Mrs. Loudon

“What tho’
No chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight:
They were our rock in danger; in triumph,
The mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!”

Let those who are fond of dramatizing their ideas, picture to themselves the scene opening, and displaying the wardroom of the Erina; its centre occupied by a long breakfast-table, at which a number of the officers are already ranged.

Our hero enters, and takes his seat among them for the first time, having joined but the night before, just as the ship was getting under way.

Thus situated, he feels a very natural curiosity to observe what his new messmates are like. He looks around him accordingly; and every face being equally strange to him, he begins to amuse himself, by wondering at the manifold and ingenious contrivances of nature, to make such variety out of the old materials, of eyes, nose, and mouth.

One gentleman sat eating an egg with great solemnity; his elongated countenance, resembling one seen on the back of a table-spoon, held up the long way; while his next neighbour smiled on a roll, with a face that seemed reflected from the same part of the same utensil, turned the cross way. The next, a portly gentleman, looked as though he had stowed away, preparatory to the long voyage, good sea-store of claret in his cheeks, nose, and double chin. The next to him, as spare as Don Quixote, had a countenance the colour of a blanket; while the hollow of his cheeks, which he had ingeniously endeavoured to fill, by encouraging the growth of his whiskers, resembled excavations in a disused quarry, where tangled brambles had long been permitted to flourish undisturbed. One of the good-looking sat next; and the eye that was going the circle of the table, found agreeable rest, for a moment, on his oval countenance, adorned by a healthful complexion, fine eyes, and chesnut-brown hair. Next to him appeared a bluff-looking fellow; his face deeply pitted with the small-pox, and of a dark-red colour, relieved only by the sooty black of beard, hair, eye-brows, eye-lashes, eyes and whiskers. His neighbour had a merry face, of a lighter and brighter red, with the exception of the forehead, which was high, open, and brilliantly white, skirted by a thick forest of red hair; while a vigorous growth of whiskers, of the same colour, stood on each plump cheek, like underwood on the side of a hill.

Nearest him, sat a tall gentleman, whom our hero, on a further acquaintance, considered handsome; for he had a fine fresh skin and colour, a well-set mouth, good teeth, a high nose, and large blue eyes; but the rise on the nose was placed so much too high up, that it gave a ludicrous air of mock pomp to the whole countenance; while the eyes, peculiarly round, opened with that species of stare, which looks as though the cravat were tied too tight; and the cheeks, that seemed to have been plumped by practising the trumpet, wanting, alas! the sheltering grace of whiskers, but too much resembled, save in their hue, very large apple dumplings.

After thus scanning the faces of so many good fellows, brave and jovial, though not, at first sight, perfect beauties; our hero’s wandering eye arrived, at length, at a vacant seat, before which was placed a plate, carefully covered. At this seat and plate, he observed many of the party looking, from time to time, with various knowing winks and smiles, accompanied by glances directed towards a door, leading from one of the cabins. The said door opening shortly, admitted a perfect personification of Sir John Falstaff.

“Mr. Barns, our chaplain,” whispered Edmund’s neighbour. Our hero felt uneasy: he saw, at a glance, that Barns was the butt of the mess; and it was not accordant with his habits, to make a jest of the sacred office, be it held by whom it might.

Mr. Barns rolled towards his seat; placed himself upon it, and as he settled in it, seemed to spread with his own weight. He made a sort of grunt, intended for the morning salutation; then, stretching forward his arms, a certain protuberance of chest and abdomen, not permitting a nearer approach of the rest of the person to the table, he touched lightly, with the fore-finger and thumb of both hands, the cover; when, finding that he was in no danger of burning himself, he raised it. His countenance had begun to fall a little on finding the cover cold; but now, aghast, his under jaw hung on his double chin; while the tongue, spread and slighted protruded, rested on the under-lip; for, lo!—the plate contained but atmospheric air, and Mr. Barns was not used to feed on the camelion.

He clapped down the cover, which, during his first astonishment, he had held suspended; and, leaning back in his chair, said, in a surly tone;—“Come, come, gentlemen; this making a jest of your chaplain, and that on Sunday morning too, is not very becoming, let me tell you! What must this gentleman, who is a stranger, think of such behaviour? I am very good-natured, sir, you must know,” he added, looking towards our hero, “and these gentlemen presume upon it.” Edmund bowed assent.

“I hope, Mr. Barns,” said the claret-faced gentleman, by name Warburton, “you mean to make your sermon to-day at least one minute the shorter, for this extempore lecture. Ten minutes, you know—we never listen after ten minutes; but promise, on the faith of a true divine, that you will not this day exceed nine minutes, and you shall have the real broil, that the steward is keeping hot without.” Mr. Barns’ countenance became less severe, when he heard that there actually was a real broil!

“Nonsense! nonsense!” he said; “but, there, call for the broil, or it will be too much done: a broil is not worth a farthing without the red gravy in it!”

The broil was called for accordingly.

“You are a man of honour, Barns,” continued Warburton; “remember the conditions: the sermon is not to exceed nine minutes this morning, or ten on any future occasion.”

“I don’t know that I shall preach at all to-day,” said Barns.

“Not preach at all!” echoed the gentleman with the high nose, making his eyes rounder than before.

“But, why? but, why?” demanded various voices.

“I don’t think the day will suit,” said Barns, taking his eye from the door for a moment, to glance it at the windows.

“You are always too timid of the weather, Mr. Barns,” observed Mr. Elliot, the long-faced gentleman: “a moderate sermon, such as Warburton spoke of, no man can object to. Those things, in my opinion, should not be entirely neglected, were it but for the sake of example to the youngsters and ship’s company.”

“Example!” repeated Barns; “that’s all very proper ashore, sir; and no man set a better example to his flock, when on terra firma, than I did; but I have no idea of being made an example of myself, in the fullest sense of the word, by having my pulpit blown over board, as might be the case, were it erected on deck without due regard to the weather, Mr. Elliot.”

“Nay, nay, Barns!” interrupted Warburton, “there can be no danger of that, when you are in it!”

“I don’t sail without ballast, I grant you, sir. But here comes the broil!” said Barns.

The bluff gentleman, Mr. Thomson, asked the steward, as he entered, how the day was on deck.

“Very fine, sir.”

“Will it do for the pulpit?” asked Mr. Jones, the red-haired gentleman.

“The pulpit is erected already, sir, by order of the captain,” replied the steward.

“I thought,” said Jones, aside, “this no preaching was too good news to be true.”

“Why,” asked Edmund, aside also, for Jones sat next to him, “is Mr. Barns’s preaching so very bad?”

“No—yes—I don’t know, faith!” answered Jones.

“Have you never heard Mr. Barns, then?” again asked Edmund.

“Oh, a thousand times!—That is—but you see, I never listen to prosing: it’s a bad sort of thing, I think. In short, I generally box the compass, or something of the sort, to amuse myself. It’s the best way, in my opinion,” he added, “never to think at all!”

“There you are quite wrong, sir,” observed Mr. Barns, catching the last words as he wiped his mouth, having finished his broil; “for spiritual food is as needful to the soul, as our common nutriment is to the body: and inasmuch as that body thrives best, which is best nurtured, so will that soul, which is best instructed!”

“That argument, from Mr. Barns, is certainly conclusive,” observed Mr. White, the thin gentleman.

“White,” whispered Jones to Edmund, “thin as he is, eats more than Barns does!”

All now repaired on deck, where, it is reported, that Mr. Barns’s presentiment proved but too well-founded; for, that while he was preaching, a most unexpected squall came on a sudden—took hold of the ship—gave her one thorough shake—and laid her on her beam-ends; and, that all being in confusion, the men in crowds running forward with the ropes to shorten sail, &c. &c., it was some time before he, Mr. Barns, was missed, and that when he was missed, while one talked of lowering a boat down, and another ran to look over the ship’s side, it was Mr. Montgomery, who at length discovered him, feet uppermost, in the lee scuppers, where the first reel of the vessel had tumbled him, with the heavy cannonade slides, and what not else besides, heaped on top of him.

Edmund very soon perceived, that this unbecoming levity of his messmates on sacred subjects, had much of its origin in the character of the admiral himself: for Lord Fitz-Ullin, though a man of so much personal dignity, that in his own manners he never offended against outward decorum, had, unfortunately, no settled principle on religious subjects—no happy conviction, that moral obligations, with all the thousand blessings that flow from them, have but one pure and inexhaustible source, in that simple, practical religion, which the universal Father gave his children to promote their happiness, temporal as well as eternal; that religion which saith, “Do unto others, as you would that they should do unto you;” that religion, which for every possible duty, hath a plain, practicable precept, which if followed by all, would realize the bliss of heaven even upon earth.

But Lord Fitz-Ullin had been disgusted, by frequently, during a considerable portion of very early life, being compelled to hear the irrational railing of a fanatical preacher against good works. The man might have meant right, but he knew not how to express himself; and Lord Fitz-Ullin, unable to adopt his doctrine, such as it met the ear, without further examination, rejected, or at least thenceforward neglected, all religion. Something of this was felt, if not seen, by those who looked up to the admiral, as to a man older than themselves—a man at the head of the honourable profession to which they had devoted themselves—and a man, as eminent in brilliancy of courage and talent, as in rank, both hereditary and acquired. The mischief done, therefore, bore proportion to the extensive influence which those shining qualities and exalted circumstances bestowed on their possessor.

With respect to his lordship’s choice of a chaplain, being blameably indifferent on the subject, he had appointed Mr. Barns, on the application of a friend, without any regard whatever to his fitness or unfitness to fill the situation. Our hero, notwithstanding, found his patron both a kind and most agreeable friend; and one, whose partiality to him daily increased. Lord Fitz-Ullin had been, all his life, in love with glory; in Edmund he recognized much of the same spirit, accompanied, too, by all that romance and enthusiasm of youth, so delightful to those, who, having retained such feelings longer than the usual period, find little that is congenial in the minds of people of their own age.

“I wish, Montgomery,” said the Earl, one day that Edmund dined with his lordship, “I wish you could inspire Ormond by your example—he is so indolent. I fear,” he continued, “I have given him bad habits: he has always, in fact, been sure of whatever he wished for, without the slightest exertion on his own part.”

“Why, yes,” said Ormond, playfully; “you know, sir, I am aware that I shall be an admiral one of those days, without taking any trouble about the matter.”

“Oscar,” said his father, “remember, that though you may attain to rank by interest, you can never obtain glory, but by deserving it!”

“Have I not the glory of being your son, sir!” replied Oscar, smiling.

“I have not even a name by inheritance!” thought Edmund; “I, therefore, must endeavour to earn one.”

As intercourse continued, and friendship grew, Edmund saw in his young friend daily evidences of a heart overflowing with every amiable and generous sentiment; also, a high sense of honour—worldly honour, we mean, which had been carefully inculcated by his father.

Of any other standard of right, Oscar Ormond had little or no idea. The predominant weakness of his character, was an idle degree of vanity about his rank—the consequence of the early lessons of his nurse. This uneducated and ill-judging woman, with whom he was too much left, used carefully to give him his title from infancy, always telling him what a grand thing it was for him to be a lord already, when there were so many big men, who would never be lords! Yet, strange to say, Oscar was, as we have seen, devoid of ambition in his profession, to the infinite regret of his father; but he had got it into his head, that his own hereditary rank was something much greater than any thing that could be acquired, and also, that all future steps would come, as all past ones had done—as mere matters of course. The natural consequences of his exalted birth!