IN A FOOL’S PARADISE.

“The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu’ weel;
And mickle lighter is the boat
When love bears up the creel.”—Old Song.

the interests of truth, I have now to record that my hero, Captain Jack Mackenzie, formed one of the most ridiculous resolutions any young man could have been guilty of making. It is all very well building castles in the air—indeed, it is rather a pretty pastime than otherwise, and may at times be productive of good; but when it comes to building for one’s self, willingly and with wide-open eyes, a whole paradise—fool’s, of course—and quietly taking up one’s abode therein, the absurdity of the speculation must be apparent to every one. But this is just what our Jack now set about doing. For many a long month back he had worked and slaved, and fought battles, and sailed his ship, and did all he could, it must be confessed, to make everybody around him happy, while a load of sorrow, which felt as big as a bag of shrapnel or a kedge anchor, lay at his own heart. He now determined to get rid of this incubus, to leave it, or creep out from under it somehow. During all these months he had tried, and tried hard, to forget his lost love Gerty, but all in vain. Trying to forget her made matters infinitely worse, so now he meant to indulge himself in the sweet belief that she still was his, still loved him; that there was no such individual in the world as silly old Sir Digby; and that he, Jack, had only to go home, if it pleased Heaven to spare him, and claim the dear girl as his wife.

He certainly did not mean to force himself to think about her, only he would do nothing to impede the flow of happy thoughts whenever they showed a tendency to come stealing over his soul. These are his own words, spoken to himself in the privacy of his state-room. And between you and me and the binnacle, reader, not to let it go any further, I believe it was poor Mary’s letter, with its “dear luv” and its “sweet kisses,” that was at the bottom of Jack’s resolve. For had she not written, as plain as quill can write, the magical sentence, “Yes, missus misses you; so do I”? It didn’t matter a spoonful of tar about the “so do I,” but there was the “missus misses you.” Ah! it was around these simple, euphonious words that hope hung like a garland of forget-me-not. Why did missus miss him? Mary wouldn’t have said that missus missed him if missus didn’t. So ran Jack’s thoughts as he walked up and down the floor of his cabin. No, Mary wasn’t a girl of that sort. Missus missed him, and there was an end of it. Missus missed him, ergo missus must sometimes think about him, and upon this belief he meant to hinge his happiness. Missus must—

“Rat—tat—tat—tat.”

“Come in. Ah, Tom, there you are! Glad you’ve come a little before dinner is served. Well, we’re all ready for sea, I suppose?”

“Yes; as soon as you like to-morrow morning, sir.”

“Well, dowse the ‘sir,’ Tom, else I’ll send you away without a morsel of dinner. We’re not on the quarter-deck now, you know. You’re Tom, and I’m just Jack.”

A few minutes afterwards, Tom, strolling carelessly towards Jack’s writing-table, picked up a sheet of paper, and to his astonishment read as follows:—

“Missus missed thee, so do I,
Drop the tear and sigh the sigh;
Yet ne’er let sorrow cloud thy brow—
She loved thee once, she loves thee now.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Tom aloud.

Jack got as red as a tomato, and rushed to rescue the manuscript.

“Put it down at once, Tom! How dare you?”

But Tom only laughed the more. He read Jack’s inspiration from end to end, in spite of all that Jack could do.

“Well,” he said when he had finished, “I knew you could fight a bit, but this is a revelation. ‘Missus missed thee’—ha! ha! ha!”

It was well for Jack and Tom both that the steward and servants entered at that moment with the dinner. Poetry soon gave place to soup, and sentiment fled on the appearance of the roast-beef.

But when dessert was placed upon the table, and the servants had gone, Jack, feeling bound to open his heart to somebody, told Tom about the fool’s paradise to which he meant to flit from Castle Despair, in which he had dwelt so long. Tom was a thoroughly practical kind of a young fellow, and now he shook his head consideringly.

“M—m—m, well,” he said, “the notion isn’t half a bad one, you know, perhaps. But, Jack, doesn’t it savour somewhat of the reckless? Scotsmen are all reckless, I know, especially, I believe, the Grant Mackenzies; and your idea may be good, but—a—”

“Well, well, Tom, out with it, man. What are you humming and hawing about?”

“Why, it’s like this, you see—and, mind, I speak to you as a brother—it may be very pleasant, say, for a few friends met together to take an extra glass of wine, and spend a happy evening, but shouldn’t they think of their heads in the morning?”

“I have thought of my head in the morning, Tom; I have thought of the awakening. I do know that some day I shall see an announcement in the Times of the marriage of Sir Digby Auld and—heigh-ho! Gerty; that then I shall have to leave my pretty paradise, and that the flaming sword of honour will forbid my ever entering there again. But till then, Tom, till then. Bother it all, man, you wouldn’t have a fellow make himself miserable all his life, simply because he knows he has got to go to Davy Jones’ locker at the finish?” “Oh no,” said Tom, gravely.

“Well, then, brother mine, I mean to live in my fool’s paradise as long as ever I can, and when the end comes I’ll flit.”

“Tom,” he continued, after a pause of about a minute, “on board the old Ocean Pride I once told you the story of my love for Gerty; and I told you also all I knew about dear father’s difficulties. We both know now how complete daddy’s financial ruin is, but I have never yet told you the true story of Gerty’s engagement to Sir Digby Auld. I’ll tell you now, and you won’t think so hard of the poor girl when I have finished.”

Jack Mackenzie spoke for fully a quarter of an hour without intermission, ending with these words: “So you see, brother, the dear girl is positively immolating herself on the altar of filial love, and what she considers duty. She loves the old man Keane surely more dearly than daughter has any right to love a father; and her main ambition and object in life is to see the lonely man happy and respected in his old age. So, dear Tom, don’t bid me leave my fool’s paradise yet a while. You have your happiness; I—”

He paused, and sighed a weary kind of sigh. Tom was touched to the very bottom of his heart. He stretched his arm across the walnuts and grasped his friend’s hand.

“Poor Jack!” he said. “Live in your paradise and be happy. Would that I could give you hopes that your lease will be a very long one.”

“Besides,” continued Jack, excusing himself a little more, “with a light heart I shall be able to drub the French more cheerfully.”

Tom’s eyes sparkled.

“Ah yes!” he said; “and for the very same reason I too feel in the finest of form for drubbing the French.”

“And we’ve had no single-ship action with the Dons yet.”

“Their time is coming.”

“Yes, their time is coming. A man never swings a sword half so well, nor sails and fights a ship so well, as when he is in love and happy:

‘For mickle lighter is the boat
When love bears up the creel.’”