We held our course, after parting with our friends in the boat, and were soon at the harbour's mouth. The breeze continued to freshen, and the swell to increase. Our little Wilhelmina now began to give us a specimen of her qualities as a sea-boat. Labouring through the curled and crested seas, creaking, groaning, vibrating from stem to stern; now balancing, with her keel half bare, on the summit of a lofty surge, now deep in a liquid trough; now kicking up behind, now running her nose bang into a bank of water; now pointing skywards, as if bound to the moon, and not to Lisbon; now pitching, now jig-jigging it, she simulated the paces of a Spanish genet—a great deal of action, very little progress.

By the time we were clear of the harbour, and in comparatively smooth water, the wind had shifted to the north-west; our course lay south, and, being sheltered by the land, we soon exchanged the jig-jigging of our exit from port for a far more agreeable, because more equable motion, as we drove over ocean's swell. It had already become palpably evident that none of our military friends were good sailors. Now, however, they were all able to stand without holding—all, I should say, but one unhappy individual, and that was Mr Commissary Capsicum, who had been reduced to a miserable state of disorder by the active movements of the brig, and whose actual symptoms were by no means those of convalescence.

Night closed in. It was past twilight, yet not wholly dark—in short, that interval between twilight and perfect night, for which in English we have no word, but which the richer language of Burns expressively designates as "the gloaming." Little more than enough of it to fill the sails and give the vessel way, the wind was soft, and at times scarcely perceptible. The waves heaved lazily; the ship surmounted them with measured rise and fall; and, though the heavens were overcast, a light, different from that of day, clear but faint, was equably diffused on all sides. The tremulous surface of the ocean, dark, but distinguishable to the horizon, was there sharply outlined against the pale but still luminous sky.

Since we left port in the morning, what with showers and spray, wind and sunshine, I had been more than once wet through and dry again. The consequences were now perceptible. I shivered inwardly. My mind, too, was ill at ease. After much reflection, and some self-examination, I came to this conclusion: that something was requisite, something was indispensable, in my actual condition both of mind and body. What that something was, did not instantly occur to me. I asked myself the question point-blank—I answered it. The problem was solved: I wanted—a nightcap. Down I rushed into the cabin. "Steward, bring me some hot water and a little brandy."—"Yes, sir; a glass of hot brandy and water, sir; coming directly, sir."—"No, no, steward; that's not what I called for. Bring the brandy and the hot water separate. I'll mix for myself."

"Quite right," growled a feeble voice. It was poor, unhappy, still-very-far-from-perfectly-recovered Mr Capsicum's. The falling of the wind had so far abated the ship's movements, that his worst symptoms were now relieved. Still, however, he was far, very far, from well. Most of the passengers had turned in; but there, by lamplight, sat poor Capsicum at the cabin table, from sheer listlessness, destitute of sufficient energies to put himself to bed, a lamentable spectacle.

"Suppose you join me, then," said I. "Do you good."

"Can't, can't," said he, plaintively. "Couldn't get it down, if I knew it would make me well this instant. Wish I could. I'll see you take yours, though. That'll be some comfort, anyhow."

The steward now brought hot water, half a lemon, lump-sugar, tumbler half full of capital brandy.—"Here, steward, you may take the lemon away with you. Don't want it."

"Quite right," grunted Capsicum, who thought himself a connoisseur in all things eatable and drinkable. "Quite right; no rum, no lemon." Spite of his pitiful plight, he now, con amore, set himself to watch my operations critically; as if, from the brewing, he would form an estimate of my judgment, capabilities, taste, character, and general attainments.

With the silver tongs I extracted a lump of crystal sugar, the largest in the basin. The present "without" system was not then in vogue, nor have I adopted it yet. But now there was a hitch—how to melt the sugar. In the tumbler it must not go—there was the brandy: that had been an infringement of all the laws of potatory combination. I felt that I was under observation, and that my character was at stake. I placed the sugar in the spoon. "Quite right," said Capsicum.

Yet neither, according to the modern practice, did I wash the sugar, half melted, from the spoon into the tumbler, with a stream of hot water. That, I submit, is an approximation to the error of immersing the sugar in the unmixed brandy. No, no. Holding the spoon over the tumbler, I carefully dropped upon the sugar three drops of the boiling water. It was enough. The sugar gradually subsided into a pellucid liquid, which filled the spoon. Capsicum, who, sick as he was, still watched my proceedings with the deepest interest, and with a patronising air of mild benignity, repeated his testimonial—"Quite right."

Waiting till the sugar was wholly dissolved, I then at length infused sufficient hot water to scald the raw spirits, then added the sugar. Two or three stirs sufficed; not a bead floated on the surface. The mixture was made—tumbler about half an inch from full—a "stiff un." Capsicum raised himself from the table on which he had been leaning, with folded arms, like a cat watching a mouse, and gave a snort of approbation.

"You and that white fellow old acquaintance?" said Capsicum.

"Our acquaintance," replied I, "commenced at Falmouth about a week ago."

"Oh! thought perhaps he was some family connexion," said Capsicum.

"The connexion is quite recent, as I tell you," said I; "but I certainly don't mean to cut it. Hope to dine with him at headquarters, every day I'm disengaged."

"Dine with him at headquarters?" replied Capsicum. "You'll do nothing of the kind, I can tell you that, sir. That is, you'll dine with him at my table; pretty often, too, I trust. Hope I shall frequently have the pleasure of seeing you both. But at his own table, if you're twenty years at headquarters, you won't dine with him once; take my word for that. John Barrymore wouldn't suffer it." Here was a blow!

"Well, but that's a thing I can't understand," said I.

"Well then, I must make you understand it," replied Capsicum. "You are going out on an appointment as clerk in John Barrymore's Department. Isn't it so?" I bowed assent.

"Very well. That white chap does business in commissariat bills. When he gets a bill, he's dying to get the cash. Your Department pays the cash. Don't you see, my dear sir? It wouldn't do. It would be utterly at variance with all the rules of propriety, for any man in your Department to be on terms of intimacy with any man who does business in bills. Besides, it would be contrary to headquarters etiquette; everybody would talk about it. Now," added Capsicum, with a self-approving air, "now I've done my duty by John Barrymore. Noticed you were very thick. Thought I'd tell you, the first opportunity. Oh me! oh me!" (sighing, panting, gasping, pressing his hands on his stomach, and swaying his head from side to side,) "how very ill I do, feel! Such a horrid sensation! a don't-know-howishness—a sort of a come-overishness! The exertion of talking has made me quite bad again. Here, steward! steward! I must go on deck this instant." He turned ghastly green.

"Yet," said I, hoping he would soon be better, "Mr Gingham, it seems, can dine with you, without any breach of propriety."

"Yes, yes, to be sure he can," said Capsicum; "and so can you. Our Department don't finger the cash. Don't you see? That makes all the difference. Hope you'll both dine with me often."

"Shall be very happy," replied I: "much obliged for your kind invitation. But still I can't understand. Mr Gingham has been at headquarters before, and knows headquarters. He also knows, I suppose, that your humble servant is a clerk of the military chest. Yet it was he himself who made the proposal that he and I should campaign together."

"Can't explain that," said Capsicum; "must leave him to explain that as he can. Oh! here he comes."

Gingham, before he turned in, had been on deck, to take a last look at the weather, to commune with the silent night, to scrutinise the horizon, to soliloquise with the clouds, and perhaps for some better and more solemn purposes: for Gingham, with all his oddities, was a man of religious principle, and of devotional feeling, and cared not who knew it. He now approached, and seated himself with us at the cabin table.

"Saw you at Cadiz," said Capsicum. "Think I saw you at Madrid."

"I saw you at Canton," coolly replied Gingham. Capsicum looked a little queer.

"At Canton?" said Capsicum. "Saw me at Canton? Did you, though? Come, come, now you're joking, you know. Did you though, really? How was I dressed?"

"You were dressed like what you were; not exactly as you are dressed now. You had a long, taper pigtail, reaching down to your heels; no hair on your head besides. You had slippers, scarlet and gold, turned up at the toes. You carried a fan; and didn't I once or twice see you followed by a fellow who carried a parasol over your head at the top of a long pole? You had—"

"I'll tell you what," said Capsicum precipitately; "I'm a Christian for all that, and my father was an Englishman. True, I was bred at Canton; but I wasn't born there. Born at Macao. My mother—"

Here, in a voice which ran through all the notes of the gamut, not however in due order, but like the cat's minuet, high and low alternately, Gingham struck up a strange outlandish sort of utterance, whether talking or singing I could not tell; but, if singing, it was the rummest song I ever heard—a jumping, dissonant compound of bass and treble. Capsicum responded in a similar fugue. The two funny rogues were speaking Chinese! The discovery of Capsicum's semi-gentile extraction tickled my fancy not a little.

"So," said Capsicum to Gingham, "you and Johnny intend to make a joint concern of it at headquarters."

"That's how we've settled it," replied Gingham.

"Can't be," said Capsicum. "Thought you knew all headquarters' rules, regulations, and observances."

"Thought I did know something about them," replied Gingham.

"Well, then," replied Capsicum, "don't you know what department young Johnny here belongs to?"

"Your department, the commissariat department, I always understood," replied Gingham; "saw his name put down so in the list of passengers per packet at Falmouth. If Mr Y— will oblige me by referring to a document, which I had the honour of handing him before dinner, he will find himself there designated accordingly."

Sure enough, so it was: "G. Y—, Esq., Commissary-General's Department, in A. C., with Gingham Gingham."

"But didn't you happen to know that Mr Y—, as you call him," said Capsicum, "was John Barrymore's own nephew?"

"Of that circumstance I was not cognisant," replied Gingham, "till I happened to become aware of it by the conversation during dinner. Still I retained my former impression, that Mr Y— belonged to your department, not to the military chest."

"The long and the short of it," said I to Gingham, "is this. Shirty here, I am sorry to say, gives me to understand that, at headquarters, as I am attached to the military chest, and not to the commissariat, I cannot have the pleasure of stretching my legs under your table, when you give a spread. My regret is undissembled and profound."

"Nor," said Gingham, "while we both retain our present positions, can we be more than common acquaintance."

The shock of this dÉnouement was diverted by Capsicum. Spite of his sea-sickness he had purpled up; his eyes flashed and twinkled beneath his massive and contracted brows; he growled, he grunted, he wheezed, he snorted, he puffed; for a time he could not articulate. Either he performed admirably, or he was regularly riled. At length, recovering his breath, not once looking at me, but leaning over to Gingham on the table, he whispered hurriedly, "What does he mean by that? Shirty? Who's Shirty?" Again he turned very green, and sat back in his chair, panting, and swaying his head, like a man ready to faint.

I was sorry to see him so ill, and begged to apologise. He with the greatest propriety might call me "Johnny Newcome," yet it ill became me to call him "Shirty." The name was casually suggested by his profusion of frill, &c. &c. &c.

"I'll tell you what, Mr Johnny," said Capsicum, "it's well for you I'm so bad as I am: wish I was better, for your sake. Wouldn't I pitch into you at once, and give you a precious good hiding? Oh dear! oh me! I am so very bad!" Then, rallying again: "Ah, I wish you did belong to my department! Wouldn't I detach you on outpost duty? Wouldn't I make you ride till you had no leather left? Wouldn't I send you bullock-hunting over the sierras? Oh, dreadful! dreadful! What a horrid sensation this sea-sickness is! Well, good night. I suppose I shall be called Shirty as long as I live." He tottled off to his berth.

"Yes, you may say that," said Joey, from behind his curtain. Joey was right. Ten years after, I heard an old Peninsular speak of Capsicum by the name of Shirty.

There is certainly something very adhesive in a sobriquet; that is, if it happens to stick when first applied. A lubberly big boy once gave me a thrashing at school; and I gave him the only redress in my power, as we were not allowed to throw stones—the name of "Buttons." He had cheated me at the game; and he had many on his jacket. "Buttons" was his name, to his dying day.

Gingham and I remained at the table. "Mr Capsicum is quite right," said Gingham. "Very proper it should be so. Not the less sorry on that account. At Lisbon, you will, in fact, have joined. From the time we land, then, our communications must be limited to the ordinary civilities of social life: until," he added, with a confidential look, "having digested my grand financial project, with Lisbon as the basis of my operations, I am prepared to promulgate it, as authorised, at the headquarters of the British army. Then," said he, proudly, "I shall take such an entirely different footing, so high above the vulgar imputations which always attach to a dealer in bills, that, without exposing either you or myself to criticism, I may again permit myself the pleasure of cultivating your acquaintance, on our present terms of friendship—I may say, intimacy. At any rate, while we remain on board the packet, that intimacy, I trust, will experience no diminution. Good night, sir."

We shook hands: his manner, I thought, a little stiff.

Left alone in the cabin, leaning on the table, the night-lamp shedding a dim and dubious light, my small modicum of brandy-and-water expended, and the time gone by for brewing another, as the steward had turned in, I sat and ruminated. Gingham, watching his opportunity, had benevolently endeavoured to make me sensible, that, as a clerk on actual service, I should soon be engaged in duties which could not be performed to my own credit, without care and circumspection; and that I might find myself, ere long, in some responsible situation, demanding the utmost caution and energy, to compensate my inexperience. Since the morning, for we had been much together during the day, through his friendly suggestions, I had, in a measure, become conscious of all this: I was beginning to feel the value of such a monitor; and now, it appeared, he was lost to me in that character! Then there were other considerations of a deeper kind. I remembered the dinner at the hotel; I remembered the breakfast; I thought of the travelling store-closet. To have lost such a companion of my first campaign—it was, indeed, a loss! Had I never dined with him, I could have better borne it!

At length I came to this conclusion; that, as all the other passengers had retired to rest, I—had better do the same. I was about to put my decision in execution, when my attention was arrested by a lamentable cry, which issued from the berth of poor Mr Commissary Capsicum. "I can't—I can't—I'm stuck!—weak as a rat! Oh, I am so very bad! Here, steward! steward!—ah! oh!" Having heard his monody to the end, and waited in vain for a second stave, I flew to his assistance.

Poor Mr Commissary Capsicum had contrived to divest himself of his diurnal habiliments; and was now embellished with a red bonnet de nuit; and an elegant night-shirt, which fitted—as if it had been made for him. I found him—in what an attitude! One leg he had contrived to hoist into his berth. Quoad that leg, he was kneeling on the mattress. The other leg was stretched towards the floor, which he barely touched with his extended and agonised toe. In this painful position, he was clawing with both hands at the board intended to keep him in bed, equally unable to advance and to recede. Something—either the wooden tester—or the proximity of his shake-down to the deck above—or what else, I cannot pretend to say—prevented his further movements. He wanted strength; there he was, literally, as he expressed it, stuck. I expressed the deepest sympathy.

Joey whipped on his drawers and dressing-gown, and was with us in a twinkling. Joey, seeing all other expedients vain, brought his shoulder to bear, and commenced a series of well-directed hoists, each hoist accompanied with a musical "Yeo-heave-ho." I laughed; Joey laughed; poor Capsicum himself caught the infection: his whining and whimpering gradually glided into a deep pectoral chuckle. The object was at length effected. Capsicum was stowed for the night; but not without vigorous and long-continued efforts, both on Joey's part and mine. "Can't imagine what caused the obstruction," said I; "it's prodigious; it's incredible." "Incredible, but true," replied Joey; "suppose we call it 'A tail founded on facts.'" "Good night. Good night, Mr Capsicum." "Good night, Mr Capsicum; good night." "Good night; ah! oh! what shall I do? Suppose I should be taken bad again before morning! Thank you both. Goodnight. Two impudent, unfeeling young hounds. Good night."

So terminated our first day afloat.

CHAPTER V.

It has been intelligently remarked, that, in writing travels by land or by sea, the traveller has only to jot down everything just as it occurs, and he will be sure to produce a book worth reading. This rule may be excellent in theory; but, gentle reader, it will not do. Only look here. I have not jotted down one tithe of the incidents of the first ten hours since we left harbour; and see what a long yarn it makes. A man who, in travelling, really registered everything, would yarn away at the rate of a quarto a week.

There is, however, an observation which is much more to the purpose; namely, that one day at sea is very like another. This we certainly found out, in our voyage from Falmouth to Lisbon. For, with the exception of changes in wind and weather, little occurred to vary our daily existence; at least till we got off Oporto, and took in fresh passengers. During the first night after we left Falmouth, the wind got round to the S.W. We had three days of it, regular Channel weather: thick, cloudy, squally—much rain—the ship pitching, labouring, creaking, straining, groaning—going every way but the way we wanted to go—all the passengers, except Joey, more or less indisposed—and nobody pleased but the skipper, who whistled a perpetual "Yankee doodle" rondo, and seemed to exult in our miseries. "I calculate," said Joey, "if this lasts much longer, we shall come to anchor in the Downs." For want of anything to relate, and for the benefit of the reader, should he cross "the Bay," I shall here beg leave to say a few words respecting that horrid malady to which landsmen are subject on board ship, and respecting my own mode of dealing with it. Experto crede.

My case resembles that of many other persons; i.e., in foul weather on board ship, you do not, we will say, at once get thoroughly ill; but certain disagreeable sensations, quite sufficient to call a man's attention to himself, such as giddiness, prostration of strength, awful depression of the whole system, and still more awful sensations at the pit of the stomach, induce the painful consciousness that you are very, very far from well, and in some danger of being worse before you are better. In this state of the case, the "indication," as the doctors say, is to keep off daddy Neptune's last outrage, the detested crisis. Don't give ear to the good-natured friend who says, "You had better be ill at once, and get it over." That may do very well in a sail from West Cowes to Allum Bay; but it won't answer if you are a fortnight at sea. You may be "ill at once," if you please; but don't be certain "you'll get it over;" if once you begin, you may go on for a week. Keep well, then, if you can.

Now, as long as you can keep your legs, and keep on deck, you can generally effect this. In your berth, also, in a recumbent posture, you may manage to escape the dire catastrophe. The real difficulty is this: that, in passing from one of these states to the other, e.g., in turning in at night, or turning out in the morning, in all human probability you become a miserable victim. You must dress—you must undress—and, in the course of doffing or donning, ten to one your worst apprehensions become a reality. What, then, is the remedy? Now, don't stare, but be advised. Till you are fairly seasoned, which you probably will be in three or four days if you do as I tell you, don't doff or don at all. Keep on deck all day, get thoroughly cold, tired, and drowsy, rush below at night, throw yourself on your mattress as you are, go to sleep at once. In the morning, the moment you turn out, rush on deck. No shaving; no titivating. You must wash, must you? Go forwards, then; wash in the open air; wash anywhere but below. "Beastly, though, to go day after day without a change." Beastly, I admit; but not so beastly as day after day of convulsive paroxysms and horrid heavings; and, depend upon it, if once you begin, there is no telling how long it may last. Whereas follow my plan, and in three or four days you are all right—you are seasoned—the ship may dance a polka, and you not the worse for it. You may then go below, and stay below, with perfect impunity—treat yourself to a grand universal scrub and a clean shirt—and, if you are a shaver, shave—only remember you are shaving on board ship, and mind you don't cut off your nose. After all, it's a matter of taste, I admit: and tastes are various. If you consider a three-days' shirt, and a rough chin, greater evils than vomitory agonies, and spasms of the diaphragm, why, do as you like; shave, titivate, change, your linen, and retch your heart up.

During the three days of foul weather, wind S.W., I contrived to keep about, by following the method indicated above. On the fourth, the wind returned to the N.W., with an occasional brash of rain; and we were again able to hold our course. I was then myself again, past the power of sea-sickness; and could walk the deck with Joey, cast accounts with Gingham, sit out the dinner without declining soup, respectfully ogle the lovely Juno, and occasionally extort a giggle. On the morning of this same day, impelled by curiosity, I approached the berth where lay deposited the unhappy Capsicum, and drew his curtain. Ah! is that Capsicum? Alas, how changed! He looked like death. I spoke to him. His lips moved, but his voice was inaudible. I felt his pulse. It was scarcely perceptible. He was in a state of collapse!

Deeming the exigency cogent, I fetched Mr Staff-surgeon Pledget. Pledget, after due examination, pronounced it a serious case, prescribed a restorative, departed to compound, and soon came back with it—only about half a pint. With some difficulty, poor Capsicum was got up in his berth, and the restorative was got down. Anticipating recalcitration, Pledget had come provided with a small horn. Having swallowed the dose, Capsicum found his voice. "Ah me!" he feebly whined, with a look of inexpressible horror and disgust, and his hand pressed upon the pit of his stomach; "ah me! is it an aperient?" Then, in a low and indignant growl, "Never took physic before, in all my life." He lay back on his bolster, with closed eyes, in feeble and sulky silence. Pledget withdrew, and I remained.

Presently, reopening his eyes, he cautiously looked around. "Is that fellow gone?" he whispered. I nodded. "Look in the cabin," he whispered again.

"Gone on deck," said I; "not quite right yet, himself. Do you want him? Shall I call him back?"

"No, no; nonsense! I say, you mix me a glass of that—you know what—the same you took yourself t'other night."

I hesitated. There was no doubt in the world it would do him a deal of good. But then he was under treatment; he was medically ill. What was I to do?

He looked at me appealingly, coaxingly, touchingly. "I'd do as much for you," said he.

There was no standing that. I clancularly gave my orders to the steward. The steward grinned, and brought the materials. In due time the mixture was made; and, in a very short time after, the patient had stowed it away. "I shall get up," said he. "Just help me out." I sent the steward to request the aid of Joey.

By unshipping the board at the side, we got Capsicum out of his crib, far more easily than we had got him in. But, alas, his legs doubled under him; he was helpless as an infant, and almost fainted away. At length we managed to dress him; and seated him in full fig at the cabin table, with his enormous snuff-box open before him. At dinner, that day, he managed the wing of a chicken and a slice of tongue. Couldn't a currant dumpling, though—was set against it by the wine sauce. Pledget had the credit of the cure.

I omit to relate, in extenso, how we were chased by what we took for an American sloop of war, but what proved to be an English frigate; how the arm-chest was got upon deck when we expected to be brought to action; and how the muskets were found, like poor Capsicum, stuck—rusted together into a mass, for want of looking after; how badly the said frigate threw her shot, sending the first, which ought to have gone ahead of us, slap through our topsail, and the second, which should have been a more direct communication, half a quarter of a mile wide; how the Major and Captain Gabion saw the said shot as they were coming, while I saw nothing but the splash in the water; how our leisure hours were solaced by two combative drakes, shut up together in the same coop, which fought incessantly, day and night, from the beginning to the end of the voyage—if you held a lantern to them in the dark, they were still fighting; how, when one hen laid an egg, the others pecked at it, and gobbled it up; how the skipper was rude to everybody on board—to the Major, it appeared, grossly so. These particulars, with many others, I defer to my quarto edition.

Yet let me not omit the skipper's confidence to Joey; how he thought passengers should be victualled on board ship. "Fust, good flabby pea-soup, as thick as batter—plenty on it—let 'em blow out their jeckits with that. When it's took away, why, then perpose a glass of bottled porter all round. Fust dinner aboard; won't it make some on 'em bolt?"

Perhaps, my dear madam, the best way of giving you a general idea of our voyage, will be to present you with a description of our mode of life from day to day. The rule with our military friends was, to take fun out of everything; and they proved themselves perfect adepts in all the means and methods, thereto available; hoaxing, quizzing, shaving, imitating, trotting, cajoling, bamboozling. Pledget could not make it out—wondered what it all meant; and one day gravely asked me, if I could explain the nature and cause of laughter. Laughter he viewed as a psychological problem; we had plenty on board; but he could not solve it. The best thing was, that Pledget himself caught the infection at last, and began to laugh. It was curious to watch the first stirrings of nascent humour in Pledget's mind. Towards the close of the voyage he had actually, though by slow degrees, concocted a joke; and, had our passage been to the West Indies, and not to Lisbon, he would perhaps have got so far as to try it on. The victim of the said joke was to be Capsicum. Capsicum's birth at Macao, and breeding at Canton, had transpired through Joey. Pledget's primary idea was, that Capsicum might possibly have a penchant for a dish of stewed puppies. This bold, ingenious, and comical conception, as he fed on it from hour to hour, and from day to day, in about three days' time began to grow in his mind; and, as it grew, it ramified. From one thing to another, at length it came to this: that, with my co-operation, Joey's, and the steward's, Capsicum was to be persuaded that a batch of puppies had actually been littered on board. Capsicum, kept momentarily cognisant of the progress of Pledget's plot, by the treachery of those to whom it was confided, was prepared to humour the joke, whenever Pledget commenced operations. Pledget, big with his own idea, walked the deck for hours together, rubbing his hands in an ecstasy, and laughing till he whimpered. When Joey or I took a turn, he was soon by our side, screeching in a rapidly ascending gamut, with pungent delight, and much cachinnation, "Puppies! puppies! Oh, sir, won't they be nice? Poor old Capsicum!—puppies! puppies!"

The day before we made the coast of Spain, I was fairly "trotted." You must know, I fancied in those days I could sing. Item, my dear father had brought home, from the Peninsula, some very pretty Portuguese airs, of the kind called modinhas—which modinhas I had at my fingers' ends. Now, there are two very distinct ideas, which young people are apt to confound. If they happen to know a pleasing song, they fancy themselves pleasing singers: often quite the reverse; the finer the song, the fouler the butchery. I wish singing was visible, and not audible; for then we could keep it out by shutting our eyes. Well, this is how it was: leaning, as I was wont, over the ship's side, my face to the horizon, my back to the company, I won't pretend to say that I exactly sang for their benefit: oh no; I sang, as I had right to do, for my own amusement; though I certainly did sing loud enough to be heard, without being listened to. Presently by my side leaned Captain Gabion. I ceased. He hummed a mellifluous song of Lusitania.

"Pity the Lisbon music-sellers don't print their music," said he; "Write it all. Quite a fuss, sometimes, to get a song you fancy."

"That explains something I never understood before," said I. "All the songs I have received from Portugal are in manuscript. Pray, what is a modinha, strictly speaking?"

"Why, a modinha," replied he, "in common parlance, means any song that you happen to like. Modinha: a little mode; a little fashion; any little fashionable song. But the grand, regular music of the Portuguese—oh! that's magnificent—their church music for instance. You must know, once a-year, in one of the Lisbon churches, they sing a grand mass for the souls of deceased musicians. Of course, on such an occasion, all the living forces of the musical world are put in requisition. The last time I was at Lisbon, I attended—advise you, as a musical man, to do the same. Oh! wasn't that a grand harmonious crash? Extraordinary fellows, some of those singing monks and friars! Fancy one whole side of an immense church, from the floor to the roof, a grand bank of chorus-singers, as high as Shakspeare's Cliff; each bellowing like a bull; yet each with a voice as finely modulated as the richest violoncello, touched by a master's hand. Then there was one fellow, a bass, who stood up to sing a solo. Never heard anything like that. He struck off, deep down in his throat—yes, sir; and deeper down in the scale, too, than I ever heard any man go before—with a grand magnificent double shake, like—like—like the flutter of an eagle. Then down—down—down the villain dropped, four notes lower, and gave such another. I advised him to go to England. His name was Naldi. But let me see—oh—we were talking about modinhas. Why, sir, the fact is this—if you want to hear what I call the vernacular basis of the modinha, you must go up among the hills, a few leagues out of Lisbon."

"I suppose," said I, "my best plan will be to go by the mail."

"Yes," replied he; "any one in Lisbon will show you the booking office: unless, by the bye, you prefer palanquin, in which case I would advise you to order relays of black bearers from Jigitononha; or, you might do it on two donkeys. Well, sir; when you're up there in the mountains, among the goats, wolves, wild buffaloes and rhododendrons, the altitude about corresponding to latitude 66° N. in Europe, and to—let me see—latitude—say latitude 50° in the United States—of course you'll feel hungry. Step into the first hotel. But I'd advise you—don't order three courses; you'll find it come expensive; better rough it with something light—say a beef-steak and a bottle of port. That buffalo beef, capital. Port—let me see—are you particular in your port? Better ask for the Algarve sort. Well, sir; after you have dined, just step out into the village—walk into the first wine-shop. You'll probably find half-a-dozen peasants there—big, muscular, broad-chested, good-humoured-looking fellows—goatherds and all that kind of thing. Look out for the chap with the guitar—you'll be sure to find him in the wine-shop; order a quart tumbler of wine—just taste it yourself—then hand it to him—and tell him to play. The moment he has tossed off the tipple, he begins tinkling. The other six fellows stand up; throw back their shoulders; bulge out their chests; and begin smirking, winking their little black eyes, snapping their fingers, and screwing their backs in such an extraordinary manner as you never beheld—all in cadence to the guitar. That's the first access of the musical oestrum. The guitar goes on—strum—strum—strum—a low monotonous jingle, just two or three chords. That's the accompaniment to the singing that's about to begin. At length, one of the fellows commences—air and words both extempore; perhaps something amatory, Minha Maria, minha querida; or, it may be, something satirical, if they see anything quizzable—something about yourself. While that first fellow is singing, the chap next him stands, still winking, screwing, smirking, snapping his fingers; and begins, as soon as the other has done. So it goes on, till all the half-dozen have had their turn. But the curious thing is this: though all the songs are different, different in the tema, different in the style, different in the compass of voice, different in the pitch, different in the words, the same accompaniment does duty for all: the chap with the guitar goes on, just tinkling the same chords, till the whole is finished. Then, if you want it da capo, give him another tumbler of wine. If you've had enough, why, then, you know, you can just fork out a moidore or two, tell them to divide it, and take your leave,—that is, if you don't want to see the fight for the money: but that's not worth your while; mere rough and tumble, with a little knifing. Only mind; don't give dollars or patacas. They prefer gold."

I really thought I was now trotting Captain Gabion, who was a musical amateur. Villain! he was operating to clap the saddle on me, in a way I little suspected. "Then," said I, "each of these fellows, I suppose, has sung a modinha."

"Why, no; not exactly that, neither," said the Captain. "I'll tell you. Curious sort of music it is, though; the national music, in fact. When you see one of those big athletic fellows expanding his chest, sucking his breath, his whole pulmonary region heaving, labouring with the song he is going to sing, why, of course you'd expect him to break out like a clap of thunder. But, instead of that, forth comes from his big throat a very mouse-like issue of those mountain throes; an attenuated stream, not altogether unmusical though, of growling, grunting, squeaking cadences—for the compass of their voices is perfectly astonishing—a string of wild and rapid trills, very short notes, very long notes, mostly slurred, never staccato; and, if you should happen to notice, similar, in its intervals, to the music of Scotland. With your musical knowledge, of course you understand what I mean by intervals. Well, sir; that sort of mountain music is what I call the national basis of the Portuguese modinha. Take one of those wild airs, arrange it scientifically, with suitable symphonies, accompaniment, and all that sort of thing—no difficulty to you—the modinha is then complete."

This was by no means a bad theory of the modinha of those days; an Italian graft upon the native stock; a scientific modification of the music of the peasantry; so wild, so expressive, so sweet, so thrilling, never have I heard songs to compare with those old modinhas. Once, at a party in the house of a Lisbon lady, we persuaded her married daughter to sing; a round, fat, rosy-brunette little dump of a woman, famous for singing modinhas. She kindly took her guitar, spat in her handkerchief, and gave us them in such style as I have never but once heard since—and then the fair vocalist was not a Portuguese. What rich expression, what rises and falls, what rapid execution, what accurate intonation, what power, what tenderness, what point, in that soft, flexible, delicate, yet rich, full, brilliant, and highly-cultivated voice! Alas, the modinha of that day is rapidly passing into oblivion. It has yielded in Lisbon society to a new style of songs, still called modinhas, the words generally native, as they used to be; but the music, modern Italian—utterly destitute of sentiment; a constant straining at effect, and a constant failure.

"I understand," said I, "that in every part of the Peninsula you meet with a kind of songs that may be called local."

"Yes," said the Captain; "all, if I may so say, provincial; all peculiar; all highly characteristic; and all excellent. Even the occasional songs are good as compositions; that is to say, songs which refer to politics, passing events, and so forth. Did you ever hear this?" He gave Ya vienen los Ingleses.

"Very pleasing, and very lively," said I. "This is in the same style." I began to strike up Quando el Pepe JosÉ.

"Don't let's have any more Spanish," said the Captain. "Sing something Portuguese." I gave Os soldados do comercio.

"Quite humorous," said he, "but very pleasing music. This is the Portuguese national song." He gave Eis, Principe excelso.

"Some of the satirical songs," said I, "are very well set." I gave Estas senhoras da moda. The Captain, I observed, looked at his watch. Little dreamt I the traitor was working against time.

"This, now," said he, "is what may be called the sentimental style; short, but expressive, like the serious epigram of the Greek Anthology." He gave Tu me chamas tua vida.

"The finest I have heard, though," said I, "in that style, is the Spanish song—"

"No, no," said the Captain; "give us something Portuguese; something by an old Padre. They are the fellows that knock off the best modinhas." I gave Fui me confessar.

The conclusion of this my third song was followed by loud shouts of laughter, a general clapping of hands, and cries of "Encore! encore! bravo! viva! encore! encore!" I turned, and stood the centre of a semicircle! Around me were ranged the delighted, applauding passengers; the Colonel, the Major, Capsicum, Pledget, Gingham, Mr Belvidere, Joey, and, oh! leaning on Joey's arm, the lovely Juno; the whole Party, at my expense, in the highest possible state of hilarity. The skipper in the background, leaning on the binnacle, stood surveying the whole transaction with his face set in a sarcastic scowl, as though it had first been cast in plaster of Paris, and then painted with red ochre. Kitty's bonnet appeared on the level of the deck, projecting from the cabin stairs. Near her, profuse in soft attentions, stood the Colonel's flunkey, lavishing winks and winning simpers. Immediately above me, in the shrouds, with his face downwards, like a monkey in a tree, hung Snowball the nigger; his two eyes, full of wonder and delight, gloating like a basilisk's, and projecting like a skinned rabbit's; his mouth extended across his face in so broad a grin, you'd have thought his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The applause having a little subsided, each in turn paid me a compliment. Juno, the enchanting saucy witch, dropped me a demure and very low curtsy, begged to thank me, and precipitately put her handkerchief to her face. Gingham advised me to cultivate my voice; begged to assure me I had very good taste, and only wanted modulation, flexibility, accuracy, and execution, with a little attention to time and tune, and care to avoid passing into the wrong key—nay, had no doubt, if I took pains, I should some day acquire an ear. Just when I was annoyed past bearing, Pledget, tittering with ecstasy, whispered at my elbow, "Capital joke! the Captain did it admirably. Almost as good as puppies!—puppies!—puppies!"

"Your compliment last, sir," said I, "comes in the proper place. Allow me to designate it as it deserves—the ass's kick."

Pledget turned a little pale, and drew up; said something that seemed to stick in his throat, about "lions roaring, and asses braying."

We were on the edge of a regular tiff. The general garrulity dropped into a dead silence, and the whole party looked concerned. The Colonel at once interposed, and insisted on our shaking hands. This operation was performed accordingly, as in such cases provided, with immense cordiality on both sides.

"Captain Gabion, I'll trouble you for a dollar," said the Major.

"No, no; I'll trouble you for a dollar," replied the Captain.

"How do you make that out?" said the Major. "You've lost; that's evident."

"What do you mean by lost?" said Captain Gabion. "Didn't I make Mr Y— sing three songs within the given time? Hadn't I two minutes over, when he finished the last? Weren't they all three Portuguese? I took good care of that. Wasn't that our bet?"

"Yes, Captain; all right," said the Major. "But one of your songs was Spanish. That was an infringement."

"Didn't understand any condition of that sort," replied Captain Gabion. "All the party heard the bet. Let the company decide."

One said one thing, one another. By common consent it was referred to Gingham, who had held his tongue. Gingham decided that the Captain had lost.

"Very well," said the Captain, "then I have had all my trouble for nothing. Rather hard, though, to sing three songs yourself; get three more out of a gentleman that has a particular objection to singing, in forty minutes; and then have to pay a dollar besides. However, book it, Major. Very kind of you, though, Mr Y—: equally obliged. Trust you'll often favour us." We all went below to prepare for dinner; but I had not heard the last of my singing.

We were now on the look-out for Cape Villano, and began to feel the N. wind which blows down the W. coast of the Spanish Peninsula ten months in the year. This wind, as you get further to the S., is generally attended with a clear sky. But in our present latitude, meeting the upper or S.W. current of air, which comes charged with the vapours of the Atlantic, it produced incessant rain. The rain commenced, as indeed rain often does commence, about three o'clock P.M., and kept us below all the evening; obliging us also to lay-to till daybreak, as the skipper did not like to run nearer in by night, with such weather.

From dinner to tea we managed to crack on, without finding the time hang heavy on our hands. After tea the conversation was resumed, but in the course of an hour or two began to flag; when Gingham enlivened it by volunteering his services in brewing a bowl of punch. The offer was received with tumultuous applause; except that Capsicum, who thought nobody understood brewing so well as himself, politely expressed a doubt as to Gingham's capabilities. Gingham avowed, with much seriousness, that he "yielded in punch-making to no man." A discussion arose, in the course of which I ventured to move, and it was carried, that a bowl of punch should be brewed by each, and that the company should award the palm after finishing both.

Capsicum brewed first. The materials were not wanting. The steward brought rum, brandy, lemons, all the etceteras. Gingham, chivalrous in his rivalry, tendered limes in lieu of lemons: "always took a few when he travelled—got them in Pudding Lane." Capsicum's sense of honour would have declined the limes; but the company ruled otherwise. The bowl was brewed—a perfect nosegay—and stood smoking in the centre of the table. In a very short time after, each man had his quantum before him.

"Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, (chairman,) "punch is nothing without harmony. I beg leave to call on Mr Y— for a song." Much applause. "Hear! hear! hear! A song by Mr Y—! hear! hear! hear!"

I had not quite recovered the adventure of the morning, and was far from disposed to sing. Had sung enough for one day—felt rather hoarse—begged to decline—but all in vain: the company would take no denial. I was obstinate. Joey began to talk of keelhauling; the Major suggested the old mess fine, a sugared oyster; while a soft admonition was heard in the distance, "The bird that can sing, and that won't sing, must be made to sing."

Not to sing was just then a principle as fixed in my mind as any theorem in the first six books of Euclid. The company became peremptory. At length, tired of saying no, I rose, and begged leave to ask the chairman whether, if I sang, I should have the usual privilege of calling on any other gentleman present. The chairman hesitated to reply. He saw his position: I might call upon him. I now had the best of it. The chairman laughed, leaned over to Capsicum, and whispered a remark about "generalship." Capsicum growled out something, of which I could only distinguish "jockey" and "young fox."

I was still on my legs, and continued,—"Well, Mr Chairman, as my very equitable proposal is not met so promptly as I anticipated, would it not be better if the company resolve, instead of extorting a solitary song from an individual who has already contributed largely this day to the common stock of amusement," (hear! hear! hear!) "that every person present should either sing a song, or tell a story?"

CHAPTER VI.

The Colonel looked quite relieved; the company, also, appeared content. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "as it seems to meet your approval, suppose we accept Mr Y—'s proposition. I will begin. Sooner, any day, tell a dozen stories, than sing one song. My story, at any rate, like Captain Gabion's last song this morning, when he had only twelve minutes to spare, will have the merit of being short.—A little more punch, if you please.—Allow me, then, to break ground, by relating an anecdote of my esteemed and much-lamented friend

MAJOR KRAUSS.

Some of you knew the Major well—are doubtless aware, also, that in a fit of excitement, which led to temporary insanity, he fell by his own hand. The circumstances, however, which gave occasion to that melancholy event were known only to myself. At the time when we were forming and drilling the Portuguese army, which afterwards proved so effective in the field, the Major and I were both stationed in winter-quarters at L—. In the same town were two regiments of newly-raised Portuguese cavalry, which it was requisite to have in complete efficiency against the opening of the campaign in the spring. The Major—a stiff hand I need not say, a regular Titan of the German school—was appointed to drill one; and I, for want of something to do, undertook the other. In this duty, there sprang up between us a little rivalry, amicable of course, as to which of us should first have his regiment ready. The Major had his own ideas; and, I thought, teazed his men, and exacted too much. He had an eye to a field-day; I had an eye to actual service. Foreigners say, we teach our cavalry everything, except pulling up. But I can tell you, before an enemy superior in force, and pressing you too close, nothing acts more effectually as a check, than riding through them. Well, we both drilled according to our views. One morning the Major announced to me, that he considered his regiment perfect, and that I must go with him and inspect it. We went. He put them through; I looked on; they performed admirably. Finally, he drew them up in line. Riding to the front, he surveyed his work with pride. Then, taking a flank position, he made me notice how accurate the perspective—every sabre sloped at the same angle, everything in its place—you might have stretched a gardening line from one end of the regiment to the other. Just then, unfortunately, a new idea entered the Major's mind: he proposed riding to the rear. Away we went. Alas! his discipline had not extended to the horses' tails! Every tail was whisking: horses, Spanish and Portuguese—all long tails, no cock-tails—every tail in motion. In front, they stood like a wall: in the rear, it was whisk, whisk, whisk,—swirl, swirl, swirl—switch, switch, switch—all down the line. It was too much for the poor Major. He was perfectly dumfounded—looked like a man out of his wits—took a hasty leave—rode home to his billet, and shot himself. I now beg leave to call on Mr Y—, for either a story or a song."

"I thought Major Krauss was still living," said Pledget.

"Mr Capsicum," said the Colonel, "have the kindness to fill Mr Pledget a bumper. Always the fine, you know, if any one calls a statement in question, when story-telling is going on. Now, if you please, Mr Y—."

"Gentlemen," I said, "I have seen nothing of service, and little of the world. Perhaps, therefore, you will permit me to relate an anecdote, which I had from a near relative of mine, a naval officer; and which remarkably illustrates the characteristic coolness of British seamen. It was the act of a common sailor, who bore among his messmates, in consequence, the name of

SLUICY SAM.

It was at the evacuation of Toulon. My aforesaid relative was then a lieutenant, and had been landed with a party from his ship, to take charge of one of the forts in the harbour. When Buonaparte, through the remissness of our Spanish allies, took the hill which commanded the anchorage, and we were forced to withdraw, the lieutenant received orders to bring off his party, and the ammunition which had been landed from the ship. There were several barrels of gunpowder to be brought away. These were stowed in the after part of the boat, between the officers and the men, to be under inspection; and were set on end, to save room. In pulling for the ship, the boat had to pass another fort, which was on fire. The English, you know, on coming away, burnt everything they could—that is, I mean, everything connected with the public service, ships, stores, storehouses, buildings. Just as the boat was passing, the fort blew up. The fragments of the explosion filled the air; and a rafter charred with fire fell into the boat, stove in the head of one of the powder-barrels, and stood upright in the powder. Its superior extremity was still burning. There was a dead silence. The men went on pulling, as if nothing had happened. In an instant they might all be blown to atoms. It seemed the easiest thing in the world to seize the smoking and crackling brand, pluck it out of the powder, and throw it into the sea. But that, doubtless, would have been instant destruction; one spark, shaken off in the operation and falling, would have done the business. Everybody saw the hitch. Still the men pulled away. It wouldn't do to stir the brand; and it evidently wouldn't do to leave it where it was. "Ship your oar, Sam," said the lieutenant. Sam, did so. Not a word more was spoken, or necessary. Sam coolly took off his hat, dipped it into the sea, filled it, carefully and thoroughly sluiced the whole surface of the exposed powder in the barrel; and then, having in this way made all safe, slowly drew the rafter out of the barrel, and pitched it overboard.—I beg here to call on Mr Commissary Capsicum."

"Well, gentlemen," said Capsicum, "I will tell you another boat-story; and though the care of Providence was singularly illustrated in the wonderful preservation which Johnny has just related, I think it appeared quite as remarkably in the case which I am about to relate, of

THE MAN THAT WASN'T DROWNED.

I am now a military commissary; I was once a naval one. I made my debut in the British service as a captain's clerk, and sailed in that capacity on board the Negotiator, 74, which was under orders for Lisbon. On our arrival in the Tagus, we found there the Protocol, 120, the Pacificator, 100, the Persuasive, 80, the Conciliator, 74, the Preliminary, 50, the Envoy, bomb, and the Intervention, fire-ship. The next day, the captain of the Protocol came on board, and was invited by our own skipper to stay and dine. But he knew the Lisbon weather too well—foresaw a gale; and, not relishing the idea of getting a wet jacket in returning at night to his ship, persuaded our skipper to go and dine with him. The Negotiator's boat was to fetch the skipper. Sure enough, the wind freshened about sunset, and in an hour or two it began to blow great guns. Our boat went, however, as arranged. Nasty work, boating at Lisbon. You may think it's nothing, in harbour. But I can tell you this—whenever there's a storm at sea, there's sure to be a little hurricane in the Tagus. No matter what's the direction of the wind outside—in the Tagus you have it right up or right down. Well, gentlemen, Protocol advised Negotiator not to think of returning such a night as that—offered him a shake-down on board—assured him he'd be swamped—all to no purpose; Negotiator would go, as his boat was come. Just as they were leaving the ship's side, one of the boat's crew fell overboard. Every effort was made to recover him, but with what success you may easily suppose. The tide was running down like a torrent; the wind came roaring up from the bar, and lashed the water into froth and fury; the spray half filled the boat; it was pitch-dark. All was done that could be done, but to no purpose: the man was given up for lost; the boat returned to the ship. The skipper came into the cabin quite sorrowful-like, that he had lost one of his best men, but didn't forget to tell me to jump down into the boat, and see to the handing up of half-a-dozen fine melons, presented to him by Protocol. Down I went, in the dark, over the ship's side, got into the boat, groped about, found five melons and handed them up; couldn't find the sixth. I was just stepping out of the boat to return on board, when the thought struck me, what a blowing-up I should get from the skipper, when I told him a melon was missing. I paused, renewed my search, happened to put my hand down to the gunnel of the boat, to support myself in stooping. My hand lighted upon something; it wasn't the gunnel. I felt it—pitch-dark; couldn't see the tip of my own nose. It was a man's foot! I felt further—a man's leg! Someone was hanging on, outside the boat, with his heel uppermost, and his head under water. I held him fast by the leg, and sung out for help. The man was got on board insensible, and to all appearance past recovery. When he fell overboard alongside the Protocol, he had hooked on by his foot, and in that way had been dragged under water all the time they had been rowing about in the dark to find him, as well as afterwards, while they were pulling for the ship. We all thought him a dead man. The doctor said, 'No: if he had been, he would have let go.' Doctor ordered a sailor's flannel shirt and a kettle of boiling water; had the patient stripped, and laid in hot blankets; rolled up the flannel shirt into a ball, poured into it the boiling water, and clapt it to the pit of his stomach." (Here Pledget took out his tablets, and made a note.) "What with this, and other gentle restoratives," continued Capsicum, "the man recovered. The skipper, glad as he was when the doctor reported it, didn't forget to give me a good blowing-up for the melon, which I suppose one of the boat's crew had grabbed in the dark."

"Of course he didn't forget that," said Joey, who had listened to this narrative with professional interest. "Pray, do you happen to know what time elapsed from the man's falling overboard till he was unhooked?"

"The little dog forgot to mention," replied Capsicum.

"What little dog?" said Joey eagerly. "I am quite an animal man. I am particularly fond of dogs."

"The little dog whose tail curled so tight, that it lifted him off his hind legs. Will you oblige us, Mr. Gingham?"

"It is extraordinary enough, gentlemen," said Gingham, "that though three most interesting anecdotes have been related, we have not yet had either a ghost story, a love story, or a touch of the pathetic. The first of these omissions I will now endeavour to supply, by relating an occurrence which befel me during the short time I was at school, and in which the party most prominent was a strange sort of an individual, who went among the boys by the name of

THE CONJUROR.

He was our writing-master. He was our ciphering-master. He was also our drawing-master. He was a foreigner. Not a boy in the school knew whence he came; but he certainly was not an Englishman. In person he was gaunt and uncouth. He was a mild, quiet sort of a man; but his eye had a sinister expression, and he was savage when provoked. It was commonly reported among the boys, not only that he could do extraordinary conjuring tricks, but that he was a master of magic, far deeper and darker than legerdemain. He lived alone in a solitary cottage, which, with its garden and long shrubbery, skirted the road, about a mile out of the town where was our school. This cottage had never been entered by any of the boys; strange stories were told about it; and we viewed it with a sort of awe. You must know the gentleman in question had a remarkable habit of sitting. When he came to us at one o'clock, he immediately took his seat at his desk; and never rose till his two hours were up. This circumstance suggested to my mind a conjuring trick, to be played off on the conjuror. One day, just before his arrival, I spread some shoemakers' wax on his bench; and afterwards, when he was fairly seated, I gave out among the boys that I had conjured the conjuror, and that at three o'clock he wouldn't be able to go. The boys were all expectation. It struck three. He attempted to rise—an unseen power held him fast. At length, amidst much tittering, he contrived to get free; but only by extricating himself from that part of his habiliments which was in immediate contact with the bench. He did not exactly pull them off; but, poor man! he was obliged to pull himself out of them. The master lent him another pair; he went home filled with rage, but perfectly cool, having first contrived to identify the culprit; and his own, having been carefully detached with a hot knife by the master's daughter, Miss Quintilian, as the boys called her, were sent after him with a message of kind condolence, packed by her fair hands in a brown paper parcel, into which I contrived to slip a fig-leaf. Next day he reappeared at the usual hour. All went on smoothly for about a fortnight. At the end of that time, one afternoon when I was showing up my sum, he addressed me, observing that I had always been particularly diligent with my arithmetic, and that, as the holidays were at hand, he hoped I would do him the favour of drinking tea with him that evening. Some of the boys tried to frighten me—said he bottled the thunder and lightning, and kept it corked down, ready for use—oh, wouldn't he give me a touch of it? Others encouraged me. I went. Tea over, he told me that he had contrived a little exhibition for my amusement; then flung open the folding doors of the parlour, and disclosed a large sheet, hanging as a curtain in the doorway. 'I must go into the next room,' said he, 'and take the candles with me, or you will not be able to see the exhibition.' He withdrew, leaving me alone in the dark, went into the next room, and commenced the exhibition—a sort of phantasmagoria—to me, sufficiently surprising; for the phantasmagoria had not at that time been brought before the public. One of the figures was a whole-length likeness of myself, which suddenly vanished, and was replaced by a skeleton. The exhibition finished, the conjuror returned with the lights; and, by way of supper, treated me to a glass of negus and a slice of seed-cake. He then intimated that it was time for me to think of playing the Bedfordshire march, but that before I went he had something to say to me, if I would follow him into the next room. We adjourned: and there, amongst other strange sights, I saw one of the identical bottles containing the thunder and lightning—expected to be blown up sky-high. The conjuror now addressed me. Alluding to the unfortunate affair of the wax, he remarked that his conduct to me had been uniformly kind; that he had always encouraged me, commended my diligence, and helped me in my difficulties. Then, in an appealing tone, he inquired how I could have made such an ungrateful return, as to play him that horrid trick of the wax. At the same time opening a drawer, and producing his corduroys, he pointed out to me their damaged condition, and put it to my best feelings, whether that was the way to recompense kindness such as his. I felt at once that my conduct had been immeasurably bad, and most humbly expressed my compunction. 'No,' said he, 'that is not sufficient. The offence was public, so should be also the reparation. Promise me that to-morrow, before the whole school, you will come up to my desk and apologise.' Perhaps this was only just; but I hesitated. He pressed me; but I would make no such promise. 'Very well,' said he, 'it is now time for you to think of returning. You will be sorry for your obstinacy, perhaps, before you get back to the school.' He then accompanied me into the passage, and kindly helped me on with my greatcoat. 'The front door,' said he, 'is fastened for the night. Here, step out this way.' He led me through the back passage into the garden, and opened the garden-gate, outside of which was a field. 'There,' said he, 'follow that path, which runs along by the side of the shrubbery. When you have got to the end of it you will find a gate, which will let you into the road. Good night.'

The night was splendid—a sky without a cloud. The full moon, high up in the heavens, shed a lustre which gave to every prominent object the distinctness of day. But the shrubbery, as I skirted it to gain the road, was dark—dark—dark. At its extremity, however, the moment I emerged from the garden into the field, I descried the gate; and to that point, with my eyes fixed upon it, I directed my steps. Suddenly, to my no small surprise, the gate began to clatter and rattle, as if violently shaken by the wind. This was the more extraordinary, because the night was as calm as it was brilliant; not a breath of air was stirring. Nor was any creature visible; yet still the gate went on, rattle, rattle, clatter, clatter, as if shaking itself for its own amusement. Presently, as though violently pushed by invisible hands, the gate swung wide open; then began swinging backwards and forwards, swing, swing, backwards and forwards, first into the road, then into the field, with a bang of the latch at every swing. The last time it swung fieldways, it stood open of itself; suddenly fixed by an unseen power at its utmost range. Then appeared a tall dark form, gliding into the field through the gateway from the road, and descending towards me by the path. It was the form of the conjuror himself! Yet, in its appearance, there was something appalling, and, I may say, unearthly. It did not step out, neither did it altogether glide. With a motion compounded of the two, it first advanced one leg, then, after a long interval, the other, still moving towards me at a slow, uniform rate. One arm was solemnly extended, with the forefinger pointing to the moon: and, as the tall image approached and passed me, I could distinctly discern the uplifted visage of the conjuror, stern but calm, his head turned slightly on one side, his brow knit, his eyes fixed upon the moon. Without looking behind me to see what became of him after he passed, I hurried on; and had already arrived within about fifty paces of the gate, when it again began to rattle and swing as violently as at first—again stood open—and again the same form appeared, gliding, as before, from the road into the field, and descending towards me down the path. The arm was still extended; the finger still pointed majestically to the moon; the movement also, a mixture of striding and sliding, was still the same. But the conjuror's face, not turned as before towards the moon, was this time directed towards me. The eyes glared full in mine—but, oh, what eyes! They had stolen the gleam of the luminary on which they were fixed before; each eye was a moon! the window of a brain that glowed internally with a white heat! With a look of horrid vacuity fixed on my face, again it passed; and I, not at all coveting a third interview, cut away for the gate, and up the road homewards. I had no recollection of what occurred afterwards, till I was roused from my slumbers next morning by Miss Quintilian, who stood by my bedside with a lump of sugar and something nice in a teacup, which, she said, her pa had ordered me to take. We broke up, returned to school after the holidays, and found a new writing-master, the conjuror's cottage shut up, and the conjuror himself gone—nobody knew whither. Miss Quintilian said she would tell me how he went, if I promised not to mention it to her pa:—she had seen him with her own eyes, riding away over the church, astride on a broomstick.—Now, sir," added Gingham, bowing to Mr Belvidere, "I trust that you will favour us. By the bye, Colonel, before We proceed, hadn't I better brew my promised bowl of punch?"

"My story will be a very short one," said Mr Belvidere, who spoke little, and, as it afterwards appeared, had a mighty matter on his mind.

"The punch will take no time," said Gingham. "I have everything ready."

The chairman, governed by the evident sense of the company, awarded priority to the punch. Gingham stepped aside, the steward was smart with the kettle, and in less than two minutes a fresh bowl was on the table. With such punch in Olympus, suffice it to say, nectar had soon become a drug. The chairman now called on Mr Belvidere, who proceeded forthwith to relate

THE TRIAL.

"I was once staying at Bath, about fifteen years ago, and, while there, became very thick with the officers of an English cavalry regiment. One day, when I dined at the mess, it so happened that there was also present a young gentleman, a sub, who had joined that morning. It was a practice in many regiments, in those days, I suppose I need not mention, when a sub joined, to take the first opportunity of trying him, as it was called—that is, trying his mettle. In the present instance, the time fixed was dinner. The youth was quiet and well-bred, a little reserved, and apparently not quite at home. Doubts were expressed whether he would show pluck. When dinner was on table, and we were all assembled, the senior officer present politely requested the young stranger to take the office of vice; and he, with equal politeness assenting, seated himself at the bottom of the table. A grim-looking countryman of mine, the major of the regiment, a jovial red-faced off-hand sort of a personage, full of whisky and waggery, was the individual appointed to make the customary trial, and took his seat at table to the vice-president's left. Soup and fish removed, an attendant placed before the young gentleman a boiled leg of mutton. Presently the major, addressing him, said, 'I'll thank you for a bit of that vale.'—'I beg your pardon,' said Mr Vice; 'I rather think it's mutton, not veal: shall I have the pleasure of helping you?' The major made no reply. Presently the major began again: 'I'll thank you for a bit of that vale.'—'I tell you,' said the sub, 'it's not veal; it's mutton. Shall I give you some?' Again the major was silent. After a pause, the major renewed the attack: 'I'll thank you for a bit of that vale.'—'I'll soon let you know whether it's veal or mutton,' said the newly-arrived, jumping up. Then, with one hand seizing the leg of mutton by the knuckle, with the other the major by the collar, and wielding the gigot like a club, he banged it about the major's sconce till the company interposed. The major, fairly basted with half-raw gravy, and dripping with caper-sauce, flung up both his arms above his head, in an ecstasy of delight, and, exultingly waving his hands, exclaimed at the top of his voice, 'He'll do! he'll do!' Perhaps we shall now be favoured with a story or a song by Mr Staff-surgeon Pledget."

"Yes, yes," said the Colonel, laughing, "the old major took it all with a very good grace; a capital fellow he was, too. Sorry to say, one of his peepers got a little damaged, though, on the occasion. I could not do that, now that I am minus a claw."

"Why, Colonel d'Arbley!" said Mr Belvidere, looking the Colonel very hard in the face, "I really ought to apologise. Wasn't at all aware that the hero of my story was sitting at the head of the table. Ah, I see—I recollect. The same features; yes, exactly. I think, though, Colonel, you were not then quite so tall."

"Well," replied the Colonel, "I'm not quite sure that I had done growing. I entered the service young. Now, Mr Pledget, sir, if you please."

"I really feel quite at a loss, sir," said Pledget. "I have served in different parts of the world; but I positively never met with anything half so curious and interesting as the extraordinary incidents which I have heard this evening."

"Why, Pledget, man," said the Major, "you were on the expedition to Buenos Ayres. Come, tell us something about those lassoing fellows, or the lovely seÑoras, with their fine-turned ankles and slaughtering eyes."

"I'll tell you," said Pledget, "something that I picked up at the Cape, on the passage. It relates to a celebrated traveller, who was generally known at Cape Town by the name of

THE NATURALIST.

While we were lying at Table Bay, I resided for a few days on shore. It so happened that I took up my residence in the same lodgings which had formerly been occupied by the traveller in question, the well-known Mons. V—. The landlord, antiquated, good-humoured old Dutchman, delighted to talk of his illustrious guest, and told me anecdotes of him. V—, it appears, afforded the household much amusement. One day he had found what he considered a very curious green bug, which he placed, alive, in a paper box. The green bug, however, thought fit to make its escape from the box, and walked away. V—, soon missing the fugitive, was in an agony—searched the room—searched the house—ran about, asking everybody he met, had they seen his green bug? Meanwhile, watching an opportunity while V—'s back was turned, the landlord's son took a hair-pencil of green paint, and painted on a panel of the apartment an exact fac-simile of the green bug. Presently, in a perfect fever of excitement, the naturalist returned, still inquiring eagerly for his green bug. The family looked innocent, shook their heads, and said nothing. V— again began to search the room, till at length his eyes lighted on the panel. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'my green bug! Ah, I have finded you now, my dear little naughty green bug!' 'Ah non!' he added, after two or three ineffectual attempts to pick the picture off the panel—'ah non! it not is my little green bug!' Whether V— was near-sighted, I know not. But, if so, I can easily account for his mistaking a painted green bug for a real one; for, gentlemen, I am slightly near-sighted myself," said Pledget; "and last autumn, I do assure you, while I was out shooting on my brother's estate in Kent, a humble-bee got up right under my nose, and I actually blazed away at it with both barrels, mistaking it for a pheasant. I know it was nothing but a humble-bee; for my shooting companion, a young Oxonian, my own nephew in fact, positively assured me. I can't help thinking I must be a little near-sighted. Well, but that is not all about V—. The Dutchman one day, observing him so very curious in entomology, collected a variety of richly-coloured filaments from the plumage of birds, shreds of silk, &c.; then caught some fine blue-bottles; fastened the filaments to the blue-bottles with gum; and, when V— was out, turned the blue-bottles loose in his bedroom. V— came home—went direct to his sleeping apartment—the whole household, assembled and listening, stood outside in the passage. Presently the row began. V— was heard within, first uttering cries of astonishment and delight, then flouncing about the room, jumping over the bed, capsizing the water-jug, in hot pursuit of the nondescript varieties of the blue-bottle. At length a heavy bang was followed by a dead silence; then came a cry of piteous lamentation. The family entered, with sympathising looks. Poor V— had broken his shin, in an attempt to leap the table. The females rushed for brown paper and vinegar. The wounded man was extricated from the upturned legs of the table, and led out limping into the common apartment, to be doctored. The landlord, profiting by the opportunity, opened the bedroom window, and the blue-bottles escaped. The naturalist, who never knew by what means he had been beguiled, made frequent, and I need not say vain, inquiries, for similar 'prit littel bottle blue homing-beards.'—I beg leave to call on my friend the Major."

"I," said the Major, "as well as Captain Gabion, was on the retreat to Corunna, and now beg leave to relate an incident connected with

THE EMBARKATION.

After we had served out the French, on the heights there, just above the town, we had no farther trouble to signify, so far as they were concerned—a pretty deal, though, in getting our own army embarked. I was the last man on shore but two. Towards the close of the business, I went down to the place of embarkation—found old Blue Breeches (a sobriquet which I had in the morning been scandalised by hearing applied to my honoured father) there, the officer in charge, superintending. There he was, up to his knees in the surf, giving his orders, helping the wounded into the boats with his own hands, directing everything. Such a precious scene of noise and confusion I never witnessed. 'Hadn't you better embark at once, sir?' said he. 'No—I'd rather wait a while,' said I. 'Hadn't you better go in this boat?' said he. 'No, sir; I'll go in the boat you go in,' said I. 'Then you'll have to wait quite to the last; I intend to be the last man off,' said he. 'Very well,' said I. 'If you really mean to wait, sir, I shall have to request your assistance,' said he. Didn't quite understand what that meant, but determined to stick to Old Blue Breeches. Don't you see? It was my best card. You don't suppose I was going to be boated off to a transport, when I could go home in a seventy-four? Well, sir, at length the men were all embarked—the sick, the wounded, every man John of them. The last boat-load had shoved off, and there now only remained the captain's own gig, ready to take us on board. Of course, I expected we should be off, like the rest, without delay. No, no; Old Blue Breeches had a different way of doing business. He turns round to me, and says, 'I am, going to take a walk through the town, sir. Will you favour me with your company?' 'Should hardly think there was time for that, sir,' said I; 'but if it will answer any purpose, and you really mean to go, I shall be happy to go with you.' Thought some of the French might have got in. 'I want to look into the different wine-houses,' said he, 'just to see if there are any stragglers. Am ordered to bring all off: shouldn't like to leave a man behind.' Away we went—he, I, and old Powers, the Irish coxswain, almost as rum an old chap as Old Blue Breeches himself. He searched all the wine-shops for stragglers—found none. Besides our three selves, there wasn't an Englishman in Corunna. Came back through the sally-port that opened on the place of embarkation. At the sally-port Old Blue Breeches made a halt, rummaged in his pocket, brought out the key. 'Took care to secure this yesterday,' said he: 'just wait a moment, while I lock the door.' He locked it, and brought away the key. Down we went to the boat. I hung behind, wanting to be the last man off. Old Powers was playing the same game, but it wouldn't do. 'Now, sir, if you please,' said Old Blue Breeches; 'company first.' In I got. 'Won't I help yer honour in?' said Powers to Old Blue Breeches. 'No, no, old fellow,' said he; 'that won't do, you know. Get in first yourself, and help me in afterwards.' Powers grinned, and tumbled in over the stern. Old Blue Breeches got in last. We shoved off. 'Three cheers, yer honour?' said Powers, as he took his seat by the tiller. 'Ay, ay; three cheers,' said Old Blue Breeches; 'and may the French soon catch such another whopping.' Three hearty cheers by the boat's crew, and away we pulled for the ship. Old Blue Breeches and I, both of us pretty considerably done up. Neither spoke for some minutes. Thought I should like to have that key; took a fancy to it. 'I suppose you mean to keep the key?' said I. 'Indeed you may say that,' said he. 'I do mean to keep it; and I have got another to put to it. Last mail ashore here at Corunna; so I was at Toulon, in 1793. Then, also, I locked the gate, and brought away the key.' Now that's what I call cool.—Will you favour us, Captain Gabion?"

"I should esteem it a favor," replied the Captain, "if I might be permitted to tell my story last. Perhaps the gentleman opposite to me," (bowing to Joey,) "will have the kindness to take his turn now. Mine will then be the only one remaining. Mr Chairman, will you sanction this arrangement?" The chairman bowed. Joey began:—

"A previous narrator remarked, that no one had told either a ghost-story, a love story, or a pathetic story. The first deficiency he himself supplied; and, though I cannot say that I ever saw a ghost, I certainly never experienced anything so like seeing one, as while I listened to that extraordinary and appalling narrative. I, gentlemen, have no love story to tell, but I have a story of true pathos; and you shall hear it, if such is your pleasure."

In token of my acquiescence, I stepped to my berth, took out two white pocket-handkerchiefs, handed one to Joey, and kept the other ready for use.

"Gentlemen," said Joey, depositing the disregarded cambric on the table, "I will tell my story, but only on one condition. It is no fiction; and what I stipulate is this—that, since I relate it with a heart still wrung by recollection, as to men of manly feeling, and in perfect good faith, so you will listen with seriousness and sympathy."

We looked at each other. Each made up a face; all were grave, or appeared so; and Joey, with great earnestness of manner, and a voice husky with emotion, commenced the narrative of

THE MONKEY AND THE CAT.

"While I was serving on board the East India Company's cruiser the Jackal, we were one time employed surveying in the Persian Gulf. Being infested with rats, we one day requested our interpreter, when he went ashore, to bring off with him a cat from the nearest village. He returned, bearing in his arms, gentlemen, such an extraordinary specimen of feline beauty as, I will venture to say, has never graced a British menagerie, or sat upon any hearth-rug in the United Empire. Her elegance, her gentleness, her symmetry, I will not wrong, by attempting to describe: I should feel the poverty of the English language. Her two eyes had each a charm peculiar to itself. One was a pure celestial blue, the other green as an emerald. It was at once felt, by every officer on board, that a creature so superb was not to be employed in the vulgar office of catching rats. Our only thought was, to treat her with the care and tenderness which her beauty merited. As she was unquestionably the princess of cats, and as her coat was a soft tawny, in hue somewhat resembling the odoriferous powder of which our friend Mr Capsicum makes such copious use—combining the two circumstances, we agreed to call her Princeza. Princeza at once established herself as the pet of the ship. What wonder? We had no other domestic animal on board, save one solitary monkey—his name Jocko, his character, I grieve to say, a revolting compound of artifice, egotism, and low malignity.

But now a new circumstance arose, which increased our interest in the lovely Princeza. Almost immediately she arrived on board, it became evident, from unmistakable indications, that she was about to be a mother. Her interesting situation, indeed, might have been detected by an observant eye, when she first embarked. In anticipation of the earnestly expected event, it was decided that Princeza should be provided with every accommodation in the officers' cabin. A basket, appropriated to her use, was lined and half-filled with the warmest and softest materials; and in the cabin this basket was deposited. Not that we apprehended injury from the crew. Oh no! our only fear was, that Princeza and her expected little ones would be over-nursed, over-petted, over-fed—in short, killed with kindness. Judge, gentlemen, what were my emotions, when, one morning early, returning to the cabin from my duty on deck, I heard Princeza purring in her basket with more than usual vehemence, and discovered, on examination, that she had become the happy mother of four dear little lovely kittens." Here Joey's voice quite broke down. At length, mastering his emotions, he proceeded: "Well, gentlemen; anxious to examine the little interesting accessions, I softly introduced my hand into the basket. But Princeza was now a mother, and had a mother's feelings. Doubtless apprehending injury to her little offspring—ah! could I have injured them?—in an instant, poor thing, she got my hand in chancery. Her foreclaws, struck deep, held me faster than a vice; with her hind claws she rasped away the flesh, spurring like a kangaroo; while, with her formidable teeth, she masticated my knuckles. After admiring awhile this affecting illustration of maternal tenderness, I attempted to withdraw my hand. But, ah, gentle creature! she only struck her claws the deeper, spurred more vigorously, and chewed with redoubled energy. Only by assistance was I extricated; nor was my hand perfectly recovered, till a fortnight after Princeza was herself no more! Well, gentlemen; for greater security it was now resolved that, every night at eight o'clock, Princeza's basket should be set on the cabin table. There it was placed the first night; and next morning, one of the kittens was found—can I utter it?—dead! No malice was suspected: the disaster was attributed to natural causes. Another night came. We used no precautions. In the morning, we found another kitten—dead! Suspicion was now awake, but overlooked the real culprit. The third night, I determined to watch. The basket stood, as before, upon the table: Princeza, with her two remaining little ones, lay snug and warm within: a lamp, burning near the entrance, shed its light throughout the cabin; and I, with my curtain all but closed, kept watch within my berth. In the dead of the night, when all between decks was quiet, save the snoring of the men, the flitting of a shadow made me sensible that some one, or something, was moving in the cabin. Presently, approaching stealthily, like Tarquin, or Shakspeare's wolf, appeared—gentlemen, I saw it with my eyes—the form of Jocko! With silent grimaces, advancing on all fours, stealthily, stealthily, a step at a time, he approached, he reached the table. There awhile he paused; then threw a somerset, and alighted upon it. The moment he was landed, the pricked ears and anxious face of Princeza appeared above the basket. He approached. She stirred not, but continued to observe him, with all a mother's fears depicted in her countenance. Jocko now laid one paw upon the basket's edge. Still Princeza moved not. Blackest of villains! he cuffed her—cuffed her again—again;—in short, repeated his cuffs, till, terrified and bewildered, the unhappy mother leaped from the basket on the table, from the table on the floor, and flew out of the cabin. Then did that monster in a monkey's form quietly take her place, and settle himself down for a night's rest, in the midst of the warmth and comfort from which he had ejected the lawful tenant. All was now discovered. The double murderer of the two preceding nights lay housed and genial in that basket. Anxious to see and know the whole, up to this moment I had controlled myself. But now, too hastily, I rushed from my berth, to seize the detected culprit. The noise alarmed him. Snatching up a kitten in one paw he sprang from the cabin—on deck—up the rigging. Pursued, though it was night, he dodged his pursuers, taking advantage of the gloom. At length, hard pressed, seeing his retreat cut off and his capture inevitable, he dashed the kitten into the briny deep, and suffered himself to be taken. With difficulty I preserved him from the fury of the men. Suffice it to say, that night he was kept close prisoner in a hencoop, and, next morning, hanged. But oh, how shall I relate the sequel? The remaining kitten was found severely injured, crushed doubtless by Jocko's incumbent weight, and died within eight-and-forty hours. The mother, bereaved of all her little ones, went mewing about the ship as if in search of them, languished and pined away, refused all consolation, and expired about eight days after. We now became sensible of our loss in its full extent: and this, gentlemen, was felt by all on board to be the acme of our grief—the ship was left without a pet! Oh, could we have recalled Princeza and her kittens! Oh, could we have recalled even Jocko!"

At the conclusion of this tragic narrative, which was recounted to the end with unaffected feeling, the company awhile remained silent, respecting Joey's sensibilities. Joey looked very much as if my tender of the cambric had not been altogether superfluous. At length the conversation was renewed by Gingham.

"Your truly affecting story has a moral, sir. I am an observer of the habits of animals. Monkeys are very fond of warmth."

"Well, sir," replied Joey, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I should like to hear your moral at any rate."

"The fact is, sir," said Gingham, "on board ship, what is a poor wretch of a monkey to do? At night, probably, he is driven to the rigging. He would gladly nestle with the men, but the men won't have him; for, to say nothing of the general ridicule a fellow would incur by having a monkey for his bedfellow, ten to one the poor wretch is swarming with fleas as big as jackasses, to say nothing of enormous ticks in the creases of his dirty skin. Monkeys, sir, like dogs, scratch themselves a great deal, but cleanse themselves very little. Now depend upon it, when the weather is cold and the wind high, monkeys never sleep in trees. Is it likely then, on board ship, that they prefer sleeping aloft?—that is, if a monkey ever sleeps. Did you ever see a monkey asleep?"

"Can't say I ever did," replied Joey. "I have seen them nodding. But the moral?"

"The moral," said Gingham, "is simply this. The next time you sail with a monkey and a cat on board, if you provide a basket for the cat, provide another for the monkey."

"Obviously!" replied Joey. "Would we had thought of that on board the Jackal! Obviously!"

"May I ask," said Gingham, "how you contrived to hang the monkey?"

"Of course," replied Joey, "he was first pinioned."

"Exactly," said Gingham; "so I conjectured. Otherwise I should consider the hanging of a monkey no easy matter."

"Now, Captain Gabion, if you please," said the Colonel, interposing.

"The punch is nearly out," replied the Captain, "and, if I might be excused, I should really feel thankful for the indulgence. I have nothing to tell but an ugly dream; and that dream relates to a subject which, as I believe my military friends here present are aware, is constantly and painfully present to my mind. The less said about it the better."

"Come, come, Captain Gabion," said the Colonel; "never think of that, man. You'll see Old England again, I tell you, and rise to rank in the service. Come, give us your story."

It is well known that, among the officers who embarked for the Peninsula, there was occasionally one who quitted his native shores with a strong presentiment that he should never see them again, but fall in action. In such instances the mind retained the impression almost constantly. It was not the coward's fear of death—far from it. If ever it was forgotten, the moment was that of conflict and peril; and then, it was sometimes realised.

"Come, old fellow," said the Colonel; "your story, if you please."

The Captain was about to reply, when a musical voice, pitched in alto, was heard from the state-cabin:—"Kitty, Kitty, come down; come down, I tell you. You'll catch your death o' cold, standing there in the draught without your bonnet. Come down, child, this instant."

Kitty was now seen gliding from the foot of the cabin stairs into her mistress's apartment. The Colonel's keen eye glanced in that direction; ours took the same. A pair of legs was distinctly visible at the bottom of the stairs.

"Cupid, you villain! Cupid!" shouted the Colonel, "come here; come directly, sir. Aboard or ashore, that rascal never misses an opportunity of making love. Here, Cupid! Cupid!"

The Colonel's gentleman, with innocence pictured in his countenance, now entered, stepped quietly up to the foot of the table, and respectfully twitched his forelock.

"What are you about there on the cabin stairs, sir?" said the Colonel. "Can't you let the young woman be quiet, and be hanged to ye?"

"I vos owny a-cummin down into the cab'n, yer honour, jist to see if yer honour vaunted hennythink!"

The Colonel's gentleman, I ought to have stated before this, was an old light dragoon, and a Cockney. He had lost an eye, on the same occasion when the Colonel lost an arm; obtained his discharge; and from that time followed the Colonel's fortunes. His loss, I presume, had gained him the name of Cupid. He was a civil, well-behaved, handy fellow enough; had that particular way of speaking, emphatic, and gesticulatory, which distinguishes old soldiers who have got their discharge; made himself universally useful to the Colonel, and helped him to dress and undress, morning and evening, the Colonel being dependent from the loss of a fin. Cupid, in consequence, was a privileged person: had the entrÉe of the cabin at all times and seasons; and, being ready and sometimes sentimental in his replies, seldom made his appearance amongst us without being assailed with questions on all sides. The Colonel was now about to give him a regular jobation, but the Major struck in.

"I say, Cupid, very convenient for courtship those cabin stairs in rainy weather. Eh, Cupid?"

"Courtship, yer honour!" said Cupid. "I vosn't not a-doin nothink of the kind. I vos owny a-meditatin, like."

"Oh, meditating were you, though, Cupid?" said Captain Gabion. "Well, pray what were you meditating about? Come, tell us your thoughts."

"Vhy, sir," replied Cupid, "I vos a-meditatin upon the hair and upon the sea. Got plenty of bofe vhere ve now are; nothink helse, has I can see; so it vos owny natral I should meditate. And I vos jist a-thinkin this: that the hair is made for men, and the sea is made for fishes, heach for heach; and t'other von't do for nayther. Pull a fish hout of his own heliment hinto the hair, and he dies. And pitch a man hout of his own heliment hinto the sea, and he's drownded."

"Really, Cupid," said Capsicum, "that never struck me before. It's very curious."

"Wherry," said Cupid. "But, please yer honour, I thought of somethink helse, vitch I consider it's more kew-russer still. And that's this: that, though too much vorter drownds a man, and too much hair kills a fish, yit a fish can't do vithout a little hair, and a man can't do vithout a little drink." Cupid's eye, as if he had said too much, dropped, and fell upon the punch-bowl.

Amidst the general applause and merriment excited by this appeal, I pushed over a tumbler to Joey, who took up the punch-bowl, and soon transferred its remaining contents into the glass, which he handed, brimming, to Cupid. The next moment it stood empty on the table. Cupid smacked his lips.

"Cupid," said the Colonel in a tone of authority, "what's your opinion of that punch?"

"Pertickerly obleeged to yer honour," replied Cupid, "and to haul the company vot's present." Cupid then made a nip at his knee, as if suddenly bit; and, availing himself of the stoop, whispered Joey: "Please, sir, did the Cornal brew it hisself?" With a twitch of the mouth, and a twist of the eye, Joey indicated Gingham.

"Come, Cupid," said the Colonel, "I want a direct answer. Tell me your opinion of that punch." The Colonel had a plot.

"Bless yer art, yer honour," said Cupid.

"Come, speak up, sir," said the Colonel.

"Speak up, man," said Gingham.

"Vell, yer honour," said Cupid, "I haulvays speaks the troof, except I'm hordered the contary. Pleasant tipple, wherry. But if so be I hadn't not a' seed it in the punch-bowl, vhy, I shouldn't not a' knowed it vos punch, not no how."

"What drink do you like best, Cupid?" said the Major. "What d'ye think of water, now?"

"Vhy, I think this, yer honour," replied Cupid: "I'm a pertickler dislike to vorter; that's vot I think. I vouldn't ride no oss into no vorter, no, not for nothink."

"The fact is, gentlemen," said the Colonel, "Cupid thinks no man can brew a bowl of punch like himself. What say you?—shall we give him a trial?"

Capsicum consented—Gingham consented—we all consented. The third bowl of punch was carried by acclamation. Cupid retired to brew.

"If he beats mine," said Capsicum, "I'll give him half-a-guinea for the recipe."

"A guinea," said the Colonel, "with a promise not to communicate. Cupid never takes less."

Cupid returned with the punch-bowl, having executed the arcana aside. His punch had the aroma of arrack, though not arrack punch in the strict sense of the word. Capsicum's was a nosegay; Gingham's beat nectar; but Cupid's put them both out of court, by consent of the company. "Now, Captain Gabion," said the Colonel, "we'll trouble you for your story."

"Without disparagement of our previous brewers," said the Captain, "my feeling at the present moment is just this, that I never drank punch before. Well, gentlemen, if you will have it so, I proceed to relate

MY DREAM.

Some of the friends here assembled are well aware—why should I conceal it?—that, for several months past, a load has been pressing on my mind. They are also aware of the cause. I certainly have an impression that I shall never see England again. But how that impression began, they are not aware. What I am now about to relate will afford the explanation. Yet what is the subject of my narrative? A dream—a mere dream; and a dream easily accounted for by the circumstances in which it was dreamt. So it is. Colonel d'Arbley knows, the Major knows, that I never shrank from peril. I have faced death; to all appearance, certain death. And, unless I felt prepared to do the like again, I should not have been now returning to the army;—no, I would rather have quitted the service. Death I am prepared at any time to meet; yet this presentiment of death is a burden upon my spirits. By the bye, my glass is empty. Hadn't I better replenish it ere I begin?

You are aware, sir, that ill health, the effect of hard service and hard knocks, obliged me to return to England last spring. In the course of the autumn, I quitted Cheltenham, and resided at Woolwich. There, I was at a military party. We kept it up all night. Next morning, I was unexpectedly summoned to London; and, on my arrival, found work cut out for me,—papers to be prepared—public offices to be visited—lots of going about—lots of writing—all wanted instantly. Some parliamentary wretch had moved for returns, and I was to get them up. In short, the work could be done in time only by my again sitting up all night. It was on the day after these two sleepless nights that I had my dream. Where, do you think? And at what hour? At noon, with the sun shining above my head, on a bench in St James's Park.

I had just been calling in at the Horse-Guards for a chat, my business completed, the excitement over, and was proceeding westward on foot along the Birdcage Walk, when I began to feel nervous and done up. All at once, my faculties experienced a sort of collapse. My whole frame was seized with a deadly chill; I shivered spasmodically; my strength seemed gone; and I became most enormously drowsy. Just at that moment—I suppose it was some anniversary, a birthday perhaps—bang, bang, the Park guns commenced firing, close at hand. In the midst of the firing, I sat down on a bench, and, in no time, dropped asleep. Then began my dream.

It was a general action. The curious circumstance is, that I was still in the Park. The guns firing a holiday salute became the French position, which occupied the plateau of a low range of hills. At the foot of this range, in an avenue extending along its foot, was I alone. The firing went on, bang-banging, now no longer a feu-de-joie—the report was that of shotted guns. I heard not only their discharge, but the moan of the balls, and the whisk of the grape; yes, and the rattle of musketry, the shouts of men charging, and all that kind of thing. I saw the dust, the smoke, the occasional flash, quite as much as you can see of any battle if you're in it. Yet, all this time, I knew I was in the Birdcage Walk. Presently, in the direction of the Green Park, I heard a more distant cannonade, which was that of the British position. It was now time to change mine; for some of the shot from our guns began to pass up the avenue, close to me, tearing, rasping up the gravel, crashing among the trees, cutting down boughs, and rifting the trunks. Yet something kept me fixed. At length, looking in the direction of the British position, I distinctly saw a round-shot come hopping up the avenue—hop—hop—hop—nearer and nearer—but slowly—slowly—slowly; it seemed all but spent. Just when I thought it had done hopping, it took one more jump, and, with a heavy pitch, fetched me an awful polt in the right side. That moment I felt that I was a dead man; killed in action, yet by a friendly ball, and while sitting on a bench in St James's Park! The vision now passed. The noise and firing ceased; troops, smoke, dust—all the concomitants of combat vanished; the Birdcage Walk and its beautiful environs resumed their ordinary appearance.

Presently, while still sitting on the bench, I was accosted by a tall sallow-looking gentleman in black, who smirked, bowed, and handed me a letter with a broad black border—the seal, a tombstone and a weeping willow. It was addressed to myself—an invitation to attend a funeral. I pleaded my engagements—wanted to get back to Woolwich—begged to be excused. 'Sir,' said he, in courteous accents, 'you really must oblige us. Unless you are present, the funeral cannot take place. Hope you won't disappoint us, sir. I am the undertaker, sir.' I somehow felt that I had no choice, and went. The gentleman in black met me at the door.

Other parties were assembled at the mansion; but not one of the company—I thought it rather strange—either spoke to me, or looked at me, or showed the least consciousness of my presence. The undertaker was all attention; handed round black kid gloves; fitted first one with a hatband, then another; and, last of all, addressed me: 'Now, sir, if you please, this way, sir; we only wait for you, sir.' I followed him. He led me into an adjoining apartment, where stood the coffin, surrounded by mutes. I wished to read the name on the lid, but was prevented by the pall.

How we got to the place of interment, I recollect not. The only thing I remember is this: as I saw the coffin carried down stairs, hoisted into the hearse, conveyed, hoisted out, and at last deposited by the side of the grave—every movement, every jolt, every thump, seemed to jar my whole system with a peculiar and horrid thrill. The service was performed, the coffin was lowered, the grating of the ropes grated upon my very soul; and the dust sprinkled by the sexton on its lid blew into my mouth and eyes, as I stood by the brink of the grave, and looked on. The service concluded, the undertaker, attendants, and company withdrew; and, what d'ye think?—there was I left remaining in the burial-ground, with no companion but a solitary gravedigger! He set to work, and began shovelling in the clods, to fill the grave. I heard their thud; I seemed to feel it, as they rattled in quick succession on the lid of the coffin.

'You'll soon be filled in and all right, old feller,' said the gravedigger, as he proceeded with his work.

A strange idea had gradually occupied my mind. It seemed absurd—impossible; and yet it offered the only conceivable solution of my sensations at that horrid moment. I addressed the gravedigger,—

'My friend,' said I, 'have the goodness to inform me WHOSE funeral this is.'

'Whose funeral?' replied the gravedigger. 'Come, that's a good un. Vhy, it's YOUR OWN.'—I'll trouble you for a little more punch."