sent the boy home in the prize for an outfit. It was with great feeling that Captain M— was forced to add the apparent certainty, that the vessel, which had never been heard of, had foundered at sea. Shocked at the intelligence, which was communicated at a moment when his heart was expanded, at the idea of having been instrumental in repairing the injustice and neglect which had been shown towards hisprotégé, the vicar, not caring to mention to a stranger the family particulars upon which his request had been grounded, withdrew, without even giving his name or address. Three years afterwards, when, as we have narrated, our hero again made his appearance, Captain M— had no clue to guide him, by which he might communicate the intelligence of his recovery to one whom he naturally concluded did not make such inquiries without having some interest in our hero’s welfare.The vicar, in the mean time, although he had every reason to believe that Willy was no more, resorted to every means that his prudence could suggest to ascertain the positive fact. For many months the most strict inquiries were set afloat by his agents, whether a captured vessel had been wrecked on the French coast. The prisoners at Verdun and other depots were examined—rewards were offered, by emissaries in France, for the discovery of the boy, but without success. Having waited two years, all hope became extinct, and the letter now received by Mr Rainscourt was from the vicar, acquainting him with the circumstances, and surrendering up the property to him, as next of kin.“Pray, Mr Rainscourt, may I ask the contents of a letter, the perusal of which not only makes you so generous, but implies that you expect to have the means of being so?”When happy ourselves, especially when unexpectedly so, we feel kindly disposed towards others. For a moment Rainscourt seemed to have forgotten all his differences with his wife; and he as readily imparted to her his good fortune as he had, on a previous occasion, his disappointment.“My dear Clara, the grandchild is dead, and we have possession of the property.”“My dear Clara!” Such an epithet had never been used since the first week of their marriage. Overcome by the joyful intelligence, but more overcome by the kind expression of her husband, which recalled the days when she fondly loved. Mrs Rainscourt burst into tears, and throwing herself down with her face on his knees, poured out, in sobs, her gratitude to Heaven, and her revived affection for her husband.Their daughter Emily, now ten years old, astonished at so unusual a scene, ran up, impelled as it were by instinct, and completed the family group, by clinging to her father. Rainscourt, who was affected, kissed the brow of the child, and congratulated her on becoming an heiress.“I never knew before that money would do so much good,” observed the child, referring to the apparent reconciliation of her parents.Mrs Rainscourt rose from her position, and sat down at the table, leaning her face upon her hands. “I am afraid that it has come too late,” said she, mournfully, as she recalled the years of indifference and hostility which had preceded.Mrs Rainscourt was correct in her supposition. Respect and esteem had long departed, and without their aid, truant love was not to be reclaimed. The feeling of renewed attachment was as transient as it was sudden.“I must be off to England immediately,” observed the husband. “I presume that I shall have no difficulty in obtaining money from the bank when I show this letter. Old — will be ready enough to thrust his notes into my hands now.”“Shall we not go with you, Mr Rainscourt?”“No; you had better remain here till I have arranged matters a little. I must settle with three cursed money-lenders, and take up the bonds from J—. Little scoundrel! he’ll be civil enough.”“Well, Mr Rainscourt, it must, I suppose, be as you decide: but neither Emily nor I are very well equipped in our wardrobes and you will not be exactly competent to execute our commissions.”“And therefore shall execute none.”“Do you, then, mean to leave us here in rags and beggary, while you are amusing yourself in London?” replied Mrs Rainscourt, with asperity. “With your altered circumstances, you will have no want of society, either male orfemale,” continued the lady, with an emphasis upon the last word—“and a wife will probably be an encumbrance.”“Certainly not such a kind and affectionate one as you have proved, my dear,” replied the gentleman, sarcastically; “nevertheless I must decline the pleasure of your company till I have time to look about me a little.”“Perhaps, Mr Rainscourt, now that you will be able to afford it, you will prefer a separate establishment? If so, I am willing to accede to any proposition you may be inclined to make.”“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, my dear, and shall receive due consideration.”“The sooner the better, sir,” replied the piqued lady, as Mr Rainscourt quitted the room.“My dear child,” said Mrs Rainscourt to her daughter, “you see how cruelly your father treats me. He is a bad man, and you must never pay attention to what he says.”“Papa told me just the same of you, mamma,” replied the girl, “yesterday morning, when you were walking in the garden.”“Did he! The wretch, to set my own child against me!” cried Mrs Rainscourt, who had just been guilty of the very same offence which had raised her choler against her husband.
With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, and I must freely have the half of anything that this same paper brings you.Shakespeare.
With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, and I must freely have the half of anything that this same paper brings you.
Shakespeare.
The castle which had been built by the ancestors of Mr Rainscourt, and which, in feudal times, had been one of strength and importance, was about two miles from the town of —, in the county of Galway, on the west coast of Ireland; and, as Mr Rainscourt had correctly surmised, when he returned to it, no officer could be found who was bold enough to venture his life by an attempt at caption, surrounded as he was by a savage and devoted peasantry, who had no scruples at bloodshed. Immured within its walls, with little to interest, and no temptation to expend money, Mr and Mrs Rainscourt lived for nearly two years, indulging their spleen and discontent in mutual upbraidings,—their feelings towards each other, from incessant irritation, being now rather those of hatred than any other term that could be applied. The jewels of Mrs Rainscourt, and every other article that could be dispensed with, had been sold, and the purse was empty. The good-will of the tenants of the mortgaged property had for some time supplied the ill-assorted couple with the necessaries of life; every day added to their wants, to their hatred, and their despair.
They were seated at the table, having finished a dinner off some game which Mr Rainscourt had procured with his gun, and which had been their fare, with little variety, ever since the shooting season had commenced, when the old nurse, the only domestic they retained,—probably the only one who would remain with them without receiving wages,—made her appearance. “And sure there’s a letter for the master; Barney, the post-boy, is just bringing it.”
“Well, where is it?” replied Rainscourt.
“He says that it’s two thirteens that must be paid for it, and the dirty spalpeen of a postmaster told him not to give you the letter without the money for it in his fist.”
“Tell Barney to step in here—have you two shillings, Mrs Rainscourt?”
“Not one, Mr Rainscourt,” replied the lady, gloomily.
The nurse reappeared with Barney.
“Well, Barney, where’s the letter?” said Mr Rainscourt; “let me look at it.”
“Sure, your honour, it’s not me that’s refusing it ye. But the master tould me—‘Barney,’ says he, ‘if you give his honour the letter without the two thirteens in your fist, it’s a good bating that I’ll give ye when ye come back.’”
“Well, but, Barney, let me look at it, and see by the postmark where it’s from. I shall know, directly, whether I will take it up or not.”
“And suppose that your honour should wish to open the letter! It’s not for gentlemen like ye to be standing against the temptation;—and then, the two thirteens, your honour.”
“Well, Barney, since you won’t trust me, and I have no money, you must take the letter back. It might bring me good news—I have had nothing but bad of late.”
“And sure enough it might bring you good news. Then, your honour shall take the letter and I’ll take thebating;” and the good-natured lad pulled out the letter from his pocket, and gave it to Rainscourt.
Rainscourt, who first wished to ascertain whether it was one of his usual dunning correspondents, examined the post-mark and handwriting of the superscription, that he might return it unopened, and save poor Barney from the beating which he had volunteered to receive for his sake, but the hand was unknown to him, and the post-mark was so faint and illegible that he could not decipher it. He looked into the sides of the letter, and the few words which he could read whetted his curiosity.
“I’m afraid, Barney, that I must open it.”
“Good luck to your honour, then, and may it prove so.”
The letter was opened, and the contents threw a gleam of pleasure, which had been rarely seen of late on the brow of the reader. His wife had watched his countenance. “Barney,” cried Rainscourt, with delight, “call to-morrow, and I’ll give you a guinea.”
“Sure your honour’s in luck, and me too,” replied Barney, grinning, and backing out of the room. “I’ll go take my bating at once.”
But, to explain the contents of this letter, we must narrate events of which we have lost sight in following up the naval career of our hero.
About three weeks after the death of Admiral de Courcy, the line-of-battle ship in which old Adams had sailed with our hero under his protection, returned into port. The vicar, who anxiously awaited her arrival, immediately proceeded there, that he might claim Willy in the capacity of his guardian. Having obtained the address of Captain M—, he called upon him, and opened his case by requesting that the boy might be permitted to come on shore. He was proceeding to narrate the change which had taken place in his ward’s prospects, when he was interrupted by Captain M—, who, first detailing the death of old Adams, and the conduct of Willy, stated that he had sent the boy home in the prize for an outfit. It was with great feeling that Captain M— was forced to add the apparent certainty, that the vessel, which had never been heard of, had foundered at sea. Shocked at the intelligence, which was communicated at a moment when his heart was expanded, at the idea of having been instrumental in repairing the injustice and neglect which had been shown towards hisprotégé, the vicar, not caring to mention to a stranger the family particulars upon which his request had been grounded, withdrew, without even giving his name or address. Three years afterwards, when, as we have narrated, our hero again made his appearance, Captain M— had no clue to guide him, by which he might communicate the intelligence of his recovery to one whom he naturally concluded did not make such inquiries without having some interest in our hero’s welfare.
The vicar, in the mean time, although he had every reason to believe that Willy was no more, resorted to every means that his prudence could suggest to ascertain the positive fact. For many months the most strict inquiries were set afloat by his agents, whether a captured vessel had been wrecked on the French coast. The prisoners at Verdun and other depots were examined—rewards were offered, by emissaries in France, for the discovery of the boy, but without success. Having waited two years, all hope became extinct, and the letter now received by Mr Rainscourt was from the vicar, acquainting him with the circumstances, and surrendering up the property to him, as next of kin.
“Pray, Mr Rainscourt, may I ask the contents of a letter, the perusal of which not only makes you so generous, but implies that you expect to have the means of being so?”
When happy ourselves, especially when unexpectedly so, we feel kindly disposed towards others. For a moment Rainscourt seemed to have forgotten all his differences with his wife; and he as readily imparted to her his good fortune as he had, on a previous occasion, his disappointment.
“My dear Clara, the grandchild is dead, and we have possession of the property.”
“My dear Clara!” Such an epithet had never been used since the first week of their marriage. Overcome by the joyful intelligence, but more overcome by the kind expression of her husband, which recalled the days when she fondly loved. Mrs Rainscourt burst into tears, and throwing herself down with her face on his knees, poured out, in sobs, her gratitude to Heaven, and her revived affection for her husband.
Their daughter Emily, now ten years old, astonished at so unusual a scene, ran up, impelled as it were by instinct, and completed the family group, by clinging to her father. Rainscourt, who was affected, kissed the brow of the child, and congratulated her on becoming an heiress.
“I never knew before that money would do so much good,” observed the child, referring to the apparent reconciliation of her parents.
Mrs Rainscourt rose from her position, and sat down at the table, leaning her face upon her hands. “I am afraid that it has come too late,” said she, mournfully, as she recalled the years of indifference and hostility which had preceded.
Mrs Rainscourt was correct in her supposition. Respect and esteem had long departed, and without their aid, truant love was not to be reclaimed. The feeling of renewed attachment was as transient as it was sudden.
“I must be off to England immediately,” observed the husband. “I presume that I shall have no difficulty in obtaining money from the bank when I show this letter. Old — will be ready enough to thrust his notes into my hands now.”
“Shall we not go with you, Mr Rainscourt?”
“No; you had better remain here till I have arranged matters a little. I must settle with three cursed money-lenders, and take up the bonds from J—. Little scoundrel! he’ll be civil enough.”
“Well, Mr Rainscourt, it must, I suppose, be as you decide: but neither Emily nor I are very well equipped in our wardrobes and you will not be exactly competent to execute our commissions.”
“And therefore shall execute none.”
“Do you, then, mean to leave us here in rags and beggary, while you are amusing yourself in London?” replied Mrs Rainscourt, with asperity. “With your altered circumstances, you will have no want of society, either male orfemale,” continued the lady, with an emphasis upon the last word—“and a wife will probably be an encumbrance.”
“Certainly not such a kind and affectionate one as you have proved, my dear,” replied the gentleman, sarcastically; “nevertheless I must decline the pleasure of your company till I have time to look about me a little.”
“Perhaps, Mr Rainscourt, now that you will be able to afford it, you will prefer a separate establishment? If so, I am willing to accede to any proposition you may be inclined to make.”
“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, my dear, and shall receive due consideration.”
“The sooner the better, sir,” replied the piqued lady, as Mr Rainscourt quitted the room.
“My dear child,” said Mrs Rainscourt to her daughter, “you see how cruelly your father treats me. He is a bad man, and you must never pay attention to what he says.”
“Papa told me just the same of you, mamma,” replied the girl, “yesterday morning, when you were walking in the garden.”
“Did he! The wretch, to set my own child against me!” cried Mrs Rainscourt, who had just been guilty of the very same offence which had raised her choler against her husband.
Chapter Twenty Two.The Queen of night, whose vast commandRules all the sea, and half the land;And over moist and crazy brains,In high spring-tides at midnight reigns.Hudibras.Among the millions who, on the hallowed and appointed day, lay aside their worldly occupations to bow the knee to the Giver of all good, directing their orisons and their thoughts to one mercy-beaming power, like so many rays of light concentrated into one focus, I know no class of people in whose breasts the feeling of religion is more deeply implanted than the occupants of that glorious specimen of daring ingenuity—a man-of-war. It is through his works that the Almighty is most sincerely reverenced, through them that his infinite power is with deepest humility acknowledged. The most forcible arguments, the most pathetic eloquence from the pulpit, will not affect so powerfully the mind of man, as the investigation of a blade of grass, or the mechanism of the almost imperceptible insect. If, then, such is the effect upon mankind in general, how strong must be the impressions of those who occupy their business in the great waters! These men “see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.” They behold him in all his magnificence, in all his beauty, in all his wrath, in all his vastness, in all his variety. Unassisted by theory, they practically feel that God is great, and their worship, although dumb, is sincere.I am aware that it is the idea of many that sailors have little or no religion: and their dissolute conduct, when thrown on shore, is certainly a strong argument in support of this opinion; but they must not be so partially judged. Those who are constantly mixed with the world, and exposed to its allurements, are subject to a continual struggle against their passions, which they are more enabled to restrain, as temptation so rapidly succeeds temptation that one destroys the other—effacing it from their recollection before they have had time to mature their embryo guilt. But in our floating monasteries, where rigid discipline and active duties allow only the thoughts to ramble to that society which never has been intended to be abandoned, the passions are naturally impelled towards that world, whose temptations are so much increased by long and unnatural seclusion.In the mountain lake, whose waters are daily increasing, all is unruffled till their own weight has forced its boundaries, and the roaring cataract sweeps everything before it. Such is the licentious and impetuous behaviour of the sailor on shore. But on board he is a different being, and appears as if he were without sin and without guile. Let those, then, who turn away at his occasional intemperance, be careful how they judge. They may “thank God that they are not as that publican,” and yet be less justified, when weighed in that balance, where, although Justice eyes the beam, Mercy is permitted to stand by, and throw into the scale her thousand little grains to counter-poise the mass of guilt.Religion in a sailor (I mean by the term, a common seaman) is more of an active than a passive feeling. It does not consist in reflection or self-examination. It is in externals that his respect to the Deity is manifest. Witness the Sunday on board of a man-of-war. The care with which the decks are washed, the hauling taut, and neat coiling down of the ropes, the studied cleanliness of person, most of which duties are performed on other days, but on this day are executed with an extra precision and attention on the part of the seamen, because it isSunday. Then the quiet decorum voluntarily observed; the attention to divine service, which would be a pattern to a congregation on shore; the little knots of men collected, in the afternoon, between the guns, listening to one who reads some serious book; or the solitary quarter-master, poring over his thumbed Testament, as he communes with himself—all prove that sailors have a deep-rooted feeling of religion. I once knew a first-lieutenant receive a severe rebuke from a ship’s company. This officer, observing the men scattered listlessly about the forecastle and waist of the frigate, on a fine Sunday evening, ordered the fiddler up, that they might dance. The ship’s company thanked him for his kindness, but stated that they had not been accustomed to dance on that day, and requested that the music might be sent below.The Sunday on board a man-of-war has another advantage over the Sabbath on shore: it is hallowed throughout. It commences with respect and reverence, and it ends with the same. There is no alehouse to resort to, where the men may become intoxicated; no allurements of the senses to disturb the calm repose of the mind, the practical veneration of the day, which bestows upon it a moral beauty.It was on the evening of such a day of serenity, after the hammocks had been piped down and the watch mustered, that Captain M— was standing on the gangway of theAspasia, in conversation with Macallan, the surgeon. It was almost a calm: the sails were notasleepwith the light airs that occasionally distended them, but flapped against the lofty masts with the motion communicated to the vessel by the undulating wave. The moon, nearly at her full, was high in the heavens, steering for the zenith in all her beauty, without one envious cloud to obscure the refulgence of her beams, which were reflected upon the water in broad and wavering lines of silver. The blue wave was of a deeper blue—so clear and so transparent that you fancied you could pierce through a fathomless perspective, and so refreshing, so void of all impurity, that it invited you to glide into its bosom.“How clear the moon shines to-night! to-morrow, I think, will be full moon.”“It would be well,” observed the surgeon in reply to remark of the captain, “to request the officer of the watch to permit the men to sleep on the upper deck. We shall have many of them moon-blind.”“I have often heard that effect of the moon in the tropics mentioned, but have never seen it. In what manner does it affect the eyes?”“The moon can act but in one way, sir,” replied Macallan,—“by attraction. The men who are affected see perfectly well in broad daylight; but as soon as it is dusk, their powers of vision are gone altogether. At the usual time at which the hammocks are piped down they will not be able to distinguish the numbers. I have had sixty men in one ship in the situation I have described.”“We ridicule the opinion of the ancients, relative to the powers of this planet,” observed the captain; “but, at the same time, I have often heard more ascribed to her influence than the world in general are inclined to credit. That she regulates the tides is, I believe, the only point upon which there is now no scepticism.”“There has been scepticism even upon that, sir. Did you ever read a work entitled ‘Theory of the Tides’? I can, however, state some other points, from observation, in which the moon has power.”“Over lunatics, I presume?”“Most certainly; and why not, therefore, over those who are rational? We observe the effect more clearly in the lunatic, because his mind is in a state of feverish excitement; but if the moon can act upon the diseased brain, it must also have power, although less perceptible, over the mind which is in health. I believe that there is an ebb and flow of power in our internal mechanism, corresponding to the phases of the moon. I mean, that the blood flows more rapidly, and the powers of nature are more stimulated, at the flood and full, than at the ebb and neap, when a reaction takes place in proportion to the previous acceleration. Dr Mead has observed, that of those who are at the point of death, nine out of ten quit this world at the ebb of the tide. Does not this observation suggest the idea, that nature has relaxed her efforts during that period, after having been stimulated during the flood? Shakespeare, who was a true observer of nature, has not omitted this circumstance; speaking of the death of Falstaff, Mrs Quickly observes, ‘It was just at the turn of the tide.’”“Well, but, Mr Macallan, laying aside hypothesis, what have you ascertained, from actual observation, besides that which we term moon-blindness?”“The effect of the moon upon fish, and other animal matter, hung up in its rays at night. If under the half-deck, they would remain perfectly sweet and eatable; but if exposed to the moon’s rays, in the tropics, they will, in the course of one night, become putrid and unwholesome. They emit no smell; but when eaten will produce diarrhoea, almost as violent as if you had taken poison.”“I have heard that stated, also, by seamen,” said the captain; “but have never witnessed it.”“A remarkable and corroborative instance occurred, when I was in the bay of Annapolis,” resumed the surgeon. “I was becalmed in a small vessel, and amused myself with fishing. I pulled up several herrings; but, to my astonishment, they were putrid and sodden an hour or two after they were dead. I observed the circumstance to one of the fishermen, who in formed me that several hundred barrels, taken at a fishery a few miles off, had all been spoiled in the same manner. I asked the reason, and the answer was, ‘that they had been spawned at the full of the moon.’ How far the man was correct, I know not; but he stated that the circumstance had occurred before, and was well known to the older fishermen.”“Very singular,” replied Captain M—. “We are too apt to reject the whole, because we have found a part to be erroneous. That the moon is not the Hecate formerly supposed, I believe; but she seems to have more power than is usually ascribed to her. Is that seven bells striking?”“It is, sir; the time has slipped rapidly away. I shall wish you good night.”“Good night,” replied Captain M—, who, for some time after the departure of the surgeon, continued leaning over the rail of the entering-port, in silent contemplation of the glassy wave, until the working of his mind was expressed in the following apostrophe:—“Yes—placid and beautiful as thou art, there is foul treachery in thy smile. Who knows, but that, one day, thou mayest, in thy fury, demand as a victim the form which thou so peaceably reflectest? Ever-craving epicure! thou must be fed with the healthy and the brave. The gluttonous earth preys indiscriminately upon the diseased carcases of age, infancy, and manhood; but thou must be more daintily supplied. Health and vigour—prime of life and joyous heart—high-beating pulse and energy of soul—active bodies, and more active minds—such is the food in which thou delightest: and with such dainty fare wilt thou ever be supplied, until the Power that created thee, with the other elements, shall order thee to pass away.”The bell struck eight, and its sharp peals, followed by the hoarse summoning of the watch below, by the boatswain’s-mates, disturbed his reverie, and Captain M— descended to his cabin.And now, reader, I shall finish this chapter. You may, perhaps, imagine that I have the scene before me, and am describing from nature: if so, you are in error. I am seated in the after-cabin of a vessel, endowed with as liberal a share of motion as any in His Majesty’s service: whilst I write I am holding on by the table, my legs entwined in the lashings underneath, and I can barely manage to keep my position before my manuscript. The sea is high, the gale fresh, the sky dirty, and threatening a continuance of what our transatlantic descendants would term a pretty-considerable-tarnation-strong blast of wind. The top-gallant-yards are on deck, the masts are struck, the guns double-breeched, and the bulwarks creaking and grinding in most detestable regularity of dissonance as the vessel scuds and lurches through a cross and heavy sea. The main-deck is afloat: and, from the careless fitting of the half-ports at the dockyard, and neglect of caulking in the cants, my fore-cabin is in the same predicament. A bubbling brook changing its course, ebbing and flowing as it were with the rolling of the ship, is dashing with mimic fury against the trunks secured on each side of the cabin.I have just been summoned from my task, in consequence of one of the battens which secured my little library having given way to the immoderate weight of learning that pressed upon it; and as my books have been washed to and fro, I have snatched them from their first attempts at natation. Smith’s Wealth of Nations I picked up first, not wortha fig; Don Juan I have just rescued from a second shipwreck, with no otherHey-day(Haidée) to console him, than the melancholy one extracted from me with a deep sigh, as I received his shattered frame. Here’s Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” in a very melancholy plight indeed, and (what a fashionable watering-place my cabin has turned to!) here’s Burke’s “Peerage,” with all the royal family and aristocracy of the kingdom, taking a dip, and a captain of a man-of-war, like another Sally Gunn, pulling them out. So, you perceive, my description has been all moonshine.“My wishes have been fathers to my thoughts.”My bones are sore with rocking. Horace says, that he had a soul of brass who first ventured to sea; I think a body of iron very necessary to the outfit. My cot is swinging and jerking up to the beams, as if the lively scoundrel was some metamorphosed imp mocking at me. “Sarve you right—what did youlistfor?”—Very true—Why did I?—Well, anxious as I am to close this chapter, and to close my eyes, I will tell you, reader, what it was that induced me to go to sea. It was not to escape the drudgery and confinement of a school, or the admonitions received at home. The battle of Trafalgar had been fought—I recollect the news being brought down by the dancing-master when I was at school; but although I knew that eighteen or twenty sail of the line had been captured, yet never having seen a vessel larger than a merchant ship at London Bridge, I had very imperfect ideas on the subject—except that it must have been a very glorious affair, as we had a whole holiday in consequence. But when I returned home, I witnessed the funeral procession of Lord Nelson; and, as the triumphal car upon which his earthly remains were borne disappeared from my aching eye, I felt that death could have no terrors, if followed by such a funeral; and I determined that I would be buried in the same manner. This is the fact; but I am not now exactly of the same opinion. I had no idea at that time, that it was such a terrible roundabout way to St. Paul’s. Here I have been tossed about in every quarter of the globe, for between twenty and five-and-twenty years, and the dome is almost as distant as ever.I mean to put up with the family vault; but I should like very much to have engraved on my coffin—“Many years Commissioner,” or “Lord of the Admiralty,” or “Governor of Greenwich Hospital,” “Ambassador,” “Privy Councillor,” or, in fact, anything but Captain: for, though acknowledged to be a good travelling name, it is a very insignificant title at the end of our journey. Moreover, as the author of “Pelham” says, “I wish somebody would adopt me.”
The Queen of night, whose vast commandRules all the sea, and half the land;And over moist and crazy brains,In high spring-tides at midnight reigns.Hudibras.
The Queen of night, whose vast commandRules all the sea, and half the land;And over moist and crazy brains,In high spring-tides at midnight reigns.Hudibras.
Among the millions who, on the hallowed and appointed day, lay aside their worldly occupations to bow the knee to the Giver of all good, directing their orisons and their thoughts to one mercy-beaming power, like so many rays of light concentrated into one focus, I know no class of people in whose breasts the feeling of religion is more deeply implanted than the occupants of that glorious specimen of daring ingenuity—a man-of-war. It is through his works that the Almighty is most sincerely reverenced, through them that his infinite power is with deepest humility acknowledged. The most forcible arguments, the most pathetic eloquence from the pulpit, will not affect so powerfully the mind of man, as the investigation of a blade of grass, or the mechanism of the almost imperceptible insect. If, then, such is the effect upon mankind in general, how strong must be the impressions of those who occupy their business in the great waters! These men “see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.” They behold him in all his magnificence, in all his beauty, in all his wrath, in all his vastness, in all his variety. Unassisted by theory, they practically feel that God is great, and their worship, although dumb, is sincere.
I am aware that it is the idea of many that sailors have little or no religion: and their dissolute conduct, when thrown on shore, is certainly a strong argument in support of this opinion; but they must not be so partially judged. Those who are constantly mixed with the world, and exposed to its allurements, are subject to a continual struggle against their passions, which they are more enabled to restrain, as temptation so rapidly succeeds temptation that one destroys the other—effacing it from their recollection before they have had time to mature their embryo guilt. But in our floating monasteries, where rigid discipline and active duties allow only the thoughts to ramble to that society which never has been intended to be abandoned, the passions are naturally impelled towards that world, whose temptations are so much increased by long and unnatural seclusion.
In the mountain lake, whose waters are daily increasing, all is unruffled till their own weight has forced its boundaries, and the roaring cataract sweeps everything before it. Such is the licentious and impetuous behaviour of the sailor on shore. But on board he is a different being, and appears as if he were without sin and without guile. Let those, then, who turn away at his occasional intemperance, be careful how they judge. They may “thank God that they are not as that publican,” and yet be less justified, when weighed in that balance, where, although Justice eyes the beam, Mercy is permitted to stand by, and throw into the scale her thousand little grains to counter-poise the mass of guilt.
Religion in a sailor (I mean by the term, a common seaman) is more of an active than a passive feeling. It does not consist in reflection or self-examination. It is in externals that his respect to the Deity is manifest. Witness the Sunday on board of a man-of-war. The care with which the decks are washed, the hauling taut, and neat coiling down of the ropes, the studied cleanliness of person, most of which duties are performed on other days, but on this day are executed with an extra precision and attention on the part of the seamen, because it isSunday. Then the quiet decorum voluntarily observed; the attention to divine service, which would be a pattern to a congregation on shore; the little knots of men collected, in the afternoon, between the guns, listening to one who reads some serious book; or the solitary quarter-master, poring over his thumbed Testament, as he communes with himself—all prove that sailors have a deep-rooted feeling of religion. I once knew a first-lieutenant receive a severe rebuke from a ship’s company. This officer, observing the men scattered listlessly about the forecastle and waist of the frigate, on a fine Sunday evening, ordered the fiddler up, that they might dance. The ship’s company thanked him for his kindness, but stated that they had not been accustomed to dance on that day, and requested that the music might be sent below.
The Sunday on board a man-of-war has another advantage over the Sabbath on shore: it is hallowed throughout. It commences with respect and reverence, and it ends with the same. There is no alehouse to resort to, where the men may become intoxicated; no allurements of the senses to disturb the calm repose of the mind, the practical veneration of the day, which bestows upon it a moral beauty.
It was on the evening of such a day of serenity, after the hammocks had been piped down and the watch mustered, that Captain M— was standing on the gangway of theAspasia, in conversation with Macallan, the surgeon. It was almost a calm: the sails were notasleepwith the light airs that occasionally distended them, but flapped against the lofty masts with the motion communicated to the vessel by the undulating wave. The moon, nearly at her full, was high in the heavens, steering for the zenith in all her beauty, without one envious cloud to obscure the refulgence of her beams, which were reflected upon the water in broad and wavering lines of silver. The blue wave was of a deeper blue—so clear and so transparent that you fancied you could pierce through a fathomless perspective, and so refreshing, so void of all impurity, that it invited you to glide into its bosom.
“How clear the moon shines to-night! to-morrow, I think, will be full moon.”
“It would be well,” observed the surgeon in reply to remark of the captain, “to request the officer of the watch to permit the men to sleep on the upper deck. We shall have many of them moon-blind.”
“I have often heard that effect of the moon in the tropics mentioned, but have never seen it. In what manner does it affect the eyes?”
“The moon can act but in one way, sir,” replied Macallan,—“by attraction. The men who are affected see perfectly well in broad daylight; but as soon as it is dusk, their powers of vision are gone altogether. At the usual time at which the hammocks are piped down they will not be able to distinguish the numbers. I have had sixty men in one ship in the situation I have described.”
“We ridicule the opinion of the ancients, relative to the powers of this planet,” observed the captain; “but, at the same time, I have often heard more ascribed to her influence than the world in general are inclined to credit. That she regulates the tides is, I believe, the only point upon which there is now no scepticism.”
“There has been scepticism even upon that, sir. Did you ever read a work entitled ‘Theory of the Tides’? I can, however, state some other points, from observation, in which the moon has power.”
“Over lunatics, I presume?”
“Most certainly; and why not, therefore, over those who are rational? We observe the effect more clearly in the lunatic, because his mind is in a state of feverish excitement; but if the moon can act upon the diseased brain, it must also have power, although less perceptible, over the mind which is in health. I believe that there is an ebb and flow of power in our internal mechanism, corresponding to the phases of the moon. I mean, that the blood flows more rapidly, and the powers of nature are more stimulated, at the flood and full, than at the ebb and neap, when a reaction takes place in proportion to the previous acceleration. Dr Mead has observed, that of those who are at the point of death, nine out of ten quit this world at the ebb of the tide. Does not this observation suggest the idea, that nature has relaxed her efforts during that period, after having been stimulated during the flood? Shakespeare, who was a true observer of nature, has not omitted this circumstance; speaking of the death of Falstaff, Mrs Quickly observes, ‘It was just at the turn of the tide.’”
“Well, but, Mr Macallan, laying aside hypothesis, what have you ascertained, from actual observation, besides that which we term moon-blindness?”
“The effect of the moon upon fish, and other animal matter, hung up in its rays at night. If under the half-deck, they would remain perfectly sweet and eatable; but if exposed to the moon’s rays, in the tropics, they will, in the course of one night, become putrid and unwholesome. They emit no smell; but when eaten will produce diarrhoea, almost as violent as if you had taken poison.”
“I have heard that stated, also, by seamen,” said the captain; “but have never witnessed it.”
“A remarkable and corroborative instance occurred, when I was in the bay of Annapolis,” resumed the surgeon. “I was becalmed in a small vessel, and amused myself with fishing. I pulled up several herrings; but, to my astonishment, they were putrid and sodden an hour or two after they were dead. I observed the circumstance to one of the fishermen, who in formed me that several hundred barrels, taken at a fishery a few miles off, had all been spoiled in the same manner. I asked the reason, and the answer was, ‘that they had been spawned at the full of the moon.’ How far the man was correct, I know not; but he stated that the circumstance had occurred before, and was well known to the older fishermen.”
“Very singular,” replied Captain M—. “We are too apt to reject the whole, because we have found a part to be erroneous. That the moon is not the Hecate formerly supposed, I believe; but she seems to have more power than is usually ascribed to her. Is that seven bells striking?”
“It is, sir; the time has slipped rapidly away. I shall wish you good night.”
“Good night,” replied Captain M—, who, for some time after the departure of the surgeon, continued leaning over the rail of the entering-port, in silent contemplation of the glassy wave, until the working of his mind was expressed in the following apostrophe:—
“Yes—placid and beautiful as thou art, there is foul treachery in thy smile. Who knows, but that, one day, thou mayest, in thy fury, demand as a victim the form which thou so peaceably reflectest? Ever-craving epicure! thou must be fed with the healthy and the brave. The gluttonous earth preys indiscriminately upon the diseased carcases of age, infancy, and manhood; but thou must be more daintily supplied. Health and vigour—prime of life and joyous heart—high-beating pulse and energy of soul—active bodies, and more active minds—such is the food in which thou delightest: and with such dainty fare wilt thou ever be supplied, until the Power that created thee, with the other elements, shall order thee to pass away.”
The bell struck eight, and its sharp peals, followed by the hoarse summoning of the watch below, by the boatswain’s-mates, disturbed his reverie, and Captain M— descended to his cabin.
And now, reader, I shall finish this chapter. You may, perhaps, imagine that I have the scene before me, and am describing from nature: if so, you are in error. I am seated in the after-cabin of a vessel, endowed with as liberal a share of motion as any in His Majesty’s service: whilst I write I am holding on by the table, my legs entwined in the lashings underneath, and I can barely manage to keep my position before my manuscript. The sea is high, the gale fresh, the sky dirty, and threatening a continuance of what our transatlantic descendants would term a pretty-considerable-tarnation-strong blast of wind. The top-gallant-yards are on deck, the masts are struck, the guns double-breeched, and the bulwarks creaking and grinding in most detestable regularity of dissonance as the vessel scuds and lurches through a cross and heavy sea. The main-deck is afloat: and, from the careless fitting of the half-ports at the dockyard, and neglect of caulking in the cants, my fore-cabin is in the same predicament. A bubbling brook changing its course, ebbing and flowing as it were with the rolling of the ship, is dashing with mimic fury against the trunks secured on each side of the cabin.
I have just been summoned from my task, in consequence of one of the battens which secured my little library having given way to the immoderate weight of learning that pressed upon it; and as my books have been washed to and fro, I have snatched them from their first attempts at natation. Smith’s Wealth of Nations I picked up first, not wortha fig; Don Juan I have just rescued from a second shipwreck, with no otherHey-day(Haidée) to console him, than the melancholy one extracted from me with a deep sigh, as I received his shattered frame. Here’s Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” in a very melancholy plight indeed, and (what a fashionable watering-place my cabin has turned to!) here’s Burke’s “Peerage,” with all the royal family and aristocracy of the kingdom, taking a dip, and a captain of a man-of-war, like another Sally Gunn, pulling them out. So, you perceive, my description has been all moonshine.
“My wishes have been fathers to my thoughts.”
“My wishes have been fathers to my thoughts.”
My bones are sore with rocking. Horace says, that he had a soul of brass who first ventured to sea; I think a body of iron very necessary to the outfit. My cot is swinging and jerking up to the beams, as if the lively scoundrel was some metamorphosed imp mocking at me. “Sarve you right—what did youlistfor?”—Very true—Why did I?—Well, anxious as I am to close this chapter, and to close my eyes, I will tell you, reader, what it was that induced me to go to sea. It was not to escape the drudgery and confinement of a school, or the admonitions received at home. The battle of Trafalgar had been fought—I recollect the news being brought down by the dancing-master when I was at school; but although I knew that eighteen or twenty sail of the line had been captured, yet never having seen a vessel larger than a merchant ship at London Bridge, I had very imperfect ideas on the subject—except that it must have been a very glorious affair, as we had a whole holiday in consequence. But when I returned home, I witnessed the funeral procession of Lord Nelson; and, as the triumphal car upon which his earthly remains were borne disappeared from my aching eye, I felt that death could have no terrors, if followed by such a funeral; and I determined that I would be buried in the same manner. This is the fact; but I am not now exactly of the same opinion. I had no idea at that time, that it was such a terrible roundabout way to St. Paul’s. Here I have been tossed about in every quarter of the globe, for between twenty and five-and-twenty years, and the dome is almost as distant as ever.
I mean to put up with the family vault; but I should like very much to have engraved on my coffin—“Many years Commissioner,” or “Lord of the Admiralty,” or “Governor of Greenwich Hospital,” “Ambassador,” “Privy Councillor,” or, in fact, anything but Captain: for, though acknowledged to be a good travelling name, it is a very insignificant title at the end of our journey. Moreover, as the author of “Pelham” says, “I wish somebody would adopt me.”
Chapter Twenty Three.When his pockets were lined, why his life should be mended,The laws he had broken he’d never break more.Sea Song.On his return to London, McElvina immediately repaired to the residence of his patron, that he might enter into the necessary explanations relative to the capture of the vessel, and the circumstances which had produced his release from the penalties and imprisonment to which he had been subjected by his lawless career. Previous, however, to narrating the events which occurred upon his arrival, it will be advisable to offer some remarks relative to McElvina, which, when they have been suggested to the reader, will serve to remove much of the apparent inconsistency of his character. That a person who, from his earliest childhood, had been brought up to fraud and deceit, should, of his own accord, and so suddenly, return to honesty, may at first appear problematical. But let it be remembered, that McElvina was not in the situation of those who, having their choice of good and evil, had preferred the latter. From infancy he had been brought up to, and had heard every encomium upon dishonesty, without having one friend to point out to him the advantages of pursuing another course. The same Spirit of emulation which would have made him strenuous in the right path, urged him forward in his career of error. If, after his discharge from the Philanthropic School, he had had time to observe the advantages, in practice, of those maxims which had only been inculcated in theory, it is not improbable that he might have reformed: this, however, was prevented by the injudicious conduct of his master.But although the principles which had been instilled were not sufficiently powerful, unassisted by reflection, to resist the force of habit, the germ, smothered as it was for the time, was not destroyed; and after McElvina’s seven years’ servitude in a profession remarkable for candour and sincerity, and in which he had neither temptation nor opportunity to return to his evil courses, habit had been counteracted by habit. The tares and wheat were of equal growth. This is substantiated by the single fact of his inclination to be honest when he found the pocket-book. A confirmed rogue would never have thought of returning it, even if it had not been worth five shillings. It is true, if it had contained hundreds, that, in his distressed circumstances, the temptation might have been too strong; but this remark by no means disproves the assertion, that he had the inclination to be honest. “There is a tide in the affairs of men,” and it was on this decision between retaining or returning the pocket-book that depended the future misery or welfare of McElvina. Fortunately, the sum was not sufficient to turn the nicely balanced scale, and the generosity of old Hornblow confirmed the victory on the side of virtue. I do not mean to assert that, for some time subsequent to this transaction, McElvina was influenced by a religious, or even a moral feeling. It was rather by interested motives that he was convinced; but convinced he was; and whether he was proud of his return to comparative virtue, or found it necessary to refresh his memory, his constant injunctions to others to be honest (upon the same principle that a man who tells a story repeatedly eventually believes it to be true) assisted to keep him steadfast in his good resolutions.Upon the other points of his character it will be unnecessary to dilate. For his gentlemanly appearance and address he was indebted to nature, who does not always choose to acknowledge the claims which aristocracy thinks proper to assert, and occasionally mocks the idea, by bestowing graces on a cottager which might be envied by the inhabitants of a palace. Of McElvina it may with justice be asserted, that his faults were those of education—his courage, generosity, and many good qualities were his own.McElvina, who knew exactly at what hour of the day his patron would be abroad, took the precaution of not going to the house until the time at which he would be certain to find Susan, as usual, in the little parlour, alone, and occupied with her needle or her book. The street-door had just been opened by the maid to receive some articles of domestic use, which a tradesman had sent home; and McElvina, putting his finger to his lips to ensure the silence of the girl, who would have run to communicate the welcome intelligence of his arrival, stepped past her into the passage, and found the door of the little parlour. Gently admitting himself, he discovered Susan, whom he had not disturbed, sitting opposite to the window, with her back towards him. He crept in softly behind her chair. She was in deep thought; one hand rested on her cheek, and the other held the pen with which she had been arranging the accounts of the former week, to submit them, as usual, to her father on the Monday evening. Of whom and what she was thinking was, however, soon manifested to McElvina; for she commenced scribbling and drawing with her pen on the blotting-paper before her, until she at last wrote several times, as if she were practising to see how it would look as a signature:“Susan McElvina.”“Susan McElvina.”“Susan McElvina.”Although delighted at this proof that he was occupying her thoughts, McElvina had the delicacy to retire unperceived, and Susan, as if recollecting herself, slightly coloured, as she twisted up the paper and threw it under the grate; in doing which, she perceived McElvina, who still remained at the door. A cry of surprise, a deep blush of pleasure over her pale face, and a hand frankly extended, which McElvina could with difficulty resist the impulse to raise to his lips, were followed up by the hasty interrogation of—“Why, your arm is in a sling? You did not say that you were hurt when you wrote from Plymouth?”“It was not worth mentioning, Susan—it’s almost well; but tell me, how did your father bear the loss of the vessel?”“Oh! pretty well! But, Captain McElvina, you could not have done me a greater favour, or my father a greater kindness. He has now wound up his affairs, and intends to retire from all speculation. He has purchased a house in the country, and I hope, when we go there, that I shall be more happy, and have better health than I have had of late.”“And what is to become of me?” observed McElvina, gravely.“Oh, I don’t know; you are the best judge of that.”“Well, then, I will confess to you, Susan, that I am just as well pleased that all this has taken place as you are; for I am not sorry to give up a profession respecting which, between ourselves, I have lately had many scruples of conscience. I have not saved much, it is true; but I have enough to live upon, as long as I have no one to take care of except myself.”“You raise yourself in my opinion by saying so,” replied Susan; “although it is painful to me to condemn a practice which impeaches my father. Your courage and talents may be better applied. Thank God, that it is all over.”“But, Susan, you said that you hoped to have better health. Have you not been well?”“Not very ill,” replied Susan; “but I have had a good deal of anxiety. The loss of the vessel,—your capture,—has affected my father, and, of course, has worried me.”The discourse was now interrupted by old Hornblow, who had returned home to his dinner. He received McElvina in the most friendly manner, and they sat down to table.After dinner, McElvina entered into a minute detail of all that had occurred, and, as far as he was concerned, with a modesty which enhanced his meritorious conduct.Susan listened to the narrative with intense interest; and as soon as it was over, retired to her room, leaving old Hornblow and McElvina over their bottle.“Well, McElvina, what do you mean to do with yourself?” said the old man. “You know that Susan has at last persuaded me into retiring from business. I have just concluded the purchase of a little property near the seaside, about seven miles from the village of — in Norfolk—it adjoins the great Rainscourt estate. You know that part of the coast.”“Very well, sir; there is a famous landing-place there, on the Rainscourt estate. It was formerly the property of Admiral De Courcy.”“Ah! we don’t mean to smuggle any more, so that’s no use. I should not have known that it was near the Rainscourt property, only they inserted it in the particulars of sale, as an advantage; though I confess I do not see any particular advantage in a poor man living too near a rich one. But answer my question—what are you going to do with yourself? If I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”“I do not intend to go to sea any more.”“No! what then? I suppose you would like to marry, and settle on shore? Well, if I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”“You could, indeed, assist me there, sir.”“Oh! Susan, I suppose. Nay, don’t colour up; I’ve seen it long enough, and if I had not meant that it should be so, I should have put an end to it before. You are an honest man, McElvina, and I know nobody to whom I would give my girl sooner than to you.”“You have, indeed, removed a weight from my mind, sir, and I hardly know how to express my thanks to you for your good wishes; but I have yet to obtain your daughter’s consent.”“I know you have; you cannot expect that she will anticipate your wishes as I have done. But as I wish this business to be decided at once, I shall send her down to you, and I’ll take a walk in the mean time. All I can say is, that if she says she has no mind to you, don’t you believe her, for I know better.”“Susan!” said old Hornblow, going to the door.“Yes, father.”“Come down, my dear, and stay with Captain McElvina. I am obliged to go out.”Old Hornblow reached down his hat, put on his spencer, and departed; while Susan, whose heart told her that so unusual a movement on her father’s part was not without some good reason, descended to the parlour with a quickened pulse.“Susan!” said McElvina, who had risen from his chair to receive her, as soon as he heard her footsteps, “I have much to say to you, and I must be as brief as I can, for my mind is in too agitated a state to bear with much temporising. Do me the favour to take a chair, and listen while I make you acquainted with what you do not know.”Susan trembled; and the colour flew from her cheeks, as she sat down on the chair which McElvina handed to her.“Your father, Susan, took me by the hand at the time that I was in great distress, in consequence of my having pleased him by an act of common honesty. You know how kind and considerate a patron he has been to me since, and I have now been in his employ some years. This evening he has overpowered me with a weight of gratitude, by allowing me to aspire to that which I most covet on earth, and has consented to my robbing him, if I can, of his greatest treasure. You cannot mistake what I mean. But, previous to my requesting an answer on a point in which my future happiness is involved, I have an act of justice to perform towards you, and of conscience towards myself, which must be fulfilled. It is to be candid, and not allow you to be entrapped into an alliance with a person of whose life you, at present, know but the fair side.“First, let me state to you, Susan, that my parentage is as obscure as it well can be; and secondly, that the early part of my life was as vicious. I may, indeed, extenuate it when I enter into an explanation, and with great justice: but I have now only stated the facts generally. If you wish me to enter into particulars, much as I shall blush at the exposure, and painful as the task assigned will be, I shall not refuse, even at the risk of losing all I covet by the confession; for, much as my happiness is at stake, I have too sincere a regard for you to allow you to contract any engagement with me without making this candid avowal. Now, Susan, answer me frankly—whether, in the first place, you wish me to discover the particulars of my early life; in the next place (if you decline hearing them), whether, after this general avowal, you will listen to any solicitations, on my part, to induce you to unite your future destiny with mine?”“Captain McElvina, I thank you for your candour,” replied Susan, “and will imitate you in my answer. Your obscure parentage cannot be a matter of consideration to one who has no descent to boast of. That you have not always been leading a creditable life, I am sorry for; more sorry because I am sure it must be a source of repentance and mortification to you; but I have not an idle curiosity to wish you to impart that which would not tend to my happiness to divulge. I did once hear an old gentlewoman, who had been conversant with the world, declare that if every man was obliged to confess the secrets of his life before marriage, few young women would be persuaded to go up to the altar. I hope it is not true; but whether it is or not, it does not exactly bear upon the subject in agitation. I again thank you for your candour, and disclaim all wish to know any further. I believe I have now answered your question.”“Not yet, Susan,—you have not yet answered the latter part of it.”“What was it?—I don’t recollect.”“It was,” said McElvina, picking up the piece of twisted paper which Susan had thrown under the grate, “whether you would listen to my entreaties to sign your name in future as on this paper?”“Oh, McElvina,” cried Susan,—“how unfair—how ungenerous! Now I detest you!”“I’ll not believe that. I have your own handwriting to the contrary, and I’ll appeal to your father.”“Nay, rather than that—you have set me an example of candour, and shall profit by it. Promise me, McElvina, always to treat me as you have this day,—and here is my hand.”“Who would not behonest, to be so rewarded?” replied McElvina, as he embraced the blushing girl.“Ah,—all’s right, I perceive,” cried old Hornblow, who had opened the door unperceived. “Come, my children, take my blessing—long may you live happy and united.”
When his pockets were lined, why his life should be mended,The laws he had broken he’d never break more.Sea Song.
When his pockets were lined, why his life should be mended,The laws he had broken he’d never break more.Sea Song.
On his return to London, McElvina immediately repaired to the residence of his patron, that he might enter into the necessary explanations relative to the capture of the vessel, and the circumstances which had produced his release from the penalties and imprisonment to which he had been subjected by his lawless career. Previous, however, to narrating the events which occurred upon his arrival, it will be advisable to offer some remarks relative to McElvina, which, when they have been suggested to the reader, will serve to remove much of the apparent inconsistency of his character. That a person who, from his earliest childhood, had been brought up to fraud and deceit, should, of his own accord, and so suddenly, return to honesty, may at first appear problematical. But let it be remembered, that McElvina was not in the situation of those who, having their choice of good and evil, had preferred the latter. From infancy he had been brought up to, and had heard every encomium upon dishonesty, without having one friend to point out to him the advantages of pursuing another course. The same Spirit of emulation which would have made him strenuous in the right path, urged him forward in his career of error. If, after his discharge from the Philanthropic School, he had had time to observe the advantages, in practice, of those maxims which had only been inculcated in theory, it is not improbable that he might have reformed: this, however, was prevented by the injudicious conduct of his master.
But although the principles which had been instilled were not sufficiently powerful, unassisted by reflection, to resist the force of habit, the germ, smothered as it was for the time, was not destroyed; and after McElvina’s seven years’ servitude in a profession remarkable for candour and sincerity, and in which he had neither temptation nor opportunity to return to his evil courses, habit had been counteracted by habit. The tares and wheat were of equal growth. This is substantiated by the single fact of his inclination to be honest when he found the pocket-book. A confirmed rogue would never have thought of returning it, even if it had not been worth five shillings. It is true, if it had contained hundreds, that, in his distressed circumstances, the temptation might have been too strong; but this remark by no means disproves the assertion, that he had the inclination to be honest. “There is a tide in the affairs of men,” and it was on this decision between retaining or returning the pocket-book that depended the future misery or welfare of McElvina. Fortunately, the sum was not sufficient to turn the nicely balanced scale, and the generosity of old Hornblow confirmed the victory on the side of virtue. I do not mean to assert that, for some time subsequent to this transaction, McElvina was influenced by a religious, or even a moral feeling. It was rather by interested motives that he was convinced; but convinced he was; and whether he was proud of his return to comparative virtue, or found it necessary to refresh his memory, his constant injunctions to others to be honest (upon the same principle that a man who tells a story repeatedly eventually believes it to be true) assisted to keep him steadfast in his good resolutions.
Upon the other points of his character it will be unnecessary to dilate. For his gentlemanly appearance and address he was indebted to nature, who does not always choose to acknowledge the claims which aristocracy thinks proper to assert, and occasionally mocks the idea, by bestowing graces on a cottager which might be envied by the inhabitants of a palace. Of McElvina it may with justice be asserted, that his faults were those of education—his courage, generosity, and many good qualities were his own.
McElvina, who knew exactly at what hour of the day his patron would be abroad, took the precaution of not going to the house until the time at which he would be certain to find Susan, as usual, in the little parlour, alone, and occupied with her needle or her book. The street-door had just been opened by the maid to receive some articles of domestic use, which a tradesman had sent home; and McElvina, putting his finger to his lips to ensure the silence of the girl, who would have run to communicate the welcome intelligence of his arrival, stepped past her into the passage, and found the door of the little parlour. Gently admitting himself, he discovered Susan, whom he had not disturbed, sitting opposite to the window, with her back towards him. He crept in softly behind her chair. She was in deep thought; one hand rested on her cheek, and the other held the pen with which she had been arranging the accounts of the former week, to submit them, as usual, to her father on the Monday evening. Of whom and what she was thinking was, however, soon manifested to McElvina; for she commenced scribbling and drawing with her pen on the blotting-paper before her, until she at last wrote several times, as if she were practising to see how it would look as a signature:
“Susan McElvina.”“Susan McElvina.”“Susan McElvina.”
“Susan McElvina.”
“Susan McElvina.”
“Susan McElvina.”
Although delighted at this proof that he was occupying her thoughts, McElvina had the delicacy to retire unperceived, and Susan, as if recollecting herself, slightly coloured, as she twisted up the paper and threw it under the grate; in doing which, she perceived McElvina, who still remained at the door. A cry of surprise, a deep blush of pleasure over her pale face, and a hand frankly extended, which McElvina could with difficulty resist the impulse to raise to his lips, were followed up by the hasty interrogation of—“Why, your arm is in a sling? You did not say that you were hurt when you wrote from Plymouth?”
“It was not worth mentioning, Susan—it’s almost well; but tell me, how did your father bear the loss of the vessel?”
“Oh! pretty well! But, Captain McElvina, you could not have done me a greater favour, or my father a greater kindness. He has now wound up his affairs, and intends to retire from all speculation. He has purchased a house in the country, and I hope, when we go there, that I shall be more happy, and have better health than I have had of late.”
“And what is to become of me?” observed McElvina, gravely.
“Oh, I don’t know; you are the best judge of that.”
“Well, then, I will confess to you, Susan, that I am just as well pleased that all this has taken place as you are; for I am not sorry to give up a profession respecting which, between ourselves, I have lately had many scruples of conscience. I have not saved much, it is true; but I have enough to live upon, as long as I have no one to take care of except myself.”
“You raise yourself in my opinion by saying so,” replied Susan; “although it is painful to me to condemn a practice which impeaches my father. Your courage and talents may be better applied. Thank God, that it is all over.”
“But, Susan, you said that you hoped to have better health. Have you not been well?”
“Not very ill,” replied Susan; “but I have had a good deal of anxiety. The loss of the vessel,—your capture,—has affected my father, and, of course, has worried me.”
The discourse was now interrupted by old Hornblow, who had returned home to his dinner. He received McElvina in the most friendly manner, and they sat down to table.
After dinner, McElvina entered into a minute detail of all that had occurred, and, as far as he was concerned, with a modesty which enhanced his meritorious conduct.
Susan listened to the narrative with intense interest; and as soon as it was over, retired to her room, leaving old Hornblow and McElvina over their bottle.
“Well, McElvina, what do you mean to do with yourself?” said the old man. “You know that Susan has at last persuaded me into retiring from business. I have just concluded the purchase of a little property near the seaside, about seven miles from the village of — in Norfolk—it adjoins the great Rainscourt estate. You know that part of the coast.”
“Very well, sir; there is a famous landing-place there, on the Rainscourt estate. It was formerly the property of Admiral De Courcy.”
“Ah! we don’t mean to smuggle any more, so that’s no use. I should not have known that it was near the Rainscourt property, only they inserted it in the particulars of sale, as an advantage; though I confess I do not see any particular advantage in a poor man living too near a rich one. But answer my question—what are you going to do with yourself? If I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”
“I do not intend to go to sea any more.”
“No! what then? I suppose you would like to marry, and settle on shore? Well, if I can assist you, McElvina, I will.”
“You could, indeed, assist me there, sir.”
“Oh! Susan, I suppose. Nay, don’t colour up; I’ve seen it long enough, and if I had not meant that it should be so, I should have put an end to it before. You are an honest man, McElvina, and I know nobody to whom I would give my girl sooner than to you.”
“You have, indeed, removed a weight from my mind, sir, and I hardly know how to express my thanks to you for your good wishes; but I have yet to obtain your daughter’s consent.”
“I know you have; you cannot expect that she will anticipate your wishes as I have done. But as I wish this business to be decided at once, I shall send her down to you, and I’ll take a walk in the mean time. All I can say is, that if she says she has no mind to you, don’t you believe her, for I know better.”
“Susan!” said old Hornblow, going to the door.
“Yes, father.”
“Come down, my dear, and stay with Captain McElvina. I am obliged to go out.”
Old Hornblow reached down his hat, put on his spencer, and departed; while Susan, whose heart told her that so unusual a movement on her father’s part was not without some good reason, descended to the parlour with a quickened pulse.
“Susan!” said McElvina, who had risen from his chair to receive her, as soon as he heard her footsteps, “I have much to say to you, and I must be as brief as I can, for my mind is in too agitated a state to bear with much temporising. Do me the favour to take a chair, and listen while I make you acquainted with what you do not know.”
Susan trembled; and the colour flew from her cheeks, as she sat down on the chair which McElvina handed to her.
“Your father, Susan, took me by the hand at the time that I was in great distress, in consequence of my having pleased him by an act of common honesty. You know how kind and considerate a patron he has been to me since, and I have now been in his employ some years. This evening he has overpowered me with a weight of gratitude, by allowing me to aspire to that which I most covet on earth, and has consented to my robbing him, if I can, of his greatest treasure. You cannot mistake what I mean. But, previous to my requesting an answer on a point in which my future happiness is involved, I have an act of justice to perform towards you, and of conscience towards myself, which must be fulfilled. It is to be candid, and not allow you to be entrapped into an alliance with a person of whose life you, at present, know but the fair side.
“First, let me state to you, Susan, that my parentage is as obscure as it well can be; and secondly, that the early part of my life was as vicious. I may, indeed, extenuate it when I enter into an explanation, and with great justice: but I have now only stated the facts generally. If you wish me to enter into particulars, much as I shall blush at the exposure, and painful as the task assigned will be, I shall not refuse, even at the risk of losing all I covet by the confession; for, much as my happiness is at stake, I have too sincere a regard for you to allow you to contract any engagement with me without making this candid avowal. Now, Susan, answer me frankly—whether, in the first place, you wish me to discover the particulars of my early life; in the next place (if you decline hearing them), whether, after this general avowal, you will listen to any solicitations, on my part, to induce you to unite your future destiny with mine?”
“Captain McElvina, I thank you for your candour,” replied Susan, “and will imitate you in my answer. Your obscure parentage cannot be a matter of consideration to one who has no descent to boast of. That you have not always been leading a creditable life, I am sorry for; more sorry because I am sure it must be a source of repentance and mortification to you; but I have not an idle curiosity to wish you to impart that which would not tend to my happiness to divulge. I did once hear an old gentlewoman, who had been conversant with the world, declare that if every man was obliged to confess the secrets of his life before marriage, few young women would be persuaded to go up to the altar. I hope it is not true; but whether it is or not, it does not exactly bear upon the subject in agitation. I again thank you for your candour, and disclaim all wish to know any further. I believe I have now answered your question.”
“Not yet, Susan,—you have not yet answered the latter part of it.”
“What was it?—I don’t recollect.”
“It was,” said McElvina, picking up the piece of twisted paper which Susan had thrown under the grate, “whether you would listen to my entreaties to sign your name in future as on this paper?”
“Oh, McElvina,” cried Susan,—“how unfair—how ungenerous! Now I detest you!”
“I’ll not believe that. I have your own handwriting to the contrary, and I’ll appeal to your father.”
“Nay, rather than that—you have set me an example of candour, and shall profit by it. Promise me, McElvina, always to treat me as you have this day,—and here is my hand.”
“Who would not behonest, to be so rewarded?” replied McElvina, as he embraced the blushing girl.
“Ah,—all’s right, I perceive,” cried old Hornblow, who had opened the door unperceived. “Come, my children, take my blessing—long may you live happy and united.”