"Depend upon it, I did not leave them after they had crawled out the beach. The fellow was, as you may suppose, as savage as a bull, and very saucy, so I took off my jacket that I might not dirty myself, and gave him a couple of black eyes and a bloody nose for his trouble; and as for Peggy, I pretended to be so sorry for her, and condoled with her so much, that at last she flew at me like a tigress,—and as I knew that there was no honour, and plenty of mud, to be gained by the conflict, I took to my heels and ran off to the fair, where I met some of my friends and told them what had happened, and then we had a very merry day of it, and I felt quite cured of my love: for, you see, Peggy looked so ugly and miserable when she was in the state I left her, that I had only to think of her as when I last saw her, and all my love was gone."

"Did you ever meet her again?"

"I met her that very night; for, you see, she had gone to a cottage and taken off her clothes, having insisted upon her fancy man going back to Portsmouth to fetch her others to go home in. He dared not refuse, so off he went in the pickle that he was. But he didn't come back again, for, you see, there was a warrant out against him for an affray at Bear Haven, in which a King's officer was killed; and after he had changed his own clothes, and was proceeding to get some for her from the Chequers, he was met by the constable who had the warrant, and carried off handcuffed to gaol, and afterwards he was transported,—so she never saw him again. Well, Peggy, poor creature, had been waiting for him for hours, expecting his return; and it was past ten o'clock when I was coming down with some others, and saw her at the door of the cottage weeping.

"'Good night, Peggy,' says I.

"'Oh, Philip, do be kind, do come to me; I'm frightened out of my life. I shall have to stay here all night.'

"So, you see, I did feel some little pity for her, and I went up to her, and she told me how she had sent him, and he had never come back again.

"'The fact is,' says I, 'Peggy, you aren't smart enough for such a Frenchified chap as he is. He don't like to be seen in your company. Come, get up, and I will see you home, at all events;' so I took charge of her, and saw her safe to her father's door.

"'Won't you come in?' said she.

"'No, thank you,' says I.

"'Won't you forgive me, Philip?' said she.

"'Yes,' says I, 'I'll forgive you, for old acquaintance sake, and for one more reason.'

"'What's that?' says Peggy.

"'Why,' says I, 'for the lesson which you've learnt me. I've been made a fool of once, and it's your fault; but if ever a woman makes a fool of me again, why, then it's mine. And so, Peggy, good bye for ever.'

"So I turned away on my heel, and as I left the transport the next trip, I never saw her again."

"Well, Bramble," replied I, "I agree with you; and if ever a woman makes a fool of me again, it will be my fault. You know what's happened, so I don't mind saying so."

"Why, Tom, in your present humour, you think so; but all do not keep to the same way of thinking as I did till it was too late to think about marrying; but still I do not think that I should have been happy as a single man, if it had not been for my falling in with Bessy. I should have been very lonely, I expect, for I began to feel so. When you come to your own door, Tom, home looks cheerless if there is no bright eye to welcome you, and the older a man gets the more he feels that he was not intended to live single. My yearning after something to love and to love me, which is in our nature, was satisfied, first by having Bessy, and then by having you—and I'm thankful."

"You might have married, and have been very unhappy."

"I might, and I might have been very happy, had I chosen a wife as a man should do."

"And how is that, pray, Bramble?"

"Why, Tom, I've often thought upon it. In the first place look out for good temper: if you find that you may be happy, even if your wife is a silly woman; assure yourself first of her temper, and then you must judge her by the way in which she does those duties which have fallen to her lot; for if a girl is a dutiful and affectionate daughter there is little fear but that she will prove a loving and obedient wife. But I think we have had our spell here, Tom, and it's rather cold: rouse up one of those chaps, and tell him to come to the helm. I'll coil myself up and have a snooze till the morning, and do you do the same."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

IN WHICH I RECEIVE A VERY SEVERE BLOW FROM A PARTY OR PARTIES UNKNOWN.

The day after this conversation we fell in with several vessels wind-bound at the entrance of the Channel. I took charge of one, and the wind shifting to the South West, and blowing strong, I carried her up to the Pool. As soon as I could leave her I took a boat to go down to Greenwich, as I was most anxious to have a long conversation with Virginia. It was a dark squally night, with rain at intervals between the gusts of wind, and I was wet through long before I landed at the stairs, which was not until past eleven o'clock. I paid the waterman, and hastened up to my mother's house, being aware that they would either be all in bed or about to retire. It so happened that I did not go the usual way, but passed by the house of old Nanny; and as I walked by with a quick step, and was thinking of her and her misfortunes, I fell over something which, in the dark, I did not perceive, and which proved to be some iron railings, which the workmen who were fixing them up had carelessly left on the ground, previous to their returning to their work on the ensuing morning. Fortunately the spikes at the ends of them were from me, and I received no injury, except a severe blow on the shin; and as I stopped a moment to rub it, I thought that I heard a cry from the direction of old Nanny's house; but the wind was very high, and I was not certain. I stopped and listened, and it was repeated. I gained the door; it was so dark that I groped for the latch. The door was open, and when I went in I heard a gurgling kind of noise and a rustling in her chamber. "Who's there?—What's this?" cried I; for I had a foreboding that something was wrong. I tumbled over some old iron, knocked down the range of keys, and made a terrible din, when, of a sudden, just as I had recovered my legs, I was thrown down again by somebody who rushed by me and darted out of the door. As the person rushed by me I attempted to seize his arm, but I received a severe blow on the mouth, which cut my lip through, and at first I thought I had lost all my front teeth.

I rose up. I heard a heavy groaning; so, instead of pursuing the robber, I felt my way into Nanny's chamber. "Nanny," said I, "mother, what's the matter?" but there was no reply, except another groan. I knew where she kept her tinder-box and matches; I found them, and struck a light; and by the light of the match I perceived the candle and candlestick lying on the floor. I picked it up, lighted it, and then turned to the bed; the flock mattress was above all, and the groans proceeded from beneath. I threw it off, and found old Nanny still breathing, but in a state of exhaustion, and quite insensible. By throwing water on her face, after some little while I brought her to her senses. The flaring of the candle reminded me that the shop door was open; I went and made it fast, and then spoke to her. It was a long while before I could obtain any rational answer. She continued to groan and cry at intervals, "Don't leave me, Jack, don't leave me." At last she fell into a sort of slumber from exhaustion, and in this state she remained for more than an hour. One thing was evident to me, which was, that the party, whoever it might be, had attempted to smother the poor old woman, and that in a few seconds more he would have perpetrated the deed.

At last old Nanny roused up, and turning to me, said, "It's Jack, is it not? I thought so. Oh, my poor head! What has happened?"

"That's what I want to know from you, mother," replied I; "but first I will tell you what I know of the business." Which I did, to give her time to collect her thoughts.

"Yes," said she, "so it was. I was just in bed, and my candle was not out, when I heard a noise at the door, as if they were turning a key in it, and then a man entered; but he had something over his face, I thought, or he had blacked it. 'What do you want?' cried I. 'I come for a light, old woman,' said he. I cried, 'Thieves! murder!' as loud as I could, and he ran up to me just as I was getting out of bed, and tried to smother me. I don't recollect anything more till I heard your voice. Thank you, Jack, and God bless you; if you hadn't come to the assistance of a poor old wretch like me, I should have been dead by this time."

I felt that what she said was true, and I then asked her many questions, so as to lead to the discovery of the party.

"How was he dressed?" inquired I.

"I can't exactly say. But, do you know, Jack, I fancied that he had a pensioner's coat on; indeed, I am almost sure of it. I think I tore off one of his buttons, I recollect its giving way; I may be wrong,—my head wanders."

But I thought that most likely Nanny was right, so I looked down on the floor with the candle, and there I picked up a pensioner's button.

"You're right, Nanny; here is the button."

"Well, now, Jack, I can't talk any more; you won't leave me tonight, I'm sure."

"No, no, mother, that I will not. Try to go to sleep."

Hardly had Nanny laid her head down again, when it came across my mind like a flash of lightning that it must have been Spicer who had attempted the deed; and my reason for so thinking was that the blow I had received on the mouth was not like that from the hand of a man, but from the wooden socket fixed to the stump of his right arm. The more I reflected upon it, the more I was convinced. He was a clever armourer, and had picked the lock; and I now recalled to mind what had never struck me before, that he had often asked me questions about old Nanny, and whether I thought the report that she had money was correct.

It was daylight before old Nanny woke up, and then she appeared to be quite recovered. I told her my suspicions, and my intentions to ascertain the truth of them as far as I possibly could.

"Well, and what then?" said old Nanny.

"Why, then, if we bring it home to him, he will be hanged, as he deserves."

"Now, Jack, hear me," said old Nanny. "You won't do anything I don't wish, I'm sure; and now I'll tell you that I never would give evidence against him, or any other man, to have him hanged. So, if you find out that it is him, do not say a word about it. Promise me, Jack."

"Why, mother, I can't exactly say that I will; but I will talk to Peter Anderson about it."

"It's no use talking to him; and, if you do, it must be under promise of secrecy, or I will not consent to it. Jack, Jack, recollect that my poor boy was hanged from my fault. Do you think I will hang another? Oh, no. Perhaps this very man had a foolish wicked mother, like me, and has, like my boy, been led into guilt. Jack, you must do as I wish—you shall, Jack."

"Well, mother, I have no animosity against the man himself: and, if you forgive him, I do not see why I should do anything."

"I don't forgive him, Jack; but I think of my own poor boy."

"Well, mother, since you wish it, it shall be so; and if I do prove that the man I suspect is the party, I will say nothing, and make Anderson promise the same, as I think he will. But how is it that people come to rob a poor old woman like you? How is it, mother, that there is a report going about that you have money?"

"Is there such a report, Jack?"

"Yes, mother, every one says so; why, I do not know; and as long as it is supposed, you will always be subject to attacks like this, unless, indeed, if you have money, you were to put it away safely, and let everybody know that you have done so. Tell me truly, mother, have you any money?"

"Jack, what a boy you are to ask questions. Well, perhaps I have a little—a very little; but no one will ever find out where I have hidden it."

"But they will try, mother, as this man has done, and you will always be in peril of your life. Why not place it into the hands of some safe person?"

"Safe person! Who's safe nowadays?"

"Why, for instance, there's Mr Wilson."

"Wilson! what do you know about him, Jack, except that he has a smooth face and a bald head? You're young, Jack, and don't know the world. The money's safe where it is, and no one will ever find it."

"If so, who is to find it after—" I stopped, for I did not like to say, after she was dead.

"I know what you would have said, Jack; who's to find it after my death? That's very true. I never thought of that, and I must will it away. I never thought of that, Jack, it's very true, and I'm glad that you have mentioned it. But who dare I tell? who can I trust?—Can I trust you, Jack?—can I?—I ought, for it's all for you, Jack, when I die."

"Mother, whoever it may be for, you may, I hope, trust me."

"Well, I think I can. I'll tell you where it is, Jack, and that will prove that it is for you, for nobody else will know where to find it. But Jack, dear, dear Jack, don't you rob me, as my son did; don't rob me, and leave me penniless, as he did; promise me?"

"I never will, mother; you need not be afraid."

"Yes; so you say, and so he said; he swore and he cried too, Jack, and then he took it all, and left his mother without a farthing."

"Well, mother, then don't tell me; I'd rather not know: you will only be uncomfortable, and so let the money go."

"No, Jack, that won't do either; I will tell you, for I can trust you. But first, Jack, go out and look behind the house, that there is no one listening at the window; for if any one should hear—go, look round carefully, and then come back."

I did as she wished, and then Nanny bid me hold my head closer to her, while she whispered, "You must take the back out of the fireplace, and then pull out three bricks, and then put your hand into the hole, and you will find a small box; and there you will find a little money,—a very little, Jack, hardly worth having, but still it may be of some use; and it's all yours when I die, Jack,—I give it to you."

"Mother, I'm thankful for your kindness, but I cannot touch it if you do die without you leave it to me by your will."

"Ah! that's true, Jack. Well, tell Anderson to come here, and I'll tell him I'll leave the money to you; but I won't tell him where it is, I'll only say that I leave you everything I have. They'll suppose that it's the shop and all the pretty things." Here she chuckled for some time.

It was now broad daylight, and Nanny told me that she would like to get up, and see about a padlock being put to her door before night; so I wished her good bye, and left her.



CHAPTER FORTY.

SHOWING THE GREAT ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM PATRONAGE.

I left old Nanny, and arrived at my mother's house in time for breakfast. I did not, however, find her in a very good humour; something had evidently ruffled her. Virginia also, who welcomed me most cordially, was taciturn and grave. My mother made but one observation during our repast.

"Well, Tom," said she, "you've found out what it is to wish to marry for love; I only wish it may be a lesson to others."

To this evident attack upon Virginia, at the expense of my feelings, I made no reply, and soon afterwards my mother went to superintend her establishment, leaving me and my sister alone.

"Tom," said she, "I hope by this time you are no longer suffering from your late cruel disappointment. I have felt for you, I assure you, and, assuring you of that, will not again revert to the subject. Let her be blotted from your memory as soon as possible."

"Be it so, my dear Virginia; but you are grave, and my mother is evidently out of humour. You must explain this."

"That is easily done. I have made a sad mistake. I was so much annoyed at my mother's system towards me that I ventured, without her knowledge, to write to Lady Hercules, requesting her protection and influence to procure me some situation as a companion to a lady, amanuensis, or reader. It appears that her ladyship was not very sincere in her professions when we had an interview with her; at all events, her reply was anything but satisfactory, and, unfortunately, it was addressed to my mother, and not to me. You can have no idea of my mother's indignation upon the receipt of it, and she has not been sparing in her reproaches to me for having written without her knowledge, and having, by so doing, subjected her to such a mortification. I certainly am sorry to have done so. As for her ladyship's answer, it would have been to me more a subject of mirth than any other feeling. It has, however, proved the cause of much annoyance from my mother's continually harping upon it."

"Have you the letter of Lady Hercules?"

"I have a copy of it, which I took, intending to have sent it to you the next time that I wrote. I will bring it down if you will wait a minute."

When Virginia returned she put the following epistle into my hand:—

"Mrs Saunders,—

"I have received a letter from your daughter, which, I presume, was forwarded as a specimen of her penmanship; otherwise it was your duty to have addressed me yourself. I said to you, when I met you at Greenwich, that you were educating your daughter above her condition in life, and I now repeat it. My patronage is extended only to those who are not above their situations, which, I am sorry to observe, most people are now. Nevertheless, as I did say that I would exert my influence in your daughter's behalf; in consequence of your having been a decent well-behaved menial to me, I have made inquiry among my aquaintances, and find that I may be, possibly, able to place her with my friend, Lady Towser, as a 'boudoir assistant.' I have said possibly, as I am by no means sure that she will be equal to the situation, and the number of applicants are very numerous. The enclosed paper from Lady Towser will give you an idea of what will be requisite:—

"Morning, up at 6, and nicely dressed; come in in list shoes, and wait at bedside, in case Lady Towser should be troubled with her morning cough, to hand the emulsion, etcetera. At 9, to call and assist to dress Lady Towser's head tirewoman; follow her to Lady T's chamber, and obey orders. Breakfast in housekeeper's room. After breakfast assist housemaid to dust ornaments, and on Saturdays and Wednesdays wash, comb, and examine dogs; other days comb and examine them only; clean and feed macaw, cockatoo, and parrot, also canary and other birds; bring up dogs' dinners, and prevent them fighting at meals. After dogs' dinners read to Lady T if required; if not, get up collars and flounces, laces, etcetera, for Lady T and Lady T's tirewoman. After your own dinner assist housekeeper as required in the still-room; fine needlework; repair clothes before they go to wash; dress and brush Lady T's perukes; walk out with dogs if weather is fine, and be careful to prevent their making any acquaintances whatever.

"Evening.—Read to Lady T, write notes, look over bills, and keep general accounts; if not wanted, to make herself useful in housekeeper's room, and obey all orders received from her or head tirewoman. At night see that the hot water is ready for Lady T's feet, and wait for her retiring to bed; wash Lady T's feet, and cut corns, as required; read Lady T to sleep, or, if not required to read, wait till she is certain that Lady T is so.

"Now the only points in which I think your daughter may fail is in properly washing, combing, and examining the dogs, and cutting her ladyship's corns; but surely she can practise a little of both, as she will not be wanted for a month. There can be no difficulty about the first; and as for the latter, as all people in your rank of life have corns, she may practise upon yours or her father's. At all events, there can be no want of corns in Greenwich Hospital among the pensioners. I am desired to say that Lady T gives no wages the first year; and you will be expected to send your daughter neatly fitted out, that she may be able to remain in the room when there is company. If this offer will not suit, I can do nothing more; the difficulty of patronage increases every day. You will send an answer.

"VIRGINIA HAWKINGTREFYLYAN.

"I was just closing my letter when Lady Scrimmage came in; she tells me that Lady Towser is suited, and that you have no hopes of this situation. I have done my best. Lady Scrimmage has, however, informed me that she thinks she can, upon my recommendation, do something for you in Greenwich, as she deals largely with a highly-respectable and fashionable milliner of the same name as your own, and with whom it would be of the greatest advantage to your daughter to be placed as an apprentice, or something of that sort. This is an opportunity not to be lost, and I therefore have requested Lady S to write immediately, and I trust, by my patronage, she will gain a most enviable situation."

"That postscript is admirable," observed I, "and ought to have put my mother in a good humour. Is she not called by Lady Hercules 'highly respectable and fashionable'?"

"Very true," replied Virginia; "but my mother cannot get over the first part of the letter, in which she is mentioned as 'a decent and well-behaved menial.' She has since received a note from Lady Scrimmage, requesting her to take me in some capacity or another, adding, by way of postscript, 'You know you need not keep her if you do not like—it is very easy to send her away for idleness or impertinence; but I wish to oblige Lady Hercules, and so, pray, at all events, write and say that you will try her.'"

"And what has my mother said in reply?"

"She did not show me the answer; but, from what I have collected from her conversation, she has written a most haughty, and, I presume it will be said, a most impertinent letter to both the ladies; the one to Lady Scrimmage accompanied with her bill, which has not been paid these three years. I am sorry that my mother has been annoyed. My father, to whom I related what had taken place, told me that my mother was very ill treated by Lady Hercules, and that she had smothered her resentment with the hopes of benefiting her children by her patronage; but that was at a time when she little expected to be so prosperous as she is now."

"It is all true, my dear girl; I recollect my father telling me the whole story. However, I presume my mother, now that she can venture upon defiance, has not failed to resort to it."

"That I am convinced of. I only hope that she will carry her indignation against great people so far as not to court them as she has done, and abandon all her ridiculous ideas of making a match for me. After all, she has my welfare sincerely at heart, and, although mistaken in the means of securing it, I cannot but feel that she is actuated solely by her love for me."

We then changed the conversation to Janet, about whom I could now speak calmly; after which I narrated to her what had occurred during the night, and my intention to consult with my father and Anderson upon the subject.

Virginia then left me that she might assist her mother, and I hastened to my father's ward, where I found him, and, after our first greeting, requested that he would accompany me to Anderson's office, as I had something to communicate to them both. As I walked along with my father I perceived Spicer at a corner with his foot on a stone step and his hand to his knee, as if in pain. At last he turned round and saw us. I walked up to him, and he appeared a little confused as he said, "Ah! Tom, is that you? I did not know you were at Greenwich."

"I came here last night," replied I; "and I must be off again soon. Are you lame?"

"Lame! No; what should make me lame?" replied he, walking by the side of us as if he were not so.

I looked at his coat, and perceived that the third button on the right side was missing.

"You've lost a button, Spicer," observed I.

"So I have," replied he; and, as we had now arrived at Anderson's door, my father and I turned from him to walk in and wished him good bye.

Anderson was in his office, and as soon as the door was closed I communicated to them what had occurred during the night, expressing my conviction that Spicer was the party who had attempted the murder. In corroboration I reminded my father of the loss of the button from Spicer's coat, and produced the one which Nanny had torn off.

"This is something more than suspicion," observed Anderson; "but if; as you say, old Nanny will not give evidence against him, I know not what can be done. Did you say that the old woman wanted to speak with me?"

"Yes, and I really wish that you would call there oftener."

"Well," replied Anderson, "I'll go, Tom; but, to be plain with you, I do not think that I can be of much use there. I have been several times: she will gossip as long as you please; but if you would talk seriously, she turns a deaf ear. You see, Tom, there's little to be gained when you have to contend with such a besetting sin as avarice. It is so powerful, especially in old age, that it absorbs all other feelings. Still it is my duty, and it is also my sincere wish, to call her to a proper sense of her condition. The poor old creature is, like myself; not very far from the grave; and, when once in it, it will be too late. I will go, Tom, and most thankful shall I be if; with God's help, I may prove of service to her."

We then left old Anderson to his duties, and my father went home with me. We had a long conversation relative to my sister, as well as about my own affairs. I had intended to have remained some days at Greenwich, but this was the first time that I had been there since Janet's desertion, and the sight of everything so reminded me of her, and made everything so hateful to me, that I became very melancholy. My mother was, moreover, very cross, and my sister anything but comfortable; and, on the third day, having received a letter from Bramble, stating that he had arrived at Deal, and that the easterly winds having again set in, they talked of setting out again in the galley, I made this an excuse for leaving; and for the first time did I quit Greenwich without regret.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT SAILORS HAVE VERY CORRECT IDEAS AS TO METEMPSYCHOSIS.

The day after my return to Deal I again embarked with Bramble and three others, to follow up our vocation. The second day we were abreast of the Ram Head, when the men in another pilot boat, which had come out of Plymouth and was close to us, waved their hats and kept away to speak to us. We hove-to for them.

"Have you heard the news?" cried one of the men.

"No."

"Lord Nelson has beat the French and Spanish fleet."

"Glad to hear it—huzza!"

"Lord Nelson's killed."

"Lord Nelson's killed!!" The intelligence was repeated from mouth to mouth, and then every voice was hushed; the other boat hauled her wind without further communication, nor did we at the time think of asking for any more. The shock which was given to the whole country was equally felt by those who were seeking their bread in a small boat, and for some little while we steered our course in silence.

"What d'ye say, my lads," said Bramble, who first broke silence; "shall we haul up for Cawsand, and get a paper? I shan't be content till I know the whole history."

This was consented to unanimously; no one thought of piloting vessels for the moment, and earning food for their families. When the country awarded a public funeral to our naval hero, it did not pay him a more sincere tribute than was done in this instance by five pilots in a galley. At Cawsand we obtained the newspaper, and after a few pots of beer, we again made sail for the mouth of the Channel. It hardly need be observed, that the account of this winding-up, as it proved, of our naval triumphs, with the death of Nelson, was the subject of conversation for more than one day. On the third, we were all separated, having fallen in with many wind-bound vessels who required our services. The one I took charge of was a West Indiaman, deeply laden with rum and sugar, one of a convoy which were beating about in the Chops of the Channel. As we were standing out from the English coast, the captain and one of the passengers were at the taffrail close to me.

"What do you think of the weather, pilot?" said the captain.

"I think we shall have a change of wind, and dirty weather before twelve hours are over our heads," replied I.

"Well," said he, "that's my opinion; there is a cloud rising in the south-west; and, look, there are some Mother Carey's chickens dipping in the water astern."

"Where?" said the passenger, a curly-headed Creole, about twenty years old.

"Those small birds," replied the captain, walking forward. The passenger went down below, and soon returned with his double-barrelled fowling-piece.

"I have long wished to shoot one of those birds," said he; "and now they are so near, I think I may get a shot."

He raised his piece several times without firing, when the captain came aft, and perceiving his intention, caught his arm as he was about to level again.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Higgins, but I really must request that you will not fire at those birds."

"Why not?"

"Because I cannot permit it."

"But what's to hinder me?" replied the young man, colouring up; "they are not in your manifest, I presume."

"No, sir, they are not; but I tell you frankly, that I would not kill one for a hundred pounds. Nay, I would as soon murder one of my fellow-creatures."

"Well, that may be your feeling, but it's not mine."

"Nevertheless, sir, as it is, to say the least of it, very unlucky, you will oblige me by yielding to my request."

"Nonsense!—just to humour your superstitious feeling."

"We are not in port yet, Mr Higgins; and I must insist upon it you do not fire. You have taken my gunpowder, and I cannot allow it to be used in that way."

During this altercation I observed that many of the sailors had come aft, and, although they said nothing, were evidently of the same opinion as the captain. I was aware that there was a superstitious feeling among the seamen relative to these birds, but I had never seen it so strongly exemplified before.

The mate gave a wink to the captain, behind the passenger's back, and made a motion to him to go forward, which the captain did.

The passenger again raised his gun, when it was seized by two of the seamen.

"You must not fire at these birds, sir!" said one of them.

"Why, you scoundrel?—I'll give you the contents of both barrels if you don't leave my gun alone."

"No, you won't—you're not among niggers now, master," replied the seaman; "and as you have threatened to shoot me, I must take the gun from you."

A scuffle ensued, during which both barrels were discharged in the air, and the gun taken from Mr Higgins, who was boiling with rage: the gun was handed forward, and I saw it no more. Mr Higgins, in state of great excitement, went down into the cabin.

The captain then came aft to me, when I observed that I had no idea that seamen were so very particular on that point; and I thought that they had gone too far.

"You may think so, pilot," replied he, "but when I tell you that I fully believe that these birds are as good as ourselves, you will not be surprised—"

"How do you mean, as good as ourselves?"

"I believe that they were every one sailors like ourselves in former times; they are now the sailors' friends, come to warn us of the approaching storm, and I can tell you a circumstance which occurred in the West Indies, which fully proves to me that they are not wantonly killed without a judgment upon those who do so. I never believed it myself till then; but old Mason, who is now on board, was one of the seamen of the vessel in which the circumstance happened."

"Indeed!" replied I, "I should like to hear it."

"I can't tell you now," said he; "I must go down and satisfy that puppy Creole, whose sugars are on board; he will otherwise make such a row between me and the owners, that I may lose the command of the vessel. And yet, would you imagine it? although he will not credit what I tell him about Mother Carey's chickens, the foolish young man firmly believes in the Obi."

I did not think one superstition more ridiculous than the other, but still, as I always found that it was useless to argue such points, I said nothing, and the captain went down into the cabin to pacify. Mr Higgins.

It was late in the first watch, and when the passengers had retired to bed, that the captain came on deck. "Well," said he, "I told Mr Higgins my story, and as there was a bit of Obi nonsense in it, he believed it, and he has not only made friends, but thanked me for not having allowed him to shoot the birds; and now I'll tell you the real story:—

"A schooner was coming down from the Virgin Isles with sugar and passengers to Antigua, where I was lying with my ship. She had a fine young fellow of the name of Shedden on board; and, besides other passengers, there was an old black woman, who, where she resided, had always been considered as an Obi woman. I saw her afterwards; and you never beheld such a complication of wrinkles as she was, from her forehead to her feet, and her woolly head was as white as snow. They were becalmed as soon as they were clear of the islands; and, as it happened, some Mother Carey's chickens were flying about the stern. Shedden must needs get at his gun to shoot them. The old black woman sat near the taffrail; she saw him with his gun, but she said nothing. At last he fired, and killed three of them.

"'There are three down!' cried out some of the other passengers.

"'How many?' said the old woman, raising her head; 'three! Then count the sharks which are coming up.'

"'Count the sharks, mother! why count them? There's plenty of them,' replied Shedden, laughing.

"'I tell you that there will be but three sent,' replied the old woman who then sunk down her head and said no more.

"Well, the negroes who were passengers on board, most of them Mr Shedden's slaves, look very blank, for they knew that old Etau never spoke without reason. In about ten minutes afterwards, three large sharks swam up to the vessel, with their fins above water.

"'There's the three sharks, sure enough!' said the passengers.

"'Are they come?' said Etau, raising her head.

"'Yes, moder, dere dey be—very large shark,' replied one of the negroes.

"'Then three are doomed,' said the old woman, 'and here we stay, and the waves shall not run, nor the wind blow, till the three sharks have their food. I say three are doomed!'

"The passengers were more or less alarmed with this prophecy of old Etau's, according as they put faith in her; however, they all went to bed quite well, and the next morning they got up the same. Still there was not a breath of wind, the whole sea was as smooth as glass, and the vessel laid where she was the night before, in about six fathoms water, about a mile from the reef, and you could see the coral rocks beneath her bottom as plain as if they were high and dry; and what alarmed them the next morning was that the three large sharks were still slowly swimming round and round the schooner. All that day it remained a dead calm, and the heat was dreadful, although the awnings were spread. Night came on, and the people, becoming more frightened, questioned old Etau, but all the answer she gave was, 'Three are doomed!'

"The passengers and crew were now terrified out of their wits, and they all went to bed with very melancholy forebodings, for the elements appeared as if they were arrested till the penalty was paid. For, you observe, pilot, there is always a light breeze as regular as the sun rises and goes down; but now the breezes only appeared to skirt the land, and when they came from the offing invariably stopped two or three miles from the schooner. It was about midnight that there was a stir in the cabin, and it appeared that Mr Shedden had the yellow fever, and shortly afterwards another white man, a sailor belonging to the schooner, then one of Mr Shedden's slaves. Well, there the fever stopped,—no one else was taken ill,—the usual remedies were applied, but before morning they were all three delirious. At sunrise it was still calm, and continued so till sunset; and all the day the passengers were annoyed by the back fins of the three sharks, which continued to swim about. Again they went to bed, and just before one o'clock in the morning Mr Shedden, in his delirium, got out of his bed, and, rushing on the deck, jumped overboard before any one could prevent him; and old Etau, who never left where she sat, was heard to say, 'One!' and the bell was struck one by the sea man forward, who did not know what had happened. Morning came on again, and there were but two sharks to be seen. About noon the other white man died, and he was thrown overboard; and as one shark seized his body and swam away, old Etau cried out, 'Two!' An hour afterwards the negro died, and was thrown overboard and carried away by the third shark, and old Etau cried out, 'Three! the price is paid!'

"Well, every one crowded round the old woman to hear what she would say, and they asked her if all was over, and whether they should have any wind? and her reply was, 'When the three birds come from the sea to replace those which were killed.' For you see, pilot, if one of these birds is killed, it is certain that some one of the crew must die and be thrown overboard to become a Mother Carey chicken, and replace the one that has been destroyed. Well, after a time, although we never saw them rise, three Mother Carey's chickens were seen dipping and flying about astern of the schooner; and they told old Etau, who said, 'You'll have wind and plenty—and plenty of waves to make up for the calm;' and so they had, sure enough, for it came on almost a hurricane, and the schooner scudded before it under bare poles until she arrived at Antigua, with her bulwarks washed away, and a complete wreck. I was there at the time, and old Mason, who was on board, told me the story, and asked me to take him, as he would not remain on board of the schooner. And now I leave you to judge, after knowing this to be a fact, whether I was not right in preventing Mr Higgins from shooting the Mother Carey chickens?"

"Why, yes," replied I, "with such a fact before my eyes, I should have done the same."

Mr Higgins not venturing to kill any of these receptacles for the souls of departed seamen, we arrived safely at the Downs, where I gave up charge to a river pilot, for the other vessels which Bramble and our companions had taken charge of were all bound to the Downs, and arrived at nearly the same time that I did, and we had agreed to embark again in the galley, and run out in quest of the remainder of the convoy. This we did on the following day, much to the vexation of Bessy, who declared we only came on shore to be off again. I ought to observe that Bessy and I had become much more intimate since the explanation which had taken place; and although it never entered my head that I should ever feel towards her more than as a brother to a sister, I was pleased and soothed with the touching proofs of kindness and commiseration which she took every opportunity of showing towards me.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A HEAVY GALE, A WRECK AND A RESCUE.

We had run out in our galley as far as the Start, when the appearance of the weather became very threatening. It was just about the time of the equinoctial gales, and there was a consultation among us whether we should run into Torquay or return to Deal.

Bramble observed, that as the gale coming on would, in all probability, blow for three days, he thought it was no use remaining all that time at Torquay, where we should be put to extra expense, and that we should be better on shore at our own homes. This remark decided the point, and about dusk we put the boat's head along shore for up Channel. The wind was at that time about Sou'-Sou'-West, but occasionally shifting a point or two. The sky had become covered over with one black mass of clouds, which hung down so low that they appeared almost to rest on the water; and there was that peculiar fitful moaning which is ever the precursor of a violent gale of wind. At nightfall we reefed our lug-sails; and, while one sat at the helm, the rest of us lounged against the gunnel, buttoned up in our pilot jackets; some shutting their eyes, as if to invite sleep, others watching the waves, which now rose fast, and danced and lapped at the weather broadside as if they would fain have entered into the boat. But of that we had little fear; our galley was one of the finest boats that ever swam, and we felt as secure as if we were on board of a three-decked ship. As the night advanced, so did the wind increase and the sea rise; lightning darted through the dense clouds, and for a moment we could scan the horizon. Everything was threatening; yet our boat, with the wind about two points free, rushed gallantly along, rising on the waves like a sea-bird, and sinking into the hollow of the waters as if she had no fear of any attempt on their part to overwhelm her. Thus did we continue to run on during the night, every hour the gale increasing, the billows mounting up until they broke in awful and majestic crests, and often so near to us that we presented our backs in a close file against the weather bulwarks to prevent any body of water from pouring in.

"We shall have light soon," observed one of the men.

"And we shall want it to beach the boat in such weather as this," replied another. "We shall have it harder yet before day."

"Depend upon it this will be a mischievous gale," observed Bramble, "and our coast will be strewed with wrecks. Any ships under canvas now, between the Channel shores, will stand but a poor chance against this heavy sea, which bears down with such force. I'd rather be in this boat now than in any vessel in mid-Channel."

"And I had rather be on shore than in either," rejoined I.

"Well, Tom," said one of the pilots, "I do really believe you this time."

When it was broad daylight, the coast to leeward presented a wild and terrific scene, lashed as it was by the furious surf; which dashed its spray half-way up the towering white cliffs, for it was within two hours of high water. The waves were now really mountains high, and their broad surfaces were pitted into little waves by the force of the wind, which covered the whole expanse of waters with one continued foam. On our weather bow a vessel with her foremast gone was pitching heavily, and at times nearly buried beneath the wild tumult. Her fate was sealed; to leeward were the cliffs of the South Foreland, and on our lee-bow lay the shelving beach of Deal.

"This will be awkward landing, shipmates," said Bramble; "and yet we must try it. I'll fill my pipe—hope it won't be the last."

Although not said in a serious manner, there were few of us whose hearts did not flutter responsively to this surmise, for the danger became every minute more imminent and we knew what a terrific surf there must be then running on the shingle beach. But we now rapidly approached the shore; we were near to the floating light, and in the roadstead not a vessel remained; all had weighed and preferred being under what canvas they could bear. At last we were within two cables' length of the beach, and even at this distance from it we were surrounded with the breakers; the surf broke many feet high, and roared as it rushed up with a velocity that was appalling, dashing the foam right to the door of Bramble's cottage, which was forty or fifty yards higher than it generally gained to even in very bad weather: we now lowered our sails, stowed them in the boat, and got our oars to pass, backing against the surf to prevent it from forcing us on the beach until the proper time.

It may not, perhaps, be known to many of my readers that there is a sort of regularity even in the wild waves; that is, occasionally a master-wave, as it is termed, from being of larger dimensions than its predecessors, pours its whole volume on the beach; after which, by watching your time, you will find that two waves will run into one another, and, as it were, neutralise each other, so that, for a few seconds, you have what they call a smooth; the safest plan of landing then is to watch these two chances, either to run in on the master wave, or to wait till the arrival of the smooth.

The latter is generally preferred, and with good reason, as unless a boat can be forced in as fast as the master-wave runs in, you are worse off than if you had landed at any other time.

The helm had been resigned to Bramble, who ordered me to go forward with the boat's painter, a long coil of rope, and stand ready either to leap out with it or throw it to those on shore, as might be most advisable; the other men were sitting on the thwarts, their long oars in the rowlocks, backing out as desired, and all ready to strain every nerve when the order was given by Bramble to pull in.

The danger which we were about to incur was fully evident to the crowds which were assembled on the beach; not only the pilots, who stood there ready to assist us—some with ropes with iron hooks at the end of them— others all ready to dart into the surf to hold on the boat, or, if required, to link their arms together, so as to form a living chain which the undertow could not drag away with it; higher up, women and children, their clothes driven by the furious gale, with one hand holding on their caps, and with the other supporting themselves by the gunnels of the boats hauled up, the capstans, or perhaps an anchor with its fluke buried in the shingle, were looking on with dismay and with beating hearts, awaiting the result of the venturous attempt, and I soon discovered the form of Bessy, who was in advance of all the others.

After a careful watching for perhaps two minutes on the part of Bramble, he gave the word, and on dashed the galley towards the strand, keeping pace with the wild surges, and although buried in the foam, not shipping one drop of water.

"Now, my men, give way—for your lives give way," cried Bramble, as a cresting wave came towering on, as if in angry pursuit of us. The men obeyed, but, in their exertions, the stroke oar snapped in two, the man fell back, and prevented the one behind him from pulling. Our fate was sealed; the surge poured over, and throwing us broadside to the beach, we were rolled over and over in the boiling surf. A cry was heard—a cry of terror and despair—on the part of the women. I heard it as I was swept away by the undertow, and the next wave poured over me; but all was activity and energy on the part of the men who were on the beach: the next wave that run in, they recovered me and two more by linking their arms and allowing the surf to break over them. We were so much bruised that we could not stand; they dragged us up, and left us to the women. Bramble and four others were still struggling for life; again two were saved—but the men on the beach were exhausted by their strenuous exertions.

I had just recovered myself so as to sit up, when I perceived that they were not acting in concert as before; indeed, in the last attempt, several of them had narrowly escaped with their own lives. Bessy was now down among them, wildly gesticulating; Bramble still floated on the boiling surf, but no chain was again formed; the wave poured in bearing him on its crest; it broke, and he was swept away again by the undertow, which dragged him back with a confused heap of shingles clattering one over the other as they descended. I saw him again, just as another wave several feet in height was breaking over him—I felt that he was lost; when Bessy, with a hook rope in her hand, darted towards him right under the wave as it turned over, and as she clasped his body, they both disappeared under the mountain surge. Another shriek was raised by the women, while the men stood as if paralysed. In my excitement I had gained my legs, and I hastened to seize the part of the rope which remained on the beach. Others then came and helped; we hauled upon it, and found that there was weight at the end. Another sea poured in; we hastily gathered in the slack of the rope, and when the water retreated, we found both Bramble and Bessy clinging to the rope. In a moment the men rushed down and hauled up the bodies. Bramble had hold of the rope by both hands—it was the clutch of death; Bessy had her arms round her father's neck; both were senseless. The boatmen carried them up to the cottage, and the usual methods of recovery were resorted to with success. Still we had to lament the death of two of our best pilots, whose loss their wives and children were loudly wailing, and whose bodies were not found for many days afterwards. Alas! they were not the only ones who were lamented. Upwards of three hundred vessels were lost during that dreadful gale, and hardly a seaport or fishing town but bewailed its many dead.

Whether it was that the women who attended Bessy were more active than, the men, or that she was younger, and her circulation of blood was more rapid, or because she was a female, certain it is that Bessy first recovered her speech, and her first question was, "Where was her father?" Bramble did not speak, but fell into a sleep immediately after he was brought to life. I had changed my clothes, and was watching by him for an hour or more when he woke up.

"Ah! Tom, is that you? Where's Bessy?"

"She is in bed, but quite recovered."

"Quite recovered—I recollect. I say, Tom, ain't she a fine creature? God bless her. Well, she owes me nothing now, at all events. I think I should like to get up, Tom. I wonder whether I smashed my old pipe on the shingle? Just look into my wet jacket. I say, Tom, were they all saved?"

"No," I replied; "Fisher and Harrison were both drowned."

"Poor fellows! I wish they had been spared. Fisher has seven children—and Harrison, he has a wife, I think."

"Yes, and two children, father."

"Poor woman! God's will be done! He giveth and He taketh away! Tom, I must get up and see Bessy."

I assisted Bramble to dress, and as soon as he had put on his clothes he went to Bessy's room. I stayed at the door. "You may come in, Tom; she's muffled up in her blankets, and fast asleep."

"Quite fast," said Mrs Maddox; "she has slept more than an hour. Dear heart, it will do her good."

Bramble kissed Bessy's pale forehead, but it did not waken her. "Look, Tom," said Bramble, "look at that smooth, clear skin—those pretty features. Look at the delicate creature! and would you have thought that she would have dared what no man dared to do—that she would have defied those elements raging in their might, and have snatched their prey from their very grasp? Did I ever imagine, when I brought her as a helpless baby on shore, that she would ever have repaid the debt with such interest, or that such a weak instrument should have been chosen by the Lord to save one who otherwise must have perished? But His ways are not our ways, and He works as He thinks fit. Bless you, bless you, my Bessy—and may your fond heart never be again put to such trial! Is she not beautiful, Tom? just like a piece of cold marble. Thank Heaven, she is not dead, but sleepeth!"

I certainly never did look upon Bessy with so much interest; there was something so beautifully calm in her countenance as she lay there like an effigy on a tomb, hardly appearing to breathe; and when I thought of the courage and devotion shown but a few hours before by the present almost inanimate form, I bent over her with admiration, and felt as if I could kneel before the beautiful shrine which contained such an energetic and noble spirit. While this was passing through my mind, Bramble had knelt by the bed-side, and was evidently in prayer. When he rose up he said, "Come away, Tom: she is a maiden, and may feel ashamed if she awaken and find us men standing by her bed-side. Let me know when she wakes up, Mrs Maddox, and tell her I have been in to see her; and now, Tom, let's go down. I never felt the want of a pipe so much as I do now."



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

A SCENE IN THE HOSPITAL, AND A STRANGE DISCOVERY.

In a very few days Bramble and Bessy were sufficiently recovered to resume their usual avocations; but the former expressed no willingness to embark again, and Bessy's persuasions assisted to retain him at the cottage. With me it was different: I was still restless and anxious for change; my feelings toward Bessy were those of admiration and esteem, but not yet of love. Yet I could not help recalling to mind the words of Bramble, "Observe how she performs those duties which fall to her lot; if she is a good daughter she will make a good wife." I felt that she would make a good wife, and I wished that I could have torn from my bosom the remembrance of Janet, and have substituted the form of Bessy in her place. We had been at the cottage nearly a week, when I received a letter from Anderson; he informed me that he had visited old Nanny, who had made her will in due form, and confided it to him, and that he thought that she was more inclined to listen to him than she had before been; that my father and mother and sister were well, and that Spicer had been obliged to go into the hospital with an abscess in his knee, occasioned by running something into it, and that it was reported that he was very ill, and, in all probability, amputation must take place. I felt convinced that Spicer must have, in his hasty retreat, fallen over the iron railings which lay on the ground, and which had, as I mentioned, tripped me up; but with this difference, that, as the spikes of the railing were from me; and consequently I met with little injury, they must have been towards him, and had penetrated his knee, and thus it was that he had received the injury. Anderson also stated that they were very busy at the hospital, receiving the men who had been maimed in the glorious battle of Trafalgar. Altogether, I made up my mind that I would take the first ship that was offered for pilotage up the river, that I might know more of what was going on; and, as we sat down to supper, I mentioned my intentions to Bramble.

"All's right: Tom, you're young, and ought to be moving; but just now I intend to take a spell on shore. I have promised Bessy, and how can I refuse her anything, dear girl? I don't mean to say that I shall never pilot a vessel again, but I do feel that I am not so young as I was, and this last affair has shaken me not a little, that's the truth of it. There's a time for all things, and when a man has enough he ought to be content, and not venture more. Besides, I can't bear to make Bessy unhappy; so, you see, I've half promised—only half, Bessy, you know."

"I think you would have done right if you had promised altogether," replied I; "you have plenty to live upon, and are now getting a little in years. Why should you not stay on shore, and leave them to work who want the money?"

Bessy's eyes beamed gratefully towards me, as I thus assisted her wishes. "You hear, father," said she, fondling him, "Tom agrees with me."

"Ah!" replied Bramble, with a sigh, "if—but we cannot have all we wish in this world."

Bessy and I both felt what he would have referred to, and we were silent. She cast down her eyes, and appeared busy with her fork, although she was eating nothing. I no longer felt the repugnance that I had a short time before, and I was in deep reverie, watching the changes of her beautiful countenance, when she looked up. Our eyes met: she must have read my thoughts in mine, for from that moment each hour increased our intimacy and confidence. We were no longer afraid of each other.

A day or two after this conversation an opportunity was given to me of going up the river, which I did not neglect; and having delivered up charge of the ship, I hastened down to Greenwich. I found everything in statu quo at my mother's house, and Virginia much pleased at there being no lodgers. Anderson I met walking with Ben the Whaler and my father. He told me that Spicer had refused to have his leg amputated, when the surgeon had pointed out the necessity of the operation; and that it was now said that it was too late to have the operation performed, and that there was little or no chance of his recovery. They asked me many questions relative to the narrow escape of Bramble, and the behaviour of Bessy.

As soon as I could get away, I set off to the hospital to see Spicer; for, as the reader must be aware, I had many reasons for having communication with him,—not that I expected that at first he would acknowledge anything: I knew that his heart was hardened, and that he had no idea of his danger; but I had his secret,—he was indeed in my power, and I hoped by terrifying him to obtain the information which I wished.

I found him in bed, in the corner of the hospital ward, to the left. He was looking very pale, and apparently was in great pain.

"Spicer," said I, "I have come to see you; I am sorry to hear of your accident. How is your leg? is it better?"

"No, not much," replied he, writhing, "I am in great pain; another man would scream out with the agony, but I'm like the wolf,—I'll die without complaint."

"But you don't think that you're going to die, Spicer?"

"No, Jack, I don't think that; I never have thought that, when I have been worse than now. I'll never believe that I'm dead until I find myself so. It must come some time or another, but I'm hale and hearty in constitution as yet, and my time is not yet come."

"It was the iron railings which you fell over, was it not? I fell over them myself the same night when I landed, on the Monday, going up to old Nanny's."

"Who told you it was those cursed spikes? Well, well, so it was; but not on the Monday, Jack, it was on the Wednesday."

"Nay, that cannot be; for on the Tuesday, as I went down to the beach, I saw them all fixed up in the stonework, and soldered in. It must have been on the Monday—the night on which old Nanny was nearly smothered by some one who went in to rob her. I came there just in time to save her life; indeed, if you recollect, you were lame the next day, when I met you in the hospital."

"Well, Jack, you may think what you please; but I tell you it was on the Wednesday."

"Then you must have fallen over something else."

"Perhaps I did."

"Well, it's of no consequence. I'm glad to find that you re so much better, for I was told that the doctor had said—"

"What did the doctor say?" interrupted Spicer.

"Why, it's better to tell the truth; he said it was impossible for you to get over it; that the inflammation was too great to allow of amputation now, and that it must end in mortification."

"He said that!" said Spicer, wildly, raising himself on his elbow.

"Yes, he did; and it's known all over the hospital."

"Well," replied Spicer, "he may have said so; but I think I ought to know best how I feel. He'll be here in half an hour or so, and then I'll put the question to him. I'm a little tired, Jack, so don't speak to me any more just now."

"Shall I go away, Spicer?"

"No, no, stay here. There's a book or two; read them till I feel a little stronger."

That my communication had had an effect upon Spicer was evident. He was startled at the idea of the near approach of death, which he had not contemplated. Alas! who is not? He shut his eyes, and I watched him; the perspiration trickled down his forehead. I took up the book he had pointed out to me; it was the History of the Buccaneers, with plates, and I thought then that it was a parallel of Spicer's own career. I looked at the plates, for I was not much inclined to read. In a few minutes Spicer opened his eyes. "I am better now, Jack; the faintness has passed away. What book is that? Oh, the Buccaneers. That and Dampier's Voyages were the only two books of my father's library that I ever thought worth reading. Have, you ever read it?"

"No," replied I, "I never have. Will you lend it to me?"

"Yes; I'll give it to you, Jack, if you like."

"Thank you. Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?"

"Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him."

"Did you ever sail with him?"

"No, he died about the time that I was born."

Here the doctor, who was going round the wards, came up to Spicer, and asked him how he felt. "Pretty well, doctor," said he.

"Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing. Is it very painful?"

"Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night."

The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer's leg, and took off the poultices, and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in: one mass of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar inflammation extending up to his hip. The doctor compressed his lips, and looked very grave. He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then cleaned, and fresh poultices put on.

"Doctor," said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, "they say in the hospital that you have stated that I cannot live. Now, I should wish to know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most interested party."

"Why, my man," said the doctor, "you certainly are in great danger, and if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do."

"That's a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not, doctor?" replied Spicer.

"I fear, my good man, there is very little."

"Tell me plainly, sir, if you please," replied Spicer; "is there any?"

"I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it's unpleasant to say so, but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth."

"Well, sir, that is honest. May I ask you how long I may expect to live?"

"That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more. Would you like the chaplain to come and see you?"

"Thank you, sir; when I do I'll send for him."

The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients. I was silent. At last Spicer spoke.

"Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me. Somehow or another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself, the pain has been so dreadful. Well, we can die but once, and I shall die game."

"Spicer," said I, "that you will die without fear I know very well; but still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the sins you have committed, and praying for pardon. We have all of us, the very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?"

"No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side. What's done is done, and can't be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep."

"Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?"

"Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps me from thinking."

I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I went home. I sought out old Anderson, and told him what had passed. "He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you; and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that a man should die in that way."

"Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!" ejaculated Anderson; "he talks of dying game,—that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse my coming again."

I went home. I was not in a very gay humour, for the sight of Spicer's leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.

"Who lent you this book, Tom?" said she, when I returned.

"Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the hospital."

"Well, that's not the name on the title-page—it is Walter James, Tynemouth."

"Walter James, did you say, dear? Let me look! Even so."

"Why, what's the matter, Tom?" said my sister; "you look as if you were puzzled."

And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind that old Nanny's married name was James, and that Spicer had said that his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny. The conclusions which I came to in a moment made me shudder.

"Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don't know why, nor can I tell you, for it's not my secret. Let me look at the book again."

Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn, which I was not sorry for. I wished, however, to be left to my own reflections; so I soon afterwards took up my candle and retired to my room.

I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding. At last I thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice. I was out immediately after breakfast; but I could not find Anderson, so I walked to the hospital to see Spicer. I found Anderson sitting by his bed-side, but they were not then conversing. After a short time Anderson rose, and giving a slight shake of the head, as if to inform me that he had had no success, he walked away.

"He has been trying to convert me," said Spicer, with a grim smile.

"He has been trying, Spicer, to bring you to a sense of your condition; and is he not kind? he can have no interest but your own good. Do you think that no one knows the sins you have committed except yourself?— there is one eye which sees all."

"Come, Jack, no preaching."

"Spicer, you are here under a false name, and you think no one knows anything about you; but everything has been discovered by me; and I cannot help thinking that it has been made known providentially, and for your good."

"Ah!" replied Spicer, "and pray what do you know? Perhaps you can tell me all the sins I have committed."

"No, Spicer, but perhaps I can tell you of sins which you yourself are not aware of. But first answer me—you know that you cannot live long, Spicer; will you acknowledge that what I state is correct, should it really be so?"

"I give you my word, that if you tell me anything about me which is true, I will freely acknowledge it; so now, Mr Fortune-teller, here's my hand—it may be useful, you know, in helping your discovery."

"I do not want your hand, Spicer;—now hear me. Is not your name James?—and were you not born at Tynemouth?"

Spicer started. "How did you find that out? Well, Tom, it is so, and what then?"

"As you told me yourself, although I knew it before, your father was lost at sea about the time that you were born. Spicer, I know how you left your mother, and how you returned from you know where—how you robbed her of every farthing, and left her again destitute and in misery. Is there nothing to repent of in that, Spicer?"

"Who the devil—"

"Nay, Spicer, the devil has had nothing to do with the discovery."

"Strange, strange indeed," muttered Spicer; "but still, it is true."

"Spicer, you know best how your life was passed from that time until you came into the hospital; but it was to be hoped, that when laid up to rest in this haven, after such a stormy life, you would have amended your life; but what have you done?"

"And what have I done?"

"What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue. You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your grave."

"What proofs?"

"Every proof: your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out—the button was off your coat the next morning when I met you—I had every proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having been the party."

"Well, I'll not deny it—why should I, when I cannot be taken out of this bed to be tried, even if you wished? Have you more to say?"

"Yes, more."

"I doubt it."

"Then hear me. The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I found at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness, that poor woman, Spicer, is your own mother!"

"God of Heaven!" exclaimed he, covering his face.

"Yes, Spicer, your fond indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented son. Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?"

"I thought her dead, long dead. God, I thank Thee that I did not the deed; and, Jack, I am really grateful to you for having prevented it. Poor old woman!—yes, she did love me, and how cruelly I treated her!— and she is then still alive, and thinks that I was hanged—yes, I recollect now, she must think so. Oh! my brain, my brain!"

"Spicer, I must leave you now."

"Don't leave me, Jack—yes, do,—come to-morrow morning."

"Spicer, will you do me a favour?"

"Yes."

"Will you see Anderson, and talk with him?"

"Yes, if you wish it; but not now: this evening I will, if he'll come."

I left Spicer well satisfied with what had passed, and hastened to Anderson, to communicate it to him.

"A strange and providential discovery, Tom, indeed," said he, "and good use it appears to me you have made of it: his heart is softened, that is evident. I will certainly go to him this evening."



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

SPICER DISCLOSES STRANGE MATTERS.

The next day, when I called to see Spicer, I found him in great pain. Anderson had been with him, but he had been in such agony that he found it almost impossible to converse with him. Spicer did not like that I should leave him, although he could not talk, and I therefore remained by his bedside, occasionally assisting him to move from one position to another, or to take the drink that was by his bedside. Towards the evening he became more easy, and went to sleep: I left him, therefore, till the next day. As I supposed, the mortification had commenced, for the doctor told him so the next morning, when he visited him, and the chaplain pointed out to him that all hopes of living were now over. Spicer heard the communication unmoved. He asked the doctor how long he might live, and his reply was, it was possible four or five days, and that he would feel no more pain. He was now able to listen to Anderson, and he did so. I shall not trouble the reader with repeating what Anderson imparted to me, as I can give him an idea of Spicer's feelings by what passed between us.

"Tom," said he, "I have led a very wicked life, so wicked, that I hate to think of it, and I hate myself. I believe all that Anderson and the chaplain tell me, and I find that I may hope and do hope for mercy; but I can't cry, or wail, or tear my hair. The fact is, Tom, I can't feel afraid: if I am pardoned, and I do scarcely expect it, I shall be all gratitude, as well I may. Should I be condemned, I shall acknowledge my punishment just, and not complain, for I have deserved all; but I cannot feel fear: I believe I ought; but it is not in my nature, I suppose."

"But you do not feel anything like defiance, Spicer?"

"No, God forbid! no, nothing like that, but my spirit cannot quail."

He was very anxious for the chaplain the last two days of his life, and I really believe was sincere in his repentance; but before I wind up his history, I will narrate to the reader those portions of his life which are unknown, and which are necessary to the explanation of other matters.

He told me that when he first went to sea, he had joined a vessel employed in the slave trade, that he had left it at Gambia, and shipped on board of a vessel which was about to cruise on the Spanish Main. He was some time in her, and had been appointed second officer, when he resolved to fit out a vessel and cruise for himself. He had therefore quitted the vessel at Surinam, and worked his passage home in a sugar ship.

It was on his return home this time, that, as old Nanny had told me, he had taken to gaming, and eventually had robbed his mother. With the two thousand pounds in his pocket, he had repaired to Liverpool, where he fell in with Fitzgerald, a young man who had served as first mate in the vessel in which they had cruised on the Spanish Main, and to him he had proposed to join him as first officer in the vessel which he was about to fit out. It appeared that this young man had but a few days returned from Ireland, where he had married a young woman, to whom he had been some time attached, and that his disinclination to leave his young wife made him at first refuse the offer made by Spicer. Spicer, however, who was aware of his value, would not lose sight of him, and contrived, when Fitzgerald had taken too much wine, to win of him by unfair means about one thousand five hundred pounds. Spicer then offered Fitzgerald a release from the debt, provided he would sail with him; and he exacted as a further condition that he should not return and take a farewell of his wife. To these harsh terms Fitzgerald, being without means of liquidating the debt, consented, and they sailed accordingly.

"And now, Jack, I will tell you why I was so curious about that spy-glass. I knew the moment that I saw it in your hands that it was one that belonged to Fitzgerald when we were on our first cruise together. It was the best glass I ever met with. When we left Liverpool this time, I asked him for the spy-glass, and he told me that, expecting to return to his wife before he sailed, he had left it at home. How it came into the lady's hands I can't tell."

"I never said that Lady Hercules gave it to me," replied I; "although I did not undeceive you when you thought so. The fact is, it was given me by a very pretty young Irish widow."

"Then, Jack, I should not wonder if she was not the wife of Fitzgerald, whom I have been talking about; but that I leave to you. Let me finish my story. When we arrived on the Spanish coast I had as fine a crew with me as ever were on board of a vessel; but I had long made up my mind that I would hoist the black flag. Yes, Jack, it is but too true. But when I proposed it, Fitzgerald declared that the first act of piracy that was committed he would leave the vessel. I tried all I could to persuade him, but in vain. However, we did take an English vessel, and plundered her. Upon this Fitzgerald protested, and half the crew, at least, joined him. I threatened the men to shoot them through the head; but they were resolute; and, being rather the stronger party, I dared not make any attempt. They insisted upon leaving the vessel; and I, not being able to help it, landed them all in the Bay of Honduras, where I thought it very possible they would be taken by the Spaniards and imprisoned, if not hanged. They were imprisoned; but, after some time, they were released. The desertion of Fitzgerald and the other men left me with my vessel half manned; and I vowed vengeance against him if ever I had an opportunity. I now cruised as a pirate, and was very successful, and my name was a terror to those seas. A high reward was offered for me, dead or alive, which pleased me much, and I became more murderous than ever. Jack, all this rises up in judgment against me now; and I recollect every single life taken away by me, or by my orders, as well as if I had noted them down in a book. May God forgive me!" continued Spicer, covering his eyes up for a time.

After a pause he continued: "I had ordered a vessel with a valuable cargo to be taken on a rendezvous we had in the Caicos; but it was recaptured and taken into Port Royal, Jamaica. As the proofs of the piracy were well established, the men on board were thrown into prison to take their trial. I heard of this, for I was often on shore in disguise in one island or another, and a scheme entered my head which I thought would benefit myself and wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald. But I must leave off now. Here comes the chaplain; he promised to talk with me this evening, and you see that I have changed my opinion on that point, praised be God for it. Good night, Jack; come to-morrow."



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

SPICER'S DEATH.

When I saw Spicer again he continued his narrative:

"I told you that I was anxious to wreak my vengeance upon Fitzgerald, and the plan which I hit upon was as follows: I contrived to get to Port Royal, and to speak to the two men whom I had been on the best terms with. I told them that the only chance of escape would be for them to give their names as those of James, which was mine, and of Fitzgerald, the first officer; and I explained to them why; because Fitzgerald and I had saved the life of the daughter of one of the chief planters, who, in gratitude, had promised that he would assist us if we were ever in difficulty. I told them that they must adhere to what they said, as they would be condemned with the others, but that a reprieve would be given when they were on the scaffold."

"But why should you have done this?" inquired I.

"First, because I wished people to believe that I was dead, that there might not be so great a hue and cry after me, and the temptation of so high a reward; next, because I knew that Fitzgerald was still in prison, and that his wife would read the account of his execution in the newspapers, which I hoped would break her heart, and so make him miserable."

"Oh, Spicer, that was too cruel."

"It was, but my plan succeeded. The men gave our names, went to the scaffold expecting a reprieve, and were hanged."

"And thus it is that your poor mother thinks even now that you were hanged," said I.

"Even so, Jack, even so. Well, after a time I quitted my vessel and returned to England; for I was actually tired of bloodshed, and I had collected a great deal of money. On my arrival I inquired after Fitzgerald. It appeared that his wife had heard the account of his execution; and, as her bonnet was found by the side of the mill-dam, it was supposed that she had destroyed herself. Fitzgerald returned home, and was distracted at the intelligence. I have always thought that she was dead; but, by what you say, Jack, I now doubt it."

"And Fitzgerald, Spicer, what became of him?"

"I really cannot tell. I heard that he had entered on board of a King's ship, but not under his own name: how far that was true or not I cannot say; but I have every reason to believe that such was the case."

"And how came you on board of a man-of-war?"

"Why, that's soon told. I spent my money, or lost it all in gambling, went out again, obtained command of a vessel, and did well for some time; but I was more tyrannical and absolute than ever. I had shot five or six of my own men, when the crew mutinied, and put me and two others who had always supported me in an open boat, and left us to our fate. We were picked up by a frigate going to the East Indies when we were in the last extremity. And now, Jack, I believe you have my whole history. I am tired now, and must go to sleep; but, Jack, I wish you to come to-morrow morning, for I have something to say to you of great importance. Good bye, Jack; don't forget."

I promised Spicer that I would not fail, and quitted the hospital. When I called again upon him, I found him very low and weak, he could not raise himself from his pillow. "I feel that I am going now, Jack," said he—"going very fast—I have not many hours to live, but, I thank Heaven, I am not in any pain. A man who dies in agony cannot examine himself—cannot survey the past with calmness, or feel convinced of the greatness of his offences. I thank God for that; but, Jack, although I have committed many a foul and execrable murder, for which I am full of remorse—although I feel how detestable has been my life—I tell you candidly, that, although those crimes may appear to others more heavy than the simple one of theft, to me the one that lies most heavy on my soul is the robbing of my poor mother, and my whole treatment of her. Jack, will you do one favour to a dying man?—and it must be done soon, or it will be too late. Will you go to my poor mother, acquaint her with my being here, still alive, and that my hours are numbered, and beg for me forgiveness? Obtain that for me, Jack—bring that to me, and so may you receive forgiveness yourself!"

"I will, Spicer," replied I, "I will go directly; and I have little fear but that I shall succeed."

"Go then, Jack; don't tarry, for my time is nearly come."

I left the hospital immediately, and hastened to old Nanny's. I found her very busy sorting a lot of old bottles which she had just purchased.

"Well, Jack," said she, "you are just come in time to help me. I was just a-saying if Jack was to call now, he'd be of some use, for I can't well reach so high as the shelf where I put the bottles on, and when I get on a stool my old head swims."

"Mother," said I, "suppose you put down the bottles for a little while, as I have that to say to you which must not be delayed."

"Why, what's the matter, boy? And how pale you look! what has happened? You don't want money, do you?"

"No, mother, I want no money; I only want you to listen to matters important, which I must disclose to you."

"Well, well, what is it? about the fellow who tried to rob me, I suppose. I told you before, Jack, I won't hurt him, for my poor boy's sake."

"It is about your poor boy I would speak, mother," replied I, hardly knowing how to begin. "Now, mother, did you not tell me that he was hanged at Port Royal?"

"Yes, yes; but why come and talk about it again?"

"Because, mother, you seem to feel the disgrace of his being hanged so much."

"Well, to be sure I do—then why do you remind me of it, you bad boy? It's cruel of you, Jack; I thought you kinder."

"Mother, it is because you do feel it so much that I have come to tell you that you have been deceived. Your son was not hanged."

"Not hanged! Why, Jack, are you sure?"

"Yes, mother, quite sure."

"Not hanged, quite sure—"

Here old Nanny burst out into a wild laugh, which ended in sobbing and tears. I was obliged to wait some minutes before she was composed enough to listen to me; at last I said, "Mother, I have more to say, and there is no time to be lost."

"Why no time to be lost, my dear boy?" said she. "Oh! now that you have told me this, I could dwell for hours—ay, days—more. I shall dwell my whole life upon this kind news."

"But listen to me, mother, for I must tell you how I discovered this."

"Yes, yes, Jack—do, that's a good boy. I am quite calm now," said Nanny, wiping her eyes with her apron.

I then acquainted her with what Spicer had told me relative to his inducing the man to take his name, and continued the history of Spicer's life until I left him on board of a man-of-war.

"But where is he now? And who told you all this?"

"He told me so himself," replied I. "He has been in the hospital some time, and living here close to you, without either of you being aware of it. But, mother, he is now ill—very ill in the hospital; he would not have confessed all this if he had not felt how ill he was."

"Deary, deary me!" replied old Nanny, wringing her hands; "I must go see him."

"Nay, mother, I fear you cannot. The fact is that he is dying, and he has sent me to ask your forgiveness for his conduct to you."

"Deary, deary me!" continued old Nanny, seemingly half out of her wits; "in the hospital, so near to his poor mother,—and dying. Dear Jemmy!"

Then the old woman covered up her face with her apron and was silent. I waited a minute or two, and then I again spoke to her.

"Will you not answer my question, mother? Your son has but an hour perhaps to live, and he dies penitent not only for his conduct to you, but for his lawless and wicked life; but he feels his treatment of you to be worse than all his other crimes, and he has sent me to beg that you will forgive him before he dies. Answer me, mother."

"Jack," said Nanny, removing the apron from her face, "I feel as if it was I who ought to ask his pardon, and not he who should ask mine. Who made him bad?—his foolish mother. Who made him unable to control his passions?—his foolish mother. Who was the cause of his plunging into vice—of his intemperance, of his gaming, of his wild and desperate career—which might have ended, as I supposed it had done, on the gallows—but a foolish, weak, selfish mother, who did not do her duty to him in his childhood? It is I who was his great enemy—I who assisted the devil to lead him to destruction—I who, had he been hanged, had been, and have felt for years that I was, his executioner. Can I forgive him! Can he forgive me?"

"Mother, his time is short—I will come to you again, and tell you much more. But if you knew how earnest he is to have your forgiveness before he dies, you would at once send me away to him."

"Then go, my child—go, and may you often be sent on such kind missions! Go, and tell my poor James that his mother forgives him—begs to be forgiven—still dotes upon him—and God knows with how much pleasure would die for him! Go quick, child—the sands of the glass run fast— quick, child—the dying cannot wait—quick—quick!"

Nanny had risen from her stool and taken me by the arm; when we were clear of the threshold she loosed me, and sank down to the earth, whether overcome by her feelings, or in a state of insensibility, I did not wait to ascertain—I fled to execute my mission before it was too late.

In a few minutes I was at the hospital—breathless, it was true. I went in, and found Spicer still alive, for his eyes turned to me. I went up to him; the nurse, who was standing by him, told me he was speechless, and would soon be gone. I told her I would remain with him, and she went to the other patients. I gave him his mother's message, and he was satisfied; he squeezed my hand, and a smile, which appeared to illumine like a rainbow his usual dark and moody countenance, intimated hope and joy; in a few seconds he was no more, but the smile continued on his features after death.

I then returned to old Nanny, who, I found, had been put into bed by some neighbours, and at her bedside was Mrs St. Felix, who had been passing by and had observed her situation. She was now recovered and quiet. As soon as they had left her I entered into a more full detail of how I became acquainted with the circumstances which led to the discovery. I did not conceal from her that it was her own son who had attempted the robbery; and I wound up by stating that he had died, I really believed, not only penitent, but happy from having received her forgiveness.

"Jack—Jack—you have been as good as an angel to me, indeed you have. It was you also who prevented my poor James from killing his mother—it is you that have been the means of his making his peace with Heaven. Bless you, Jack, bless you!"



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

IN WHICH MRS. ST. FELIX REFUSES A SPLENDID OFFER WHICH I AM DULY EMPOWERED TO MAKE TO HER.

I left old Nanny as soon as she was more composed, for I was so anxious to have some conversation with old Anderson. I did not call on my father, as it was not a case on which he was likely to offer any opinion, and I thought it better that the secret which I possessed should be known but to one other person. I refer to the knowledge which I had obtained relative to the husband of Mrs St. Felix, who, it appeared, was not hanged, as supposed by her. The information received from Spicer accounted for Mrs St. Felix's conduct when any reference was made to her husband, and I was now aware how much pain she must have suffered when his name was mentioned. I found Anderson alone in his office, and I immediately made him acquainted with what I had learnt, and asked him his opinion as to the propriety of communicating it to Mrs St. Felix. Anderson rested his head upon his hand for some time in silence; at last he looked up at me.

"Why, Tom, that she suffers much from the supposed ignominious fate of her husband is certain, but it is only occasionally; her spirits are good, and she is cheerful, except when reminded of it by any casual observation. That it would prove a great consolation to her to know that her husband did not forfeit his life on the scaffold is true; but what then? he is said to have entered the King's service under another name, and, of course, there is every probability of his being alive and well at this moment. Now she is comparatively tranquil and composed; but consider what anxiety, what suspense, what doubts, must ever fill her mind, must oppress her waking hours, must haunt her in her dreams, after she is made acquainted with his possible existence. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick; and her existence would be one of continued tumult, of constant anticipation, and I may say of misery. He may be dead, and then will her new-born hopes be crushed when she has ascertained the fact; he may never appear again, and she may linger out a life of continual fretting. I think, Tom, that were she my daughter, and I in possession of similar facts, I would not tell her—at least, not at present. We may be able to make inquiries without her knowledge. We know his name; an advertisement might come to his eyes or ears; and, moreover, you have the telescope, which may be of use if it is constantly seen in your hands. Let us at present do all we can without her knowledge, and leave the result in the hands of Providence, who, if it thinks fit, will work by its own means. Are you of my opinion, Tom?"

"When I came to ask your advice, Anderson, it was with the intention of being guided by it, even if it had not coincided with my own opinion, which, now that I have heard your reasons, it certainly does. By-the-bye, I have not yet called upon Mrs St. Felix, and I will go now. You will see old Nanny again?"

"I will, my boy, this evening. Good bye! I'm very busy now, for the officers will inspect to-morrow morning."

I quitted the hospital, and had arrived in Church Street, when, passing the doctor's house on my way to Mrs St. Felix, Mr Thomas Cobb, who had become a great dandy, and, in his own opinion at least, a great doctor, called to me, "Saunders, my dear fellow, just come in, I wish to speak with you particularly." I complied with his wishes. Mr Cobb was remarkable in his dress. Having sprung up to the height of at least six feet in his stockings, he had become remarkably thin and spare, and the first idea that struck you when you saw him was that he was all pantaloons; for he wore blue cotton net tight pantaloons, and his Hessian boots were so low, and his waistcoat so short, that there was at least four feet, out of the sum total of six, composed of blue cotton net, which fitted very close to a very spare figure. He wore no cravat, but a turn-down collar with a black ribbon, his hair very long, with a very puny pair of moustachios on his upper lip, and something like a tuft on his chin. Altogether, he was a strange-looking being, especially when he had substituted for his long coat a short nankeen jacket, which was the case at the time I am speaking of.

"Well, Mr Cobb, what may be your pleasure with me? You must not detain me long, as I was about to call on Mrs St. Felix."

"So I presumed, my dear sir," replied he; "and for that very reason I requested you to walk in. Take a chair. Friendship, Tom, is a great blessing; it is one of the charms of life. We have known each other long, and it is to tax your friendship that I have requested you to come in."

"Well, be as quick as you can, that's all," replied I.

"Festina lente, as Dr Tadpole often says, adding that it is Latin for hat and boots. I am surprised at his ignorance of the classics; any schoolboy ought to know that caput is the Latin for hat, and Bootes for boots. But lately I have abandoned the classics, and have given up my soul to poetry."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; 'Friendship and Love' is my toast, whenever I am called upon at the club. What does Campbell say?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"I'll tell you, Tom:—

"'Without the smile from heav'nly beauty won, Oh, what were man? A world without a sun.'"

"Well, I daresay it's all true," replied I; "for if a woman does not smile upon a man he's not very likely to marry her, and therefore has no chance of having a son."

"Tom, you have no soul for poetry."

"Perhaps not; I have been too busy to read any."

"But you should; youth is the age of poetry."

"Well, I thought it was the time to work; moreover, I don't understand how youth can be age. But pray tell me, what is it you want of me, for I want to see Mrs St. Felix before dinner-time."

"Well, then, Tom, I am in love—deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love."

"I wish you well out of it," replied I, with some bitterness. "And pray with whom may you be so dreadfully in love—Anny Whistle?"

"Anny Whistle!—to the winds have I whistled her long ago. No, that was a juvenile fancy. Hear me. I am in love with the charming widow."

"What, Mrs St. Felix?"

"Yes. Felix means happy in Latin, and my happiness depends upon her. I must either succeed, or—Tom, do you see that bottle?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's laudanum; that's all."

"But, Tom, you forget; you certainly would not supplant your patron, your master, I may say your benefactor—the doctor?"

"Why not? he has tried, and failed. He has been trying to make an impression upon her these ten years, but it's no go. Ain't I a doctor, as good as he? Ay, better, for I'm a young doctor, and he is an old one! All the ladies are for me now. I'm a very rising young man."

"Well, don't rise much higher, or your head will reach up to the shop ceiling. Have you anything more to say to me?"

"Why, I have hardly begun. You see, Tom, the widow looks upon me with a favourable eye, and more than once I have thought of popping the question over the counter; but I never could muster up courage, my love is so intense. As the poet says—

"'Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, howe'er so witty; The beggar that is dumb, you know, Deserves our double pity.'

"Now, Tom, I wish to tax your friendship. I wish you to speak for me."

"What, speak to Mrs St. Felix?"

"Yes, be my ambassador. I have attempted to write some verses; but somehow or another I never could find rhymes. The poetic feeling is in me, nevertheless. Tell me, Tom, will you do what I ask?"

"But what makes you think that the widow is favourably inclined?"

"What? why, her behaviour, to be sure. I never pass her but she laughs or smiles. And then the doctor is evidently jealous; accuses me of making wrong mixtures; of paying too much attention to dress; of reading too much; always finding fault. However, the time may come—I repeat my request; Tom, will you oblige me? You ought to have a fellow-feeling."

This last remark annoyed me. I felt convinced that Mrs St. Felix was really laughing at him, so I replied, "I shall not refuse you, but recollect that he who has been so unsuccessful himself, is not likely to succeed for others. You shall have your answer very soon."

"Thanks, Tom, thanks. My toast, as I said before, when called upon, is 'Friendship and Love.'"

I quitted the shop, and went into that of Mrs St. Felix, who, I thought, looked handsomer than ever.

"Come at last, Tom!" said the widow, extending her hand. "I thought you would have called yesterday. Your sister was here."

"I have been less pleasantly engaged. You know that Spicer is dead."

"One of the pensioners—I never saw him that I know of, but I heard old Ben mention his death this morning, and that you were with him: was he a friend of yours?"

"No, indeed, I thought you knew something of him, or I should not have mentioned his name." I then changed the conversation, telling her what had passed at Deal, and listening to her remarks upon old Nanny, my mother, and our mutual acquaintances.

"And the doctor—how is he?"

"As busy as ever: I'm sorry, however, that he complains very much of Tom Cobb, and says that he must dismiss him. He has made some very serious mistakes in mixing the medicines, and nearly killed five or six people."

"Had he killed them outright, their deaths must have been laid at your door," replied I, very seriously.

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Tom?"

"I mean this, that your bright eyes have fascinated him; and that, to use his own expression, he is deeply, desperately, irrevocably, and everlastingly in love with you."

Here Mrs St. Felix burst out in a laugh, so violent that I thought that it would end in hysterics. As soon as she had recovered herself, continued:—