Ansard. Land of history—I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go there?

Barnstaple. No, you may recover, and come back again to skate upon the Serpentine, if you please. You observe, Ansard, I have not made you a fellow with 50 pounds in his pocket, setting out to turn it into 300 pounds by a book of travels. I have avoided mention of Margate, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, and all common watering-places; I have talked of physicians in the plural; in short, no one who reads that paragraph, but will suppose that you are a young man of rank and fortune, to whom money is no object, and who spends hundreds to cure that which might be effected by a little regularity, and a few doses of ipecacuanha.

Ansard. I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I'll travel en grand seigneur—thats more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled in a "diligence."

Barnstaple. And will produce more respect for your work, I can assure you. But to proceed. Always, when you leave England, talk about hospitality. The English like it. Have you no relations or friends in whose opinion you wish to stand well? Public mention in print does wonders, especially with a copy handsomely bound "from the author."

Ansard. Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is in Cumberland, and that is not en route. I have a maternal uncle of the name of Forster, who lives on the road—a rich, old, miserly bachelor; but I can't say much for his hospitality. I have called upon him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner.

Barnstaple. Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which they do not possess—it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr Forster and felt—

Ansard. Felt how?

Barnstaple. How—why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.

Ansard. There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear.

Barnstaple. You arrive at Dovor (mind you spell it Dovor)—go to bed tired and reflective—embark early the next morning—a rough passage—

Ansard. And sea-sick, of course?

Barnstaple. No, Ansard; there I'll give you a proof of my tact—you shan't be sea-sick.

Ansard. But I'm sure I should be.

Barnstaple. All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints, ad nauseam—for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe—to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife—he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat—your attentions— she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale—her gratitude—safe arrival at Calais—sweet smiles of the lady—sullen deportment of the gentleman—a few hints—and draw the veil. Do you understand?

Ansard. Perfectly. I can manage all that.

Barnstaple. Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time, feel sea-sick.

Ansard. On shore?

Barnstaple. Yes; reel about, not able to stand—every symptom as if on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state the fact.

Ansard. The fact! O Barnstaple!

Barnstaple. That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things.

Ansard. That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that fact?

Barnstaple. No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure—be separated from it—some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise—it is nowhere to be found—quite in despair—walk to the Hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garcons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready—ascend to your bedroom—find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out— your portmanteau unstrapped—your trunk uncorded—and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile de malice, having installed himself as your domestique de place—take him for his impudence—praise the "Cotelettes and the vin de Beaune"—wish the reader good night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter.

[ANSARD gets up and takes BARNSTAPLE'S hand, which he shakes warmly without speaking. BARNSTAPLE smiles and walks out. ANSARD is left hard at work at his desk.]

ARTHUR ANSARD in his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand.

Ansard. Capital! that last was a hit. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able to prove. (Yawns.) Heigho! I have only got half way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter. (Nods, and then falls fast asleep.)

BARNSTAPLE taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters.

Barnstaple. So—quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (Reads the manuscript on the table.) No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!

Ansard. (starting up, still half asleep.) Already? Why, I've hardly shut my eyes. Well, I'll be dressed directly; let them get some cafe ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired! (Nods again with his eyes shut.)

Barnstaple. Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?

Ansard. (waking up). Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the Hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day's journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post.

Barnstaple. All the better—you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?

Ansard. Thank you—pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.

Barnstaple. And how far have you got?

Ansard. Half way—that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I'm very glad that you're come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for to tell you the truth, I was breaking down.

Barnstaple. Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.

Ansard. That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion—

Barnstaple. So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a Poodle.

Ansard. A Poodle! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle?

Barnstaple. He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage—what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the garcons of the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases, and wind up every third chapter with "your faithful Mouton."

Ansard. Will not all that be considered frivolous?

Barnstaple. Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who may have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly imbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the verisimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you.

Ansard. All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like that of Aaron's, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him?

Barnstaple. (thinks awhile.) Not less than forty louis.

Ansard. Forty louis for a poodle!

Barnstaple. Most certainly; not a sou less. The value of any thing in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a five-franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to amuse the reader.

Ansard. But in what is to consist his sagacity?

Barnstaple. He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far speak as to howl the first part of "Lieber Augustin."

Ansard. His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush. But—I think I had better not bring him home with me.

Barnstaple. Of course not. In the first place, it's absolutely necessary to kill him, lest his reputation should induce people to seek him out, which they would do, although, in all probability, they never will his master. Lady Cork would certainly invite him to a literary soiree. You must therefore kill him in the most effective way possible, and you will derive the advantage of filling up at least ten pages with his last moments—licking your hand, your own lamentations, violent and inconsolable grief on the part of Henri, and tanning his skin as a memorial.

Ansard. A beautiful episode, for which receive my best thanks. But, Barnstaple, I have very few effective passages as yet. I have remodelled several descriptions of mountains, precipices, waterfalls, and such wonders of the creation—expressed my contempt and surprise at the fear acknowledged by other travellers, in several instances. I have lost my way twice—met three wolves—been four times benighted—and indebted to lights at a distance for a bed at midnight, after the horses have refused to proceed. All is incident, and I am quite hard up for description. Now, I have marked down a fine passage in —'s work—a beautiful description of a cathedral with a grand procession. (Reads.) "What with the effect of the sun's brightest beams upon the ancient glass windows—various hues reflected upon the gothic pillars— gorgeousness of the procession—sacerdotal ornaments—tossing of censers—crowds of people—elevation of the host, and sinking down of the populace en masse." It really is a magnificent line of writing, and which my work requires. One or two like that in my book would do well to be quoted by impartial critics, before the public are permitted to read it. But here, you observe, is a difficulty. I dare not borrow the passage.

Barnstaple. But you shall borrow it—you shall be even finer than he is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism.

Ansard. How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I am all impatience.

Barnstaple. His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest—here is the secret. You must visit it at night. Instead of "glorious beams," you will talk of "pale melancholy light;" instead of "the stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile," you must "darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon." The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands of wax tapers—the splendid fret—work of the roof you must regret was not to be clearly distinguished—but you must be in ecstasies with the broad light and shade—the blaze at the altar—solemn hour of night— feelings of awe—half a Catholic—religious reflections, etcetera. Don't you perceive?

Ansard. I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be all moonshine. It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to help me with?

Barnstaple. Have you talked about cooks?

Ansard. As yet, not a word.

Barnstaple. By this time you ought to have some knowledge of gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating.

Ansard. (writes.) I have made a memo.

Barnstaple. Have you had no affront?

Ansard. Not one.

B. Then be seriously affronted—complain to the burgomaster, or mayor, or commandant, whoever it may be—they attempt to bully—you are resolute and firm as an Englishman—insist upon being righted—they must make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity, and be read with interest.

Ansard. (writes.) I have been affronted. Anything else which may proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple?

Barnstaple. Have you had a serious illness?

Ansard. Never complained even of a headache.

Barnstaple. Then do everything but die—Henri weeping and inconsolable—Mouton howling at the foot of your bed—kick the surgeons out of the room—and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne.

Ansard. (writes.) Very sick—cured with three dozen of champagne— I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the cure gratis. Go on, my dear Barnstaple.

Barnstaple. You may work in an episode here—delirium—lucid intervals—gentle female voice—delicate attentions—mysterious discovery from loquacious landlady—eternal gratitude—but no marriage— an apostrophe—and all the rest left to conjecture.

Ansard. (writes down.) Silent attentions—conjecture—I can manage that, I think.

Barnstaple. By the bye, have you brought in Madame de Stael?

Ansard. No—how the devil am I to bring her in?

Barnstaple. As most other travellers do, by the head and shoulders. Never mind that, so long as you bring her in.

Ansard. (writes). Madame de Stael by the shoulders—that's not very polite towards a lady. These hints are invaluable; pray go on.

Barnstaple. Why, you have already more hints this morning than are sufficient for three volumes. But, however, let me see. (Barnstaple thinks a little). Find yourself short of cash.

Ansard. A sad reality, Barnstaple. I shall write this part well, for truth will guide my pen.

Barnstaple. All the better. But to continue—no remittances—awkward position—explain your situation—receive credit to any amount—and compliment your countrymen.

Ansard. (writes.) Credit to any amount—pleasing idea. But I don't exactly perceive the value of this last hint, Barnstaple.

Barnstaple. All judicious travellers make it a point, throughout the whole of their works, to flatter the nation upon its wealth, name, and reputation in foreign countries; by doing so you will be read greedily, and praised in due proportion. If ever I were to write my travels into the interior of Africa, or to the North Pole, I would make it a point to discount a bill at Timbuctoo, or get a cheque cashed by the Esquimaux, without the least hesitation in either case. I think now, that what with your invention, your plagiarism, and my hints, you ought to produce a very effective Book of Travels; and with that feeling I shall leave you to pursue your Journey, and receive, at its finale, your just reward. When we meet again, I hope to see you advertised.

Ansard. Yes, but not exposed, I trust. I am incognito, you know.

Barnstaple. To be sure, that will impart an additional interest to your narrative. All the world will be guessing who you may be. Adieu, voyageur. [Exit BARNSTAPLE.]

Ansard. And Heaven forfend that they should find me out! But what can be done? In brief, I cannot get a brief, and thus I exercise my professional acquirements how I can, proving myself as long-winded, as prosy perhaps, and certainly as lying, as the more fortunate of my fraternity.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

HOW TO WRITE A ROMANCE.

MR ARTHUR ANSARD, standing at his table, selecting a steel pen from a card on which a dozen are ranged up, like soldiers on parade.

I must find a regular graver to write this chapter of horrors. No goose quill could afford me any assistance. Now then. Let me see—(Reads, and during his reading BARNSTAPLE comes in at the door behind him, unperceived.) "At this most monstrously appalling sight, the hair of Piftlianteriscki raised slowly the velvet cap from off his head, as if it had been perched upon the rustling quills of some exasperated porcupine—(I think that's new)—his nostrils dilated to that extent that you might, with ease, have thrust a musket bullet into each—his mouth was opened so wide, so unnaturally wide, that the corners were rent asunder, and the blood slowly trickled down each side of his bristly chin—while each tooth loosened from its socket with individual fear.—Not a word could he utter, for his tongue, in its fright, clung with terror to his upper jaw, as tight as do the bellies of the fresh and slimy soles, paired together by some fisherwoman; but if his tongue was paralysed, his heart was not—it throbbed against his ribs with a violence which threatened their dislocation from the sternum, and with a sound which reverberated through the dark, damp subterrene—" I think that will do. There's force there.

Barnstaple. There is, with a vengeance. Why, what is all this?

Ansard. My dear Barnstaple, you here! I'm writing a romance for B—. It is to be supposed to be a translation.

Barnstaple. The Germans will be infinitely obliged to you; but, my dear fellow, you appear to have fallen into the old school—that's no longer in vogue.

Ansard. My orders are for the old school. B— was most particular on that point. He says that there is a re-action—a great re-action.

Barnstaple. What, on literature? Well, he knows as well as any man. I only wish to God there was in everything else, and we could see the good old times again.

Ansard. To confess the truth, I did intend to have finished this without saying a word to you. I wished to have surprised you.

Barnstaple. So you have, my dear fellow, with the few lines I have heard. How the devil are you to get your fellow out of that state of asphyxia?

Ansard. By degrees—slowly—very slowly—as they pretend that we lawyers go to heaven. But I'll tell you what I have done, just to give you an idea of my work. In the first place, I have a castle perched so high up in the air, that the eagles, even in their highest soar, appear but as wrens below.

Barnstaple. That's all right.

Ansard. And then it has subterraneous passages, to which the sewers of London are a mere song; and they all lead to a small cave at high-water mark on the sea-beach, covered with brambles and bushes, and just large enough at its entrance to admit of a man squeezing himself in:

Barnstaple. That's all right. You cannot be too much underground; in fact, the two first, and the best part of the third volume, should be wholly in the bowels of the earth, and your hero and heroine should never come to light until the last chapter.

Ansard. Then they would never have been born till then, and how could I marry them? But still I have adhered pretty much to your idea; and, Barnstaple, I have such a heroine—such a love—she has never seen her sweetheart, yet she is most devotedly attached, and has suffered more for his sake than any mortal could endure.

Barnstaple. Most heroines generally do.

Ansard. I have had her into various dungeons for three or four years, on black bread and a broken pitcher of water—she has been starved to death—lain for months and months upon wet straw—had two brain fevers— five times has she risked violation, and always has picked up, or found in the belt of her infamous ravishers, a stiletto, which she has plunged into their hearts, and they have expired with or without a groan.

Barnstaple. Excellent: and of course comes out of her dungeons each time as fresh, as sweet, as lovely, as pure, as charming, and as constant as ever.

Ansard. Exactly; nothing can equal her infinite variety of adventure, and her imperishable beauty and unadhesive cleanliness of person; and, as for lives, she has more than a thousand cats'. After nine months' confinement in a dungeon, four feet square, when it is opened for her release, the air is perfumed with the ambrosia which exhales from her sweet person.

Barnstaple. Of course it does. The only question is, what ambrosia smells like. But let me know something about your hero.

Ansard. He is a prince and a robber.

Barnstaple. The two professions are not at all incompatible. Go on.

Ansard. He is the chief of a band of robbers, and is here, there and everywhere. He fills all Europe with terror, admiration, and love.

Barnstaple. Very good.

Ansard. His reasons for joining the robbers are, of course, a secret (and upon my word they are equally a secret to myself); but it is wonderful the implicit obedience of his men, and the many acts of generosity of which he is guilty. I make him give away a great deal more money than his whole band ever take, which is so far awkward, that the query may arise in what way he keeps them together, and supplies them with food and necessaries.

Barnstaple. Of course with IOUs upon his princely domains.

Ansard. I have some very grand scenes, amazingly effective; for instance, what do you think, at the moment after the holy mass has been performed in Saint Peter's at Rome, just as the pope is about to put the sacred wafer into his mouth and bless the whole world, I make him snatch the wafer out of the pope's hand, and get clear off with it.

Barnstaple. What for, may I ask?

Ansard. That is a secret which I do not reveal. The whole arrangement of that part of the plot is admirable. The band of robbers are disguised as priests, and officiate, without being found out.

Barnstaple. But isn't that rather sacrilegious?

Ansard. No; it appears so to be, but he gives his reasons for his behaviour to the pope, and the pope is satisfied, and not only gives him his blessing, but shows him the greatest respect.

Barnstaple. They must have been very weighty reasons.

Ansard. And therefore they are not divulged.

Barnstaple. That is to say, not until the end of the work.

Ansard. They are never divulged at all; I leave a great deal to the reader's imagination—people are fond of conjecture. All they know is, that he boldly appears, and demands an audience. He is conducted in, the interview is private, after a sign made by our hero, and at which the pope almost leaps off the chair. After an hour he comes out again, and the pope bows him to the very door. Every one is astonished, and, of course, almost canonise him.

Barnstaple. That's going it rather strong in a Catholic country. But tell me, Ansard, what is your plot?

Ansard. Plot; I have none.

Barnstaple. No plot!

Ansard. No plot, and all plot. I puzzle the reader with certain materials. I have castles and dungeons, corridors and creaking doors, good villains and bad villains. Chain armour and clank of armour, daggers for gentlemen, and stilettoes for ladies. Dark forests and brushwood, drinking scenes, eating scenes, and sleeping scenes—robbers and friars, purses of gold and instruments of torture, an incarnate devil of a Jesuit, a handsome hero, and a lovely heroine. I jumble them all together, sometimes above, and sometimes underground, and I explain nothing at all.

Barnstaple. Have you nothing supernatural?

Ansard. O yes! I've a dog whose instinct is really supernatural, and I have two or three visions, which may be considered so, as they tell what never else could have been known. I decorate my caverns and dungeons with sweltering toads and slimy vipers, a constant dropping of water, with chains too ponderous to lift, but which the parties upon whom they are riveted, clang together as they walk up and down in their cells, and soliloquise. So much for my underground scenery. Above, I people the halls with pages and ostrich feathers, and knights in bright armour, a constant supply of generous wine, and goblets too heavy to lift, which the knights toss off at a draught, as they sit and listen to the minstrel's music.

Barnstaple. Bravo, Ansard, bravo. It appears to me that you do not want assistance in this romance.

Ansard. No, when I do I have always a holy and compassionate friar, who pulls a wonderful restorative or healing balm, out of his bosom. The puffs of Solomon's Balm of Gilead are a fool to the real merits of my pharmacopoeia contained in a small vial.

Barnstaple. And pray what may be the title of this book of yours, for I have known it take more time to fix upon a title than to write the three volumes.

Ansard. I call it The Undiscovered Secret, and very properly so too, for it never is explained. But if you please, I will read you some passages from it. I think you will approve of them. For instance, now let us take this, in the second volume. You must know, that Angelicanarinella (for that is the name of my heroine) is thrown into a dungeon not more than four feet square, but more than six hundred feet below the surface of the earth. The ways are so intricate, and the subterranean so vast, and the dungeons so numerous, that the base Ethiop, who has obeyed his master's orders in confining her, has himself been lost in the labyrinth, and has not been able to discover what dungeon he put her in. For three days he has been looking for it, during which our heroine has been without food, and he is still searching and scratching his woolly head in despair, as he is to die by slow torture, if he does not reproduce her—for you observe, the chief who has thrown her into his dungeon is most desperately in love with her.

Barnstaple. That of course; and that is the way to prove romantic love—you ill treat—but still she is certainly in a dilemma, as well as the Ethiop.

Ansard. Granted; but she talks like the heroine of a romance. Listen. (ANSARD reads.) "The beauteous and divinely moulded form of the angelic Angelicanarinella pressed the dank and rotten straw which had been thrown down by the scowling, thick-lipped Ethiop for her repose—she, for whom attendant maidens had smoothed the Sybaritic sheet of finest texture, under the elaborately carved and sumptuously gilt canopy, the silken curtains, and the tassels of the purest dust of gold."

Barnstaple. Tassels of dust of gold! only figuratively, I suppose.

Ansard. Nothing more. "Each particular straw of this dank, damp bed was elastic with delight, at bearing such angelic pressure; and, as our heroine cast her ineffably beaming eyes about the dark void, lighting up with their effulgent rays each little portion of the dungeon, as she glanced them from one part to another, she perceived that the many reptiles enclosed with her in this narrow tomb, were nestling to her side, their eyes fixed upon her in mute expressions of love and admiration. Her eclipsed orbs were each, for a moment, suffused with a bright and heavenly tear, and from the suffusion threw out a more brilliant light upon the feeling reptiles who paid this tribute to her undeserved sufferings. She put forth her beauteous hand, whose 'faint tracery'—(I stole that from Cooper)—whose faint tracery had so often given to others the idea that it was ethereal, and not corporeal, and lifting with all the soft and tender handling of first love a venerable toad, which smiled upon her, she placed the interesting animal so that it could crawl up and nestle in her bosom, 'Poor child of dank, of darkness, and of dripping,' exclaimed she, in her flute-like notes, 'who sheltereth thyself under the wet and mouldering wall, so neglected in thy form by thy mother Nature, repose awhile in peace where princes and nobles would envy thee, if they knew thy present lot. But that shall never be; these lips shall never breathe a tale which might endanger thy existence; fear not, therefore, their enmity, and as thou slowly creepest away thy little round of circumscribed existence, forget me not, but shed an occasional pearly tear to the memory of the persecuted, the innocent Angelicanarinella!'" What d'ye think of that?

Barnstaple. Umph! a very warm picture certainly; however, it is natural. You know, a person of her consequence could never exist without a little toadyism.

Ansard. I have a good many subterraneous soliloquies, which would have been lost for ever, if I did not bring them up.

Barnstaple. That one you have just read is enough to make everybody else bring up.

Ansard. I rather plume myself upon it.

Barnstaple. Yes, it is a feather in your cap, and will act as a feather in the throat of your readers.

Ansard. Now I'll turn over the second volume, and read you another morceau, in which I assume the more playful vein. I have imitated one of our modern writers, who must be correct in her language, as she knows all about heroes and heroines. I must confess that I've cribbed a little.

Barnstaple. Let's hear.

Ansard. "The lovely Angelicanarinella pottered for some time about this fairy chamber, then 'wrote journal.' At last, she threw herself down on the floor, pulled out the miniature, gulped when she looked at it, and then cried herself to sleep."

Barnstaple. Pottered and gulped! What language do you call that?

Ansard. It's all right, my dear fellow. I understand that it is the refined slang of the modern boudoir, and only known to the initiated.

Barnstaple. They had better keep it entirely to their boudoirs. I should advise you to leave it all out.

Ansard. Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must have been the standard of perfection herself.

Barnstaple. That does not at all follow.

Ansard. But what I wish to read to you is the way in which I have managed that my secret shall never be divulged. It is known only to four.

Barnstaple. A secret known to four people! You must be quick then.

Ansard. So I am, as you shall hear; they all meet in a dark gallery, but do not expect to meet any one but the hero, whom they intend to murder, each one having, unknown to the others, made an appointment with him for that purpose, on the pretence of telling him the great secret. Altogether the scene is well described, but it is long, so I'll come at once to the denouement.

Barnstaple. Pray do.

Ansard. "Absenpresentini felt his way by the slimy wall, when the breath of another human being caught his ear: he paused, and held his own breath. 'No, no,' muttered the other, 'the secret of blood and gold shall remain with me alone. Let him come, and he shall find death.' In a second, the dagger of Absenpresentini was in the mutterer's bosom:—he fell without a groan. 'To me alone the secret of blood and gold, and with me it remains,' exclaimed Absenpresentini. 'It does remain with you,' cried Phosphorini, driving his dagger into his back:—Absenpresentini fell without a groan, and Phosphorini, withdrawing his dagger, exclaimed, 'Who is now to tell the secret but me?' 'Not you,' cried Vortiskini, raising up his sword and striking at where the voice proceeded. The trusty steel cleft the head of the abandoned Phosphorini, who fell without a groan. 'Now will I retain the secret of blood and gold,' said Vortiskini, as he sheathed his sword. 'Thou shalt,' exclaimed the wily Jesuit, as he struck his stiletto to the heart of the robber, who fell without a groan. 'With me only does the secret now rest, by which our order might be disgraced; with me it dies,' and the Jesuit raised his hand. 'Thus to the glory and the honour of his society does Manfredini sacrifice his life.' He struck the keen-pointed instrument into his heart, and died without a groan. 'Stop,' cried our hero."

Barnstaple. And I agree with your hero: stop, Ansard, or you'll kill me too—but not without a groan.

Ansard. Don't you think it would act well?

Barnstaple. Quite as well as it reads; pray is it all like this?

Ansard. You shall judge for yourself. I have half killed myself with writing it, for I chew opium every night to obtain ideas. Now again—

Barnstaple. Spare me, Ansard, spare me; my nerves are rather delicate; for the remainder I will take your word.

Ansard. I wish my duns would do the same, even if it were only my washerwoman; but there's no more tick for me here, except this old watch of my father's, which serves to remind me of what I cannot obtain from others—time; but, however, there is a time for all things, and when the time comes that my romance is ready, my creditors will obtain the ready.

Barnstaple. Your only excuse, Ansard.

Ansard. I beg your pardon. The public require strong writing now-a-days. We have thousands who write well, and the public are nauseated with what is called good writing.

Barnstaple. And so they want something bad, eh? Well, Ansard, you certainly can supply them.

Ansard. My dear Barnstaple, you must not disparage this style of writing—it is not bad—there is a great art in it. It may be termed writing intellectual and ethereal. You observe, that it never allows probabilities or even possibilities to stand in its way. The dross of humanity is rejected: all the common wants and grosser feelings of our natures are disallowed. It is a novel which is all mind and passion. Corporeal attributes and necessities are thrown on one side, as they would destroy the charm of perfectability. Nothing can soil, or defile, or destroy my heroine; suffering adds lustre to her beauty, as pure gold is tried by fire: nothing can kill her, because she is all mind. As for my men, you will observe when you read my work—

Barnstaple. When I do!

Ansard. Which, of course, you will—that they also have their appetites in abeyance; they never want to eat, or drink, or sleep—are always at hand when required, without regard to time or space. Now there is a great beauty in this description of writing. The women adore it because they find their sex divested of those human necessities, without which they would indeed be angels! the mirror is held up to them, and they find themselves perfect—no wonder they are pleased. The other sex are also very glad to dwell upon female perfectability, which they can only find in a romance, although they have often dreamt of it in their younger days.

Barnstaple. There is some truth in these remarks. Every milliner's girl, who devours your pages in bed by the half-hour's light of tallow stolen for the purpose, imagines a strong similarity between herself and your Angelicanarinella, and every shop-boy measuring tape or weighing yellow soap will find out attributes common to himself and to your hero.

Ansard. Exactly. As long as you draw perfection in both sexes, you are certain to be read, because by so doing you flatter human nature and self-love, and transfer it to the individual who reads. Now a picture of real life—

Barnstaple. Is like some of Wouvermans' best pictures, which will not be purchased by many, because his dogs in the foreground are doing exactly what all dogs will naturally do when they first are let out of their kennels.

Ansard. Wouvermans should have known better, and made his dogs better mannered if he expected his pictures to be hung up in the parlour of refinement.

Barnstaple Very true.

Ansard. Perhaps you would like to have another passage or two.

Barnstaple. Excuse me: I will imagine it all. I only hope, Ansard, this employment will not interfere with your legal practice.

Ansard. My dear Barnstaple, it certainly will not, because my legal practice cannot be interfered with. I have been called to the bar, but find no employment in my calling. I have been sitting in my gown and wig for one year, and may probably sit a dozen more before I have to rise to address their lordships. I have not yet had a guinea brief. My only chance is to be sent out as judge to Sierra Leone, or perhaps to be made a commissioner of the Court of Requests.

Barnstaple. You are indeed humble in your aspirations. I recollect the time, Ansard, when you dreamt of golden fame, and aspired to the woolsack—when your ambition prompted you to midnight labour, and you showed an energy—

Ansard. (putting his hands up to his forehead, with his elbows on the table.) What can I do, Barnstaple? If I trust to briefs, my existence will be but brief—we all must live.

Barnstaple. I will not reply as Richelieu did to a brother author, "Je ne vois pas la necessite;" but this I do say, that if you are in future to live by supplying the public with such nonsense, the shorter your existence the better.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

THE LEGEND OF THE BELL ROCK.

There was a grand procession through the streets of the two towns of Perth and Dundee. The holy abbots, in their robes, walked under gilded canopies, the monks chanted, the censers were thrown, flags and banners were carried by seamen, lighted tapers by penitents; Saint Antonio, the patron of those who trust to the stormy ocean, was carried in all pomp through the streets; and, as the procession passed, coins of various value were thrown down by those who watched it from the windows, and, as fast as thrown were collected by little boys dressed as angels, and holding silver vessels to receive the largesses. During the whole day did the procession continue, and large was the treasure collected in the two towns. Every one gave freely, for there were few, indeed none, who, if not in their own circle, at least among their acquaintances, had to deplore the loss of some one dear to them, or to those they visited, from the dangerous rock which lay in the very track of all the vessels entering the Firth of Tay.

These processions had been arranged, that a sufficient sum of money might be collected to enable them to put in execution a plan proposed by an adventurous and bold young seaman, in a council held for the purpose, of fixing a bell on the rock, which could be so arranged that the slightest breath of wind would cause the hammer of it to sound, and thus, by its tolling, warn the mariner of his danger; and the sums given were more than sufficient. A meeting was then held, and it was unanimously agreed that Andrew M'Clise should be charged with the commission to go over to Amsterdam, and purchase the bell of a merchant residing there, whom Andrew stated to have one in his possession, which, from its fine tone and size, was exactly calculated for the purport to which it was to be appropriated.

Andrew M'Clise embarked with the money, and made a prosperous voyage. He had often been at Amsterdam, and had lived with the merchant, whose name was Vandermaclin; and the attention to his affairs, the dexterity and the rapidity of the movements of Andrew M'Clise, had often elicited the warmest encomiums of Mynheer Vandermaclin; and many evenings had Andrew M'Clise passed with him, drinking in moderation their favourite scheedam, and indulging in the meditative merschaum. Vandermaclin had often wished that he had a son like Andrew M'Clise, to whom he could leave his property, with the full assurance that the heap would not be scattered, but greatly added to.

Vandermaclin was a widower. He had but one daughter, who was now just arrived at an age to return from the pension to her father's house, and take upon herself the domestic duties. M'Clise had never yet seen the beautiful Katerina.

"And so, Mynheer M'Clise," said Vandermaclin, who was sitting in the warehouse on the ground-floor of his tenement, "you come to purchase the famous bell of Utrecht; with the intention of fixing it upon that rock, the danger of which we have so often talked over after the work of the day has been done? I, too, have suffered from that same rock, as you well know; but still I have been fortunate. The price will be heavy; and so it ought to be, for the bell itself is of no small weight."

"We are prepared to pay it, Mynheer Vandermaclin."

"Nevertheless, in so good a cause, and for so good a purport, you shall not be overcharged. I will say nothing of the beauty of the workmanship, or even of the mere manufacture. You shall pay but its value in metal; the same price which the Jew Isaacs offered me for it but four months ago. I will not ask what a Jew would ask, but what a Jew would give, which makes no small difference. Have you ten thousand guilders?"

"I have, and more."

"That is my price, Mynheer M'Clise, and I wish for no more; for I, too, will contribute my share to the good work. Are you content, and is it a bargain?"

"It is; and the holy abbots will thank you on vellum, Mynheer Vandermaclin, for your generosity."

"I prefer the thanks of the bold seamen to those of the idle churchmen; but, never mind, it is a bargain. Now, we will go in; it is time to close the doors. We will take our pipes, and you shall make the acquaintance of my fair daughter, Katerina."

At the time we are speaking of, M'Clise was about six-and-twenty years of age; he was above the middle size, elegant in person, and with a frankness and almost nobility in his countenance, which won all who saw him.

His manners were like those of most seamen, bold, but not offensively so. His eye was piercing as an eagle's; and it seemed as if his very soul spoke from it. At the very first meeting between him and the daughter of Vandermaclin, it appeared to both as if their destinies were to unite them.

They loved not as others love, but with an intensity which it would be impossible to portray; but they hardly exchanged a word. Again and again they met; their eyes spoke, but nothing more. The bell was put on board the vessel, the money had been paid down, and M'Clise could no longer delay. He felt as if his heart-strings were severed as he tore himself away from the land where all remained that he coveted upon earth. And Katerina, she too felt as if her existence was a blank; and as the vessel sailed from the port, she breathed short; and when not even her white and lofty topgallant sail could be discovered as a speck, she threw herself on her couch and wept. And M'Clise as he sailed away, remained for hours leaning his cheek on his hand, thinking of, over and over again, every lineament and feature of the peerless Katerina.

Two months passed away, during which M'Clise was busied every ebb of the tide in superintending the work on the rock. At last, all was ready; and once more was to be beheld a gay procession; but this time it was on the water. It was on a calm and lovely summer's morn, that the abbots and the monks, attended by a large company of the authorities, and others, who were so much interested in the work in hand, started from the shore of Aberbrothwick in a long line of boats, decorated with sacred and with other various banners and devices. The music floated along the water, and the solemn chants of the monks were for once heard where never yet they had been heard before, or ever will again. M'Clise was at the rock, in a small vessel purposely constructed to carry the bell, and with sheers to hang it on the supports imbedded in the solid rock. The bell was in its place, and the abbot blessed the bell; and holy water was sprinkled on the metal, which was for the future to be lashed by the waves of the salt sea. And the music and the chants were renewed; and as they continued, the wind gradually rose, and with the rising of the wind the bell tolled loud and deep. The tolling of the bell was the signal for return, for it was a warning that the weather was about to change, and the procession pulled back to Aberbrothwick, and landed in good time; for in one hour more, and the rocky coast was again lashed by the waves, and the bell tolled loud and quick, although there were none there but the sea-gull, who screamed with fright as he wheeled in the air at this unusual noise upon the rock, which, at the ebb he had so often made his resting-place.

M'Clise had done his work; the bell was fixed; and once more he hastened with his vessel to Amsterdam. Once more was he an inmate of Vandermaclin's house; once more in the presence of the idol of his soul. This time they spoke; this time their vows were exchanged for life and death. But Vandermaclin saw not the state of their hearts. He looked upon the young seamen as too low, too poor, to be a match for his daughter; and as such an idea never entered his head, so did he never imagine that he would have dared to love. But he was soon undeceived; for M'Clise frankly stated his attachment, and demanded the hand of Katerina; and, at the demand, Vandermaclin's face was flushed with anger.

"Mynheer M'Clise," said he, after a pause, as if to control his feelings; "when a man marries, he is bound to show that he has wherewithal to support his wife; to support her in that rank, and to afford her those luxuries to which she has been accustomed in her father's house. Show me that you can do so, and I will not refuse you the hand of Katerina."

"As yet, I have not," replied M'Clise; "but I am young and can work; I have money, and will gain more. Tell me what sum do you think that I should possess to warrant my demanding the hand of your daughter?"

"Produce twelve thousand guilders, and she is yours," replied the merchant.

"I have but three thousand," replied M'Clise.

"Then, think no more of Katerina. It is a foolish passion, and you must forget it. And, Mynheer M'Clise, I must not have my daughter's affections tampered with. She must forget you; and that can only be effected by your not meeting again. I wish you well, Mynheer M'Clise, but I must request your absence."

M'Clise departed from the presence of the merchant, bowed down with grief and disappointment. He contrived that a letter, containing the result of his application, should be put in the hands of Katerina. But Vandermaclin was informed of this breach of observance, and Katerina was sent to a convent, there to remain until the departure of her lover; and Vandermaclin wrote to his correspondent at Dundee, requesting that the goods forwarded to him might not be sent by the vessel commanded by M'Clise.

Of this our young captain received information. All hope was nearly gone; still he lingered, and delayed his departure. He was no longer the active, energetic seaman; he neglected all, even his attire.

M'Clise knew in which convent his fair Katerina had been immured; and often would he walk round its precincts, with the hope of seeing her, if it were but for a moment, but in vain. His vessel was now laden, and he could delay no longer. He was to sail the next morning; and once more did the unhappy young man take his usual walk to look at those walls which contained all that was dear to him on earth. His reverie was broken by a stone falling down to his feet; he took it up; there was a small piece of paper attached to it with a silken thread. He opened it; it was the handwriting of Katerina, and contained but two words—"The Bell."

The bell! M'Clise started; for he immediately comprehended what was meant. The whole plan came like electricity through his brain. Yes; then there was a promise of happiness. The bell was worth ten thousand guilders; that sum had been offered, and would now be given by Isaacs the Jew. He would be happy with his Katerina; and he blessed her ingenuity for devising the means. For a minute or two he was transported; but the re-action soon took place. What was he about to attempt? sacrilege—cruelty. The bell had been blessed by the holy church; it had been purchased by holy and devout alms. It had been placed on the rock to save the lives of his brother seamen; and were he to remove it, would he not be responsible for all the lives lost? Would not the wail of the widow, and the tears of the orphan, be crying out to Heaven against him? No, no! never! The crime was too horrible; and M'Clise stamped upon the paper, thinking he was tempted by Satan in the shape of woman; but when woman tempts, man is lost. He recalled the charms of Katerina; all his repugnance was overcome; and he resolved that the deed should be accomplished, and that Katerina should be gained, even if he lost his soul.

Andrew M'Clise sailed away from Amsterdam, and Katerina recovered her liberty. Vandermaclin was anxious that she should marry: and many were the suitors for her hand, but in vain. She reminded her father, that he had pledged himself, if M'Clise counted down twelve thousand guilders, that she should be his wife; and to that pledge she insisted that he was bound fast. And Vandermaclin after reasoning with her, and pointing out to her that twelve thousand guilders was a sum so large, that M'Clise might not procure until his old age, even if he were fortunate, acknowledged that such was his promise, and that he would, like an honest man, abide by it, provided that M'Clise should fulfil his part of the agreement in the space of two years; after which he should delay her settlement no longer. And Katerina raised her eyes to heaven, and whispered, as she clasped her hands, "The Bell." Alas! that we should invoke Heaven when we would wish to do wrong: but mortals are blind, and none so blind as those who are impelled by passion.

It was in the summer of that year that M'Clise had made his arrangements: having procured the assistance of some lawless hands, he had taken the advantage of a smooth and glassy sea and a high tide to remove the bell on board his own vessel; a work of little difficulty to him, as he had placed it there, and knew well the fastenings. He sailed away for Amsterdam, and was permitted by Heaven to arrive safe with his sacrilegious freight. He did not, as before, enter the canal opposite to the house of Vandermaclin, but one that ran behind the habitation of the Jew Isaacs. At night, he went into the house, and reported to the Jew what he had for sale; and the keen grey eyes of the bent-double little Israelite sparkled with delight, for he knew that his profit would be great. At midnight the bell was made fast to the crane, and safely deposited in the warehouse of the Jew, who counted out the ten thousand guilders to the enraptured M'Clise, whose thoughts were wholly upon the possession of his Katerina, and not upon the crime he had committed.

But, alas! to conceal one crime, we are too often obliged to be guilty of even deeper; and thus it was with Andrew M'Clise. The people who had assisted, upon the promise of a thousand guilders being divided among them, now murmured at their share, and insisted upon an equal division of the spoils, or threatened with an immediate confession of the black deed.

M'Clise raved, and cursed, and tore his hair; promised to give them the money as soon as he had wedded Katerina; but they would not consent. Again the devil came to his assistance, and whispered how he was to act: he consented. The next night the division was to be made. They met in his cabin; he gave them wine, and they drank plentifully; but the wine was poisoned, and they all died before the morning. M'Clise tied weights to their bodies, and sunk them in the deep canal; broke open his hatches, to make it appear that his vessel had been plundered; and then went to the authorities denouncing his crew as having plundered him, and escaped. Immediate search was made, but they were not to be found; and it was supposed that they had escaped in a boat.

Once more M'Clise, whose conscience was seared, went to the house of Vandermaclin, counted down his twelve thousand guilders, and claimed his bride; and Vandermaclin, who felt that his daughter's happiness was at stake, now gave his consent. As M'Clise stated that he was anxious to return to England, and arrange with the merchants whose goods had been plundered, in a few days the marriage took place; and Katerina clasped the murderer in her arms. All was apparent joy and revelry; but there was anguish in the heart of M'Clise, who, now that he had gained his object, felt that it had cost him much too dear, for his peace of mind was gone for ever. But Katerina cared not; every spark of feeling was absorbed in her passion, and the very guilt of M'Clise but rendered him more dear; for was it not for her that he had done all this? M'Clise received her portion, and hasted to sail away; for the bodies were still in the canal, and he trembled every hour lest his crime should be discovered. And Vandermaclin bade farewell to his daughter: and, he knew not why, but there was a feeling he could not suppress, that they never should meet again.

"Down—down below, Katerina! this is no place for you," cried M'Clise, as he stood at the helm of the vessel. "Down, dearest, down, or you will be washed overboard. Every sea threatens to pour into our decks; already have we lost two men. Down, Katerina! down, I tell you."

"I fear not; let me remain with you."

"I tell you, down!" cried M'Clise, in wrath; and Katerina cast upon him a reproachful look, and obeyed.

The storm was at its height; the sun had set, black and monstrous billows chased each other, and the dismasted vessel was hurried on towards the land. The wind howled, and whistled sharply at each chink in the bulwarks of the vessel. For three days had they fought the gale, but in vain. Now, if it continued, all chance was over; for the shore was on their lee, distant not many miles. Nothing could save them, but gaining the mouth of the Firth of Tay, and then they could bear up for Dundee. And there was a boiling surge, and a dark night, and roaring seas, and their masts were floating far away; and M'Clise stood at the helm, keeping her broadside to the sea: his heart was full of bitterness, and his guilty conscience bore him down, and he looked for death, and he dreaded it; for was he not a sacrilegious murderer, and was there not an avenging God above?

Once more Katerina appeared on deck, clinging for support to Andrew.

"I cannot stay below. Tell me, will it soon be over?"

"Yes," replied M'Clise, gloomily; "it will soon be over with all of us."

"How mean you? you told me there was no danger."

"I told you falsely; there is death soon, and damnation afterwards; for you I have lost my soul!"

"Oh! say not so."

"I say it. Leave me, leave me, woman, or I curse thee."

"Curse me, Andrew? Oh, no! Kiss me, Andrew; and if we are to perish, let us expire in each other's arms."

"'Tis as well; you have dragged me to perdition. Leave me, I say, for you have my bitter curse."

Thus was his guilty love turned to hate, now that death was staring him in the face.

Katerina made no reply. She threw herself on the deck, and abandoned herself to her feeling of bitter anguish. And as she lay there, and M'Clise stood at the helm, the wind abated; the vessel was no longer borne down as before, although the waves were still mountains high. The seamen on board rallied; some fragments of sail were set on the remnants of the masts, and there was a chance of safety. M'Clise spoke not, but watched the helm. The wind shifted in their favour; and hope rose in every heart. The Firth of Tay was now open, and they were saved! Light was the heart of M'Clise when he kept away the vessel, and gave the helm up to the mate. He hastened to Katerina, who still remained on the deck, raised her up, whispered comfort and returning love; but she heard not—she could not forget—and she wept bitterly.

"We are saved, dear Katerina!"

"Better that we had been lost!" replied she, mournfully.

"No, no! say not so, with your own Andrew pressing you to his bosom."

"Your bitter curse!"

"'Twas madness—nothing—I knew not what I said." But the iron had entered into her soul. Her heart was broken.

"You had better give orders for them to look out for the Bell Rock," observed the man at the helm to M'Clise.

The Bell Rock! M'Clise shuddered, and made no reply. Onward went the vessel, impelled by the sea and wind: one moment raised aloft, and towering over the surge; at another, deep in the hollow trough, and walled in by the convulsed element. M'Clise still held his Katerina in his arms, who responded not to his endearments, when a sudden shock threw them on the deck. The crashing of the timbers, the pouring of the waves over the stern, the heeling and settling of the vessel, were but the work of a few seconds. One more furious shock,—she separates, falls on her beam ends, and the raging seas sweep over her.

M'Clise threw from him her whom he had so madly loved, and plunged into the wave. Katerina shrieked, as she dashed after him, and all was over.

When the storm rises, and the screaming sea-gull seeks the land, and the fisherman hasten his bark towards the beach, there is to be seen, descending from the dark clouds with the rapidity of lightning, the form of Andrew M'Clise, the heavy bell to which he is attached by the neck, bearing him down to his doom.

And when all is smooth and calm, when at the ebbing tide, the wave but gently kisses the rock, then by the light of the silver moon, the occupants of the vessels which sail from the Firth of Tay, have often beheld the form of the beautiful Katerina, waving her white scarf as a signal that they should approach, and take her off from the rock on which she is seated. At times, she offers a letter for her father, Vandermaclin; and she mourns and weeps as the wary mariners, with their eyes fixed on her, and with folded arms, pursue their course in silence and in dread.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

MOONSHINE.

Those who have visited our West India possessions must have often been amused with the humour and cunning which occasionally appear in a negro more endowed than the generality of his race, particularly when the master also happens to be a humourist. The swarthy servitor seems to reflect his patron's absurdities; and having thoroughly studied his character, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties without fear of punishment.

One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro called Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in his own way, who had, for many years, held the situation of harbour-master at Port Royal, but had then retired on a pension, and occupied a small house at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been addressed as Captain Cockle; and this brevet rank he retained until the day of his death. In person he was very large and fat—not unlike a cockle in shape: so round were his proportions, and so unwieldy, that it appeared much easier to roll him along from one place to another, than that he should walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste: he seldom went much farther than round the small patch of garden which was in front of his house, and in which he had some pinks and carnations and chrysanthemums, of which he was not a little proud. His head was quite bald, smooth, and shining white; his face partook of a more roseate tint, increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the tip of his nose. Cockle had formerly been a master of a merchant-vessel, and from his residence in a warm climate had contracted a habit of potation, which became confirmed during the long period of his holding his situation at Port Royal. He had purchased Moonshine for three hundred dollars, when he was about seven years old, and, upon his return to England, had taken him with him.

Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very much attached to having his own way, and was, farther, very much attached to his master's grog bottle.

The first attachment was a virtue: the second human nature; and the third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of serious magnitude. I very often called upon Captain Cockle, for he had a quaint humour about him which amused; and, as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see any of his friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the house without finding some entertainment in the continual sparring between the master and the man. I was at that time employed in the Preventive Service, and my station was about four miles from the residence of Cockle. One morning I stalked in, and found him, as usual, in his little parlour on the ground-floor.

"Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I'm all wrong. I'm on the stool of repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing penance, as you perceive, in a pair of duck trousers. Last night I was half-seas over, and tolerably happy; this morning I am high and dry, and intolerably miserable. Carried more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head; this morning I've found it again, with a pig of ballast in it, I believe. All owing to my good nature."

"How is that, Cockle?"

"Why, that Jack Piper was here last night; and rather than he should drink all the grog and not find his way home, I drank some myself—he'd been in a bad way if I had not, poor fellow!—and now, you see, I'm suffering all from good nature. Easiness of disposition has been my ruin, and has rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp edges, Bob."

"It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, Cockle, especially when we know how much you must have acted at variance with your inclinations."

"Yes, Bob, yes, I am the milk punch of human kindness. I often cry— when the chimney smokes; and sometimes—when I laugh too much. You see, I not only give my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even give my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dispense with it for an hour or two this morning."

"Nay, don't say that; for although you might dispense with the upper part, you could not well get on without your mouth, Cockle."

"Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth would be like a ship without a companion hatch;—talking about that, the combings of my mouth are rather dry—what do you say, Bob, shall we call Moonshine?"

"Why it's rather broad daylight for Moonshine."

"He's but an eclipse—a total eclipse, I may say. The fact is, my head is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoulders; and I must have a stiffener down my throat to prop it it up. So Moonshine, shine out, you black-faced rascal!"

The negro was outside, cleaning his knives:—he answered, but continued at his work.

"How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me shiner?"

"No: but I'll give you a shinner on your lower limb, that shall make you feel planet-struck, if you don't show your ugly face," replied Cockle.

"Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning."

"Come here, sir!"

"Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar," replied Moonshine, rubbing away at the knifeboard—"my face no shine more dan your white skull widout hair."

"I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now they are all gone.—Hairs; what should I do with heirs when I've nothing to leave," continued Cockle, addressing me—"hairs are like rats, that quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom— but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel angry—the tip of my nose is red already."

"Come directly, Massa Cockle."

Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance.

"You call me, sar?"

"What's the use of calling you, you black rascal?"

"Now sar, dat not fair—you say to me, Moonshine, always do one thing first—so I 'bey order and finish knives—dat ting done, I come and 'bey next order."

"Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers."

Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the room, grinning at me.

"Moonshine, where are you going, you thief?—when did you ever see me drink cold water, or offer it to my friend?"

"Neber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and tink it gin; but you very often gib notin but water to your friends, Massa Cockle."

"When, you scoundrel?"

"Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough for me."

"That's because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad enemy to us."

"Massa Cockle real fine Christian—he lub him enemy," interrupted Moonshine, looking at me.

"At all events, I'm not ashamed to look mine enemy in the face—so hand us out the bottle."

Moonshine put the bottle on the table.

"Now, Bob," said Cockle, "what d'ye say to a seven bell-er? Why, hallo! what's become of all the grog?"

"All drank last night, Massa Cockle," replied Moonshine.

"Now, you ebony thief, I'll swear that there was half a bottle left when I took my last glass; for I held the bottle up to the candle to ascertain the ullage."

"When you go up tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad! not one drop left in de bottle."

"Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not drink any last night?"

"No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and neber tell lie—me drink, because you gib it to me."

"Then I must have been drunk indeed. Now, tell me, how did I give it to you?—tell me every word which passed."

"Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. When Massa Piper go away, you look at bottel and den you say, ''Fore I go up to bed, I take one more glass for coming up.'—Den I say, ''Pose you do, you nebber be able to go up.' Den you say, 'Moonshine, you good fellow (you always call me good fellow when you want me), you must help me.' You drink you grog—you fall back in de chair, and you shut first one eye, and den you shut de oder. I see more grog on the table: so I take up de bottel and I say, 'Massa Cockle, you go up stairs?' and you say, 'Yes, yes—directly.' Den I hold de bottel up and say to you, 'Massa, shall I help you?' and you say, 'Yes, you must help me.' So den I take one glass of grog, 'cause you tell me to help you."

"I didn't tell you to help yourself though, you scoundrel!"

"Yes, Massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, I 'bey order, and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, and I say, 'Massa now you go up 'tairs,' and you start up and you wake, and you say, 'Yes, yes;' and den I hold up and show you bottel again, and I say, 'Shall I help you massa?' and den you say 'Yes.' So I 'bey order again, and take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore—so I look again and I see one little glass more in bottel, and I call you, 'Massa Cockle, Massa Cockle,' and you say, 'high—high!'—and den you head fall on you chest, and you go sleep again—so den I call again and I say; 'Massa Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?' and you nod you head on you bosom, and say noting—so I not quite sure, and I say again, 'Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly drop?' and you nod you head once more. Den I say, 'all right,' and I say, 'you very good helt, Massa Cockle;' and I finish de bottel. Now, Massa, you ab de whole tory, and it all really for true."

I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this account of Moonshine's as I was myself, but he put on a bluff look.

"So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my helpless situation, to help yourself."

"Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farren dat you drink so much, all for good nature Massa Piper—I do same all for good nature."

"Well, Mr Moonshine, I must have some grog," replied Cockle, "and as you helped yourself last night, now you must help me;—get it how you can, I give you just ten minutes—"

"'Pose you give gib me ten shillings, sar," interrupted Moonshine, "dat better."

"Cash is all gone. I havn't a skillick till quarter-day, not a shot in the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some more grog, or you'll get more kicks than halfpence."

"You no ab money—you no ab tick—how I get grog, Massa Cockle? Missy O'Bottom, she tells me, last quarter day, no pay whole bill, she not half like it; she say you great deceiver, and no trust more."

"Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that Mrs Rowbottom has wanted to grapple with me these last two years—wants to make me landlord of the Goose and Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the premises. I suspect I should be the goose and she the pepper-box;—but we never could shape that course. In the first place, there's too much of her; and, in the next, there's too much of me. I explained this to the old lady as well as I could; and she swelled up as big as a balloon, saying, that, when people were really attached, they never attached any weight to such trifling obstacles."

"But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle?"

"Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous taste of my long bill out of her mouth. As for the love part of the story, that was all her own. I never contradict a lady, because it's not polite; but since I explained, the old woman has huffed, and won't trust me with half a quartern—will she, Moonshine?"

"No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, she say dat all moonshine. But, sar, I try 'gain—I tink I know how." And Moonshine disappeared, leaving us in the dark as to what his plans might be.

"I wonder you never did marry, Cockle," I observed.

"You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that once, and once only, I was very near it. And to whom do you think it was—a woman of colour."

"A black woman?"

"No: not half black, only a quarter—what they call a quadroon in the West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she refused me."

"Refused you? hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you had been refused by a woman of colour."

"I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She had been the quadroon wife (you know what that means) of a planter of the name of Guiness; he died, and not only bequeathed her her liberty, but also four good houses in Port Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about two years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She was very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, except in jewels and dress to deck out her own person, which certainly was very handsome, even at that time, for she never had had any family. Well, if I was not quite in love with her, I was with her houses and her money; and I used to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made my proposal. 'Massa Cockle,' said she, 'dere two ting I not like; one is, I not like your name. 'Pose I 'cept your offer, you must change you name.'

"'Suppose you accept my offer, Mistress Guiness, you'll change your name. I don't know how I am to change mine,' I replied.

"'I make 'quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act and parliament you get another name.'

"'An act of parliament!' I cried.

"'Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe 'fore I hear people call me Missy Cockle—dat shell fish,' said she, and she turned up her nose.

"'Humph!' said I, 'and pray what is the next thing which you wish?'

"'De oder ting, sar, is, you no ab coat am arms, no ab seal to your watch, with bird and beast 'pon 'em; now 'pose you promise me dat you take oder name, and buy um coat am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into 'sideration.'

"'Save yourself the trouble, ma'am,' said I, jumping up; 'my answer is short—I'll see you and your whole generation hanged first!'

"Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a proposal; but here comes Moonshine."

The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on the table.

"Dare it is, sar," said he, grinning.

"Well, done, Moonshine, now I forgive you; but how did you manage it?"

"Me tell you all de tory, sar—first I see Missy O'Bottom, and I say, 'How you do, how you find himsel dis marning? Massa come, I tink, by an bye, but he almost fraid,' I said. She say, 'What he fraid for?' He tink you angry—not like see him—no lub him any more: he very sorry, very sick at 'art—he very much in lub wid you."

"The devil you did!" roared Cockle; "now I shall be bothered again with that old woman; I wish she was moored as a buoy to the Royal George."

"Massa no hear all yet. I say, 'Miss O'Bottom, 'pose you no tell?' 'I tell.'—'Massa call for clean shirt dis morning, and I say, it no clean shirt day, sar;' he say, 'Bring me clean shirt;' and den he put him on clean shirt and he put him on clean duck trowsers, he make me brush him best blue coat. I say, 'What all dis for, massa?' He put him hand up to him head, and he fetch him breath and say—'I fraid Missy O'Bottom, no hear me now—I no hab courage;' and den he sit all dress ready, and no go. Den he say, 'Moonshine, gib me one glass grog, den I hab courage.' I go fetch bottle, and all grog gone—not one lilly drop left; den massa fall down plump in him big chair, and say, 'I neber can go.' 'But,' say Missy O'Bottom, 'why he no send for some?' ''Cause,' I say, 'quarter-day no come—money all gone.'—Den say she, 'If you poor massa so very bad, den I trust you one bottel—you gib my compliments and say, I very appy to see him, and stay at home,'—Den I say, 'Missy O'Bottom pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog cut my head off.' Dat all, sar."

"That's all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, you scoundrel! What's to be done now?"

"Why, let's have a glass of grog first, Cockle," replied I, "we've been waiting a long while for it, and we'll then talk the matter over."

"Bob, you're sensible, and the old woman was no fool in sending the liquor—it requires Dutch courage to attack such a Dutch-built old schuyt; let's get the cobwebs out of our throats, and then we must see how we can get out of this scrape. I expect that I shall pay 'dearly for my whistle' this time I wet mine. Now, what's to be done, Bob?"

"I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine," said I.

"So I will.—Now, sir, as you have got me into this scrape, you must get me out of it.—D'ye hear?"

"Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink—but no ab courage."

"I understand you, you sooty fellow—here, drink this, and see if it will brighten up your wits. He's a regular turnpike, that fellow, every thing must pay toll."

"Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O'Bottom dat you come soon as you hab two glass grog; 'pose you only drink one."

"That won't do, Moonshine, for I'm just mixing my second; you must find out something better."

"One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought—dat you ab—"

"Well, then, here's another.—Now recollect, before you drink it, you are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get into a scrape, for I'll beat you as—as white as snow."

"'Pose you no wash nigger white, you no mangle him white, Massa Cockle," added Moonshine.

"The fellow's ironing me, Bob, ar'n't he?" said Cockle, laughing. "Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions."

"Drink first, sar, make sure of dat," replied Moonshine, swallowing off the brandy; "tink about it afterwards.—Eh! I ab it," cried Moonshine, who disappeared, and Cockle and I continued in conversation over our grog, which to sailors is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four. About ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the little front garden. "There's that fellow, Bob; what is he about?"

"Only picking a nosegay, I believe," replied I, looking out of the window.

"The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. Stop him, Bob."

But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was no stopping him. It was nearly an hour before he returned; and when he came in, we found that he was dressed out in his best, looking quite a dandy, and with some of his master's finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his waistcoat.

"All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine idee; you neber ab more trouble bout Missy O'Bottom."

"Well, let's hear," said Cockle.

"I dress mysel bery 'pruce, as you see, massa. I take nosegay."

"Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you."

"Neber mind, Massa Cockle. I say to Missy O'Bottom, 'Massa no able come, he very sorry, so he send me;' 'well,' she say, 'what you ab to say, sit down, Moonshine, you very nice man.' Den I say, 'Massa Cockle lub you very much, he tink all day how he make you appy; den he say, Missy O'Bottom very fine 'oman, make very fine wife.' Den Missy O'Bottom say, ''Top a moment,' and she bring a bottel from cupboard, and me drink something did make 'tomach feel really warm; and den she say, 'Moonshine, what you massa say?' den I say, massa say, 'You fine 'oman, make good wife;' but he shake um head, and say, 'I very old man, no good for noting; I tink all day how I make her appy, and I find out— Moonshine, you young man, you 'andsome feller, you good servant, I not like you go away, but I tink you make Missy O'Bottom very fine 'usband; so I not care for myself, you go to Missy O'Bottom, and tell I send you, dat I part wid you, and give you to her for 'usband.'"

Cockle and I burst out laughing. "Well, and what did Mrs Rowbottom say to that?"

"She jump up, and try to catch me hair, but I bob my head, and she miss; den she say, 'You filthy black rascal, you tell you massa, 'pose he ever come here, I break his white bald pate; and 'pose you ever come here, I smash you woolly black skull.'—Dat all, Massa Cockle; you see all right now, and I quite dry wid talking."

"All right! do you call it. I never meant to quarrel with the old woman; what d'ye think, Bob—is it all right?"

"Why, you must either have quarrelled with her, or married her, that's clear."

"Well, then, I'm clear of her, and so it's all right. It a'n't every man who can get out of matrimony by sacrificing a nosegay and two glasses of grog."

"Tree glasses, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine.

"Well, three glasses; here it is, you dog, and its dog cheap, too. Thank God, next Wednesday's quarter day. Bob, you must dine with me— cut the service for to-day."

"With all my heart," replied I, "and I'll salve my conscience by walking the beach all night; but, Cockle, look here, there is but a drop in the bottle, and you have no more. I am like you, with a clean swept hold. You acknowledge the difficulty?"

"It stares me in the face, Bob; what must be done?"

"I'll tell you—in the first place, what have you for dinner?"

"Moonshine, what have we got for dinner?"

"Dinner, sar?—me not yet tink about dinner. What you like to eat, sar?"

"What have we got in the house, Moonshine?"

"Let me see, sar? first place, we ab very fine piece picklum pork; den we have picklum pork; and den—let me tink—den we ab, we ab picklum pork, sar."

"The long and the short of it is, Bob, that we have nothing but a piece of pickled pork; can you dine off that?"

"Can a duck swim, Cockle!"

"Please, sar, we ab plenty pea for dog baddy," said Moonshine.

"Well, then, Cockle, as all that is required is to put the pot on the fire, you can probably spare Moonshine, after he has done that, and we will look to the cookery; start him off with a note to Mr Johns, and he can bring back a couple of bottles from my quarters."

"Really dat very fine tought, Massa Farren; I put in pork, and den I go and come back in one hour."

"That you never will, Mr Moonshine; what's o'clock now? mercy on us, how time flies in your company, Cockle, it is nearly four o'clock; it will be dark at six."

"Neber mind, sar, me always ab moonshine whereber I go," said the black, showing his teeth.

"It will take two hours to boil the pork, Bob; that fellow has been so busy this morning that he has quite forgot the dinner."

"All you business, Massa Cockle."

"Very true; but now start as soon as you can, and come back as soon as you can; here's the note."

Moonshine took the note, looked at the direction, as if he could read it, and in a few minutes was seen to depart.

"And now, Cockle," said I, "as Moonshine will be gone some time, suppose you spin us a yarn to pass away the time."

"I'll tell you what, Bob, I am not quite so good at that as I used to be. I've an idea that when my pate became bald, my memory oozed away by insensible perspiration."

"Never mind, you must have something left, you can't be quite empty."

"No, but my tumbler is; so I'll just fill that up, and then I'll tell you how it was that I came to go to sea."

"The very thing that I should like to hear, above all others."

"Well, then, you must know that, like cockles in general, I was born on the sea-shore, just a quarter of a mile out of Dover, towards Shakespeare's Cliff. My father was a fisherman by profession, and a smuggler by practice, all was fish that came to his net; but his cottage was small, he was supposed to be very poor, and a very bad fisherman, for he seldom brought home many; but there was a reason for that, he very seldom put his nets overboard. His chief business lay in taking out of vessels coming down Channel, goods which were shipped and bonded for exportation, and running them on shore again. You know, Bob, that there are many articles which are not permitted to enter even upon paying duty, and when these goods, such as silks, etcetera, are seized or taken in prizes, they are sold for exportation. Now, it was then the custom for vessels to take them on board in the river, and run them on shore as they went down Channel, and the fishing-boats were usually employed for this service; my father was a well-known hand for this kind of work, for not being suspected, he was always fortunate; of course, had he once been caught, they would have had their eyes upon him after he had suffered his punishment. Now the way my father used to manage was this: there was a long tunnel-drain from some houses used as manufactories, about a hundred yards above his cottage, which extended out into the sea at low-water mark, and which passed on one side of our cottage. My father had cut from a cellar in the cottage into the drain, and as it was large enough for a man to kneel down in, he used to come in at low-water with his coble, and make fast the goods, properly secured from the wet and dirt in tarpaulin bags, to a rope, which led from the cellar to the sea through the drain. When the water had flowed sufficiently to cover the mouth of the drain, he then threw the bags overboard, and, securing the boat, went to the cottage, hauled up the articles, and secured them too; d'ye understand? My father had no one to assist him but my brother, who was a stout fellow, seven years older than myself, and my mother, who used to give a helping hand when required; and thus did he keep his own counsel, and grow rich; when all was right, he got his boat over into the harbour, and having secured her, he came home as innocent as a lamb. I was then about eight or nine years old, and went with my father and brother in the coble, for she required three hands, at least, to manage her properly, and like a tin-pot, although not very big, I was very useful. Now it so happened that my father had notice that a brig, laying in Dover harbour, would sail the next day, and that she had on board of her a quantity of lace and silks, purchased at the Dover custom-house for exportation, which he was to put on shore again to be sent up to London. The sending up to London we had nothing to do with; the agent at Dover managed all that; we only left the articles at his house, and then received the money on the nail. We went to the harbour, where we found the brig hauling out, so we made all haste to get away before her. It blew fresh from the northward and eastward, and there was a good deal of sea running. As we were shoving out, the London agent, a jolly little round-faced fellow, in black clothes, and a bald white head, called to us, and said that he wanted to board a vessel in the offing, and asked whether we would take him. This was all a ruse, as he intended to go on board of the brig with us to settle matters, and then return in the pilot boat. Well, we hoisted our jib, drew aft our foresheet, and were soon clear of the harbour; but we found that there was a devil of a sea running, and more wind than we bargained for; the brig came out of the harbour with a flowing sheet, and we lowered down the foresail to reef it—father and brother busy about that, while I stood at the helm, when the agent said to me, 'When do you mean to make a voyage?' 'Sooner than father thinks for,' said I, 'for I want to see the world.' It was sooner than I thought for too, as you shall hear. As soon as the brig was well out, we ran down to her, and with some difficulty my father and the agent got on board, for the sea was high and cross, the tide setting against the wind; my brother and I were left in the boat to follow in the wake of the brig; but as my brother was casting off the rope forward, his leg caught in the bight, and into the sea he went; however, they hauled him on board, leaving me alone in the coble. It was not of much consequence, as I could manage to follow before the wind under easy sail, without assistance: so I kept her in the wake of the brig, both of us running nearly before it at the rate of five miles an hour, waiting till my father should have made up his packages, of a proper size to walk through the tunnel drain.

"The Channel was full of ships, for the westerly winds had detained them for a long time. I had followed the brig about an hour, when the agent went on shore in a pilot boat, and I expected my father would soon be ready; then the wind veered more towards the southward, with dirt: at last it came on foggy, and I could hardly see the brig, and as it rained hard, and blew harder, I wished that my father was ready, for my arms ached with steering the coble for so long a while. I could not leave the helm, so I steered on at a black lump, as the brig looked through the fog: at last the fog was so thick that I could not see a yard beyond the boat, and I hardly knew how to steer. I began to be frightened, tired, and cold, and hungry I certainly was. Well, I steered on for more than an hour, when the fog cleared up a little, and to my joy I saw the stern of the brig just before me. I expected that she would round-to immediately, and that my father would praise me for my conduct; and, what was still more to the purpose, that I should get something to eat and drink. But no: she steered on right down Channel, and I followed for more than an hour, when it came on to blow very hard, and I could scarcely manage the boat—she pulled my little arms off. The weather now cleared up, and I could make out the vessel plainly; when I discovered that it was not the brig, but a bark which I had got hold of in the fog, so that I did not know what to do; but I did as most boys would have done in a fright,—I sat down and cried; still, however, keeping the tiller in my hand, and steering as well as I could. At last. I could hold it no longer; I ran forward, let go the fore and jib haul-yards, and hauled down the sails; drag them into the boat I could not, and there I was, like a young bear adrift in a washing-tub. I looked around, and there were no vessels near; the bark had left me two miles astern, it was blowing a gale from the SE, with a heavy sea—the gulls and sea-birds wheeling and screaming in the storm. The boat tossed and rolled about so that I was obliged to hold on, but she shipped no water of any consequence, for the jib in the water forward had brought her head to wind, and acted as a sort of floating anchor. At last I lay down at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep. It was daylight before I awoke, and it blew harder than ever; and I could just see some vessels at a distance, scudding before the gale, but they could hardly see me. I sat very melancholy the whole day, shedding tears, surrounded by nothing but the roaring waves. I prayed very earnestly: I said the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and as much of the Catechism as I could recollect. I was wet, starving, and miserably cold. At night I again fell asleep from exhaustion. When morning broke, and the sun shone, the gale abated, and I felt more cheered; but I was now ravenous from hunger, as well as choking from thirst, and was so weak that I could scarcely stand. I looked round me every now and then, and in the afternoon saw a large vessel standing right for me; this gave me courage and strength. I stood up and waved my hat, and they saw me—the sea was still running very high, but the wind had gone down. She rounded-to so as to bring me under her lee. Send a boat she could not, but the sea bore her down upon me, and I was soon close to her. Men in the chains were ready with ropes, and I knew that this was my only chance. At last, a very heavy sea bore her right down upon the boat, lurching over on her beam ends, her main chains struck the boat and sent her down, while I was seized by the scruff of the neck by two of the seamen, and borne aloft by them as the vessel returned to the weather-roll. I was safe. And, as soon as they had given me something to eat, I told my story. It appeared that she was an East India-man running down Channel, and not likely to meet with anything to scud me back again. The passengers, especially the ladies, were very kind to me: and as there was no help for it, why, I took my first voyage to the East Indies."

"And your father and your brother?"

"Why, when I met them, which I did about six years afterwards, I found that they had been in much the same predicament, having lost the coble, and the weather being so bad that they could not get on shore again. As there was no help for it, they took their first voyage to the West Indies; so there was a dispersion of an united family—two went west, one went east, coble went down, and mother, after waiting a month or two, and supposing father dead, went off with a soldier. All dispersed by one confounded gale of wind from the northward and eastward, so that's the way that I went to sea, Bob. And now it's time that Moonshine was back."

But Moonshine kept us waiting for some time: when he returned it was then quite dark, and we had lighted candles, anxiously waiting for him; for not only was the bottle empty, but we were very hungry. At last we heard a conversation at the gate, and Moonshine made his appearance with the two bottles of spirits, and appeared himself to be also in high spirits. The pork and peas-pudding soon were on the table. We dined heartily, and were sitting over the latter part of the first bottle in conversation, it being near upon the eleventh hour, when we heard a noise, at the gate—observed some figures of men, who stayed a short time and then disappeared. The door opened, and Moonshine went out. In a few seconds he returned, bringing in his arms an anker of spirits, which he laid on the floor, grinning so wide that his head appeared half off. Without saying a word, he left the room and returned with another.

"Why, what the devil's this?" cried Cockle.

Moonshine made no answer, but went out and in until he had brought six ankers in, one after another, which he placed in a row on the floor. He then shut the outside door, bolted it, came in, and seating himself on one of the tubs, laughed to an excess which compelled him to hold his sides; Cockle and I looking on in a state of astonishment.

THE END