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^ F - 
 
 
* 
 
 Hv^^J^ 
 
 THE OLD LIEUTENANT 
 AND HIS SON. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 BY 
 
 NORMAN MACLEOD. D.D. 
 
 
 TORONTO : 
 BELFORD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 MDCCCLXXVI. 
 
 /^ -^^ 
 
y 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 A' 
 
 / / / / 
 
 Of 
 
 A 
 
 Pbintij) ANi") Bound 
 
 BT 
 
 Hdjmtbb, Rosb & Cu.t 
 
 TOBOM'fO. 
 
 
 Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one 
 thousand eight hundred and seventy-six, by Belfobd Bbothebs, in the 
 office of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
^ 
 
 ti 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 f 
 
 i 
 
 OEDICATEO 
 
 10 
 
 TUB PUBLISHERS OF 'GOOD WORD&' 
 
 WITH THB 
 
 CINCEKfi RESPECT AND PERSONAL BSTBBAV 
 
 tw 
 
 TtfE MDITOR. 
 
 MMMMBiaiMiaii 
 
n' 
 
 # 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 Why should a man, who is 'some fifty,' apolo* 
 gize to the public for beginning to^ tell stones 1 
 Is not this a very common phenomenon *at his 
 time of life)' I have indeed no good reason to 
 give for writing this tale, except one — which, after 
 'Ul, is no reason, but the mere statement of a fact, 
 that I could not help it ! When I began to write 
 about the Old Lieutenant, it was my intention 
 merely to occupy a chapter or two of Good Words 
 with a life -sketch gathered from memories of the 
 past But the sketch grew upon me. Persons, 
 and things^ and scenes, came crowding out of the 
 darkness ; and while I honestly wished to mould 
 them for practical good, I felt all the while more 
 possessed by them than possessing them. My own 
 half- creations became my tyrants ; and so I was 
 driven on, and on, from chapter to chapter, until, 
 fortunately for myself, and much more for my 
 
 
•f"-W' 
 
 fin 
 
 Preface, 
 
 readers, the end of the volume, and the end of the 
 year, forced me to stop. 
 
 Having taken, however, the first bold step of pub- 
 lishing the stoiy in Good WordSy the second which I 
 now take, of publishing it separately, can hardly 
 nfiake matters better or worse for me. An unautho- 
 rized edition being issued in America, confirms me 
 jn my resolution to publish a corrected one here. 
 
 I have only further to state, that as the story was 
 Arritten and published month after month, amidst 
 the grave and heavy labours of a large parish, a few 
 changes are made, which would have been unneces- 
 sary had it been first written as a whole before 
 publication. 
 
 With these explanations I send the 'Old Lieu- 
 tenant and his Son' once more on their voyage. 
 May they do harm to none* out do good to many 1 
 
 k\ 
 
 !\. 
 
THE OLD LIEUTENANT 
 
 AND HIS SON. 
 
 
 v; 
 
 v^ 
 
 CHAPTER 1 
 
 ABOUT OLD NED AND HIS HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 I HAVE an instinctive admiration for old officers 
 of both services. There are, no doubt, ' old salts ' 
 and 'old roughs' among them^ as there are in all 
 professions individuals who, by their lives, contradict 
 the spirit of their professionr; ; yet, as a class, they are 
 gentlemen in the true sense of the word, considerate 
 and courteous, with a quiet, dignified self-respect 
 They look as if consciously representing a great body 
 which had done noble deeds, and gained renown 
 by sacrifices for the good of the country and of 
 the world. I have observed, too, that old officers 
 have a great sense of justice, not in its broad 
 and palpable applications only, but when thes9 
 
"T^'^^^WP" 
 
 2 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 require the nice discernment of cultivated minds. 
 I would sooner trust my life and honour to a 
 jury of old officers, if they were able thoroughly 
 to comprehend the facts of the case, than to one 
 selected from any other body of * professionals ' on 
 
 earth. 
 
 There is also something more or less attractive to 
 the fancy in those who have sumveJ the 'great wars/ 
 Dreams of the past hover around them. Look at 
 that ' Navy-man 1' How much has he seen from the 
 time he joined his ship at Plymouth or Portsmouth, 
 long before the parents of most of us were married, 
 until he left on half-pay ! what seas he has sailed 
 over ; what days and nights of heat and cold, of 
 gale and hurricane, he has experienced ; what watch- 
 ings, anxieties, expeditions, and adventures he has 
 shared in ; what strange characters he has met with ; 
 what odd, out-of-the-way scenes and places he has 
 visited; and what a halo of romance invests his 
 engagements, 'affairs,' chases, cuttings - out, and 
 great sea-fights, in ships that have been like the 
 watchful genii of our grand old nation, and whose 
 names are historical ! Who can look at his weather- 
 beaten face, shining with good -nature, his large 
 tiands, steady eye, and strong, active build, so hale 
 and hearty, adorned with blue coat and brass but- 
 cons, without feeling irresistibly drawn towards him I 
 Brave old fellow ! with thy few shillings a day, how 
 
and his Son. 
 
 i honour thee above a score of mere money-makers 
 with a thousand pounds for every button on that blue 
 dress-coat, now getting tight for thee ! 
 
 Look, too, at his worthy brother, the old soldier ; 
 with more ceremony and manner than Jack; less 
 of the ^ stand at ease,' and more of the * 'tention I' 
 *eyes richt!* but most reliable in those emergen* 
 cies of life where tact, judgment, and quiet un- 
 demonstrative friendship are required ; and equally 
 reliable for formal parties, marriages, baptisms, 
 and funerals. The old soldier is clean, erect, tidy ; 
 a delightful Captain Shandy, or Corporal Trim 
 promoted. He, too, is full of rousing memories 
 from the past, of marches, bivouacs, skirmishes, and 
 ' hard pounding ' in Spain and Portugal, culminating 
 in the memorable Waterloo. 
 
 Alas ! * the old guard' by sea and land are vanish- 
 ing from our sight like dreams; but may we and 
 our children's children never forget what we owe 
 to them, and to their comrades who have been long 
 asleep on many a lonely battle-field, or lie buried 
 ' full many a fathom deep' in the hidden caves of the 
 old ocean. 
 
 While thus expressing my feelings of admiration 
 for old officers, I am reminded of the fact, not a 
 little remarkable, that every officer of the Roman 
 army alluded to in the New Testament, is spoken 
 of with respect There was the Centurion, whose 
 
The Old Lieutenant 
 
 servant was sick, of whom the Lord said, '1 hav6 
 not found such great faith, no, not in Israel;' the 
 Centurion who stood by the cross, and who made 
 the noble confession of Christ's Divinity ; * Cornelius 
 the centurion, a devout man, and one who feared 
 God with all his house, who gave much alms to the 
 people, and prayed to God alway,' and who had *a 
 levout soldier who waited on him continually ;' the 
 two centurions who conducted Paul to Caesarea; 
 and Julius the centurion, who ' courteously entreated 
 Paul' 
 
 And surely there are few finer specimens of manly, 
 devoted Christians to be found than among those 
 offic rs who have learned to * endure hardness' as 
 'good soldiers of Jesus Christ.' The discipline 
 which, as men, they have been subjected to; the 
 temptations which they are compelled to resist and 
 to overcome ; the confession which they must bear 
 in trying circumstances, all combine to make them 
 strong in faith, and able to 'quit themselves like 
 men.' We know few pictures more beautiful and 
 purely heroic than that of Parry instructing his men 
 in the love of God, amidst the constant dangers 
 and utter desolation of the 'howling North;' or of 
 Franklin in the last letter ever received from him, 
 asking the prayers of his friend Parry, 'that the 
 Almighty Power may guide and support us, and 
 the teaching of His Holy Spirit rest upon usf or 
 
and his Son, 
 
 t 
 
 1 
 
 »f 
 
 of Havelock at his peaceful devotions, never once 
 omitted during that terrible march to Cawnpore, 
 when every morning which heard his voice of 
 prayer heard also the roar of battle ; Havelock say- 
 ing to his heroic friend Outram, ere he died, 'I 
 have for forty years so ruled my life, that when death 
 comes I may face it without fear.' 
 
 I do not associate the old Lieutenant with such 
 men, either as regards his fame or his piety. The 
 former did not exist What was the kind and degree 
 of the latter must be determined by every reader for 
 himself from such evidence as my reminiscences of 
 him afford. 
 
 Edward Fleming was but a half-pay lieutenant of 
 the Navy, though he was commonly called ' the Cap- 
 tain' by the inhabitants of the small seaport town in 
 Scotland where he resided. 
 
 He had seen a great deal of hard service, and by 
 sheer bravery had worked his way from before the 
 mast to the quarter-deck, and ended by settling down 
 in the very town from which he had been pressed 
 into the navy. His wife was the widow of an officer 
 of Marines, who, on his d3dng bed, had commissioned 
 old Ned to convey to her his last words. This he 
 did on the first opportunity granted him — that being 
 five years after she was a widow. The interview 
 ended, some months afterwards, in a marriage ; and a 
 happier one never took place. How well I see at thi^ 
 
m^r 
 
 S The Old Lieutenant 
 
 moment the neat clean white cottage where they lived; 
 the shaggy crag covered with heath, and crowned by 
 birch-trees that rose behind it ; the green before the 
 door, stretching to the sea, with its pebbly beach 
 and deep clear water; the flag-staff ending the Cap- 
 tain's walk in the garden, or his quarter-deck, as he 
 called it, where he daily promenaded ; the sitting- 
 room with its engravings of sea-fights ; the crossed 
 swords in the recess ; and the bit of the Santissima 
 Trinidada's bulwark, which he had pocketed as a 
 memento of his having boarded her at Trafalgar ! 
 
 Young Ned, or Neddy, was an only child, and at 
 the time I speak of was about thirteen years of age. 
 His mother said he was the image of his father, and 
 his father returned the complim«^nt by declaring he 
 was the image of his mother. He was something of 
 both, and that is saying much. 
 
 The only other inhabitant of the Captain's dwell- 
 ing, besides his wife and boy, was Barbara, alias 
 Babby, the servant She was short and dumpy, with 
 a roll in her gait, as the Captain remarked, ' like a 
 Dutch dogger in a sea-way;' and with a large face, 
 the life of which was concentrated in two large full 
 moons of eyes, that seemed to be always receiving 
 rather than giving ; for Babby's giving was her work- 
 ing life of domestic duty and family devotedness, 
 from morning till night She had been in the family 
 since its existence^ and had originally come from ^ 
 
 
1 
 
 and his Son, 7 
 
 house of Mrs. Fleming's motner. The family be- 
 longed to Babby (she felt so at least) more than she 
 to the family. Babby governed through obedience. 
 She never rebelled, and yet it was questionable 
 whether she ever yielded. Lake a clew of worsted 
 on the floor, she parted with her thread to the hand 
 of master or mistress as they wound her up, to make 
 her leave her position; but even when thus appa- 
 rently ' giving in,' she always kept her position and 
 rolled about on the floor. Eveiy event in Ned's life 
 was associated with her. Her eyes gazing on him 
 in his cot when a child were among his earliest im- 
 pressions. She had been always his nurse in sick- 
 ness, his considerate almoner at Apiece' time, his 
 friend in little troubles, his adviser in difiiculties, 
 and the patient mender of his clothes and minor 
 morals. 
 
 I had almost forgotten to mention the cat and dog, 
 beloved inmates too important to be overlooked, and 
 whose presence was almost as real as Babby's in the 
 establishment. The dog was a Highland tenier 
 called Skye, with the usual characteristics of that 
 famous and esteemed breed as to quantity of hair ; a 
 most notable tail, which, when on important busi- 
 ness, acted as a curled mainspring to his back ; and 
 sagacious eyes, which twinkled, brown and deep, 
 through his shaggy eye-brows, like those of an old 
 judge I Mause the cat belonged more to Babby's 
 
8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 department, but was received into the Captain's 
 bosom as an expression of the softer domestic emo- 
 tions. 
 
 The only shadow of doubtful truthfulness, or rather 
 benevolent ^delusion, I ever could discover in the 
 Captain was with reference to his dog ; and I am 
 obliged to confess that he could not be depended 
 upon for strict accuracy of statement regarding that 
 animal. He told stories of his sagacity, which were 
 more than doubtful, to those at least not fully ini- 
 tiated into the mysteries of dog life and intelligence. 
 He even interpreted the dog's thoughts. In the 
 midst of some conversation about him, the Captain 
 would suddenly stop and say — * Look at him. He 
 is following every word, sir ; every word ! He knows 
 we intend to wash him. I'll tell you a curious story 
 about him. The other day,' etc., and so he would 
 proceed with his mythical narrative. *Yes, Skye, 
 you know what I'm saying, though you pretend not !' 
 The dog hearing himself addressed by name would 
 wag his tail without moving from his comfortable 
 position before the fire. * Ha ! ha ! friend, look at 
 tha^' his delighted master would exclaim : ' I told 
 that he understood me.* He was fond of re- 
 marking that Lord Nelson was wonderfully attached 
 to dogs and dogs to him. 
 
 I remember well the incident which first power- 
 fully attracted my affections to young Ned, though 
 
and his Son, 
 
 I i 
 
 we had been school companions from childhood. 
 Did you ever, readers, in your youth, make a boat 
 and rig it ) If so, you have one memorable fact to 
 look back to ; one sunny hill-top in your life-jour- 
 ney, which will always shine even amidst loftier and 
 brighter summits. The whole process is delightful, 
 from the hour when the square, shapeless mass of 
 wood lies before the outer eye, as the inner eye 
 shapes it into a ely form ; till the hull is carved 
 into a good i..^aei with <a fine run' and artistic 
 * bow ;' and the interior is scooped out ; and the 
 deck fitted on; and the pure white sails, with ap- 
 propriate tackle, flap on the tapering masts, tipped 
 with flag or pennant But never was such a per- 
 fect lugger as Ned Fleming's ! Dirk Hatteraick's was 
 nothing to her. The imagination magnified her into 
 a daring smuggler or bloody pirate! The day on 
 which the races of our new boats were to come off 
 across the small inlet of the bay, was looked for- 
 ward to with intense anxiety. At early dawn most 
 of the boys were examining their boats, with the 
 conviction, however, that Ned Fleming's * Nelson* 
 was sure to win. She was at least two feet long, 
 and such a shape, and painted too ! The Captain 
 was understood also to have thrown a spell over her, 
 and so secured the victory. But strange to say, on 
 the famous morning there was no 'Nelson' there I 
 VVhy no Qne could discover. Ned ^ave no explan^- 
 
lO 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 tion beyond saying that she was not fit to app xr. 
 But he was himself as cheerful as ever, eager to 
 oblige and to make every one happy, and to see 
 fair play done. It was some time before I acci- 
 dentally heard the cause from Babby, who let it out 
 in a private conversation. 
 
 *Ye see, his mother was ill, and so was I; she 
 was taken suddent — a sort of Coleric Forbes, or 
 whatever ye ca* it — ^but she needed het water, and 
 the kinlin' coal on the fire had burnt down, for it 
 w^ weel on to morning, and there was nae het 
 water, nor sticks to make up the fire, as accident 
 wad have it Wha can hinder thae accidents Y 
 I'm sure accidents and mishanters hae been the 
 plague o' my life ! Fm never in ony diffeeculty but 
 an accident is sure to happen, as if to kill me oot 
 o' spite. Weel, as I was saying, what v!ioes our 
 Neddy do' but bring down his braw new boat, the 
 daft laddie — ^for I might hae got sticks if I only had 
 time — and before I could c y Jack Robison, he had 
 her in the fire, masts an' a', and the kettle singing 
 like a tap in five minutes ! Did ye ever hear tell 
 the like o'tt A boy like him to bum his bonnie 
 boat for till get het water for his auld mither)' And 
 Babby threw herself back in the chair, and seemed 
 to absoib me into her eyes. ' But the laddie is ex- 
 traordinar fond o' his mither,' she continued; 'and 
 oae wunner. But the Captain was awfu' proud about 
 
 \! 
 
and his Son, 
 
 II 
 
 that boat Ye ken he 's no himsel wi'oot saut water 
 and ships. He's no like me : I canna thole them.' 
 
 When the Captain heard this story, he said no- 
 thing to Ned himself, but he was observed to pace 
 longer than usual up and down the room. After 
 Babby had narrated the circumstances as a matter 
 almost of complaint, he took extra pinches of snuff, 
 laughing quietly to himself; and kissing Neddy be- 
 fore going to bed (which seldom happened since he 
 was a child), he said, * God keep you, my boy ; your 
 poor mother is better — much better. That hot water 
 saved her life, I do believe.' 
 
 When I alluded to the circumstance, Neddy cut 
 me short by saying, *01d Babby is an ass;' and 
 then ran off to throw stones at a crow. He never 
 himself referred to the circumstance ; but I never 
 forgot it, as it gave me my first vivid idea of self- 
 sacrifice. 
 
 Ned was one of the most 'plucky' boys I ever 
 knew ; calm, quiet, ' undemonstrative,' yet incapable 
 of fear. He became thus a defender of the weak in 
 the school, although he seldom had recourse at any 
 time to the rude display of fists, and never, no never, 
 on the side of injustice or selfishness. These weapons 
 were called forth only on the side of the weak, more 
 especially when some of the ' shore-boys,' strong sons 
 of fishermen, with cod-like faces, and huge hands like 
 flat fish, with red hair and broad chests, made raid) 
 
la 
 
 TIte Old Lieutenant 
 
 on the playground to rob us of our marbles, topi^ 
 or balls. They had one notorious leader called, I 
 know not why, Noddles. He was recognised as in- 
 vincible, and never appeared except to perpetrate 
 some great act of robbery. On one occasion — a 
 sort of Waterloo in the school — this Napoleon of 
 sea-sharks, followed by several less powerful aides- 
 de^ampf suddenly rushed into the playground to 
 seize on our only earthly treasures. Young Ned, 
 who was not half the size of Noddles, flew at him 
 like a tiger-cat, and, amidst the wonder and breath- 
 less silence of all, at last inflicted upon him meet 
 punishment With bleeding mouth and nose Nod- 
 dles ran off, pursued by Ned. This secured to us 
 a long period of peace, and of fame to Ned, while the 
 memory of the great deed survived in the school. 
 Ned was described to new-comers as * the chap who 
 smashed Noddles.' But, as Babby said, 'He's as 
 quiet as a lamb, and maks nae mair cheep in the 
 house than a mouse in the meal-gimal.' 
 
 I must return, however, to the Captain himself. 
 If old Ned had a weakness, it was his endless story- 
 telling about the Navy, when any one happened to 
 touch the right spring, and was willing to listen 
 patiently ; but to interrupt him, or to be inattentive, 
 was dangerous, not from a particle of vanity on his 
 part — ^for I believe he never for a moment thought 
 of himself— but from the more than love he had for 
 
and his Son, 
 
 n 
 
 the navy and its heroic deeds. The country seemed 
 to him to belong to the navy, and to be protected 
 by it alone, as a parent protects a child. I am not 
 sure that he considered the dry land as possessing 
 any higher function than that of supplying victualling 
 and timber for the ships. The sea was, of course, the 
 inalienable property of His Majest/s navy, and all 
 vessels making use of that element did so by permis- 
 sion only of the fleet — ^its lawful sovereign. There 
 was, therefore, a certain reverential air with which he 
 spoke of the navy and its admirals. 
 
 Some person one evening happened, I remember, 
 to compare the relative merits of *■ God save the 
 King,' and 'Rule Britannia,' — giving preference, of 
 course, to the latter ; for who, in the Captain's pre- 
 sence, would have dared a less favourable criticism 1 
 ' Yes,' said the Captain, rising and pacing slowly back- 
 ward and forward, as was his wont, ' it is, no doubt, 
 my dear sir,' — he spoke fondly to such a man — *the 
 finest tune ever composed. But I have neard it, sir, 
 in circumstances which never can be forgotten — 
 never — never !* 
 
 *What were these. Captain?' . 
 
 * It was in the year '95,' began the Captain. But 
 though the story, like all those I heard from my old 
 friend — and which, by the by, nearly sent me to the 
 navy, and made me a comfortable Greenwich pen- 
 noner — seems to be vividly impressed on my mind, 
 
H 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 fresh as when I first heard it, it is more than likely 
 other thoughts, during the last thirty years, have 
 altered some of the facts, /may be wrong, but not 
 the Captain, who was as correct as the despatches — 
 perhaps more so. 
 
 * It was in the year '95,' he continued, * that I heard 
 Rule Britannia played as I never expect to hear it 
 again. I was then on board the old Captain^ 74, 
 commanded by Sam Reeve. We were attached to 
 Hotham's squadron, and in pursuit of the French 
 fleet, fifteen sail of the line, which were beating up to 
 get back to Toulon, having been scared away by us 
 from Corsica. It was a breezy morning, with heavy 
 squalls, and we were trying, as hard as we could, in 
 full chase, to make up to the Frenchmen, who were 
 some miles to the windward of us. A French 80- 
 gun ship, the Qa-ira^ fell foul of a companion of the 
 same size, and carried away her fore and maintop 
 masts. But the Qa-ira was gallantly taken in tow, 
 first by the Vestale^ and afterwards by the Cm- 
 seur. Well, these two ships, the Censeur with ^a-ird 
 in tow, fell a good way to leeward of the French 
 line. The breeze next day died away. Both fleets 
 lay like logs rolling on the water. But, while look- 
 ing to windward, I saw a squall — one of those cat's- 
 paws so common in the Mediterranean — strike a 
 Neapolitan vessel, half a mile from us. By and by 
 the squall reached us, and, without touching the rest 
 
and his Son, 
 
 of the fleet, it carried the old Captain^ sir, right up to 
 the Frenchmen, and left her there ! There we werC; 
 sir, right between the (^a-ira and Censeur, each an 
 8o-gun line-of-battle ship. To it we went, with 
 hearty goodwill, the two fleets looking on ! For fif- 
 teen minutes, however, we had to sustain both their 
 broadsides before we could, from our position, return 
 a single shot That's what tries a man. And after 
 we opened fire, we fought for upwards of an hour 
 alone, without any assistance. It was hot work, I 
 assure you. Every sail was at last torn to tatters, — 
 stays shot away — topmasts knocked over — a large 
 shot in the mainmast — boats broken — guns over- 
 thrown — and our firiends looking on, their sails flap- 
 ping to their masts, and not a breath of air to fill 
 theml Old Goodall, the admiral of our division, 
 was, I heard afterwards, in a state of great excite- 
 ment, flying about the deck with his drawn sword, 
 ordering every stitch to be set ; but in vain. * My 
 poor Captain" he cried, "will be knocked to pieces 
 before I can assist her !" We were at last compelled 
 to send up a signal upon the stump of the foremast 
 — " in want of immediate assistance ;" but no assist- 
 ance came ! I was watching the old Princess Char- 
 lotte^ Admiral Goodall's ship. Minutes were pre- 
 cious. We would sooner sink than give in; but 
 sink we must, if not soon relieved. But every 
 glimpse I caught of our fleet through the smok^i 
 
t6 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 showed the sails hanging to the masts, without a 
 breath of wind. Suddenly, to my joy, I thought 
 I saw the royals of the Princess Charlotte begin- 
 ning to fill — then the foretopsails to belly out a 
 bit — then a white line of foam like a ring to 
 gather round her bows ! It was all right ! On she 
 came with a glorious breeze that had sprung up. We 
 gave three cheers ! What a sight it was to see her 
 bearing down on us, when we were fighting in despair 
 against such odds ! Down she came, sir ; and as she 
 ran between us and the enemy, her band struck up, 
 <*Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves 1" That 
 was the time when ' — But the lips of old Ned began 
 to tremble at the recollection, and then he laughed, 
 as he took a pinch of snuff, and blew his nose with 
 extraordinary vehemence. 
 
 The Captain had a custom which his wife once— 
 but only once — attempted to make him give up. 
 The experiment almost proved fatal to their do- 
 mestic happiness, for a forenoon at least — I do not 
 believe any longer period of contention between 
 them could have been imagined, for hot even one 
 such dark day was recorded in the family log-book. 
 The custom to which I allude was that of old Ned's 
 keeping the anniversaries of all his battles. And the 
 way he did it was this. He dressed himself in what 
 remained of his old uniform; in nankeen trousers, 
 white kersey waistcoat, the blue coat with the brass 
 
and Mi Soh. 
 
 «7 
 
 buttons, rufHed shirt, and shoes with buckles. A 
 bottle of port — few of which were in his cellars- 
 was always drawn for the occasion of a great battle ; 
 while he made a tumbler of whiskey -toddy serve 
 for less important actions. Mrs. Fleming was also 
 obliged to appear with some festal sign. She gener> 
 ally dressed in her Sunday clothes. Mr. Freeman, 
 an old boatswain, then a custom-house officer, was 
 always invited to be present on such occasions. 
 Young Ned was there, of course ; and I nad once 
 the privilege, as his companion, to be present alsa 
 It was a law that, from the time the enemy hove in 
 sight — at which moment an old Union Jack, which 
 had seen service, was hoisted by Freeman on the 
 flagstaff— until victory was proclaimed, no one was 
 to leave the room. The bottle of port being drawn 
 and glasses filled, the Captain placed his large gold 
 watch, with its ponderous chain and seals, on the 
 table ; and after pacing up and down, with his hands 
 behind his back, ever and anon casting his look at 
 the watch; he would at last make the important 
 announcement, which fairly began the day : ' The 
 enemy have hove in sight, and are bearing down — 
 signal made by the admiral for close action. Hoist 
 away. Freeman ! — we shall drink success !' — which 
 was done with due decorum by alL As the action 
 proceeded, the Captain became more and more 
 animated, yet calm. Every ship that struck was 
 
 v-. 
 
1 8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 announced at the right minute, and some port 
 accompanied the cheers which still echoed \r> his 
 memory. 
 
 * Freeman,' he would say, * we shall never see the 
 like again.' 
 
 * Never, Captain, never — them days are past — ^the 
 meii are gone.' 
 
 * And the officers, Freeman.* 
 
 * Nobody cares about them times. Captain. Shops 
 is all the glory of the land, and smuggling of the sea 
 now.' 
 
 *You and I, Freeman, as long as we live, will 
 remember them — even him above all !' — that memory 
 was never omitted — *the bravest, the best, the truest 
 man that ever trod the quarter-deck of a man- 
 of-war, — ^the immortal Nelson.' 
 
 * Towards the same. Captain.' 
 
 The Captain found it convenient at such a crisis 
 to go and pat Skye, and direct his attention to some 
 event outside the house. He did not like that any 
 one should see his weakness. 
 
 There were other events in the engagement, which 
 were always interpreted by the Captain with a grave 
 and solemn look, such as, * My poor old friend Scott 
 was struck down at this period of the day ;* and then 
 the circumstances attending his fall were biographi- 
 cally touched upon — until finally the victory was 
 won, when the Captain summed up the gain, and 
 
 m 
 
and his Son. 
 
 «9 
 
 spoke the praises of the mighty dead. What re- 
 mained in the decanter was kept for bringing the 
 enemy next day into harbour, and securing the prizes, 
 But all was ended for the present by his wife 
 playing Rule Britannia upon the old spinnet, the 
 Captain joining to the best of his ability. 
 
 Neddy, as I said, was always present on these 
 occasions. *You see, my boy,' the Captain would 
 add, * we always did our duty, and what was right 
 for king and country;' and then, as he wiped his 
 moist eyes with the back of his rough hand, he 
 would express his hearty thanks to a higher power 
 liian man's, for having preserved him. Don't sup 
 pose, reader, the good old fellow exceeded by a 
 single glass. These days were his only holidays, 
 and happy ones they were, and good ones too; 
 the sunniest days also in poor old T'reeman's life. 
 * You will always notice,' Mrs. Fleming used to say 
 to her son, *how heartily your father reads the 
 thanksgiving at prayers on the evenings of our 
 battle-days,' as thiese were termed in the family. 
 
flO 
 
 The Old LieuUmn* 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THINGS OF THE FAST. 
 
 The old seaport and burgh of B , in which 
 
 the Captain was anchored for life, seemed cut off 
 from the whole world. It had no communication 
 with any town on earth by the land side nearer than 
 by sixty miles of such roads as never received the 
 impression of a more aristocratic vehicle than the 
 mail-gig. There was no steam traffic in the days I 
 speak of. A weekly packet kept up the only inter- 
 course, whether friendly or commercial, which sub- 
 sisted between this secluded Tarsus and the rest of 
 the busy world. But its inhabitants never seemed 
 to weary of each other. Its society was not large j 
 it prided itself on being what was called * select' 
 It was made up of the colonel, long in India ; the 
 * black major,' though only of the militia, yet intensely 
 military; the * white major,' who had been twenty 
 years expecting his company in 'the regulars,' and 
 had fought during the American War; with other 
 
 'W 
 
and his Son, 
 
 21 
 
 'half-pa3rs' more or less distinguished. There was 
 also the excellent old Sheriff with his top-boots and 
 queue ; and Mr. White, the chamberlain of ' the Mar- 
 quis,' with his fine sons and daughters; and Mr. 
 Thomson, writer, and Mr. Walker, banker ; and the 
 doctor; and Miss Matty and Peggy Cochrane, with 
 their bachelor brother William, who somehow were 
 linked to' the aristocracy ; and their mother, who was 
 an Englishwoman ; with several other families known 
 as * the Hendersons,' * the Wrights,' * the Macindoes,' 
 and, though last, not least, the clergy. To these 
 were sometimes added, to the great delight of the 
 young ladies, the officers of the brigs-of-war which 
 often frequented the harbour. 
 
 There were some memorable features in the 
 society of that dear old burgh, the chief of which 
 were its thorough friendliness and hearty kindness. 
 The clergy led the van. These consisted of Dr. 
 Yule, the minister of the parish; Mr. Purdie, 
 minister of the * Relief ' congregation ; and Mr. 
 Cruickshanks, the Episcopal clergyman. Dr. Yule 
 in his early life had been tutor to a young Scotch 
 nobleman, and had travelled with him on the Con- 
 tinent. This had accordingly given him a know- 
 ledge of men, with a refinement of manners which 
 was much more general among the older than the 
 later generation of Presbyterian clergy. He was 
 reserved yet courteous, * popular' yet honest *He 
 
21 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 became all things to all men/ but, like the Apostle, 
 always with the unselfish wish and hope of * gaining 
 some.' He was naturally benevolent; but, better 
 still, he was * a good man,' in the Christian sense of 
 the word. His learning was respectable and varied j 
 his studies regular and earnest. His disposition, 
 independence of character, high honour, truthful- 
 ness, justice, along with his secluded geographical 
 position, prevented his belonging to any violent 
 'school' in the Church. He had a great fear of 
 the tyranny and injustice of party, and carefully 
 guarded the blessed liberty of being able to sympa- 
 thize with true goodness wherever he found it, and 
 sought to keep pure the single eye by which alone 
 he could perceive that goodness in whomsoever it 
 existed. No man was more looked up to, beloved, 
 and respected by old and young than 'the auld 
 doctor.' 
 
 Mr. Purdie had more of the type of the old Puri- 
 tan. His congregation was made up chiefly of the 
 descendants of families who had fled to this secluded 
 district during 'the persecutions.' But when I speak 
 of his Puritanism I don't mean what is often, con- 
 trary to all fair history, associated with the real re- 
 presentatives of that form of church-government and 
 theological thought. He had no doubt a most com- 
 pact and very decided logical creed, and was very 
 jealous of ' non-essentials.' But he so far differed 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ^3 
 
 from Dr. Yule, that his very presence was a pro- 
 test against, and a ' Relief from the bondage of 
 that endless worry of the Scotch Church — patronage. 
 Dr. Yule, on the other hand, had a perfect horror 
 of the patronage of the mob, whom Mr. Purdie 
 called the * Christian people.' *Give me King or 
 Kaiser for patron,' he used to say, ' sooner than a 
 radical, — especially when he has not to pay for his 
 minister !' But there was not a grain of the Phari- 
 saical moroseness of untruthfulness, or the selfish 
 bigotry of church idolatry, in that little round face 
 of the Relief minister, warm and sunny in spite of 
 the snow-drifts on the polished crown. The whole 
 of Paul's glorious chapter on Christian love seemed 
 to twinkle in his grey eye, and was ever dawning 
 like sunrise on his smiling lip. He would have died 
 to defend true principles ; but he would have died 
 also to deliver mon from false ones. His 'principles' 
 *were not dead things, like inscriptions on granite 
 tablets, far less expressions of himself only; but 
 they were embodied in living persons who were in 
 his opinion right or wrong in relation to God, and 
 therefore on the road of truth or falsehood, peace or 
 misery. 
 
 The EpiscopaUan clergyman belonged to the old 
 * Jacobite ' Episcopal Church of Scotland outwardly. 
 He was a tall man, vj^ith a stoop in his gait, a large 
 gold-headed cane, white hair, and a hat which, I 
 
im" 
 
 44 
 
 T^ Old Lieutenant 
 
 F. 
 
 believe, symbolized a Dean. Mr. Cruickshanks held 
 all the traditions of his * body ' with quiet conviction. 
 He had a heart-affection for all the peculiarities ol 
 his church,— for its reverential forms, its holy days, 
 and, above all, its litui^y; admired its firm adher- 
 ence to the principle of legitimacy in the succession 
 to the monarchy — a principle the more sacred to him 
 from the annoyances and petty persecutions which its 
 confession had entailed. He loved the past with con- 
 servative affection; and felt a dignity and happiness in 
 being the representative, however humble, of a church 
 which he believed could trace itself, link by link, 
 through its ordained clergy, government, and ritual, 
 up to the apostolic times. He had an instinctive re- 
 spect for any true man who, from a sense of personal 
 responsibility, differed from him ; and was contented 
 to minister to his own small flock in peace ; desired 
 only to let and to be let alone ; hating, as they all did, 
 church proselytism; and delighting to maintain kindly ' 
 intercourse with his brother clergymen. 
 
 The "act is, these three old worthies, most fortu- 
 n«\f o'j for themselves and the community, were, in 
 *»mny of their 'Church principles,' delightfully in- 
 coriatent. Their good hearts saved them from the 
 evil consequences of good logic. They possessed a 
 robust common sense, with sincere genuine good- 
 ness, which delivered them from unmanly intolerance 
 on the one hand« and childish weakness on the other. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 *j 
 
 They were often wrong in the argument, but always 
 right in the thing itself. * 
 
 The result was, that no one ever heard a dispute 
 among them unbecoming Christian gentlemen. They 
 took charge of their respective flocks without osten- 
 tation or vain boasting; and met often in private 
 society, many an hour being spent together at Dr. 
 Yule's library fire, reading and conversing on literary 
 subjects, and also talking over their differences and 
 their agreements, when much was said 'on both 
 sides ' to deepen their mutual respect 
 
 As they looked at the great mountain of truth from 
 their neighbour's valley, each could understand why 
 it appeared somewhat different, while yet really the 
 same, as when beheld from his own. 
 
 I never heard of any other * bodies ' attempting to 
 gain a footing in the town except on one occasion. It 
 was an itinerant preacher. To Dr. Yule's astonish- 
 ment, as he left his church one Sabbath afternoon 
 when service was over, he saw the great majority of 
 his congregation gathered round a person who had 
 planted himself at the head of the small street near 
 the church, and with bare head, extended arms, and 
 loud voice, was addressing the people from some 
 passage of Scripture. Dr.. Yule drew near, and lis- 
 tened with signs of the greatest respect till the 
 preacher had finished ; and when he said, * Let us 
 pray,' the Doctor uncovered, and seemed to, and no 
 
26 
 
 Th Old Lieutenant 
 
 doubt did, join witli the petitioner. No sooner was 
 the prayer ended than the- Doctor, addressing him- 
 self to the people, said : < I do not know who this 
 person is who has so unexpectedly appeared among 
 us, nor who has sent him here ; but he has spoken 
 most excellent truth, which I thank him for, and, I 
 am sure, so do you ; and I hope God will enable us 
 all to live and act in the spirit which he has so faith- 
 fully described ; and I will not say, Forbid him, 
 though he foUoweth not with us.' Then turning to 
 the preacher, who seemed amazed by this co-opera- 
 tion, he said, lifting, at the same time, his hat to him 
 with respect : ' May you do good, sir, in your labours 
 throughout the country : may you be kept from evil, 
 and with a single eye endeavour to gain souls to 
 your Master, and not to yourself. I will be glad 
 to see you at my house if you find it convenient to 
 call for me.' The preacher bowed, but made no 
 reply ; and next day he had departed no one knew 
 whither. 
 
 As regards the social intercourse and amusements 
 of the worthy burgh, these were simple, and, on the 
 whole, harmless. Dinner parties were rare, but * tea 
 and supper' ones occurred weekly during winter. I 
 need not say that the company did not vary much, nor 
 was the entertainment very sumptuous. When the 
 houses were built no one could tell \ but their small 
 windows, low roofs, screw passages and stairs, spoke 
 
itnd his Son. 
 
 ^1 
 
 of a primitive age. Some of the most respectable 
 were up wide 'closes,' and within courts, and up flights 
 of wooden stairs, with large balustrades, not unlike 
 the houses now seen in Germany j so that I suspect 
 Dutch smugglers had something to do with their 
 construction. They were possessed by the same 
 families as far back as the records of the burgh 
 extended. Persons like the colonel or the major, 
 who had been long absent from home, returned, as 
 soon as possible, to the old nest in which they had 
 been hatched and reared, there to fledge and rear 
 a progeny of their own. The large black knocker 
 on Miss Peggy Henderson's door had an oval brass 
 plate over it, which once bore the name of her 
 father ; but nothing could be deciphered now 
 but the beginning of a capital H, whose larger 
 half, with all the name, was half a century 
 ago scoured into polished brass. These houses 
 seemed temples to the worthy people who pos- 
 sessed them; and the handsomest mansion, I am 
 sure, would have failed to attract them out of those 
 little rooms made dear and sacred by memories of 
 old, and of ancestors who had lived there, and of 
 friends who gave to life all its charms. 
 
 But I am forgetting the tea and supper. Well, these 
 dining-rooms and drawing-rooms could not hold a 
 London rout, but they held, nevertheless, a goodly 
 number; and matters were so contrived that the young 
 
a8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 folks were able to have a dance in one room, while, 
 in a small ante-room, some of the *old people' had 
 a hand at whist. The gambling was not deep 1 
 Though a mere boy then, I never can lose the impres- 
 sion made by those grave, serious faces round the 
 whist-table. I believe, indeed, they only played for 
 an exchange of counters, and nothing was lost on 
 either side but — ^yes, I must confess it— occasionally 
 Miss Peggy Henderson's temper ; yet, oh ! call it 
 not a loss but a failing of temper, light and trivial 
 when compared with what thou hast often seen 
 among clergy and people. Miss Peggy's momen- 
 tary aberration was a mere feeling of righteous 
 anger against the Sheriff's want of judgment — 
 
 ' Like the snow-flake on the river, 
 A moment white, then gone for ever I* 
 
 Old Ned Fleming was one of the most steady players, 
 and the best partner at whist 
 
 The propriety of in any way countenancing whist 
 or private dancing were points on which Dr. Yule 
 and Mr. Purdie dififered. • Well, dear brother,' the 
 Doctor once said to Mr. Purdie, 'perhaps you are 
 right, and I am wrong. For myself, the society of 
 more than one or two friends is at all times irksome. 
 I prefer the quiet chat at the fireside ; nor do I, with 
 my books, my family and my employments, depend 
 in any degree upon such things to keep me cheerful. 
 But it is not so with others. There are in daily life 
 
and his Son, 
 
 19 
 
 a number of little frets, crossings, and annoyances, 
 that do not wound or cut, but only scratch; and 
 there are weightier things that are apt to lie too 
 heavy on the mind. Now, it seems to me as if God, 
 in His great bounty, and in addition to loftier and 
 nobler resources, had provided what I may call set- 
 offs, balances to these; which help to divert the 
 mind from its little pains, to make us forget our- 
 selves and our frets for a time, and to walk with a 
 smoother brow over the roughnesses in our path. 
 Among these are the so-called trifles that amuse 
 men, and give them gentle excitement, — such as the 
 innocent joke, the tale, the song, the play of fancy, 
 the harmless game, and the like, within doors, — ^with 
 fine manly sports for those who can join them, out 
 of doors. These are not, and cannot indeed be, the 
 pillars, not even the lightest pillars which support the 
 house of our Ufe ; but only its ornaments, its fancy 
 decorations, that give pleasure without evil, like those 
 many-coloured small flowens with which God covers 
 the fields, or the many notes from small birds with 
 which He fills the air, — all of which add so mucn 
 happiness to our sober walks of duty.' 
 
 * But, my dear Doctor,' replied Mr. Purdie, * think 
 how liable these are to abuse, and how they have 
 often been abused !' 
 
 * True, my friend, true ; a very serious considera- 
 tion,' replied the Doctor, ' and one which a wise mai;t 
 
30 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 dare noi overlook. But this is ever a difficulty con 
 nected with the enjoying any of God's gifts, and a 
 constant test of our faith and Obedience/ 
 
 'Are not these amusements too frequent, Doctor?* 
 
 •Possibly they may be so; but all are home by 
 ten o'clock, and if we don't let amusements for the 
 young flow out in small rivulets, they are apt to 
 become great floods of most dissipating excitement 
 I think the frequent meeting of young men and 
 young ladies both wholesome and purifying to their 
 affections and morals. Large public balls I hate.' 
 
 ' But I fear young men may contract bad habits, 
 Doctor 1' 
 
 '.It is just to hinder them from contracting those 
 social habits so big vrith evil when they meet by 
 themselves in clubs and taverns, that I advocate 
 our present system of social intercourse. I con- 
 sidered this question long ago abroad, and I think 
 I am right. I am glad to see our young people 
 meet frequently in the presence of their friends, 
 nor have I ever had cause to doubt the general good 
 tone of morality among them.* And then, after a 
 pause, he added, with a sigh, 'Oh, sirs! Satan is a 
 robber of much treasure that belongs to us ; and I am 
 not willing to part with any that I can keep from 
 him, and use in the name of Him who alone gives us 
 all things richly to enjoy.' 
 
 In enumerating the worthies of the burgh, I can- 
 
and his Son. 
 
 3> 
 
 not omit to notice Ned's teacher, Mr. Mair. He 
 was ' one of the old school,' unassuming and retiring 
 in his manners, devoted to his profession, the right 
 hand of the minister, the friend and confidant of 
 every man in the parish who wished a calm and wise 
 judgment on what was too much for his own head 
 or that of his wife's to determine. The old parochial 
 teacher of Scotland was a noble type of humanity, 
 and, along with the ministers, the very centre of civili- 
 sation and cultivation in the district. Mr. Mair, like 
 many of his class, was a good classical scholar, whose 
 joy was to 'ground the boys well,' and his highest 
 pride to inspire even one of them with some enthu- 
 siasm for Homer. He seemed to be himself inspired 
 as he paced before his highest class, stamping, 
 shouting aloud, with dilated nostrils, and swinging 
 hands, as he helped the reader through some of the 
 sublime passages of 
 
 * That blind bard who on the Chian strand, 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey 
 Rise to the swelling of the tuneful sea.' 
 
 Doubtless, 'the master' often inflicted punishment 
 when any idleness or indifference disturbed his mar- 
 tial progress. Then, Ajax-like, he came down on 
 the * con-sum-mate block-head,' each syllable being 
 emphasized with a whack of the * tawse.' But never- 
 theless he did produce a brave, manly set of boys. 
 And the cross-coat was not alwa;^s on^, but pfttime^ 
 
wmm 
 
 3« 
 
 Tke Old Lieutenant 
 
 one of softest woollen. Then he would fondle a 
 pupil, and chuckle kind words into his ear, and en- 
 courage him to learning. The Dominie was not 
 fully appreciated as a teacher, except by those who 
 sympathized with his classical tastes. The whole 
 town admitted, indeed, that he was * no doubt a most 
 respectable and clever man.' But a demand for the 
 * practical,' as it is termed, arose among the small 
 shopkeepers, and the Grammar School was supposed 
 to oe utterly useless for • men of business.' And yet 
 it was not a little remarkable to sum up, after a 
 course of years, the number of pupils from that school 
 who had risen to occupy most useful positions as 
 physicians, lawyers, and divines, while others, eschew- 
 ing < the learned professions,' had nevertheless uncon- 
 sciously formed habits of mind, and acquired tastes, 
 from the severer exercises of Mr. Mair, which made 
 them the most intelligent citizens of the burgh. 
 
 The inhabitants of the burgh had also a peculiar 
 stamp of character. There were in it no manufac- 
 tories, properly so called. Most families had a small 
 garden, at a cheap rate, near the town, and often a 
 pasture for a cow. The wheel hummed at many a 
 fireside. The habits of the people were temperate, 
 and such a thing as a drunken woman was utterly 
 unknown. There was an ample supply of peat in the 
 moorlands not far off, and of fish at their door, be- 
 tides the herring, which was the principal source of 
 
and his f9on. 
 
 33 
 
 trade in the place. Some larger craft, belonging to 
 several wealthy small shopkeepers, traded with 
 America in timber, and with other foreign ports. 
 Of beggars there were not a few; pf 'fools' or 
 half-witted characters a sufficiently large number. 
 How many bore names in addition to their Christian 
 one it would be hard to say. Yet these were the 
 very pets and choice companions of the place: — 
 • Daft Jock ' and ' Peter Humphy,' with * Kate the 
 Queen ' and ' Waterloo Jean,' and a host of others, 
 were the Punch and Illustrated News of the buigh. 
 All public beggars were made welcome to the * bite 
 and the sup '■ each Saturday. The inhabitants thus 
 voluntarily taxed themselves for their support ; each 
 paying his own share in a handful of meal, a few 
 potatoes, or a bowl of hot broth, with words of 
 kindness or fun ; and in return their families got the 
 news of the country, or a display of the peculiar 
 drolleries or character of the well-known beggar. So 
 it was that none ever wanted, and all seemed cheer- 
 ful and contented. But these beggars were great 
 protectionists, and never permitted any free-trader 
 from afar to share their privileges. 
 
 The Captain had his circle of pensioners, who re- 
 ceived a weekly allowance, and an annual grant of 
 his old clothes. Mxs. Fleming was the principal 
 visitor. 
 
 Well, reader, try and pardon this dreaming upon 
 
34 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 paper of what I like to remember, even if it suits 
 not thee. 'Tis an old story. The burgh is all 
 changed now. The Doctor and Mr. Cruickshanks, 
 and Mr. Purdie, sleep among almost all who then 
 lived as their flock, and few know their graves. 
 Mr. Mair was succeeded by a dapper little man, who 
 ' developed the practical,' and taught boys to repeat 
 * Lochiel,' * My name is Norval,' etc., to the delight 
 of the parents who could 'understand that.' Tall 
 brick chimneys now send wreaths of smoke ovei the 
 town. Rows of marine cottages, like railway station- 
 houses, line the shores of the harbour. Steamers 
 roar at the quay. Politicians like mosquitoes buzz 
 and bite in the towii-hall. Beggars and fools are 
 incarcerated in workhouses. Several more churches 
 have been built. But with all this, religion itself does 
 not seem to flourish more. Neighbours are not more 
 kind ; nor business men more honest ; nor the people 
 more pure, sober, or happy; while the clergy have too 
 great a love for their respective * principles' to risk 
 them in the doubtful experiment of loving their neiP'ti- 
 bour as themseivea. 
 
Cmdhis Son, 
 
 as 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 THE HOME SCHOOL. 
 
 Ned's education, in ' secular' things, was excellent 
 under the instruction of 'Old Mair' of the Burgh 
 School. But he owed more to the Home School in 
 the cottage than he or his teachers were aware of 
 at the time. Who can define or enumerate all the 
 forces from earth and sky, from light and darkness, 
 from cold and heat, from calm and storm, from rain 
 and dew, by which a plant is trained from the seed 
 to the flowers and fruit? No more can we describe 
 the process by which our Father trains us up to what 
 we are. Ned's * religious education,' as it is termed, 
 was perhaps not cut and squared in the exact pattern 
 of what often passes under that name. Yet it had 
 its own peculiar excellencies. The Captain's theolo- 
 gical knowledge was not, it may be supposed, pro- 
 found. But there were, nevertheless, a thousand 
 truths moving to and fro in that bald head, without 
 order or method, although he could not deliver thera 
 
36 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 over to the tongue. How one of our scientific infants 
 would have puzzled him ! But there was a light too, 
 and peace in that heart, which shone in his face, and 
 was felt in his mind, and spread an atmosphere of 
 gentle goodness and genuine truth about him — such 
 as could not be disturbed by the harsh judgments of 
 men who were disposed to condemn him because he 
 could not express himself in their fashion; or of men 
 who forgot that there are those who, by reason of 
 untoward circumstances which attended their early 
 upbringing, must yet speak and think in advanced 
 years as children in knowledge, never having reached 
 that Christian manhood when childish things are put 
 away. But I believe the Captain, after all, had 
 more of this manhood than any one suspected, 
 though its growth was rather stunted by the storms 
 he had encountered. He was strong ip his simplicity, 
 truth, and love, and was guided in his home teach- 
 ing by two great principles. The one was, that a lie, 
 in every variety, was specially of the devil He was, 
 therefore, uncompromisingly intolerant of all false- 
 hood, from the palpable black substance of the lie 
 direct, on through every shade and shadow, to the 
 least prevarication or want of open, transparent truth. 
 I really don't believe young Ned ever told a lie. Both 
 would not have survived such a disaster; old or 
 young Ned must have perished ! The other grand 
 principle of the Captain's education was, * Fear God, 
 
and his Son, 
 
 37 
 
 and do what is right;* often adding with great em 
 phasis, * and then defy the devil.* 
 
 'Pray, don't say that^ my dear sir, before youi 
 son/ said Miss Peggy Henderson one evening to 
 the Captain. 
 
 ' Don't say what, ma'am V he asked, with a voice 
 which had never been heard so loud since he led 
 his men to board the enemy ; ' I say so, and will 
 say so, till I die: ,^^ do what is right" — and,' he 
 added, rising from the old arm-chair, and striding 
 across the room with his arm extended, *and defy 
 the devil and all his hosts !' 
 
 * Rather say, Captain Fleming, if it is quite the 
 same to you, in the words of Scripture : " Resist the 
 devil, and he will flee from you." ' 
 
 * I take it, madam, we are agreed,' said the • 
 Captain, ' and that it comes much to the same thing 
 in the end; for the only way to resist him that I 
 know of is, I say again, to do what is right; that 
 makes him sheer off, depend upon it.' 
 
 * With help from above !* 
 
 * Of course, of course,' said the Captain, resuming 
 his seat in peace. 
 
 * Yes, Ned, my boy,* he would sometimes say, * do 
 you what is right, never mind what people say, or 
 think, or do, nor what you suffer — obey youi great 
 Commander : you know what I mean ;' and he 
 WQuld pause, and look at his boy in silence, pointing 
 
3» 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 upwards, and nodding his head slowly — 'that's it! 
 —through storm and calm, fair and foul, steer right 
 on by the compciss.' '''hat's God's will, Neddy,' 
 he would add; 'fur T^e %es a man to do what is 
 right in everything.' And 3C' the Captain never pre- 
 scribed, as ..: as I wer hea» V :»nother reason for 
 his son doing, or not doiiii^', 2,.^yu •\? than that one 
 — * you know it is rights and pleases llir.,^ my boy. 
 
 There were many things, as I have already stated, 
 peculiar in old Ned's method of education. This 
 did not arise from any theory upon the subject which 
 he had imbibed and made a hobby of. No doubt 
 he had rules of his own to guide him, though, for 
 his life, I believe, he could not have defined them ; 
 nor, perhaps, did he even suspect the existence of 
 any such. But his love to his boy made him really 
 wish to make him happy ; and the love of what was 
 right made him wish, above all things, that his boy 
 should be and do what was right ; while his under- 
 lying common sense aided him wonderfully as to the 
 best way of attaining these ends. 
 
 A peculiarity of the Captain's was his singular 
 knack in distinguishing between a boy's failings, and 
 what was positively bad in his conduct. There was 
 thus a remarkable combination in his government of 
 extreme patience and forgiveness ; a large toleration 
 in some things, with a stem and uncompromising 
 strictness in others. Many boyish scrapes and follie? 
 
and his Son, 
 
 39 
 
 were gently chidden; but not a shade of deceit, or 
 cruelty, or disobedience, or selfishness was tolerated I 
 These were instantly seized with the iron grasp of 
 an old man-of-war's man ! ' What ! sleeping on watch, 
 my lad! — rouse up!' was often the only salutation 
 when a small fault was discovered. 
 
 There was another feature in his training of Ned, 
 wlych I never knew fully till after years; though 
 it was (to my great good) explained in some par- 
 ticulars by Neddy himself. What I allude to was 
 his custom of giving his boy a very vivid picture 
 of the peculiar sins, temptations, and difficulties he 
 would meet with when he entered the world as 
 a young man, freed from all parental restraint 
 The Captain did this when alone with his boy, and 
 always with a very solemn manner. * Suppose now, 
 my boy,* he would perhaps begin, 'you met a young 
 fellow like yourself, who had been brought up 
 among a bad set — ^poor fellow! — ^and had no great 
 notion of what was right, and that he asked you to 
 go and sup with him. Well, suppose you go ; you 
 meet there so-and-so.' Then the Captain would 
 dramatize the whole scene of this supper of careless- 
 living lads, with its temptations from first to last 1 
 These pictures from real life were varied as Neddy 
 grew older, until immediately before his departure 
 from home, when fourteen years old or so, the boy 
 had as thorough an idea of the world he was ente^ 
 
40 
 
 9 
 
 T/ie Old^Lieutemnt 
 
 ing on, as he could well have gained, even from hii 
 own personal observation. 
 
 ♦ « I am not sure, my dear,' his wife would- say, * how 
 far this plan of yours is judicious. You see he will 
 find all this out time enough for himself; let his 
 young innocent heart be kept free from all such 
 knowledge at present' 
 
 * Until he gets the devil, or some servant of his, 
 to teach him !' exclaimed the Captain, rising up as 
 usual, and pacing backward and forward, when ex- 
 cited. 'Listen to me, Mrs. Fleming, I know the 
 world ; you don't. I have seen all its villanies 
 and its sins; you have not. Now, I tell you, he 
 must sail through it; he must sail among all its 
 shoals, its breakers, its reefs, and encounter its 
 gales ; — ^why should I not give him a chart ? Why 
 not clap a buoy in a channel he might enter, but 
 where there is no water to pass 1 Why not tell him 
 the tides and currents 1 Why not tell him where there 
 is safe anchorage % Why not tell him how to escape 
 land-sharks and water-sharks, and give him signs to 
 discover pirates, with all their false colours 1 Why 
 not, my dear? — I have suffered shipwreck, and I'h 
 save my boy from it if I can !' 
 
 'Will he not be taught soon enough?' quietly and 
 meekly asked Mrs. Fleming. 
 
 'By whom?' rejoined the Captain loudly. 'By 
 pcoundrels, I again say, who will laugh at all thnt 
 
and his Son, 
 
 41 
 
 Is good in him; by old debauchees who will pol- 
 lute his young heart; taught! — yes! — taught! — I 
 should think so, he won't want teaching; no; but/ 
 he added, in a more quiet voice, 'what know you, 
 dear, of the teachers which the young meet with in 
 the great city? Now, I tell you, I shall not, Mrs. 
 Fleming, I shall not,* firmly said the Captain, ' let the 
 devil teach him first, and lie to him, and murder him. 
 I'll unmask the batteries of that enemy. I'll show 
 Neddy what sort of teacher he is. I'll give the first 
 description of his lies and tricks ; and, I take it, our 
 boy will have a truer description of them from me 
 than from their master. Yes, my dear, I shall !' 
 
 God alone can deliver him ! * ejaculated Mrs. 
 Fleming. 
 
 'Granted! my love; but I'll teach him to know 
 the enemy, that he may sheer off in time, and make 
 signals for assistance — I shall !' 
 
 The education given by the mother was somewhat 
 different, and more strictly what is termed * religious,' 
 but yet had its own peculiar method about it. She 
 used the Catechism sparingly but wisely, nor did 
 she impose many tasks in prose or verse. She had 
 an easy, quiet, natural, loving way of speaking to 
 Ned, not on formal occasions, but when he was sit- 
 ting, perhaps, at the fireside making sails to his boat, 
 or engaged in any work which did not prevent hmi 
 ISpom listening; or when working beside her in the 
 
48 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 garden. Her grand theme was Jesus Christ She 
 spoke of Him as she would of a real, living, and 
 present friend of the family; told of what He had 
 done for man, what He was doing, and yet to do ; 
 how He so loved all men as to die for them in order 
 to save their souls ; how He lives for them ; how He 
 always comforted, directed, strengthened all who 
 would be taught by Him ; how good and loving and 
 sympathizing He was ; how grieved if any one did 
 wrong, and how pleased when he did well ; how 
 He it was who gave boys their play and their hap- 
 piness; and how shameful and disgraceful it was 
 not to know Him, and love Him, and obey Him. 
 Often she would say : < You know, dear. He would 
 not like you to do so and so;' or, 'Are you not 
 thankful to Him for giving you this or that V And 
 higher teaching mingled with her words, and mighty 
 doctrines, too, were given, — ^not in a dry, abstract 
 way, but more as what was said and done by Him, 
 their Friend and Brother, as well as Lord ; until the 
 name and presence of Jesus was to Ned a real thing, 
 and he could not separate Him in his thoughts from 
 the most common things of this life, any more than 
 he could from all that he must be to fit him for the 
 life to come — ^though, indeed, he was made to feel 
 that these two lives were one, in so far as they were 
 both spent according to the will of God his Father. 
 Then she used to tell him stories, in such an easy, 
 
and his Son, 
 
 4J 
 
 yet solemn, earnest way, from the Old Testament, 
 that Ned would sit often, when a child, with 
 his ears, mouth, and eyes open, drinking in every 
 word; and when she told the histories of Job, or 
 Abram, or Joseph, or Moses, or Daniel, and de- 
 scribed their temptations and sufTerings, and how 
 God made a way of escape for them, she was sure to 
 clinch the Captain's saying, and establish his autho- 
 rity, by adding : ' And so, my boy, you see how they 
 all, by God's help, did what was right — as your father 
 often tells you — and God helped them, and gave 
 them peace in their hearts, in spite of every trial.' 
 
 * That's the thing !' I remember the Captain chim- 
 ing in one Sabbath evening. 'Just like a good 
 ship in a gale of wind ; outside storm and rain and 
 waves, but within all peace and safety. Ned — all 
 peace and safety, my boy.' 
 
 'Because He is in the ship,' quietly remarked 
 his wife. 
 
 * No doubt, no doubt, my dear,' replied the Cap- 
 tain ; * without Him we would all founder.' 
 
 ' She's a wonderful woman, a blessed woman,' the 
 Captain would say half aloud, partly as if in a fit of 
 absence, and partly as if he wished Ned to join in her 
 praise. ' She is indeed, that mother of yours. Attend 
 to what she says, my boy — to all she says. She 
 knows the whole chart, and all the stars — ^all the stars ! 
 — things above as well as below, Ned. Attend to her.' 
 
44 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 There were few brighter days in the Captain's 
 humble cottage than Sunday. Their pew in church 
 was never empty, nor had Dr. Yule more serious and 
 reverential hearers. The Captain was no critic 
 His conscience, and inward approval of the truth, 
 fortunately harmonized with his sense of duty to 
 hear, receive, and obey, rather than teach or com- 
 mand his pastor. Every afternoon, when the weather 
 was good,' he and his wife and boy took a quiet walk 
 by the seashore, or along the sheep-walk which crept 
 upward to the moorlands. Though little was spoken, 
 they felt perfectly happy j sunshine was within and 
 without, and God's teaching in His sanctuary, and in 
 His mighty temple of earth and sky, became as one 
 voice of truth and love. In the evening, there was 
 pleasant reading of profitable books, and genial fire- 
 side conversation, with some cheerful instruction for 
 Ned, which no after years could ever obliterate ; and 
 then Babby, after having provided a dinner with 
 little fine cooking, but if possible with more than 
 •usual care, joined the family ; while the Captain put 
 on his gold spectacles, and read a chapter aloud 
 from the Book of Books, and invariably finished by 
 reading, as they all knelt, a portion of the Evening 
 Service of the Church of England, to which he had 
 become accustomed when in the Navy. A tumbler 
 of negus was brewed with nutmeg, and then * God 
 bless you, my boy !' and to bed. 
 
and his Smu 
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A TOUCH OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. 
 
 I KJiiMEMBER — it is as yesterday ! — an adventure wc 
 were once led into by Ned Fleming, which might 
 have been a serious affair. That book of witchery, 
 Robinson Crusoe^ had fallen into Ned's hands. I 
 believe it was given him by his father, and was the 
 first book of fiction — ^yet to him all truth — which he 
 had ever read. It seized hold of his brain, and kept 
 him sleepless, — filling his imagination with the love 
 of wild adventures and day-dreams, which were 
 swiftly communicated to three companions, who per- 
 used the fascinating volume in turn. 
 
 Five or six miles off the mainland on which we 
 lived, and out of sight of our small seaport, was an 
 island. I have never been there since, but it is now 
 before my eyes and hardly is it possible to conceive 
 a more beautiful spot. The space of ground of which 
 it consists is not more than four or five acres in 
 extent ; but that space is green as an emerald, with 
 an undulating surface, broken here and there by 
 
46 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 grey lichen-covered rocks, overhanging shady nooks; 
 in one of which is a clear spring that throbs like an 
 infant, breathing in its mossy bed. The margin of 
 the island is pure white sand, which shelves rapidly 
 beneath the clear sea, and is everywhere scooped 
 into miniature bays, with sheltering rocks of slate. 
 But the gem of the island is the remains — yet 
 hardly remains, so perfect is the building — of an old 
 chapel, still roofed in, with two lona crosses, which 
 stand erect among the ruins of old flat tombstones 
 around Macormic's cell. A few sheep were the only 
 inhabitants of the island, which was rarely visited 
 except by a casual fisherman. Beyond the island, 
 and outside of it, were some scattered islets, then one 
 or two larger ones farther out ; while the line of the 
 horizon, farther still, was formed by the great Atlantic. 
 The proposal made by Neddy — ^long concocted, 
 at f.rst breathed as a bare possibility, then entertained 
 until it appeared probable, and at last adopted as 
 something very serious, was, that four of us should 
 get possession of a fishing-boat j save what money we 
 could; purchase a store — (sixpence-worth, probably!) 
 of provisions, and with four fishing-rods, matches to 
 kindle a fire, our Skye terrier, a blanket each, a cat, 
 and, I think, some potatoes to plant for future use, — 
 should go off and take possession of the island, ana 
 live there a wild life as long as we could ! The adven- 
 ture so far succeeded, that we really reached the 
 
^^ 
 
 and his Son* 
 
 47 
 
 island, for we were in the habit of fishing and sail- 
 ing. But what an evening that was ! How 
 bitter was our disappointment, — ^first, at finding no 
 goats to hunt, and then, worst of all, no wood to 
 make a fire; then our search in vain for a lonely 
 picturesque cave to live in, which, of course, we ex- 
 pected to be all ready for us ; our dread of the in- 
 side of the chapel where the saints' bones lay, so 
 silent, so solitary ; our first unsatisfactory meal after 
 a long fast, and pain at finding all our provisions 
 finished by it, without any visible means of supply ; 
 our uncomfortable rehearsal of a sleep, long before 
 bed -time, in our blankets among the rocks; our 
 attempts at fishing miserably failing, — ^no bait having 
 been brought ; our conviction, hourly becoming 
 stronger, that we had made fools of ourselves, and 
 yet feeling ashamed to confess it ; our longing to go 
 home, and yet no one liking to be the first to pro- 
 pose it, until, as night was drawing on, we thought 
 of going to the boat, when, lo ! she was left by the 
 tide high up on the beach, fi'om which she could not 
 be budged ! Then came horror at the thought of 
 spending even one night, and a hungry one, with 
 the saints' bones, where we had resolved to spend 
 weeks ! The first chapter in our tomance of life, 
 unless some *man Friday' appeared, was about to 
 end in a tragedy. Oh, young fancy ! how beautiful 
 art thou ! what realities to thee are dreams ; what 
 
48 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 dreams are realities ! Why can we not, for one 
 hour, even in old age, so dream again with our 
 eyes open, in spite of the Ught that ever is on sea 
 
 nd land t 
 
 The man Friday did appear without our hav- 
 ing first seen his footsteps. I shall never forget 
 the delight with which we descried the well-known 
 boat of old Dugald Wilkie the fisherman, which, un- 
 perceived by us until close to the island, was, with 
 four oars, pulling homewards from her day's fishing. 
 We hailed her ! Dugald was more amazed than we 
 were by the meeting : * What the sorrow pit a wheen 
 Gallants a* this gate frae hame 1 — and what might 
 have come ower you if I hadna come ! — and what 
 would the Captain say !' etc. The old man and his 
 son Peter, with the two Nicols, seemed angels from 
 heaven sent to deliver us ! Our boat was soon 
 launched, the island left ; but, alas ! the cat, to our * 
 great grief, was left behind. In sheer playfulness, the 
 creature evaded every attempt to seize her. 
 
 It was very late at night when we reached home. 
 Now, I will not say how mr parents dealt with us ; 
 but I overheard a part of the interview between old 
 and young Ned. The prompt question as to where 
 he had been ) the transparent answer ; the why and 
 the wherefore 1 and the extreme difficulty of a reply j 
 something about ' Robinson Crusoe,* — * expecting to 
 kill goats,' — and 'live on hunting,' — and 'become 
 
 I 
 
1 A 
 
 M 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 49 
 
 manly,' — and ' come back, in some weeks, and tell 
 stories about the island, and all they had seen. 
 Now, the Captain neither raged, nor scolded, nor 
 thrashed Neddy; but sent him, without supper, to 
 oed, promising to inquire into the matter ; and next 
 day walked with his boy, and told him how natural 
 it was to act as he had done ; but how wrong it was 
 to conceal anything from his father and mother; 
 what anxiety it had cost them ; what a wretched day 
 they had spent ; and what if he had never come back? 
 and how he liked a brave manly boy, but not one 
 who would act unkindly, or who would wish to be 
 independent of command, and be his own master, 
 and go off without leave; — ^until poor Neddy was 
 heartily ashamed of himself, and begged his father to 
 trust him once more, and he would never forget to 
 tell him all he meant to do before he did it. 
 
 * / would have given him. Captain Fleming, had 
 he been my son,' quoth old Pearson the elder, * such 
 a good sound drubbing as he never would have for- 
 gotten — ^never !' 
 
 * Pooh ! pooh ! my good sir. Don't tell me. 
 Never saw flogging in the Navy do good. Kept 
 down brutes : never made a man yet. Neddy 
 could stand flogging with any boy, and never wince 
 a muscle ; but can't stand me^ Pearson ; can't stand 
 me; for he knows I love him.' 
 
5© The Old Lieutenant 
 
 * But such a thing, Captain Fleming, as setting off 
 
 to' 
 
 Pfui ! Not so bad, Pearson; not a lie, nor cruelty, 
 nor positive disobedience. No orders given. It was 
 brave, sir ! Some stuff in him. Sailor blood, Pear- 
 son. Tempted by Robinson Crusoe — the best bX)ok 
 ever written. I forgive the boy. But I'll wager 
 you he does not forgive himself.* 
 
 The severest scold Neddy got was from old Babby, 
 about her cat ! 
 
 'What hae ye done wi' Mausel' she asked, as she 
 stared into Ned's disconsolate face like a mother 
 cross-examining a murderer about her missing child. 
 * Ye left her ahint, did ye ! Ye left her to dee, did 
 /e ! I'm yer frien', nae doot ; but ye ken frien's 
 are like fiddle-strings, ye shouldna screw them ower 
 ticht or they'll crack, and ye amaist cracked me ! Na, 
 na, laddie, I can baith forgi'e and forget the warst turn 
 onybody can do against mysel', but no sic an auda- 
 cious, wicked job as this on Mause ; her that never hurt 
 beast nor body, that never touched meal nor mouse, 
 that was a friend tae ilka ane, and wadna grudge 
 meat to a rat ; her that was yer faither's pet and my 
 pleasure ; Aer to be left, like an ill-doing thief, on 
 a far-awa island ! Often did I say it, that sin and 
 saut water handed weel thegither, and Mause will be 
 kilt atween them. But in the body or oot o't, certe% 
 
 ■ 
 
 '1 
 t 
 
and his Son. 
 
 5« 
 
 I'll get baud o' puir Mause! If no, it's wha lies 
 there, wi' Babbie Morrison !* 
 
 Horrible to relate, Babby herself was missing next 
 day, and the Captain thought his household had gone 
 mad ; until an old fisherman, in fits of laughter, let 
 out the secret that Babby had gone off at four in the 
 morning, with a fisher crew, to the island for the 
 cat! 
 
 Such an episode hi)d never occurred in Babbie's 
 life. As hour after hour passed, and no Babby ap- 
 peared, the Captain became fidgety and anxious, 
 and at one time proposed to send Freeman in search 
 of ' the old craft,' as he called her, * lest she should 
 have foundered, or gone adrift.' Mrs. Fleming, after 
 consoling Ned, who felt all day as if he had com- 
 mitted some terrible crime, was convinced that there 
 was no cause for anxiety, and that Babby had evi- 
 dently gone off under the impression that she could 
 have made out her voyage before breakfast, over- 
 looking the fact that the fishermen had to ply their 
 vocation, and that the island was itself a pull of two 
 or three hours. But in the dusk of the evening Babby 
 was seen waddling up to the door, and soon she was 
 surrounded by the inmates of the cottage to wel- 
 come her, and perhaps to scold her, but certainly to 
 hear her adventures. Without speaking a word, 
 she threw herself into a large arm-chair near the 
 kitchen fire, in an attitude of despair, depositing at 
 
52 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 her feet the basket which contained the precious 
 Mause, who was no sooner relieved than, with coiled 
 back and erect tail, she began rubbing herself against 
 the Captain's leg, and purring with delight. But the 
 storm had not yet burst from the arm-chair, though 
 it was evident, from the lightning playing in Babbie's 
 eyes, that it was not far off. At last it came when 
 her little black bonnet was laid aside, and her cap 
 strings loosed, and the Captain's question of * What 
 on earth had become of her )' furnished her with an 
 appropriate text. 
 
 'Become o' me!' she exclaimed, *ye may weel 
 ax. Hech, sirs, a-day, that I, wha scunner at the 
 sea like pushion, that I should, in Providence, 
 hae been caused to gang doon till't in ships, and 
 tossed on the raging deep like a craw on a tree-tap 
 in a storm! Whar hae I been? At the verra 
 back o' the beyonts, — and a' for that cat ! But a frien* 
 in need is a frien' indeed. Sic a day as I hae had 1 
 The waves were rowin' up and down like green hills, 
 wi' heads like kimed milk ; and every minute I 
 thocht the nutshell o' a boat wad crack, or reive like 
 a cloot, and we wad a' gang doon to the foundations 
 o' the yirth. I ne'er liked water in my shoon, let 
 alane to sail on't Mony a text o' the Bible cam 
 into my head this day, for I was in an awfu' fricht 
 1 couldna get Jonah, puir wicked fallow, out o' my 
 head, and I was thinkin' mair than aince what a daft- 
 
and his Son, 
 
 S3 
 
 like thing it wad be, and what a clash it would mak 
 in the toun and in the kirk, if I had been custin' oot 
 to a whaule, wi'out a chance o' ever being custin' up 
 again on dry land.' 
 
 But here an uncontrollable fit of laughter seized the 
 Captain, which did not, however, disturb Babbie's 
 solemnity. 
 
 ' It was nae lauchin' sport, I can assure you, to 
 me ; the twa lads in the boat made fine game o't, 
 like a wheen heathens ; yet I maun do them justice, 
 they were unco kind to me, and cast lots only for the 
 fish. But when I got my fit on the auld quay, wi' 
 Mause in the basket, I can tell you I was mair 
 thankfu' than if I had got Bawbylon or Neeneveh put 
 in my lap.' 
 
 Some good tea soon restored Babby's nerves and 
 temper. ' Puir cratur !' she said, looking fondly at 
 Mause, * if ye had only seen her sitting on the auld 
 Saint's CofHn like a warlock, and hoo she cam doon 
 louping and whingeing to meet me ! She wad hae 
 come to nane but me or the Captain, — the bonnte 
 lass!' 
 
 ^~ 
 
54 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CHOOSING A PROFESSION. 
 
 *VVhat are you going to make of Ned? if I may 
 take the liberty to ask such a question,' said good 
 old Dr. Yule to Mrs. Fleming one forenoon when he 
 called at the cottage, and found her alone. *I cannot 
 tell you what a high opinion I have formed of him, 
 so manly, so brave, so modest, and altogether such a 
 thoroughly well-conditioned boy ; and I think, Mrs. 
 Fleming,' added the Doctor, lowering his voice, 'with 
 the real thing in him.' 
 
 ' You are very kind. Doctor, and very encourag- 
 ing to say so. I am so glad and thankful you think 
 well of Neddy, for I was afraid that my mother-love 
 to him might have blinded me. But as to his pro- 
 fession, that, indeed, is a grave and difficult questioa 
 Yet it must soon be determined one way or other, 
 either by himself or for him. And it is not easy, 
 Doctor, for either him or us, to do so.* 
 
 * It is, indeed, difficult. One has to take into con- 
 sideration so very many things. It is often easier to 
 
and his Son* 
 
 Si 
 
 flay what a boy cannot be than what he can. For, 
 just as no one would propose to make a deaf man 
 a musician, or a blind man a painter, so there are 
 many professions from which some boys are obvi- 
 ously debarred by want of talent, want of money, 
 want of education, want of health, want of inclina- 
 tion, or some other impassable obstacle, which, in 
 Providence, closes paths which one might otherwise 
 like them to follow. But Ned has so many gifts that 
 I really feel it difficult to select any profession for 
 which he is unfit.' 
 
 * He is my only child, as you know, Doctor, and 
 this makes me the more anxious about him.' 
 
 * No wonder, no wonder, Mrs. Fleming ; the nest 
 with one bird is easily robbed.' 
 
 * And then, Doctor/ said Mrs. Fleming, looking at 
 the floor, 'his soul!' 
 
 'Who that believes, Mrs. Fleming, in right or 
 wrong, eternal loss or gain, but must acknowledge 
 and deeply feel that his " chief end," as an immortal 
 being, must, above every other consideration, affect 
 the question of his profession ? For verily it would 
 be no profit if he gained the whole world, and lost 
 his soul. Have you and Captain Fleming thought of 
 any profession for him V 
 
 * I have had a longing in my heart fbr the Church, 
 but you know the expense attending his education 
 makes it very difficult for us to afford it, apart from 
 
5< 
 
 The Old Lieu tenani 
 
 Ned's own sense of unworthiness and unfitness for so 
 high {I calling, which he realizes very strongly. I 
 fear, I fear, it will be the sea.' 
 
 ' It is in the blood, Mrs. Fleming, in the blood,' 
 remarked the Doctor, smiling. 'But if it is God's 
 will that he should go to sea, your boy can be as safe 
 at sea as on land, and glorify God in the great deep 
 as well as in the pulpit. He who made the sea in- 
 tended ships to sail over it, and ships require sailors. 
 Yet I somehow feel as if in going to sea he was bury- 
 ing his talents. But I will not intrude my opinion on 
 you. Be assured only of this, Mrs. Fleming, that 
 I have a deep interest in him, that I will do all I 
 can to aid him, and that I pray God to direct you 
 and him. Farewell ! Give my kindest regards to 
 your worthy husband. Whatever you determine, 
 please let me know.' 
 
 The necessity of Ned's choosing a profession began 
 to dawn upon the Captain's mind one night after he 
 awoke from his first sleep, which generally happened 
 about midnight, and was reckoned as his first watch. 
 Looking beyond the curtain, as was his custom, to- 
 wards the window, to ascertain, if possible, the state 
 of the weather, he saw the full moon playing upon 
 the calm sea, and a sloop-of-war, with her dark hull 
 and tapering masts floating on the golden river of 
 light. The Captain began to dream, but with his 
 eyes open. By degrees, and led alorg the chain of 
 
and his Strn. 
 
 57 
 
 memory and association, the idea first suggested itself 
 of his boy going to sea. Ned going from home and 
 going to sea I Did he say or think this ? The very 
 thought was quite enough for one night, and with 
 some half- muttered expression, accompanied by a 
 sigh, he turned his back to the window, and went off, 
 as he would have said, ' on the other tack, with all 
 sail set for the deep sea.' But he tumbled about 
 more than usual, as if tossed on troubled waters. 
 Then followed for some weeks various confidential 
 communications and speculations with his wife, when, 
 in spite of many inquiries on his part, such as, ' What 
 say you, my dear?' 'Perhaps you don't think sol' 
 she, meek woman, would hardly make a remark, 
 knowing full well that it was in vain to give a decided 
 opinion until the Captain had run himself aground, 
 or rrr-* \ry^ a position in which he really required 
 o extricate him. When in perplexity he 
 ipt be obstinate. For a long time * she could 
 n reahy say;' 'she would consider it;* 'she had 
 her doubts and difficulties,' yet, ' whatever he deter- 
 mined she was sure would be the wisest' 
 In the meantim Mrs. Fleming vainly * pondered 
 >r a while she could hardly 'take 
 hoy leaving her. It seemed like 
 He had hitherto been a portion 
 r self, of her heart and her household, of 
 thoughts and daily plans. And then he 
 
 it in her heart.' 
 the idea of he 
 
 m 
 
 a premature deati 
 
^t: 
 
 $8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 was 80 cheerful and happy, so considerate, i^ympa* 
 thizing, and sensible, with a quiet lun which, like a 
 sunbeam, ever and anon darted into their room and 
 lighted it up. And for him to go to sea ! to rough 
 its winds and waves, to be a companion of rude 
 sailors, to run the risk of being drowned, 'never 
 heard of more.' * Patience,' she would say to herself, 
 ' one step at a time. I will not torture myself about 
 it until I must say yea or nay.' 
 
 Why does sihe sometimes, when alone, lay down 
 her work, put her spectacles beside it, and, with a 
 noiseless step, heard only on the old creaking stair, 
 'enter her closet, and shut the door)' The Fathei 
 who hears in secret knows I 
 
 . The Captain determined to have a talk with Ned 
 himself on the subject, and one evening as they 
 walked along the sea-shore an opportunity was afforded 
 of his doing so, Ned never in his life had said in 
 words that he loved his father. It was a thing taken 
 for granted. He would as soon have declared for- 
 mally that he breathed the living air. The boy pos- 
 sessed a very deep, even an enthusiastic attachment 
 to him. Every year they became more and more 
 companions. Old Ned perpetuated his youth in his 
 son, and young Ned realized his manhood in nis 
 father. 
 
 ' Did you ever think, my lad,' inquired old Ned 
 with a careless air, though his heart began to beat 
 
and his Son, 
 
 59 
 
 violently, *what profession you would iwe to fol- 
 low?' 
 
 *Yes, father,' answered Ned promptly, *the sea, 
 with your permission.' 
 
 ' Ned, just go and fetch back that ball,' said the 
 Captain. Ned ran for his ball, which he had struck 
 to a distance along the green turf. The ball had 
 been driven a long way ahead, and its recovery gave 
 the Captain time for reflection. During the interval 
 he had consumed several large pinches of snuff. 
 The crisis had come, and he wished it had not ; but 
 having come it must be met. 
 
 * I need not say to you, my boy,' remarked the 
 Captain, when Ned returned to his side, 'that I 
 honour the sea. All the honours your poor father 
 gained, Ned, were gained on the sea. But there was 
 no fame, though I did my duty. Yes, I have that 
 reward that I did my duty ! Nelson once told me 
 so.' 
 
 * I am sure you did your duty, father.' 
 
 * Yes, I did my duty, though it's a long time ago. 
 Old Freeman could tell you about it Few care 
 about these old times.' 
 
 */ do, father.' 
 
 * Yes, yes, Ned, it would be unnatural if j^ou did 
 not ; but others don't As for money, pay, and all 
 that sort of thing, there was little, boy, except from 
 some prize-money. Youv mother is a remarkable 
 
6o 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 woman; and but for her and our old Babby, that 
 tough old craft, we would often have been aground ; 
 but we never were — ^never ; always had shot in the 
 locker, and something over for a friend in need.' 
 
 * But you know, father, I never would think of the 
 Navy, but only of the merchant service.' 
 
 * Ned,' said the Captain, stopping in his walk, as 
 he always did when in earnest, *I would give my 
 right hand to send you to the Navy, if we had the old 
 ships, the old men, the old officers, and the old wars' 
 — and here he brought his large stick down whack on 
 the sand — * but these, all these are gone ! Oh, Ned, 
 money is good, and sugar, and bales of tobacco, and 
 rum, and merchandise, and such -like cargoes, I sup- 
 pose, are of use, and make men rich ; but think, my 
 boy, of what we had ! — ^honour, and our ship, and 
 our fleet, and our admiral, and King Geoige, and the 
 country, and all against those rascals the French 1 
 You can't have such things, Ned ; they are gone, 
 gone, gone ! ' He reisumed his walk in silence, 
 broken only by *gone, gone, gone,' uttered like 
 minute-guns from a vessel in distress. 
 
 ' Well, father, you know I must do f omething. I 
 can't be long hanging on you and my mother ; and I 
 have turned all sorts of employments about in my 
 head, though I did not like to bother you ; and I 
 think if, like you, I did my duty, perhaps I would be 
 able to command a vessel, make a little money, and 
 
and his Son. 
 
 6i 
 
 come and live beside you; and then old Freeman 
 might still be alive, and we would have our battle- 
 days together once more.' 
 
 * Bless you, my boy !* said old Ned, catching, not 
 
 his hand, but the collar of his jacket, and giving him 
 
 a shake as he often did in love. ' I like your spirit. 
 
 We'll see; we'll see about it Your dear mother, I 
 
 may tell you, has had a talk with Dr. Yule "^n this 
 
 subject. I'll have a talk with Freeman, for, do you 
 
 know, Ned, Freeman is a very sensible man, and has 
 
 seen much of the world. I consider that any man 
 
 who was boatswain in the Arethusa must have stuflf 
 
 in him. 
 
 " She was a ship as stout and brave 
 As ever stemmM the dashing wave." 
 
 You remember, Neddy ) So I shall have a talk with 
 Freeman as well.' 
 
 But before Freeman was consulted, Mrs. Fleming 
 said to her husband, when sitting together late one 
 night, at the fireside, * Edward, dear' — she always 
 called him Edward when very serious — * Edward, 
 dear, what think you of the Church for Neddy 1 I 
 tell you frankly that I dread the temptations of the 
 sea, and I would like some profession where our dear 
 boy would not be exposed.' 
 
 * Mary, my love' — ^for he too, on such occa^jons, 
 mentioned his wife's name with peculiar eniphasis, 
 «— ' Mary, my love, do ^ou think that a minister h^9 
 
^/- 
 
 62 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 no temptations f or that the pulpit has no dangers 
 like the deck % But why should I trouble you with 
 all I know and have seen 1 I have known and seen 
 ministers \ such ministers ! — not like old Yule, as 
 good a craft as ever sailed — ^but ministers, useless, 
 ill-built from keel to truck ; tubs, not sea-worthy, 
 firing broadsides and showing bunting on Sunday, 
 but all the week silent and without a signal. Oh, 
 such craft I' After a pause, the Captain resumed 
 his comments. *MaTy, will you believe me' — and 
 here he spoke in a whisper — < I have known parsons 
 that lied ! yes, lied, I do assure you, and some who 
 actually got drunk ! On my word, on my word, 
 that's true. Oh, don't tell me there's no temptations 
 to a parson! Look you* — and here the Captain 
 pointed upwards — *if a parson don't go up there' 
 — ^then bringing down his finger towards the floor, he 
 added, *■ he goes down there, down, down ; and no 
 soundings — none !* 
 
 * The want of money is my chief difficulty, "^ward; 
 otherwise I would not be afraid of Ned. But what 
 say you to a surgeon V 
 
 *You know, Mary, neither he nor I ever took 
 medicine ourselves, and we would not like to give 
 it to others. I spoke to Neddy about this. He has 
 no mind to it — none. It's a bloody business ; very. 
 
 'Oh, my dear, let him have any profession that 
 will keep him at home ; lawyer, or anything.' 
 
and his Son. 
 
 ^3 
 
 * Lawyer ! — ^Like little Talfourd, that sneak of 
 sneaks ? For old Walker is half starved just because 
 he keeps people from going to loggerheads, and is 
 an honest man. But we shall think the thing over, 
 my love. In the meantime, I am resolved on one 
 point, that Neddy don't take up one of the idle pro- 
 fessions. For just look, Mary, at the Colonel's son, 
 William, or at Jack Monro. These fellows go fish- 
 ing one day, and sailing the next. They dress them- 
 selves up in sailors' jackets and sailors' hats, and 
 stick a cutty pipe in their mouths ; talk big English 
 — swagger along the streets — stare into shop-windows, 
 and flirt with young ladies as foolish idiots as them- 
 selves. They are looking out for some Government 
 appointment, forsooth ! — ^who but they ! Cock them 
 up like figure-heads ! They wish to be gentlemen at 
 ease, without work to soil their fingers or shake their 
 brains, if they have any. I tell you that I would 
 rather Ned was a tailor, and stitched his own clothes, 
 than see him parade the streets an idle fool, with 
 clothes he might have worked for, but would not' 
 
 The Captain was quite exhausted by this blow- 
 out, and his wife, unwilling at the time to prolong 
 the conversation, expressed her hearty agreement 
 with her husband as to the utter folly of ' the idle 
 squad,' as he called these young lads, and then re- 
 tired to rest 
 
 One evening, shortly after this conversation, Free- 
 
64 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 man came to take tea at the cottage. It was the 
 anniversary of a minor engagement, in which the 
 Captain had been slightly wounded, but mentioned 
 honourably in the Gazette. Both retired to a bower 
 in the garden, while Freeman smoked his pipe. 
 
 * Freeman,' said the Captain, when he saw that his 
 friend's pipe was drawing satisfactorily, *we have 
 been thinking what to make of Neddy.' 
 
 Freeman nodded, and blew two whiffs instead of 
 one. 
 
 * His mother, the best of women,'— Freeman again 
 nodded, — * thinks the sea dangerous.' 
 
 * Captain,' said Freeman, * I have often remarked 
 that men drown boats oftener than boats drown 
 men ;' and he added several nods as a comment on 
 his remarks. 
 
 * I understand,' replied the Captain. * Unless the 
 right thing is in the lad, it's all up— on land or on 
 shore — all up ! He will sink in a calm, or founder 
 in a storm, or drift into shallow wkter. And if it's 
 in him, it's all right He will lie -to, and .weather 
 the storm with sail or anchor. The seaman makes 
 the vessel as much as the vessel the seaman— eh f ' 
 
 Freeman assented. 
 
 * His mother,' continued the Captain, * would like 
 him to be a minister ; but I told her that all were 
 not like Yule, or Purdie, or Cruickshanks, but often 
 the reverse.' 
 
 r 
 
and his Son, 
 
 6i 
 
 * Waller !' said Freeman, pointing his thumb over 
 his right shoulder, as if Waller was listening. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Captain, ' that was a bad specimen 
 whom you and I knew well' 
 
 * And so was Risk. Both bad. Few like that noble 
 old trump, Mr. Barstow of the Arethusa. Ned has 
 ballast. Freeman, but not bunting for a parson.' 
 
 * A doctor?' 
 
 * A doctor!* exclaimed Freeman. * Give me a man 
 that will lose his own legs on deck, fighting for king 
 and country, and not spend his time sawing off the 
 legs of other men in the cockpit' 
 
 * There you have hit the nail, Freeman,' said the 
 Captain with a chuckling laugh. * Yet a fine fellow 
 was old Dr. Snodgrass V 
 
 * I remember him in the ship of old St. Vincent 
 A terrible disciplinarian was the old lord, though 
 every inch a lion. Snodgrass was a gentleman. 
 
 But Dr. ; what is his name 1 That doctor by 
 
 guess in our town?* 
 
 * Small.' 
 
 *Yes, Small. See how that lying rascal makes 
 money with his lotions, ointments, plasters, pills 
 and humbug.' 
 
 *Nor do I think a lawyer's rig would suit Ned, 
 Freeman ? I don*t understand those lawyers a bit' 
 
 ' Nor anybody else,' replied Freeman. * I tell you, 
 Captain, that fellow Talfourd has robbed me i He 
 
66 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 sent me a paper about the small craft of a cottage 1 
 purchased with as many " whereases " and " afore- 
 saids " as would furnish reef-points for a maintopsail.* 
 After a long pause the Captain said, *I suppose, 
 Freeman, we must send him to the old sea V 
 
 * Blow, breezes, blow !' replied Freeman. * It's in 
 the lad. He'll soon pass a gasket with any man, and 
 end on the quarter-deck of his own ship. The mer- 
 chant service, mayhap, hasn't the honour. Captain, of 
 the old Navy, but it's more profitabler.* 
 
 There was one member of the family, who, though 
 not c<9nsulted formally in this crisis of its history, 
 nevertheless discovered what was going on through 
 that mysterious clairvoyance by which the kitchen 
 soon discovers what is doing in the drawing-room. 
 Mrs. Fleming had, no doubt, unconsciously revealed 
 to old Babby many of her thoughts and anxieties. 
 But Babby, with a singular reticence and prudence, 
 *ne'er let on,' until it was one day officially announced 
 to her that Neddy was destined for the sea. 
 
 * The sea !' said Babby, stopping in her work, and 
 looking at her mistress with eyes that threatened to 
 gather into their orbits her whole countenance. 
 * The sea ! Never tell me he's gaun to the sea j a 
 nasty, jumbling, angry pairt o* Creation, that I never 
 could thole, except for the fish that come out o't 
 The sea ! Ye ha'ena seen, mistress, what I hae seen, 
 or ye never wad hear tell o* sic nonsensci* 
 
 
and hts Son* 
 
 67 
 
 'What have you seen that is so very wonderful, 
 Babby?' 
 
 ' There was naething wonderfu' about it, but just a 
 drowned sailor, that was a'. It's fifteen year come 
 next term-time, I was gaun ae day to wash at the 
 glen, and there did I see a crowd o' folk carrying up 
 a dead man that had been wambling aboot amang 
 the waves like a stick.' 
 
 ' Oh ! silence, Babby, don't speak in that way !' 
 
 *■ But I'll no whist, for it's truth; and they laid the 
 sailor in auld Sandy MacEachnie's byre, and I couldna 
 help gaun to see him, and I tell you, mem, that his 
 head was just a skull coming oot o' the tap o' his 
 jacket like a white turnip, without hair and ' — 
 
 ' Br.bby, I command you ! not another word ; you 
 are niaking me ill.' 
 
 * I hope so,' said Babby \ * I want you to be ill, 
 and to be frightened to send Ned to the sea. But I 
 ken it's nae use my trying. That auld Captain o' 
 ours was surely drinking saut-water instead o' milk 
 when he was a bairn, or he wad ne'er be sae clean 
 daft as send my laddie to the nasty sea.' 
 
 * But what else, Babby, can Ned be than a sailor t 
 for we have tried minister, doctor, and lawyer, but 
 none will suit' 
 
 * What about that ! Can you no mak him a gro- 
 cer) or a haberdasher? or put him to some quiet 
 dfcent business whare h^ could m^ siUer, bigg a 
 
68 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 house, many a fine comely woman — ^for wad she no 
 be proud to get him ! — and then bring his bairns 
 doon here, and gi'e them scones, and cruds and 
 cream, and a' that's guidT 
 
 * A grocer will never do for Ned, Babby.* 
 
 ' Maybe no ; he would be ower proud for that 
 I'm taking ower muckle on mysel', but ye will ex- 
 cuse me. It's a wonderfu' thing this pride ! Ye 
 dinna like your bairn to handle tea \ but ye thinlc-^ 
 keep me ! — ^that tar is nicer for his hauns. Ye object 
 to salt sugar, but no to saut-water. It's extraordinar, 
 I do assure ye, to nu. And then if he was a shop- 
 keeper he couldna droon atween his house and the 
 cross, and he micht be a bailie, or a provost, and — 
 noo, Mrs. Fleming, ye needna lauch at me, for I'm 
 certain I'm richt' 
 
 Then Babby, with a most insinuating expression, 
 added, 'For my sake, keep our ain Neddy in his 
 luld nest* 
 
 I need not record all the circumstances which led 
 to a correspondence with John Campbell and Com- 
 pany, of Greenock, to get Ned entered as an ap- 
 prentice in one of their ships, ending in an offer of 
 a berth in the *John Campbell,' and an order for 
 the boy to appear on a certain day at the office on 
 * the quay.* 
 
 In the meantime let us see what Ned himself wa? 
 about 
 
ana his Son, 
 
 •69 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN THE LIFE OF A POOR SCHOLAR. 
 
 From the moment the thought of going to sea 
 was seriously entertained by Ned, it seemed to have 
 added years to his age. He was getting very thought- 
 ful and grave, but whether from anxiety or sadness, 
 no one could tell. 
 
 There was a favourite excursion of his which he 
 used to take on holidays with his school companions. 
 It was an hour's walk from the seaport, where a grand 
 beach of pearly sand stretched for miles, and received 
 the ceaseless beat, and sometimes the awful dash 
 and roar of the ocean's waves. It was a wild and 
 desolate scene. The sand beyond the hard brown 
 jfioor on which the spent waves first broke, and up 
 which they sent their thin films of water and hissing 
 foam, was blown into dunes^ partially covered with 
 coarse grass, and passing away into sandy pasture 
 lands, overlooked by a range of rocky precipices 
 which marked the original beach. A small cluster 
 of fishermen's houses, and a boat or two hauled up 
 
70 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 on the sands,' alone broke the line of the far-winding 
 shore, while sea-ward all was blue to the horizon, ex- 
 cept where a few scattered islands dotted the middle 
 distance. 
 
 Ned, with an irresistible impulse to be alone, 
 went by himself to visit this solitary beach, and 
 see the rollers driven in by some far-off storm, 
 whose boom he heard miles off in the thick air 
 like echoing peals of distant thunder. There 
 they were, the tawny lions with their shaggy manes 
 and curling paws, tearing the shore, and roaring 
 against it in their fury 1 As Ned paced along the 
 beach enjoying the majestic and solemn scene, he 
 unexpectedly came upon a pale-faced lad, wrapped 
 in a Highland plaid, who was reading a book in a 
 sheltered comer near a large boulder. He soon re- 
 cognised the face of a delicate boy who, two years 
 before, had left the school, and whom he had since 
 quite lost sight of, but whose nickname of Curly he 
 well remembered. His real name was James Morris. 
 
 * Hollo, Curly!' said Ned, 'this cannot surely be 
 you ) What has come over you for such a long time? 
 How are you 1 What on earth are you doing here V 
 
 After firing off a shower of similar questions, he 
 seated himself on the sand beside Morris, who 
 had come to live in one of the distant cottages, 
 in the hope that fresh air and milk would benefit 
 his health. ThQ lad was poor, £g[id had i)0 con)- 
 
and his Son* 
 
 7« 
 
 panioDS, but had imbibed an insatiable thirst for 
 study, and managed somehow to attend Glasgow 
 College for two sessions. His present reading was 
 poetry, and of all poets Wordsworth — ^who at that 
 time was known in the more distant provinces to 
 comparatively few. He was immersed in his favourite 
 'Excursion' when Ned discovered him. 
 
 After some conversation, Ned was strangely fas- 
 cinated by the gentle manners of Morris, the quiet 
 affection in his speech, and by an elevation of 
 thought which was like nothing he had ever met 
 with before in any acquaintance. Ned told him all 
 his plans, which were heard with great patience and 
 interest ; and one might fancy that Curly's large, blue, 
 expressive eyes, in the midst of his pale cheeks, were 
 listening more than his muffled-up ears. 
 
 * What a queer life you must lead, Curly I Are 
 you not unhappy t What on earth can you do 1' 
 
 * Ned, I can't help it,' said the boy with a sigh. 
 'Oh, I didn't mean to blame you a bit,' replied 
 
 Ned, who felt as if he had said something unkind. 
 
 *I know you didn't, Ned, but really I am very 
 happy. I've lots to do. I keep the accounts of 
 old Gilbert, the fisherman with whom I live; the 
 accounts of all the fish he catches, and what he gets 
 for them, and what he pays for rent, and for all he 
 or his wife buys in the town; and I sometimes 
 herd his cow — don't smile — ^until she and I are quite 
 
 / 
 
7a 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ^ends. And then I teach two children, Peter and 
 Kirsty, a prince and princess I Oh, if you only saw 
 them splashing through the water when the sun at 
 evening lights up the golden sand and shore 1' 
 
 * Poetical, Curly 1' 
 
 * It is not poetry, but fict And what fun I have 
 hauling the nets o moonlight nights, and seeing 
 the fish in the meshes gleaming and struggling in 
 shoals when the net comes near the shore ; and then 
 the counting of them, and the supper afterwards, with 
 the big potatoes laughing their sides sore ! Ha! ha! 
 ha! I miserable ! I lead the life of a king.' 
 
 < Splendid!' said Ned. 
 
 ' And Ned, I am not ashamed to say to you^ for 
 you won't laugh at me, that I wish to make those 
 children noble -hearted men and women. There 
 now, Ned, I have told you all,' — and the boy hung 
 his head, not in shame, but with the modesty ot 
 love, and pressed it against his old companion's 
 breast 
 
 Ned did not reply, but felt a thousand new thoughts 
 of peace, contentment, and usefulness, (oming into 
 his heart 
 
 * And have I not this book % Do you know, Ned, 
 that UssA to the Bible, this is the book I love V 
 
 * I never read a line of poetry in my life. I don't 
 understand it, except my father's songs,' replied Ned. 
 
 * Nor did I till I came here all alone. You know 
 
and his Son. 
 
 n 
 
 I am older than you, and was at College, and got 
 this as a prize, and so I began to read it' 
 
 * What is it about 1' 
 
 * I tell you, Ned, you might as well ask me what 
 those waves are about, or the sun, or the clouds, or 
 yonder blue sky, or that angel of a lark above our 
 heads ! Poetry is about everything in us and around 
 us j about what the eye does not see, nor the ear 
 hear, but what the heart feels and the soul rejoices 
 in. Now, you old rascal, you are laughing at me t 
 But poetry is really a queer thing, like glorious 
 dreams, and it makes me far better, and far happier/ 
 
 * Read me a bit, Curly, for fun.' 
 
 * Fun ! it's no fun. But here is a passage I was 
 just reading, as you came to me, of what a herdsman 
 like myself could feel : — 
 
 O then what soul was his, when., on the tops 
 
 Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun 
 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked— 
 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 
 And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay 
 
 In gladness aiid deep joy. The clouds were tuucb'd, 
 
 And in their silent faces did he read 
 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 
 The spectacle ; sensation, soul, and form 
 
 All melted into him ; they swallow'd up 
 
 His animal being ; in them did he live. 
 
 And by them did he live : they were his life. 
 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 
 Of visitation fr'/in the living God, 
 
74 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffer'd no request \ 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love I'* 
 
 What say you to thatT said the boy, springing with 
 enthusiasm to his feet 
 
 * Well, you're an odd fellow, after all, Curly ! But 
 I feel there is some meaning in what you have read. 
 But, heigh-ho! what has a Jack sailor to do with 
 poetry? A bucket and tar; a marlinespike and a 
 broken rope; a swab and wet decks; a forecastle 
 and smoke ; a caboose and scous ; a gale of wind 
 and reef topsails; a flapping sail and passing the 
 gasket ; a hurricane and lee-shore, with perhaps all 
 hands lost ; — that's Jack's poetry !' 
 
 'Come, come, don't make it so very dark and 
 prosy. Poetry is in the heart, Ned ; and the heart 
 can make poetry out of anything, just as the sun 
 makes dark iron or muddy water shine like silver. 
 You think it strange, perhaps, that I should speak 
 to you in this way. But it is seldom I meet any 
 one I can open my heart to, and I have liked you 
 ever since you defended me against that bully, big 
 Mathieson, the baker's boy with the snub nose.' 
 
 * I don't remember.' 
 
 ' But I do. And you are going away, and we may 
 liever meet again ; for I am always near death, an4 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ii 
 
 fovL must often be so too on the sea. But take this 
 book from me for auld lang syn<=' No 1 You must 
 I insist on it It will make me happy/ 
 « No, Curly!' 
 
 * Yes, Neddy ! and, next to fAe Book, read it ; for, 
 Ned ' — and here the boy looked earnestly at him — 
 *you will never, old chap, become a coars(,', grovel- 
 ling, dirty, swearing, drinking brute of a sailor — 
 dirtier than Gilbert's big pig ! You ? Faugh ! Im- 
 possible ! Now, there you laugh again, with your 
 shining white teeth and black eyes.' 
 
 'I declare. Curly, I am laughing at you, for it 
 seems so odd to hear you preaching like old Yule. 
 But, without joking, I thank you, and I hope I wiil 
 never be the sailor you describe !' After a pause, 
 he added, ' Do you know. Curly, 1 never spoke to 
 any one in this way before, nor did any in the school 
 ever speak this way to me, and I don't know very 
 well what to say. It seems so odd-like. But I like 
 you as a real good fellow. There's my fist to you I 
 Will you think of me when I am away 1 ' 
 
 * There's my hand to you, and I will think of you, 
 rxfj and — shall I say it ? — ^pray for you here — in this 
 spot — on the sand. Yes, Ned, I shall,' said Morris, 
 with his blue eyes moist like violets full of dew and 
 sunlight 
 
 'Are you serious. Curly? Do you mean to say 
 actually that you will ever pray for me 9 ' 
 
if* 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 * I do, Ned. Oh, you don't know what a poor, 
 weak, half-dying fellow like me leams. I am of 
 little use, except, perhaps, to my friends yonder, and 
 no one on earth cares for me, as mother, father, 
 brothers and sisters are all dead. But it 's worth being 
 poor and sick, and able to do nothing, if we learn, 
 Ned, that there is a Father in Heaven who loves us, 
 and a Brother Saviour who died for us, a Spirit that 
 helps us to be good, and a Home where we will all 
 meet at last ! Now, Ned, that is not humbug, but 
 truth, and I cannot help saying it to you, for I don't 
 think I'll ever see you, old cock, again, till we meet 
 yonder,' pointing upwards. 
 
 ' Oh, Curly, I am not so bad as to think that what 
 you say is humbug. Tor I have always been taught it 
 at home. But then you know yourself, that boys 
 don't like to speik about such things, and as I said, 
 it looks odd in me to do it ; yet it is not in you, and 
 should not be so. I daresay, in any of us. But I 
 hope. Curly, wc u meet again ; maybe I'll give you 
 a voyage in my ship ! Wouldn't that be first-rate ? 
 and you would be my chaplain. Hoorah ! and get 
 strong and healthy, and become a regular minister, 
 for I'm sure that 's to be your line.' 
 
 * It 's at all events my dream and my poetry. But 
 a dream and poetry only. In the meantime, let us 
 off lo Gilbert I see my merman and mermaid at 
 the boat, and it's time to get the cow in. Ha! 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 77 
 
 there 's poetry for you ! a cowherd without a pound 
 of money in his pocket, and hardly a pound of flesh 
 on his bones, thinking of a pulpit ! Yet poor fisher- 
 men once became fist.ers of men. But come along, 
 no more preaching. We have work on hand.' 
 
 * Worse ships, Curly, have come to land than yoa 
 Cheer up, and never despond.' 
 
 ' I never do, any more than the fark in the sky. 
 But haste, or the evening will be on us. Look out, 
 Ned ! Aha, lad, there's a sight for you.' And Mor- 
 ris directed Ned's attention to magnificent sunbeams, 
 which poured themselves from behind a sombre cloud 
 that shaded the sun, and lighted up with silver sheen 
 the line of the horizon, bringing into view a ship 
 with crowded sails in the distance. 
 
 * There she is,' said Curly, * exactly as Words- 
 worth hath it — 
 
 *' Like a ship some gentle day. 
 In sunshine sailing far away, 
 A lovely ship which hath the plain 
 Of ocean for her wide domain." * 
 
 Ned gazed on the distant vessel, and thought 
 many things, but made no remark. 
 
 Morris, clapping his shoulder, said pla)rfully, 
 * Cheer up, my hearty, and may you ever sail on 
 in sunshine, till you reach the last harbour, where all 
 is still' 
 
sesss 
 
 78 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 i i 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OLD CORDS SNAPPING. 
 
 That August night which was to usher in the day 
 of Ned's entrance upon busy life was a memorable 
 night in the cottage. 1 his ' traps ' had been pur- 
 chased ; and the little room in which he had slept 
 since his early boyhood wuo full of articles required 
 for his sailor lias; — the strong chest with rope 
 handles; die hammock and bedding; the large 
 leather sea -boots ; the duck trousers, sou' -wester, 
 Guernsey frocks, etc. — all seeming already to speak 
 of heavy seas, wet nights, cold watches, and strong 
 gales. The outfit was beng arranged under the 
 superintendence of his mother and Babby, both of 
 whom gave mmute directions as to where each 
 article was to be kept in the chest, and hcMr it was 
 to be taken care of. 
 
 *Noo, Maister Nedd,* Babby would say, 'ye'rr ■» 
 to pit on thae fine socks or stockings uljcss ye'ce 
 asked not to your dinner.' 
 
 • I asked out to dinner, Babby !' •^xclaimH Ned. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 79 
 
 * Do you think the mermaid would ask me t Asked 
 out to dinner, indeed ! No, no, Babby, my old girl 
 these times are past' 
 
 * I'm no heedin' wha asks ye. A mermaid's invita- 
 tion, if she's decent, is as gude as ony other body's. 
 But dinna spoil y&cfiru things — that's a' I care aboot. 
 Pit that comforter I made for you roon yer neck 
 when it's cauld ; and if ye were wise ye should hae 
 an umbrella to keep off the saut water frae this coat 
 What for, ye cratur, are ye lauchin' at me ? Gae wa* 
 wi' ye, and do what ye 're bid. Wae's me,' added 
 Babby, with a sigh, * I wish ye were hame again ! I 
 tell ye that puir Skye hasna been the same dog ever 
 since ye spoke o' gaun awa'. £h ! he i> a queer ane. • 
 There's no an elder or minister wi' mair sense ! 
 Could ye no tak him wi' you 1 But maybe he wad 
 be sick on the sea like me, puir thing.' And so 
 Babby would talk on, with apparent indifference, for 
 no one saw the tears which often filled, her big eyes, 
 nor heard her blowing her little round nose half the 
 night 
 
 But at last came the inexorable time, and the end 
 of the packing, and the feeling that the last stage 
 of parting was drawing near. 
 
 The^Captain had great difficulty in reading the 
 family prayer that evening, and all felt as if under 
 a solemn responsibility to keep their feelings down. 
 None in the household could go to bed. The Cap- 
 
80 
 
 Tke Old Lieutenant 
 
 tain's step was heard pacing up and down his room % 
 Babby was busy, she said, preparing breakfast ; Mrs. 
 Fleming was flitting about with noiseless step like a 
 ghost ; even Skye went creeping through the house, 
 ascending and descending the stair with emphatic 
 tread, his tail stiffly curled, practising short gruff 
 barks, never heard at night before, as if he had un- 
 seen enemies to contend with, or some great work 
 to do which he could not understand. Sometimes 
 he lay beside Ned's trunk, with his ears cocked, 
 clearing his throat, and giving sundry short, asthmatic 
 coughs through his moustaches. The cat ever and anon 
 ejaculated disconsolate mews; and she and Skye 
 seemed to be jealous of each other. A low wind 
 piped with a monotonous note at the window. Ned 
 himself began, not to undress, but to dress about 
 midnight ; and, having done so, and put everything 
 right, he sat at tlie window looking out on the sea, 
 which gleamed like a mirror beneath the autumnal 
 moon. . 
 
 Then began to dawn upon him a strange feeling, 
 as if all had been unreal till now. Was he actually 
 going away? Was this his last night at home ? And 
 where was he sailing to 1 And what if he never saw 
 father or mother more ? I believe at that moment 
 he would have felt it a most blessed deliverance 
 could he have been 'prenticed to a shoemaker or 
 tailor, or fixed to any employment that would keep 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 8i 
 
 him at home. All romance had fled, if it ever ex- 
 isted, and he felt as if he was doing something 
 wicked. Morris, in the fisherman's cottage, seemed 
 in Paradise ! 
 
 The thought of Morris recalled their last conversa- 
 tion. * He said that he would pray for me,' muttered 
 Ned. * Why should I not do so now for myself, and 
 for those I leave behind)' was the after reflection. 
 And so, after a few minutes' silence, he quietly knelt 
 down. For a while he could not speak in prayer 
 either from lip or heart A great agony of soul sud- 
 denly seized him, so that he almost fought with its 
 violence. His calm and happy life, like a panorama, 
 spread before him. His father and mother never 
 seemed so loving and beautiful. Even Babby ap- 
 peared as if a saint's halo were round her head ; and 
 when, all unperceived by him, his very dog crept 
 near, and licked his hand, it but intensified his emo- 
 tion. At last he said to himself, as he dried his eyes, 
 and thrust his blue handkerchief into his jacket 
 pocket : * This is unmanly. I am ashamed of my- 
 self It is like a girl ! ' By degrees he became calm, 
 and rose in strength and peace. 
 
 Soon after, a gentle tap at the door was followed 
 by his mother appearing. She was peaceful as a 
 summer morning. Sitting down beside her boy, she 
 said, ' Ned, dear, I know all that is passing in your 
 mind, and you need not pain yourself by telling me 
 
\ 
 
 82 
 
 TAe Old Lieutenant 
 
 about it You and I shall have no sad farewells. 
 We understand each other. I am not going to give 
 you any advices ; for my years have been spent for 
 you above every one, except your father. You are 
 choosing a profession with our full consent, be- 
 cause there is no other which seems to suit so well. 
 But, Ned, dear, will you promise me just one thing, 
 — that you will, if at all possible, and unless 
 storms or sterner duties interrupt you, every day read 
 seriously a little, even a few verses, of this Bible 
 which I have bought for you, and in which I have 
 written my name; and also that you will never, 
 never — now, Ned, darling, notice — never neglect 
 prayer to God 1 Kiss me, dearest, and say yes ; and 
 should I never see you, nor hear of you more, my 
 heart will have comfort that our Father heard you 
 and taught you.' 
 
 * I say yes, mother, with heart, soul, and strength,' 
 replied Ned, who never was accustomed to express 
 his feelings; but on this night he threw his arms 
 round his mother's neck, and clung to her for a 
 few minutes in silence. Their whole past life of 
 great love seemed concentrated into these minutes. 
 
 The interview was at last disturbed by the entrance 
 of the Captain. ♦ This is really too bad, my dear,' 
 he said, addressing his wife ; ' you will kill yourself 
 with this work of packing. Ned, my boy, you must 
 go to bed ; the steamer does not sail till five o'clock. 
 
and his Son. 
 
 «3 
 
 This will never do.' In the meantime the Captain 
 gave a sign to his wife to leave the room. 
 
 After she was gone, he said in an under-tone to 
 Ned, ' You know, lad, / have no present to give 
 you.' 
 
 * Present, father ! you V 
 
 'Of course, you did not expect any from me; 
 though, by the way, I am proud of the many you 
 have got. Let me see, — a telescope from the Colo- 
 nel, a small writing-desk from Dr. Yule, a nautical 
 almanac from old Freeman, books from Mr. Cruick- 
 shanks and Mr. Purdie ;' and he enumerated several 
 other articles which lay on a chair beside him. 
 
 But here they were suddenly interrupted by Babby 
 exclaiming, 'Captain, Captain, and Mr. Ned, what 
 are ye aboot?' 
 
 ' Babby, go away ; I say go, Babby,' exclaimed the 
 Captain. 
 
 ' But I say no. Captain. It's unco daft o' you and 
 Maister Ned t be clavering a' nicht like twa hoolets. 
 The job's baJ eneuch wi'oot a' this strama^h. / 
 maun sit up, of coorse ; but pity me, Captain, ye 
 forget ye're an auld man? and ye maun hae sleep 
 when ye're gaun awa yersel'. Is that truel' 
 
 * Come, come, Babby, don't tell secrets.' 
 
 But Ned had heard the unexpected news ; and it 
 lifted a great weight from off his heart, to know that 
 his father was going with him. 'Hurrah!' he said; 
 
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 Phote^raphic 
 
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 33 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
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 v.. 
 
 ^ 
 
«4 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 /ou are a brave old officer, to think of it ! 1 am 
 glad. Hurrah, again I say, for hearts of oak !' 
 
 * I am going, Neddy,' said the Captain, smiling. * I 
 always intended to go, but was afraid your mother 
 and Babby would hinder me. Your mother is admi- 
 ral j Babby, commodore !' 
 
 * Me hinder you ! That's a thocht, to be sure! 
 Met' ejaculated Babby, all the while inwardly de- 
 lighted with the admission. 
 
 ' Yes, you. But in the meantime do go below ; I 
 have something to say to Ned. 
 
 Babby retired, saying, ' I'll come back, mind, and 
 send ye baith to bed.' 
 
 The Captain then produced a huge red pocket- 
 book, and, untying its tapes, from one of its recesses 
 he slowly and reverently unfolded a bit of paper. 
 Ned recognised it, — it had appeared on more than 
 one of the Captain's battle-days, — but he feigned 
 ignorance on the present occasion. 
 
 *Ned, my boy, I mean to present you with my 
 greatest treasure on earth. Look at that signature,' 
 he said, handing the slip of paper to his son, and 
 looking at him over his gold spectacles in silence. 
 
 * Nelson !' said Ned ; * and an order by him to you 
 to make certain signals?' 
 
 'Yes, Ned, an order, and to me, your father! 
 Now Ned, I give it to you as my present, that 
 as you look on it, in storm or sunshine, at home or 
 
and his Son, 
 
 «5 
 
 abroad, you may remember that advice, ''England 
 expects "— (the Captain rose to his feet)— "w'^^y 
 man to do his duty," and that you may never dis» 
 grace your old father by neglecting j'<?»r duty.' 
 A brief silence ensued. 
 
 * Thank you, father! I will keep it as more pre- 
 cious than gold, for your sake ; and whatever happens 
 to me, I hope I will never disgrace you.' 
 
 ' Ned,' continued the Captain, who, as he spok^ 
 sometimes sat down, and sometimes walked a few 
 paces with his hands behind his back : ' Ned, I never 
 had learning ; never could tell you many a thing that 
 was passing in my heart ; can't do it now. My words 
 don't run through this block of a mouth. Something 
 like a heavy sea stops me when I wish to sail a-head. 
 But your mother knows all about it, and she has told 
 
 you, no doubt, that * Here the Captain pointed 
 
 upwards, — then taking a large pinch of snuff, turned 
 his back to Ned. Bringing himself round again, 
 face to face with his son, he said, ' Ned, you must be 
 a better man than your father, for I never saw my 
 father at all, and hardly my mother except as in a 
 dream. You must, Ned, do what your mother has 
 taught you ; not what I could teach you, though God 
 knows how I love you, Ned ! 
 
 * Father, dear,' said Ned, * don't speak that way, 
 for it makes me sorry, as if you were not as good a 
 father as ever a fellow had. What did I ever see in 
 
86 
 
 The Old Limtenant 
 
 you but goodi What did I ever get from you but 
 goodi' 
 
 *Do you say so, Ned? Do you believe thati 
 Neddy, my boy, my only boy, my own, own son, I 
 tell you,— to hear that from your lips, — oh ! I tell 
 you — * 
 
 I know not what the Captain intended to tell his 
 boy. I only know that, giving him a shake by the 
 collar, and a hearty smack of a kiss on the cheek, he 
 stumbled over sundry packages on the floor as he 
 rapidly sought the door, and opening it, turned round, 
 moved his head up and down with an expression of 
 joy and love in his face not easily forgot, then saying, 
 *God bless you 1 God bless you, my own boy !* he 
 closed the door, and descended to his room, until 
 daybreak. 
 
 Soon, alas! too soon for all, followed the early 
 morning which seemed so silent and clear, and felt so 
 cold. Every inhabitant of the cottage went in pro- 
 cession to the old quay. How often had Ned fished 
 from its weather-beaten stones! He was accom- 
 panied, eady though it was, by a number of school- 
 companions, and, strange to tell, was met by old Dr. 
 'Yule, who, as a compliment to his parents, and from 
 love to himself, determined to see him off. Freeman 
 was there, of course, and assumed the command of 
 the luggage. It was, in fact, privately arranged by 
 Mrs. Fleming and Babby, that * Freeman, who re- 
 
and his Son, 
 
 «7 
 
 
 
 ceived the commission with many smiles, many 
 winks, and many nods, should go on the plea of cus* 
 tom-house business to Greenock, to take care of old 
 Ned, while he was apparently looking after young 
 Ned only. 
 
 The time at last came for the farewells ; and then 
 each boy had some little present to give, one a book, 
 another a pencil-case, another a pen-knife, and one, 
 * little Cockey,' as he was called, had nothing but a 
 new ball, which he squeezed into Ned's pocket, say- 
 ing, * It's a splendid bouncer,' and adding in a whis- 
 per, 'I hope you forgive me for having lost yours, 
 for I do assure you that I have done all I could to 
 get it, and even this very morning I was through all 
 the garden searching for it' 
 
 But like all the acts, first and last, of our life 
 dramas, this one had an end; and then came the 
 shaking of hands, and the kind words, and the tender 
 greetings, until the steamer left the quay, along which 
 Skye was barking with wonder at being left behind ; 
 and on which Babby and Mrs. Fleming stood apart 
 by themselves, with their backs turned to the steamer ; 
 while Dr. Yule was waving his hat and es^osing his 
 white locks, and the boys were cheering. Soon the 
 vessel was slowly cleaving the glassy waters of the bay, 
 and disturbing the dark shadows of rock and hill on 
 its surface j the quay, with its loving group, gradually 
 vanished in the distance ; the white cottage became 
 
88 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 a speck ; the waving handkerchiefs were no longer 
 discernible; and the steeple of the parish church 
 alone was seen, indenting the clear blue sky of morn- 
 ing. At last the rocky headland was turned, and the 
 old seaport became a thing of memory. The last 
 link was broken when Ned's old friends, the fisher- 
 men, who were putting out to the fishing-ground, rose 
 from their oars as the steamer passed them, and waved 
 a farewelL 
 
wm 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 «9 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 NEW CORDS TYING. 
 
 Ned sat in silence by himself at the stern of the 
 vessel, and the Captain walked rapidly up and down 
 the quarter-deck, wrapped in a large blue boat-cloak, 
 which, like himself, had seen service. 
 
 It was not until after dinner, and towards evening, 
 that he seemed to thaw and be himself again. He 
 and Freeman, with the master of the steamer, were 
 sitting together, and gradually — ^to the Captain always 
 naturally — the conversation turned upon the old 
 times of the war. 
 
 ^This beautiful evening,' remarked the Captain, 
 ' reminds me of what once happened to me in the 
 Gulf of Genoa. I must have often told the story to 
 you. Freeman!' 
 
 ' I don't remember,' said Freeman, though doubt- 
 less he had more than a suspicion of what was coming. 
 *What was it about?' he asked. 
 
 * I was then in a very different vessel,' said the 
 Captain, ' from this shaking machine, with her dir^ 
 smoke and nasty flappers.' 
 
90 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ' A gude steady boat, I do assure you, Captain 
 Fleming,' chimed in Mr. M'Intyre, the master of the 
 steamer. * She's near thirty horse-pooer, and though 
 no as brisk as I would like, she's safe and sur^ 
 wi' capital ingines superintended by Robert Bell.' 
 
 * No blame, captain, no blame to your vessel, if 
 vessel a thing like this can be called that is navigated 
 with coals and cinders, and without a stitch of canvas. 
 It's a mercy the day is calm, or I would beg for a 
 lug-sail and take to the long-boat. But I suppose, 
 M'Intjrre, you have only a coal-scuttle for your barge, 
 rigged with tongs and poker— eh 1 Ha, ha, ha !' 
 
 But here Freeman interposed by asking the Cap- 
 tain to tell his story. 
 
 'True, I had forgot. This shake, shake, shake, 
 and paddle-addle-addle, knocks all ideas out of me. 
 Well, it was just about this month of August, in the 
 year '95, that I was on board the Agamemnon, 64, 
 with Commodore Nelson. Old Hotham had sent us, 
 accompanied by four frigates and one or two smaller 
 vessels, to cruise off the coast of Italy, so as to pre- 
 vent supplies being sent into Genoa, then held by 
 those republican rascals the French, and attacked by 
 the Austrians. The service was a difficult one, for 
 we were obliged to run in very close to the shore; 
 and a sudden gale might find us hugging the land 
 more lovingly than was convenient. It was my 
 watch on deck. The night was lovely, without a 
 
and his Son. 
 
 9« 
 
 cloud. A light breeze was carrying us along. We 
 trusted in the winds and tides of Providence, and 
 not in steam-engines ; no coal or smoke, I can assure 
 you. I was walking up and down with the second 
 lieutenant, when suddenly the commodore rushed out 
 of his cabin in his night-clothes, and startled us all as 
 if we had seen a ghost " A vessel on the lee-bow," 
 he muttered, " and never reported to me." We all 
 started, and looked out, but no vessel was there. 
 The commodore rapidly passed us, and going forward 
 he cried, " Fire, and bring-to that vessel !" The gun 
 was manned by the watch in a second, but our old 
 gunner said, " I see no vessel, commodore, to fire 
 at !" Again the command was given, and bang went 
 the gun. Nelson seemed to stagger. Rubbing his 
 eyes, he stood for a moment without speaking a word. 
 He then said, "Gentlemen, I don't know what I 
 have been doing. What is all this about?" "You 
 ordered a gun, commodore, to be fired," said the 
 officer. "Did II Well, I suppose I must have 
 done so. I beg pardon," he added, snjiling, as he 
 returned to his cabin, " I believe I was asleep !" 
 Ah, sir ! he was always anxious, always on the watch, 
 his brain going day and night !' * 
 
 The steamer at last reached Greenock Quay, and 
 the Captain was once more in the busy world 
 
 1 This anecdote I give almost in the exact words in which I 
 had it from the old officer. 
 
92 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 I must omit many characteristic details of all that 
 intervened from the time of his landing, until Ned 
 found himself, about a week afterwards, on board 
 of the 'John Campbell' But I may outline my 
 chart 
 
 ' Old Caimey' was the only remaining partner of 
 the respected firm of John Campbell and Co. He 
 had once commanded a merchantman, and was some- 
 times called Captain Caimey. His wife was connected 
 with the best families in Argyleshire, and reckoned 
 herself above the general run of the local aristocracy 
 of Greenock. 
 
 * Caimey' himself was a short squat man, with a 
 round, kind face. A queue, ending like a Maltese 
 cross, prolonged his powdered haur beneath a broad- 
 brimmed white hat; and an immense white neck- 
 cloth afforded a cushion for his ample chin. His 
 body was clothed in a large blue coat, while his 
 limbs were graced by white trousers, finished by 
 broad-toed shoes, tied with broad bows of black 
 ribbon. As to his character, he was frank, hearty, 
 and hospitable, with a quick temper, not over-polished 
 speech, or refined manners ; he was fond of money, 
 devoted to his family, and, in politics, a furious Tory. 
 
 As to Mrs. Campbell, she was recognised by 
 the wise and prudent as a sort of model wife, and 
 as the very genius of order and exact propriety 
 She prided herself on never giving way to her feel 
 
and his Son, 
 
 9:^ 
 
 Ings, and abhorred everything like sentiment or 
 emotion. Her hooked nose, thin lips, sharp chin, 
 and grey eyes became her — that is, they seemed 
 perfectly adapted to her spirit Her gown, which 
 flowed to the ground in straight lines from her 
 thin waist, and descended from 1 er thin neck to 
 her waist, at an acute angle, with white muslin 
 within, the whole connected by a large pin of 
 Achnabeg hair, was such a dress as she might have 
 been bom in — ^like prophetic swaddling-clothes. A 
 fruit-tree, perfectly pruned and nailed down to the 
 wall, was her ideal of the form to which the human 
 mind, domestic arrangements, and society in general 
 ought to be trained. A branch growing free was a 
 painful fault in her eyes. Accordingly, her daugh- 
 (er Kate was often a source of anxiety to her ; for 
 the never could, with all her consummate art, sharp 
 pruning, or careful hammering, adjust Kate's branches 
 to the ideal type of beauty. She attributed these 
 defects to her husband's influence, who, she alleged, 
 was too old when he came under his wife's spell* 
 to be trained or cultivated with any hope of improv- 
 ing his twisted and gnarled condition. *Caimey* 
 was, in her estimation, an old tree of good and evil, 
 which, in spite of the Achnabeg culture, flung out 
 its branches at the promptings of rude nature, and 
 could neither be pruned down nor transplanted, lest 
 its fruit, on which Mrs, Campbell's subsistence d9- 
 
 -/r 
 
94 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 pendedi should be entirely lost, and leaves only 
 appear, or the whole plant die down to its stump. 
 
 When the Captain and his son called for Mr. 
 Campbell, after some conversation and inquiries, he 
 remarked to the Captain, ' If I am not very much 
 mistaken, your wife's name is Campbell I* . 
 
 * Yes, sir ; Mary Campbell.' 
 
 * And may I ask if she is not a niece of old Ach- 
 nabegl' 
 
 ' I believe she is.' 
 
 * You believe I Well, that is good I Are you not 
 sure V 
 
 * I'm not up to families very well, Mr. Campbell' 
 
 * I know she is an Achnabeg,' said Caimey, ' and I 
 feel rather insulted by you.' 
 
 'By me, sir!' exclaimed the Captain, amazed, not 
 perceiving the twinkle in * Caimey's * grey eye. 
 
 *How1 howl I don't understand. On my word 
 I don't' 
 
 *I think that quite likely, sir. A man that says 
 ^he only believes his wife is connected to Achnabeg ! 
 I tell you, sir, she is my wife's third cousin, by her 
 grandfather, old Archy Archnabeg.' 
 
 Here * Caimey' called aloud for some clerk or por- 
 ter, 'Duncan! Duncan M'Fadyen!' While the un- 
 known Duncan was coming, he abruptly turned to 
 the Captain, who was in bewilderment, and asked, 
 * Where is your luggage, Captain Fleming I' 
 
and his Son. 
 
 95 
 
 
 
 * I left it at the Tontine, where we slept last night' 
 'Slept last night, to be sure!' muttered Caimey; 
 
 pretty fellows, indeed I' 
 
 By this time an old Highland porter attached to 
 the office had thrust in his bronzed face. ' Duncan, 
 go to the Tontine, and ask, with my compliments, for 
 Captain Fleming's luggage, and bring it all up imme- 
 diately to my house; and tell Mrs. Campbell that two 
 relations of hers are to visit me, and to remain some 
 days.' Duncan, with a low salaam, disappeared. 
 
 * Really, Mr. Campbell, this is too much, I 
 really—' 
 
 * To think,* continued Caimey, * of you and your 
 son going to an inn ! How dare you? That's the 
 insult ! An inn ! with a relation's house to receive 
 you. Fie for shame !' Then stretching out a hand 
 to each, he said, ' I am truly glad to see you ! * Free- 
 man, after this, was disposed of at the house of an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The Captain and * Caimey' every day discussed, 
 over their pint of wine, Ned's prospects; until it 
 was finally settled that he should begin his first voyr 
 age in a week. 
 
 They differed, strange to say, on one point only, 
 and that was, as to the wisdom of sending Ned to 
 sea. It was evident that the lad had attracted old 
 Caimey's fancy ; he therefore thought the sea life too 
 rough for him, and did all he could, by describing 
 
96 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 its hardships, to dissuade him from following it as fi 
 profession. At last he said, with a cackling laugh, 
 as if some new idea had crossed his mind, — ^whicb 
 will be explained afterwards—* We'll let him go. Cap- 
 tain Fleming, and make the experiment The John 
 CamphM-~ye& — George Salmond, captain — yes— 
 and Peter M'Killop, mate — ^yes — ^we '11 let him go ! 
 Ha ! ha ! we'll let him go 1 If he does not agree 
 with me in six months, I shall wonder.* 
 
 While these discussions were going on, with sundry 
 other topics, every day in the dining-room, a little 
 quiet, merry, promising, domestic drama was acting 
 in the drawing-room. A cousinship had -been esta- 
 blished between Kate and Ned. Dangerous things 
 these cousinships, and between such cousins ! It 
 matters not whether they are third or fourth. When 
 the relationship is agreeable to both parties, they 
 assume always that they are first cousins — a kind of 
 sister-and-brother relationship ; which may, there- 
 fore, be so frank and so confidential, without, of 
 course, meaning anything but mere cousinship. I 
 say between Jt^^ cousins. Now, I have already 
 hinted that Ned was a fine-looking lad. I like to 
 praise him, for I so much admired him, ay, and 
 envied him. It was not his handsome figure, but 
 his noble expression, which was so prepossessing. 
 His manners, too, were so unassuming, so forgetful 
 of himself, and so respectful towards others. Kate 
 
and his Son, 
 
 97 
 
 was a beautiful girl, yet it was difficult to say exactly 
 in what her beauty consisted. The graceful figure 
 and sweet face had doubtless much to do with i^ 
 but there was a something deeper than these ; a 
 something beyond that eye with its <leep blue, and 
 long, drooping lashes, — ^a something far away, like 
 the stany sky beyond the outside glass of the tele- 
 scope ; a something, t a, that went and came about 
 those lips, which even the white teeth and the finely 
 chiselled mouth and chin did not fully account for. 
 In short, Kate was a lovely girl, and Ned a hand- 
 some lad ; and Ned was in love with Kate, and Kate 
 with Ned. 
 
 Not that either. These young creatures did not 
 yet know what love meant. Ah, how few do so, 
 with even more enlarged experience ! Nothing is 
 indeed so common in this world as falling in love ; 
 yet it is not quite so common to love. The 
 one is the flower that may bloom and wither in a 
 night; the other is the rich fruit from the flower, 
 that can survive the sun and storm, and ripen to 
 decay no more. When feverish anxieties have 
 passed away; when ^ hopes and fears that kindle 
 hope ' have ceased ; when selfish jealousies and 
 lovers* quarrels are buried ; when * hone3rmoons' are 
 long set beneath the horizon, and the snowy brow of 
 youth has become wrinkled, and the bright eye lost 
 its lustre, — then does true love survive ;— love, puroi 
 
98 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 noble, devoted, self-sacrificing, seeking not its own 
 but the happiness of its beloved object, a love suclk 
 as youth never dreamt of nor realized. 
 But as young hearts love, these two did. 
 Why don't you sleep, Neddy 1 What are you think- 
 ing about ? Why are you going over all she said, and 
 recalling how she said it ? And why do you wish the 
 time prolonged? And why are you, Kate, on the 
 other side of this dull stone and lime partition, re- 
 peating very much the same mental history ? 
 . Neither of you can tell. You never experienced 
 the same feelings before. You have no name for 
 them. Is it mere cousinship 1 No. Or mere 
 friendship? Not that either. Then what is it? 
 You \H11 find out by and by. In the meantinie, 
 go to sleep ; your parents have been snoring for 
 hours ; and the sunrise is tipping the Argyleshire 
 hills with golden promises of a new day ! 
 
and his Son. 
 
 9Q 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UK£ A DREAM. 
 
 When Ned's indenture for three years' apprentice- 
 ship in the service of Campbell and Co. had been 
 duly signed, and ' Caimey ' added his name to the 
 document with a 'C,* which, like a sea-serpent, 
 encircled his whole signature in its ample folds, 
 he turned to the Captain and said, ' I wish my 
 young friend good luck and rapid promotion; but 
 remember that if he finds, after a little experience, 
 that the sea does not agree with him — ^for you knew, 
 Captain, it is an angry customer, and is obstinate as 
 a. radical — then I will let him oflf scot-free without 
 fine or fault. I will do this for the sake of your- 
 self, Captain, let alone for his own sake, and the 
 Achnabeg blood that is in him.' 
 
 * I am obliged to you, Mr. Campbell,' replied the 
 Captain, * but depend upon it Ned won't flinch. He'll 
 stand by his gun, and to his tackle, and I'll wager' — 
 
 * Wager nothing, Captain; wager nothing, till he 
 sails under George Salmond, master, and Peter 
 
too 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 M'Killop, mate. Good seamen; first-rate; but I 
 camiot say — ^no, no 1 ha! ha! ha 1 I cannot say, 
 indeed, that they will be as sweet to him as the 
 sugar, or as soft as the molasses in their cargo! 
 But well see, Captain. Every one, you know, must 
 rough it in this world.' 
 
 'Duncan MTadyen,' shouted Caimey, *see that 
 this young gentleman's luggage is put on board the 
 John with the first boat to-morrow morning.' 
 
 * I will take care of that punctual, you may depend, 
 sir,' said the obedient Duncan. 
 
 'To-morrow morning!' The last partmg must 
 come then to-morrow ! 
 
 ' There will be no more parting with me,' thought 
 the Captam to himself. * I am determined to return 
 home at five in the morning with the steamer. I 
 have made a fool of myself already. I am getting 
 old, old. I cannot stand this. Besides, Mrs. Flem- 
 ing would be miserable if I remained for the next 
 steamer a week hence.' 
 
 ' I must tow him home,' thought Freeman to him- 
 self. ' He has had enough of this breeze about his 
 old heart His timbers won't bear the strain.' 
 
 *■ I wish I \t sea, and out of sight of land,' 
 
 thought Ned ^ himself with a sigh ; *■ and that this 
 parting was over with every one.' 
 
 Each unuttered thought was disturbed by old 
 *^aime^' saying, < Now, ^^entlemen, let's home to 
 
and his Son, 
 
 lOI 
 
 dinner. You, Mr. Freeman, come with us, and see 
 your old friend o£f to-morrow.' The Captain and 
 Freeman exchanged significant glances, which plainly 
 said, < Don't you think we should both go homet' 
 In a few minutes their looks were translated into 
 words, then into a resolution, and finally into a 
 settled plan. They determined to sail on the mor- 
 row. Both agreed that there was to be no more 
 parting with Ned. 
 
 * Let him go,' said Fre' ^. ' Don't signalize 
 more, Captain ! It produces confudion.' 
 
 * That's what CoUingwood said when Nelson sent 
 up the famous signal But you are right. Freeman. 
 Don't you think it is my duty to go home! No 
 doubt about it, none. I will go, and hail no more.' 
 
 But the old man, before break of day next mom- 
 ing, crept into Ned's room, which was near his own. 
 Shutting the door noiselessly, he sat down upon his 
 son's bed. He had a candle in his hand, and his 
 white nightcap was tied round his head with a blue 
 handkerchief, fringed below with his bushy, grey eye- 
 brows. Ned was wide awake, for he had neither the 
 wish nor the power to sleep. 
 
 As the Captain entered the room he started up, 
 exclaiming, < I hope you are not unwell, father! 
 What is wrong r 
 
 * Never was better in my life, my lad ! Lie still, 
 for remember my order, my order: you are not tq 
 
I02 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 \ 
 
 rise and see me off, lad. I command you, Ned. 
 You will obey me, you sayl All right and steady! 
 I came to tell you a queer dream I had, Ned, — a 
 very queer dream ! and what it means I know not 
 But I cannot help telling it to you,' and the Captain 
 narrated his dream in a low, solemn voice, with a con- 
 tinuity in his narrative not usual with him. His eyes 
 hardly winked, and Ned saw them dilating till they 
 seemed to absorb him, and draw him into their vortex. 
 *As I once told you, I never saw my father, Ned, 
 at all,' began the Captain, * nor my mother, I may 
 say, except once ; and how or when that happened 
 I cannot tell ; for just as I, long ago, saw a drown- 
 ing woman in a shipwreck, and only for a moment, 
 as a flash of lightning blazed around her and the 
 sinking vessel, so I somewhere or other saw my 
 mother — ^in my early home, I suppose. But while 
 all else is dark to memory, her face, and eyes, 
 and smile, as she bent over me, are as clear be- 
 fore me now as then. I think I mu.5t have been 
 awake, and brought out of my bed at night to see her 
 dying, and then sent to sleep again. She died, and 
 I was left among strangers, far away in the West 
 Highlands. I had a distant relation of my mother's 
 in this very town, who was a shipowner. To him I 
 fled from that far-away home, if home it could be 
 c?'' 1. for they were not kind to me. I was then 
 or.iv, at most, ten or twelve years of age, and I 
 
and his Son, 
 
 103 
 
 f 
 
 travelled on foot, begging my way for the little I 
 required till I reached this place. He alone who 
 steers the birds through the air knows how I made 
 out that journey! All the people were very kind, 
 however, and tried to get my history out of me, 
 wondering how such a genteel boy, as they called 
 me, could be begging on foot, and one old gentle- 
 man locked me up to save me for my friends, but I 
 escaped. I then made two voyages in a merchant 
 ship, and was pressed into the Navy not far from the 
 little cottage where we now live, having gone to visit 
 a fellow-sailor who then lived in our town. — But to 
 return to my dream. One night when I was upon 
 that journey, and walking through a long, dark glen, 
 I got so weary that I lay down among the heather, 
 and looked up to the heavens. I cannot understand 
 why I was not frightened. I remember that night ; as 
 I looked up to the stars, I thought they were holes in 
 the sky, through which the light of heaven was shin- 
 ing, and that my mother was walking with God in it, 
 and looking down. I did not sleep. No, Fm sure I 
 didn't ; I feel convinced of that But suddenly I saw 
 my mother bending over me. I saw her as I did 
 years before, and she said, '^ Edward, kiss me, and 
 be a good boy, and God, your Father, will keep you 
 for me; and we'll all meet again — go on and 
 prosper!" She did, Ned, she did! I was not 
 ^leep. These were her very words.' And here ts^Q 
 
104 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 V 
 
 big tears made the Captain wink and pause, thus enr- 
 abling Ned to wink too, and draw his breath audibly. 
 *■ And I did prosper wonderfully since that day,' con> 
 tinued the Captain. ' But is it not odd that I never 
 should have seen her again,' he said, with under- 
 breath and husky voice, *■ till to-night, when she bent 
 over me as plain as you see me now! And she 
 smiled, just as she did long ago, and it's a long, 
 Jong time now, when I was a boy like you. And 
 she kissed me, and I felt myself a child again, and 
 thought that I was you, Ned. And she said, God 
 bless you ; be good, Edward ; no on and prosper.* 
 
 The Captain rose, paced onci or twice about the 
 room with the candle in his hand, muttering, < It was 
 herself! and so strange that she should come just 
 now. " Bless you, Edward," she said, " go on and 
 prosper; God will keep you till we meet again."' 
 Then suddenly blowing out the light, when near 
 Ned's bed, the old man threw his arms about his 
 boy, and pressing his face close to his, said, ' It was 
 you she was blessing, not me, for my voyage is nearly 
 over ; and may God bless you and keep you, that we 
 may meet again here in this world, and if not here 
 below, yetj I hope ' — 
 
 *Dear, dear father,* said Ned, attempting to put 
 his arms round his father's neck ; but his father was 
 gone, the door shut, and he heard the key turn which 
 Ipcked it Arid thus they parted. 
 
ond Ais Son* 
 
 «05 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 rntST LESSONS IN THE GOOP SHIP * JOHN.' 
 
 L 
 
 > 
 
 i 
 
 It was a beautiful evening as the 'John Camp- 
 bell ' was gliding out of the Firth of Clyde. The 
 peaks of Arran were tinged with the last golden rays 
 of sunset The sea was slightly ruffled with a gentle 
 breeze, and all things without were calm and beau- 
 tiful. But what a bustle within the ship 1 One-half 
 of the crew were drunk below, and the other half 
 on deck, while Ned, in his novel situation, between 
 arranging his own things and trying to be useful 
 amidst the maze of commands, running to and fro, 
 coiling of ropes, trimming of s£ls, hauling in of 
 boats, and stowmg away of cargo, had not a moment 
 for observation or reflection. When at last he 
 tumbled into his hammock for the first night, and 
 tried to collect his thoughts, he felt as if he had 
 parted from home ages ago. All his life, for the 
 last week, appeared to him like a dream, and his 
 present existence and position as the inhabitant of a 
 hammock in a ship, and trying to sleep, to be 9 
 strange mystery. 
 
io6 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 During the next three days there is very little to 
 record of his history. He lay swinging to and fro, 
 his nose about a foot or so from the deck at one 
 time, and but a few inches at another, with only 
 as much consciousness as was necessary to make 
 him thoroughly alive to his intolerable misery. No 
 one who has ever been possessed by the raging 
 demon of sea -sickness requires any explanation of 
 his sufferings. The trampling upon deck; the 
 rattling of blocks ; the flapping of sails ; the cries 
 of sailors ; the shouts of command hoarse and 
 vehement; the rolling, pitching, and creaking of 
 the ship, with a downward motion to leeward that 
 seemed endless, until a great wave struck her and 
 sent her rolling forward, then backward, to heel again 
 to leeward as deep as before ; the sailors' meals which 
 sent their steaming and torturing odours around him ; 
 the cruel jokes and laughter ; the horrid faces which 
 grinned over his hammock, expressing a hope that 
 he was jolly, and suggesting fat pork as a wholesome 
 and pleasant diet ; the want of any power to resist 
 impressions from without or from within, — all made 
 up a sum-total of unutterable and indescribable phy- 
 sical wretchedness. He was no longer a person with 
 a will, but only a dead thing. A chick in an egg, 
 rolling about in a turbid liquid, was not more shut 
 out from the outward world by its shell, than was 
 ^z^ creature with closed eyes and pale face m his 
 
and his Son, 
 
 107 
 
 hammock, shut out by the shell of his ship from the 
 world that contained human beings, including his 
 father, his mother, and Kate Caimey. 
 
 The first sense of returning personality and restored 
 consciousness was the dawning of a natural question 
 which arose out of an abyss of misery, and asked 
 him how he came there 1 And why he could not 
 have been a tailor or a shoemaker? Why not, in- 
 deed! The stitching of leather or cloth on solid 
 earth, without the necessity of an inch of canvas, or 
 a drop of salt-water, seemed paradise itself. 'Re- 
 member that Nelson said, " England expects every 
 man " — Hang England and its expectations ! What 
 right has any civilized country to expect from a man 
 in my situation, anything except hatred to the sea ) ' 
 
 These reflections were, however, the signs of re- 
 turning life. On the fourth day, at early mom, he 
 was able to open his eyes and look up to the deck 
 a ftw inches above them, and then by and by over 
 the edge of his hammock, until during the forenoon 
 there came a desire for some innocent food. Yet 
 what food could meet the requirements of his appe- 
 tite hardly yet alive? But that good old fellow 
 * Black Sam,' the cook, was able, from a long ex- 
 perience, to minister to him with some condiment 
 or other, in which salt herring formed an essential 
 element. Sam was, after all, a traitor, for he re- 
 ported favourably of Ned's condition to M'Killop, the 
 
iq8 
 
 Thi Old Lieutenant 
 
 mate, the result of which was a resolution on the 
 part of that officer to teach the apprentice a more ad- 
 vanced lesson in seamanship, now that he had got 
 over his first 
 
 Accordingly a loud voice, and one that was by no 
 means loving or musical, was heard during the 
 afternoon, shouting down the forecastle, 'What is 
 that lubber Fleming about t Look alive there I We 
 can't afford to allow a young gentleman to enjoy this 
 fine life any longer.' Then followed three or four 
 hearty concussions overhead with a handspike, and a 
 kind invitation to come on deck, accompanied by a 
 hint that, unless he did so ' in no time,' his hammock 
 lashings would be cut to save him the trouble of rising. 
 
 ' Ay, ay, sir,' replied Ned, in as loud and manly a 
 tone as he could muster. He crawled out of his 
 hammock, staggered round the forecastle amidst the 
 laughter of more than one whiskered face which 
 appeared over the edge of sundry canvas coffins. 
 After getting on his upper garments, he convulsively 
 clasped the ladder, and managed to get on deck, 
 where half- expressed jibes, and sundry sage advices 
 awaited him, while he made a life-struggle with a grim 
 smile, to keep his feet, in spite of the opposing 
 motions of his reeling brain and reeling bark. 
 
 The fresh breeze gradually restored him, and 
 enabled him to comprehend his first order, which 
 WW *to swab along the lee scuppers, and under the 
 
ttftd hts SoH, 
 
 IC9 
 
 boat' He grasped that long and heavy mop of 
 small cords, like a lock shorn from the head of a 
 grey-haired giant, and began mechanically to do 
 what he saw the other boys doing beside him. And 
 so he entered upon his public duties. It required a 
 day or two more to regain fully his lost senses, and 
 to comprehend, with any degree of accuracy, his new 
 home and its inhabitants. 
 
 The * John Campbell,' or the * John,' as she was 
 called for brevity's sake, was a ship of about 300 
 tons, manned, in addition to the master and mate, 
 by about fifteen seamen and three apprentices, in- 
 cluding Ned, all bound to Kingston, Jamaica. 
 
 The master, George Salmond, was a round man, 
 like a Martello tower built on two short legs, and 
 topped by a dark seal-skin cap, shading a face not 
 unlike that of an Esquimaux. Except when dozing 
 or tippling in his den, he paced up and down the 
 small quarter-deck with his hands stuffed into the 
 pockets of his rough coat; pausing sometimes to 
 look to windward with his glass, or up to the tall 
 masts and sails ; occasionally asking the man at the 
 wheel, 'How's her head)' with a rough peremptory 
 voice, as if he had a personal quarrel wi h the 
 compass, and on receiving a reply, such as, 'Nor- 
 west-by-west-half-we3t, sir,* he would mutter, *Keep 
 her so,' and then proceed in his walk, giving another 
 turn to his quid as additional exercise. 
 
tto 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Little was known of Salmond's history while on 
 land, beyond the fact that he was a bachelor, and 
 that he was understood, except when squaring ac- 
 counts at old Cairney's office, to sleep almost night 
 and day in a lodging in St. Domingo Street, Green- 
 ock, kept by thi widow of an old messmate. His 
 room contained a few volumes of the Annual Register; 
 old almanacs ; a dusty model of a canoe ; a stalk of 
 Indian com ; shells ; a picture of a ship sailing past 
 a lighthouse in full canvas and with fluttering ensign ; 
 two cutlasses ; with peacocks' feathers, and a string 
 of blown eggs ornamenting the looking-glass on the 
 chimney-piece. The only sign of life in the room was 
 a singularly stiff sea-gull under a glass case on an old 
 dark sideboard, with a black tea-tray in the back 
 ground. 
 
 The mate, M'Killop, was a man of about thirty, and 
 his general appearance was a fiery red, like a furnace 
 fire. Red hair escaped from under his sou'-wester, 
 and flashed threateningly in the breeze round his red 
 nose and red eyes, one of which squinted as if look- 
 ing round him. Red whiskers flamed from his red 
 cravat, and his red hands, violently freckled, were 
 always kept cool by the incessant moisture of ropes 
 and rigging. He had a firm determined mouth, with 
 a bag-like receptacle in his cheek, to which his to- 
 bacco was consigned until needed. 
 
 Both mate and captain were considered by the 
 
and his Son, 
 
 III 
 
 bands to be able seamen. This qualification included 
 the gift of being always very stem, and issuing every 
 command as if they were in a rage, accompanying it 
 with an oath, to prove that they were not joking 
 but serious. 
 
 I may just hint here that old Caimey^ so far from 
 speaking to these worthies in favour of Ned, had told 
 them that it was his wish they should work him 
 well. He thought he was doing the old Captain a 
 service by making his son disgusted with the sea. 
 
 The ship's company of the *John' had nothing 
 very peculiar about them. They were fair represen- 
 tatives of their class. Yet there is no human being 
 without a history full of interest to those who feel 
 any real interest in their own. Most of the sailors 
 within those wooden walls were each the centre of a 
 circle, smaller or greater, of human hearts, to whom 
 their life or death, their prosperity or adversity, would, 
 in some degree, change the world, and make it more 
 dark or more sunny. There were, no doubt, a few 
 even in that small crew, as there are, alas ! in almost 
 every ship, who were bound by no ties to the land, 
 except the ties of a low lodging-house, with its low 
 inmates and its reminiscences of shocking dissipation. 
 The early history of some of the men was hardly 
 known to themselves, and all their latter years, dimly 
 recalled by memory, were filled up with records oi 
 voyages in different ships to different parts of the 
 
112 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 world, pursued with sullen indifference or passive 
 suffering, except when * enjoying themselves on 
 shore.' 
 
 Several were the sons of widowed mothers, who 
 could get no other employment for them which they 
 were fit for or inclined to. They generally wrote 
 home, or got a messmate to write for them during 
 their longer voyages ; — each epistle beginning with the 
 same well-known formula of thankfulness for good 
 health, and sending it * hopping that it would find 
 their dear mother in the same.' These despatches 
 were generally deciphered by the minister, who heard 
 with benevolent patience the praises of * our Archie,' 
 or * our Tam,' who were pronounced by their respec- 
 tive parents to be 'real guid sons, if only spared to 
 come hame.' There were also such men as Nimmo 
 from Ayr, who supported an old granny ; and Mackay 
 from Saltcoats, who paid his lame sister Peggy's rent, 
 and boarded with her when 'at home;' and big 
 Currie from Arran, whose old father, the elder, as he 
 said, was 'aye praying for him as a ne'er-do-weel, 
 and, he feared, wi'oot great expectation o' his better- 
 ment;' and there was the carpenter, douce Neil 
 Lament from Tarbet, whose wife Mary and her 
 family were always talking about 'faither, when he 
 wad come back, and what sweet things he wad bring 
 Uiem if they were guid bairns, and hoo they wouldna 
 forget him, especially in stormy nichts, when they 
 
 W 
 
and his Son, 
 
 "3 
 
 said their prayers ;' and Peter Martin from Campbel- 
 ton, who loved to be quizzed by his townsman Bob 
 Langwill about his sweetheart Betty Millar, in the 
 Shore Street; and others, who, except when they 
 took their bout on shore, as if it was their right, were 
 quiet, kindly-disposed men. Jock Wilson, from 
 Troon, was the grand talker and arguer in the fore- 
 castle ; an exposer of sailors' * wrongs,' and the ad- 
 vocate of their ' rights.' Jock had a good head, but 
 a vicious temper, and a will as stiff as an iron chain 
 holding on in a gale of wind. There was one man 
 about whom nothing was known : this was Tom Cox. 
 He was the only Englishman on board; was tall 
 and powerful, with a certain man-of-war cut and 
 fashion about him ; was reserved and silent ; daring 
 to recklessness ; and always at the post of danger. 
 On board, he was quiet and obedient, but when in 
 harbour, he was the wildest and most dissipated of 
 the crew. 
 
 The persons in whom Ned naturally felt the 
 most interest, were his fellow-apprentices, the two 
 boys. The one, * Little Dan,' was a small, shy, 
 active, black-eyed boy, whose father had long served 
 on board the * John,' and was then a porter connected 
 with the Custom-house. The other, 'Buckie,' was 
 allied in appearance and in character to Ned's old 
 friend. Noddles. He belonged to the partah caste 
 of the Greenock quay. He was trained from his in' 
 
114 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 fancy by a coarse, large-boned, noisy, widowed 
 mother, called ' Big Moll,* who lodged sailors in her 
 house, and washed and dressed their clothes. Buckie's 
 infant years had been spent in damming up the open 
 sewer, and sailing chips of wood as boats upon its 
 surface. After this he had played 'tig' about the 
 docks, picking up bits of old rope, and whatever else 
 came handy to him, for his mother's benefit \ sculling 
 boats when he could enjoy that privilege in more ad- 
 vanced years, and finishing his self-culture by swearing 
 and getting tipsy when that was possible, in order to 
 look like an able-bodied seaman. His face was 
 marked by small-pox ; his little dark eyes were sunk 
 deep in his round head, and his general appearance 
 was that of a healthy, strong, muscular, ugly bully. 
 He had been entered into the * John ' through the 
 good offices and almost compulsion of some of the 
 sailors who were in the habit of lodging at the house 
 of Big Moll, his mother. 
 
 The work assigned to these boys was to attend to 
 the seamen* as their fags, to perform innumerable 
 small jobs above and below deck, and, as they gained 
 experience, to take their turn at the wheel, or go aloft. 
 They were considered by the sailors as too far be- 
 neath them in social rank to be allowed to partake of 
 their meals in common, and were consequently com- 
 pelled to wait until their betters were served. There 
 was no drudgery too degraded for an apprentice ; no 
 
 I 
 
 ,1 
 
and his Son, 
 
 "5 
 
 ri 
 
 annoyance too great to inflict upon him. He was the 
 slave and the butt of the forecastle. 
 
 Such was the discipline to which in those days Ned 
 was subjected. 
 
 It took some time to become acquainted with the 
 men. Their symbols of 'Dick,' 'Tom,' 'Bill,' or 
 * Peter,' might be speedily learnt, but the men them- 
 selves were at first by no means communicative. It 
 seemed a law or a necessity in the vessel to keep 
 them always busy on deck ; and when they went 
 below it was not to converse, but to sleep on the 
 bunks, and smoke, eat, or growl; and, if they did talk, 
 it was in abrupt observations, with hoarse, guttural 
 voices, as if each man was afraid of his neighbour. 
 The great majority were comparative strangers to 
 each other, but they became more communicative as 
 the voyage lengthened 
 
 There was evidently a very considerable jealousy 
 of Ned among them, arising from the idea of his 
 being ' a fine gentleman,' and ' too big for fellows 
 like them;' and would they not 'take the shine out 
 of him ? they would be blowed if they didn't !' 
 
 Buckie's ambition was to play the tyrant over his 
 fellow -apprentices. He assumed his superiority to 
 them in everything, because his assumption of it in 
 the only thing to which he attached any jdea of 
 power — physical strength — was hitherto unques- 
 tioned. 
 
ii6 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 A SUNDAY AT SEA. 
 
 It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The * John ' 
 was bowling along with a fine quarter wind, every 
 sail set, up to the truck, before the snoring breeze. 
 The ocean curled itself into waves, which chased 
 the ship with crests of snowy foam. A huge pile 
 of cumuli clouds resting on the horizon to leeward, 
 reared their majestic summits far up into the pure 
 depths of the naked heavens, where they gleamed 
 like thrones of glory on which ministering angels 
 might repose in joy. The rest of the sky was cloud- 
 less azure, and the white sails aloft seemed to soar 
 thron£;i) '^\z blue xpanse like the wings of some 
 >/■ .'c ■ea-Liird. 
 
 rh ; wt^oh on deck had comparatively little to 
 do but to st?'r the ship, and be on the look-out 
 Everything was in trim order; the decks holy- 
 stoned, and the ropes all coiled like grey serpents 
 asleep a$ker bathing. Sam, the cook, knew it was 
 Sunday, by the fact of his having been commanded 
 by Salmond to prepare a pudding * with lots of suet' 
 
 A 
 
,i 
 
 and his Son. 
 
 117 
 
 The captain and mate looked cleaner than usual, and 
 some of the men also showed a slight change of gar- 
 ments for the better. When it was Ned's turn to go 
 below, after his early watch, he took out his Bible, 
 and quietly sat down to read it in a comer behind 
 the stove. Most of the men below were turned 
 in to sleep, and all were silent, while one or two 
 seemed reading in their hammocks. Ned, after a 
 few minutes, was attracted by little Dan creeping 
 noiselessly to him, and asking, in a whisper, * What's 
 *hat ye're readin*, Fleming?' 
 
 * The Bible, Dan.' 
 
 * Are ye no' frichted r , 
 
 * For whom, or for what, Dan V 
 
 * Oh, just for everybody, especially Buckie. He 
 was awfu' mad at me last voyage for reading a guid 
 buik my mither gied me.* 
 
 *Was he?' inquired Ned. *What has Buckie to 
 do with you V 
 
 * Naething I ken 0',' replied Dan ; * but he maun 
 aye be maister. Eh ! he's an awfu' chap I' whispered 
 little Dan, looking cautiously over his shoulder in 
 case Buckie or his ghost was within hearing. 
 
 * Read you your book, Dan, and no one, depend 
 upon it, will bother you/ said Ned. 
 
 So little Dan skipped off like a monkey, and, 
 putting his hand into a canvas bag, drew out * The 
 Pilgrim's Progress,' and began to read it beside Ned; 
 
ti8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 but he almost closed the book with nervous fear as 
 he descried opposite to him the canvas legs of Buckie 
 coming down the trap, followed by his bullet-head, 
 with a pipe stuck in his large mouth. Dan, however, 
 did not lift his eyes as Buckie took his seat on the 
 opposite side of the stove, yet he felt the presence 
 very like an icy blast which made his skin pucker. 
 
 Buckie began to stir the fire, and he was evidently 
 astonished that his august presence did not produce 
 a greater sensation. After a while he betook himself 
 to humming a sea-song, in bravado, though in an 
 undertone, to annoy the boys, but not so loud as to 
 arrest the attention of the sailors. He sung, or 
 rather grunted these words : — 
 
 *Our ship, the "John" was namM, 
 From Greenock we were bound, 
 And the streets they were all gamishM 
 With pretty maids around. 
 
 Sing — tol-de-roU, de-roll, oll-oll. 
 We all are safe'and sound ;' 
 
 and accompanied the chorus with a slight drumming 
 of his heels. 
 
 No notice was taken of this intrusion by any of 
 the sailors, except Jock Wilson, who shouted in a 
 gruflF voice, as he flung a cold potato at the offender, 
 'Belay there, you bletherin'. Buckie I D'ye mind 
 what day it is 9* 
 
 Buckie knew the voice, and was silent. Neither 
 Dan nor Ned spoke. A few minutes after, stretching 
 
and his Son. 
 
 119 
 
 across towards Dan, Buckie said, ' Can't you speak, 
 you lubber?' and he chucked a cinder at the boy. 
 
 'What do you wanti' replied Dan, with flushed 
 face, and evidently feeling uneasy. * Can't you let a 
 fellow alone 1' 
 
 Another cinder, from Buckie, lighted on Dan's 
 book. * A first-rate shot,' remarked Buckie. * Now, 
 stow away that book of yours, and be quick I say, 
 Dan,' he continued. *Is that the holy book yer 
 mither gied ye V making a grimace. ' Do you hear 
 me speakin' f he asked with a louder voice, and with 
 an angry look. 
 
 * Yes, Buckie,' replied Dan ; *but, man, can ye no* 
 be quiet and read yersel' V 
 
 ' Read yersel' I ' replied Buckie with a mocking 
 voice j * I will just tak yer advice for ance and read 
 mysel'.' And so he snatched the book out of Dan's 
 hand, and, turning it upside down, pretended to read 
 with an expression of contempt. 
 --'Oh, as sure as I'm leevin', he's readin' it the 
 wrang way!' remarked Dan, smiling and looking to 
 Ned, who had not yet spoken or taken the slightest 
 notice of this drama. 
 
 ' I hae a mind to bum yer fine buik,' said Buckie. 
 * What right hae ye to read 1 Are ye to be anither 
 fine gentleman pup, like some I ken 1 Little wad 
 mak me teach you better manners, my chap.' On 
 which he took the book with the tor'xs, and, half 
 
110 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 in fun, half in earnest, threatened to bum it Da.n 
 sprang forward and seized the precious volume, which 
 Buckie retained in his powerful grasp. A struggle 
 ensued, in which Buckie, losing his temper, struck 
 Dan a violent blow, threw him down, and hurled the 
 book in torn leaves at his head. 
 
 This was too much for Ned. 'Leave the boy 
 alone !' he said, in a decided voice. 
 
 ' Mind you your own business,' retorted Buckie, 
 looking fierce. 
 
 Ned gazed at him steadily, and his brows began 
 to work with an expression which his old school- 
 fellows, had they seen him, would have pronounced 
 highly dangerous to an opponent * Come, come, my 
 fine fellow,' said Ned, * don't you bully us too much.* 
 
 ' What right have you, my fine chap, to interfere t* 
 asked Buckie. 
 
 * What right had you^ replied Ned, * to interfere 
 with Dan and his book when he was doing you no 
 harm ? Is it because you are stronger ) If you 
 cannot read, it is your misfortune, perhaps, more 
 than your fault, but let others alone who can do 
 so.' 
 
 * Hillip, hilloo, my cockatoo ! Don't you give jaw, 
 or I will teach you manners like your neighbours, my 
 lad,' said Buckie, leaving Dan, and resuming his seat 
 near the stove, rolling his arms and looking insolently 
 at Ned. 
 
and his Son. 
 
 I at 
 
 U 
 i;Ie 
 
 Ick 
 le 
 
 Ned controlled himself with difficulty as he saw 
 Dan drying his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, 
 and gathering up the leaves of his torn book, the 
 only one in his possession. Anxious for peace, espe- 
 cially on the Sunday, he resumed his reading, and 
 sat with his head bent over his Bible. Buckie rose, 
 advanced towards him, and gave the volume a kick, 
 which sent it under the stove. Ned started up, with 
 his face red as crimson. 
 
 * Pick that up, you blackguard I ' he said, looking 
 sternly at Buckie. The only reply was an insulting 
 look, followed by insulting words. By this time the 
 sailors were evidently roused, and watching the scene 
 with interest. 
 
 * Pick it up, I say ! ' said Ned, pointing to the 
 Bible, and coming nearer Buckie. 
 
 * I leave that to you, my puppy dog,' replied 
 Buckie, attempting to ascend the ladder and go on 
 deck. 
 
 Ned laid his hand on him, and said, < Come back, 
 sir, I tell you, and pick that book up, or you will re- 
 pent it ! ' 
 
 ' Repent it 1* said Buckie, swinging his arms round 
 and striking Ned on the face ; ' take that for your 
 impudence ! * 
 
 In a single second Buckie was dragged from the 
 ladder, and sent rolling backward a few yards. But 
 he turned round fiercely, and again struck at Fleming 
 
121 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 a blow over his eye, and prepared to follow it up 
 with another. Every hammock had now a face 
 looking out of it, and every sleepy sailor was roused, 
 partly from the excitement of the scene, and pf.rtly 
 from the wish to see how a gentleman would behave 
 when matched with such a 'tough customer.' For 
 a few minutes it was impossible to say who had 
 the best of it, but the tnilke was ended in Buckie 
 being thrown down, with bleeding nose, and blowing 
 like a porpoise, while Ned had him entirely at his 
 mercy. * Now,' he said, * you ruffian, will you ever 
 try to bully us again ? Ha ! do you attempt to kick 
 my shins 1 If you do, I will shut your other eye. 
 Now, sir,' he said, after giving him a little wholesome 
 punishment, ' take that, and be ofif at your leisure.' 
 
 Buckie, foaming like a wild boar, hurried up the 
 ladder, snorting, puffing, and arranging his handker- 
 chief, while the men expressed their conviction aloud 
 that Fleming was 'good stuff.' 
 
 One or two, however, advised him * not to breed 
 confusion in this ship, or it would be worse for him- 
 self.' And another potato was flung at him with an 
 oath, ' for disturbing fellows asleep.' 
 
 * Breeding confusion ! and worse for myself ! ' ex- 
 claimed Ned, who was putting on his jacket, and 
 rubbing the remains of the potato off" his face, which 
 it had struck with a smart blow. He paused, and 
 looked at the men steadily, speaking as he never did 
 
and his Son* 
 
 1 23 
 
 before. ' I am ashamed of any one calling himself 
 a man who would blame me for defending myself 
 against a brute like that. I will stand it neither from 
 him nor from you, I tell you. I can take rough and 
 round, fair and foul, as well as my neighbours ; but 
 if you think a fellow is to be insulted because his 
 father was an officer, and fought for his king and 
 country, I consider you cowards who think so, and 
 men who would fight for neither. I can keep my own 
 place, and will keep it too, and you keep yours.' 
 
 A commotion arose among some of the men, and 
 more than one abusive epithet and threat were 
 uttered against Ned. But they were immediately 
 stopped by old Cox, who rose on his elbow, and 
 looking towards Ned, said, ' Served him right, say L 
 You're a chip of the old block. Here's one will 
 stand by you, my lad, and see fair play.* 
 
 The affair was about to pass away, when a shout 
 from M'Killop was heard coming down the forecastle, 
 * Fleming ! on deck here, the Captain wants you.' 
 
 Ned obeyed the summons, and was ushered into the 
 secret chamber of George Salmond, who was sitting 
 in solitary state at the head of a small table, on 
 which were two tumblers, a square bottle of hollands, 
 half empty, and sundry water-marks from recent liba- 
 tions. Salmond's face shone like a lighthouse beneath 
 a mass of black cloud. 
 
 Ned, on entering, was saluted with the inquiry as 
 
124 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 to what all this row was about 1 And before he 
 could give any reply, the captain opened up his 
 battery upon hira. * You, sir, to come and hack at 
 a lad who did you no harm ! But I am glad to see 
 that you have got a black.«ye yourself.' 
 
 ' But he did me \aLXxti(Q$fffSSti Salmond, and was 
 insulting us, and '-— ; 
 
 * Don't inteaKft^/fne, sir ! * saidJBethnond, fiercely, 
 'rememba wl p /om «e-Speaking to, sir. None of 
 your fine humbug here, sir. Keep your peace, and 
 mind your own business, or I will take a rope's end to 
 you, and tickle your genteel white skin, sir. Silence, 
 again, I say! Don't dare to speak till you are asked. 
 You disturb a ship's company! And on the Sabbath, 
 too! Have you no religion? A poor orphan boy 
 to be cut about the face in that manner ! I will have 
 for to come and rouse you up, no mistake, I tell you. 
 So go aloft to the maintop to cool your blood, my 
 fine gentleman. Be off, I say, quick ! ' and Salmond 
 pointed to the door of the cabin, and proceeded to 
 light his pipe, and pour out another glass of hoUands 
 and water. 
 
 'Captain Salmond,' said Ned, at the door, * you 
 must hear me, for I won't be bullied ' — 
 
 'Belay there!' shouted Salmond, 'and don't run 
 out your gamraony jawing tackle to me! Mind where 
 you are. Go 'long, I say !' After a moment's pause, 
 he shouted at the top of his voice, ' Fleming!' When 
 
and his Son, 
 
 125 
 
 le 
 
 MS 
 it 
 
 Ned returned to his august presence, he pointed the 
 stem of his tobacco-pipe to the door, and said, 'Mind 
 your manners, sir! Shut the door after you — quick 1' 
 
 Ned saw that it was in vain to expostulate with 
 the half-tipsy captain. As he went out of the cabin 
 M'Killop followed him in an atmosphere of hoUands 
 like a mist, and pointing to the maintop, said, ' Aloft 
 there 1 and meditate, as a Sunday exercise ; and mind 
 you go up the futtocks, and not through the lubber's 
 hole.' 
 
 Ned obeyed, and arriving at the maintop, stretched 
 himself on the grating, while Buckie and the watch b» 
 low occasionally eyed him with apparent interest 
 
 As M'Killop returned to the cabin, Salmond was 
 indulging in a series of short fits of half-smothered 
 apoplectic coughs, mingled with laughter. I may re- 
 mark in passing, that both Salmond and his mate, 
 when they spoke officially, and wished to do so with 
 becoming dignity, endeavoured to use the English 
 language as nearly as possible after the type approved 
 of in the Navy. But in private, their own Scotch, 
 though tasting more of the land than of the sea, came 
 most naturally to them ; hence I am bound to re- 
 port their dialect correctly, as well as their sentiments. 
 
 ' It is too bad, after a',' said Salmond ; ' but I may 
 never — ^ha! ha! ha! no, never — hae sic a guid chance 
 again o' takin' the shine oot o' the callant, for he is 
 as steady a lad as ever sailed wi' me. A brawer laddie, 
 
126 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 I declare, never mounted a mast I'll do him full 
 justice, and say sae. Did you ask, Peter, hoo it hap- 
 pened V 
 
 * Cox tells me that it was all Buckie's fault, bother- 
 ing him and Dan, and that Fleming gied him sic a 
 lickin' as he'll no forget.' 
 
 <I'm glad to hear't! I'm particular glad to 
 hear't! I hae nae doot he deserv'd it, for he is a 
 nasty puddock o' a cratur that Buckie, and frae a 
 bad nest. But it maks me laugh to ,think on Flem- 
 ing's face as I sent him afT in sic a hurry. Ha ! ha 1 
 ha! He's no accustomed to a drill like yon, I'll 
 wager. Cartes, he got a fricht! Did he no) I 
 think auld Caimey would be pleased wi' this day's 
 Sabbath-school lesson, anyhoo. "Drill him weel," 
 quo' Caimey to me. "Drill him weel, Salmondl" 
 Faix, I think I hae obeyed orders this time !' and he 
 seemed to revel in the thought. 
 
 'What would the old Captain say till'tl' inquired 
 M'Killop, as he swung on his chair, smoking a I xij 
 clay pipe. 
 
 * Him 9 If his son had been in a man-o'-war, In- 
 stead o' the "John," neither he nor Buckie would 
 hae got off sae cheap ; baith wad hae got the cat 1 
 But, Peter, let him down when he has cooled himael' 
 a bit. D'ye ken what began the fechtl' 
 
 * Cox says that Fleming was reading his Bible, and 
 that Buckie kicked it out of his hand.' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 lay 
 
 'His Bible!' exclaimed Salmond. <Is that pos- 
 sible f A laddie like him ! He maun take care, 
 Peter; oh, he maun be canny; or he will get into 
 mischief if he tries the saunt dodge in the forecastle. 
 The Bible! Cock him up wi' a Bible! But we'll 
 no blame him owre muckle ; it might hae been waur.' 
 
 * I dinna pretend to be better than my neebours/ 
 said the mate ; * but some o' the chiels wad be the 
 better maybe, if they took a turn at a guid bulk noos 
 and thans, no to gang, as ye might say, extraordinar 
 deep intil't, past soundings, as it were, or to put 
 themselves sair aboot ; but yet it might frichten them 
 a wee, and be a kind o' stane ballast to keep them 
 steady.' 
 
 * Faix, Peter, we might a' be a grain the better o't ; 
 but ye ken the sayin', " There 's nae Sabbath in six- 
 teen fathom water." ' 
 
 'Hech me!' said Peter with a sigh, 'thae Bibles 
 pit me in mind o' auld times. I dinna think I hae 
 opened ane since my faither was drooned a£f the Mull 
 o' Kiiityre.* 
 
 * Avast haulin', Peter!' said Salmond, speaking 
 almost officially. * That kind o' talk won't do here. 
 It's no fair. It's like shipping a cauld sea about the 
 heart. Just pass the grog, and help yoursel', and go 
 on deck and see how she lies her course.' 
 
 As M'Killop was leaving the cabin, Salmond added, 
 *Be sure and tak doon Fleming from the maintop. 
 
I2S 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 And, Peter,' he said in a lower voice, *if ye get a 
 chance, gi'e a crack to Buckie to keep him right 
 Dan wadna be the waur o' a chack too. There's 
 naething for boys like a cufif on the lug. Swear twa 
 or three times at them baith to gi'e them a fricht !' 
 
 The day on which Ned was on the maintop, I have 
 already said, was beautiful. In any other circum- 
 stances, a quiet hour evea there would have been un- 
 mixed pleasure. As it was, the undisturbed repose 
 was rest to his ruffled spirits. He gazed on the ex- 
 panse of waters, and thought of home and its happy 
 Sundays, and of all his history up till that moment, 
 until he could calmly entertain the question, 'Why 
 am I aloft here 1' A voice replied, ' Thou hast done 
 wrong, Ned. Thou hast fought, instead of forgiving. 
 What a Sabbath thou hast spent ! * Another voice, 
 louder still, said, *Thou hast done no wrong, but 
 suffered wrong. Thoii hast punished injustice and 
 tyranny, which is a righteous thing to do, on Sun- 
 day or Saturday.' * Right or wrong,' thought Ned, 
 * I don't repent ! I would tell a lie if I said so. I 
 would act as I have done again ; I would. I 'd 
 thrash the bully again !' Look, my boy, at the un- 
 troubled sky and the solemn sea 1 Think of Him 
 who upholds all with His might, as He fills all with 
 His sunshine, and * seek peace and pursue it' 
 
 When summoned down from his pillory, there wai 
 neither malice nor hatred in Ned's heart 
 
and his Son, 
 
 129 
 
 The first person whom he encountered was Buckie, 
 sitting under the lee of the boat, and looking at the 
 fragments of his pipe, which had been shattered in 
 his recent encounter. It must be admitted that his 
 nose was considerably increased, and one of his eyes 
 slightly diminished. 
 
 As Ned looked at the nose and the eyes, and saw 
 Buckie with a ragged blue handkerchief, alternately 
 blowing the one in evident pain, and drying up the 
 blood which oozed from the other, he felt compassion 
 for him. 
 
 After a while he said, * Buckie !* 
 
 * Go 'long !' was the curt reply. 
 
 ' Buckie, listen to me ; there's a good fellow !* 
 
 'You, be hanged!' said Buckie g^ufHy, while he 
 flung the fragments of his pipe over the ship's sid^ 
 and, looking fiercely at Ned, rolled down to the fore- 
 castle. 
 
 In a few minutes Ned followed, fearing lest his 
 unappeased ire might be wreaked on little Dan. He 
 discovered, however, that Buckie was composing him- 
 self to sleep in a distant comer, and. in a few minutes 
 was apparently in oblivion. Ned remembered that 
 the colonel's son had presented him with an orna- 
 mental 'cutty,' for which he himself had no use. 
 On exhuming this from his chest, he crept slowly to- 
 wards the snoring Buckie, and dropt it into his large 
 pocket, unseen by all but Cox, to whom he winked. 
 
130 
 
 The Old Lteuienani 
 
 smiling; putting his finger to his mouth as a com- 
 mand not to tell tales. 
 
 By and by, as Ned wrs 3(ia:cu in hip old place, 
 busy at his Bible again, he :!aw ii.j fievce opponent 
 rousing himself from his sleep with a vawn like a 
 young lion, and watched hii utt r an- . • - n«=nt when 
 he discovered the pipe, which he thrusr b^ ^v i nme- 
 diately into his pocket as if he had stolen it. For some 
 days not a word was exchanged between them ; but 
 the first time Ned had an opportunity of addressing 
 him, without appearing to force himself upon his so- 
 ciety, he said, * Now, Buckie, you are too brave a fel- 
 low to keep up spite. Would you like some baccy V 
 
 < All right,' replied Buckie, with the feeling of a man 
 who had made the most handsome and satisfactory 
 apology, and the hope of a man who had a pipe, but 
 no tobacco. 
 
 The thought that Buckie was an orphan, that he 
 never knew the happiness of a home, never had been 
 in school, and was an unfortunate cast-away, gave rise 
 to a great desire on Ned's part to help the apprentice. 
 By degrees he so insinuated himself into his con- 
 fidence, and so overcame his fear of ridicule, that 
 he managed to get him persuaded to take reading- 
 lessons. Then the rough scliolar might be seen, when 
 his watch on deck was over, nestled beside Ned, 
 with his finger, like a sausage, pointing to the letters 
 as he pronounced his a b c, not without a good deal 
 
 ' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 »3i 
 
 of laughter and fun. Ere they reached Kingston, he 
 could manage the alphabet 
 
 One evening Ned said, encouragingly, * You are a 
 clever fellow, Buckie ; and if you go on at this rate 
 you will astonish the hands, and be able to keep the 
 log.' 
 
 * Just one other half-yard of baccy, Fleming,* re- 
 plied Buckie, coaxingly, < and I will weather my way 
 first-rate next time !' 
 
 'A bargain, Buckie ; you shall have it' 
 
 A revolution had thus gradually taken place in the 
 forecastle in Ned's favour ever since that Sunday of 
 the fight Such a Sunday the boy had never spent 
 before, and hoped never to spend again. Yet it was 
 not without its good to himself and others in many 
 ways ; though, it must be confessed, these ways were 
 round-about 
 
 He had unquestionably, though unintentionally, 
 gained a good opinion among the sailors for strength 
 and courage ; and this opinion was strengthened by 
 sundry accommodating civilities on his part. It 
 was discovered, for example, that he sung a good 
 song; and several famous ditties, such as 'Black- 
 eyed Susan,' 'The Bay of Biscay,' 'The Arethusa,' 
 and ' Tom Bowling,' were often heard entertaining 
 the group round the stove, or the watch when pacing 
 the deck on a calm night As Ned himself never 
 used tobacco, an additional bond of connexion \i^ 
 
ija 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 A 
 
 \ 
 
 tween him and the men — ^a bond which sailors could 
 comprehend and value as a sign of unselfishness — was 
 established by his gifts of this sailors' luxury. He 
 distributed it from a roll he had purchased very much 
 for this object at the recommendation of Freeman. 
 His claims were further enhanced, by the correctness 
 and grace with which he danced 'Jack-a-tar' to 
 the scraping of black Sam's violin, and by another 
 * accomplishment,' which he was hardly until now 
 aware that he possessed, that of admirable, good-na- 
 tured mimicry. For example, when Jock Wilson, the 
 grand disciplinarian of the forecastle, tumbled into his 
 hammock with his red night-cap, he was in the habit 
 of issuing his commands to the boys, in deep sepul- 
 chral tones, to ^ stop their skylarking, or ' — the awful 
 threat being left in a state of undefined horror which 
 few cared to drag into light. But when Jock himself, 
 preparing to ' tumble in,' heard his own voice, coming 
 as it were out of his own night-cap, commanding 
 silence, and finishing oflf with his *or' — like tne 
 growl of a disturbed bear, he could not resist giving 
 way to the general hilarity. 
 
 The forecastle thus began to be more alive and 
 sociable as the voyage progressed. This feeling was 
 manifested in the telling of stories, or 'spinning of 
 yams,' full of no small interest to the audience, as 
 they proceeded in the usual fashion of such produc- 
 tions. ' Since you will have a song or story,' Dick 
 
and Ms Son, 
 
 ^3Z 
 
 Id 
 
 as 
 
 e 
 
 h 
 
 n. 
 
 SB 
 
 to 
 
 er 
 
 w 
 
 a- 
 
 e 
 
 is 
 
 it 
 1- 
 ul 
 :h 
 
 Martin would say. — *1 was once going round the 
 Horn in a whaler. We were lying-to with close- 
 reefed topsails, blowing smoke and salt water. It 
 was my watch on deck; so, as I was looking to wind- 
 ward, what does I see but a strange -like sail,' etc, 
 and then a story like the ^ Flying Dutchman' would 
 be narrated. Others would follow of adventures on 
 the Spanish main or at the whale-fishing ; of ship- 
 wrecks in every part of the globe, with long pulls in 
 open boats to reach land ; one or two escapes from 
 pirates ; and smuggling plots ; all of which helped 
 to pass the time, and to lessen the monotony of the 
 voyage. 
 
I 
 
 «34 
 
 Tke Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 POOR JACK. 
 
 It has been reported in the newspapers that on the 
 night of the Census upwards of 90,000 British sailors 
 were at sea. 
 
 I have read also that more than 1000 shipwrecks 
 occur each year on the coast of Great Britain alone, 
 with an average loss of 1000 lives. 
 
 On the night on which the * Royal Charter ' was 
 lost there were 195 shipwrecks on our coasts, and 685 
 persons drowned. In ten days (from 29th October 
 to 9th November), there were 326 shipwrecks and 
 784 lives lost 
 
 Did you ever, most comfortable reader, meditate 
 upon and inwardly digest such facts as these 1 It is 
 true we all repeat or sing with enthusiasm about Bri- 
 tannia, that 
 
 * Her inarch is o'er the mountain waves, 
 Her home is on the deep ;* 
 
 and we remember with pride how 
 
 * On breakers roaring to the gales, 
 We spread a thousand thousand sailf,* 
 
 ■ 
 
and his Son, 
 
 m 
 
 But "vhat think we of poor Jack himself, whose home 
 18 on the deep* what of the living man 'whose marck 
 is >.><:x the mountain waves ?' — but not as Britannia 
 with n i>-ueld and trident, looking so calm and digni- 
 fied; iiQx as a fancy 'sketch of a dashing sailor illus- 
 trating the last new novel on the sea, but as an 
 honest-hearted tar of flesh and blood and nerves ; 
 wet to the skin in spite of his glazed coat \ blinded 
 with rain, wind, and salt water, that batter on his 
 * hard'ft-weather ' face ; hauling thick, wet, or frozen 
 ropes through his cracked hands ; holding on for his 
 life by a swinging yard as he tries to reef a sail that 
 shakes and flaps as if possessed by a demon of angry 
 passion ; and who, hardly able to hear the voice of 
 his officer roaring through the speaking-trumpet in 
 the gale, yet replies, cheerily, *Ay, ay, sir.' What 
 are your thoughts of him, good reader 1 Do you 
 ever think of him who is thus in the midst of ' the 
 breakers roaring to the gales,' or who, day and night, 
 is at the risk of his life, 'spreading the thousand sails ' 
 which waft your goods or your friends in safety to the 
 desired haven 1 When the wintry storm roars, with 
 angry thud and sough over your dwelling, shaking 
 doors and windows, and screaming down' the chimney 
 as it sweeps onwards to join battle with the mid- 
 night sea against those lonely homes upon the deep 
 — what carest thou. Paterfamilias, for poor Jackt 
 ^ Wild night ! on!^' hear how it blows !' you perhaps 
 
136 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 mutter to the disturbance of your sleeping partner 
 who, if roused to a sense of danger, may express a 
 < hope that the shutters are all fast.' But if your own 
 brave boy is at sea, you are bQth, I take it, rather 
 sleepless, and your eyes are staring into the darkness, 
 and your thoughts troubled, like the sea, by the storm, 
 and if ever you prayed, you do so then for the sailor- 
 boy ; finding peace in the hope that the cry of pure 
 hearts ascends far above the region where ' stormy 
 tempests blow.' So would it sometimes be with us 
 all, I think, if we cared for poor Jack as a brother. 
 
 Philanthropy in our day, while very real, has be- 
 come to some almost a fashion, an excitement, a kind 
 of 'rational amusement' Every class of the suffering 
 community has its sympathizers and liberal patrons. 
 Now the more ladies and gentlemen having the 
 blessed gifts of time and money to spare, and who^ 
 with the graces of good sense and loving hearts, de- 
 vote themselves to good works, the better for them- 
 selves and society. But think you, has poor Jack 
 had his fair share of this considerate kindness? Has 
 this 'nice little, tight little island,' which owes so 
 much to him, done him justice, or cared sufficiently 
 for his well-being? If our army is sent out on foreign 
 service, the public are informed through the corre- 
 spondents of the press all about the soldiers' wants 
 from his knapsack to his shoe, and about his suffer- 
 ings from friends or from foes, from climate or from 
 
and his Son, 
 
 >37 
 
 commissariat. But how little we know or hear about 
 Jack, from the time his vessel swells her canvas and 
 bends her mast to the whistling breeze, rounds the 
 distant headland, and drops like a sea-bu-d beyond 
 the distant horizon ! Jack out of sight is too often 
 Jack out o^ 'lind. 'Vessels cleared out,' 'vessels 
 spoken,' * 'Is lost;' — these are, generally, the 
 fullest recorou of his history. 
 
 Yet, nevertheless. Jack's life, whether afloat or 
 ashore, is a trying one. It is one of constant change. 
 He changes his ship, his destination, his master, and 
 messmates, almost every voyage. In such circum- 
 stances, anything like friendship or wholesome gene- 
 ral influence from society is impossible. Afloat, he 
 is alone amid a crowd of strangers in his ocean home, 
 without an anchor for his heart, and with little to 
 occupy any part of his being, except his feet and 
 hands. His voyage is generally dreary and mono- 
 tonous, and, but for occasional storms and the art of 
 being always busy, would be intolerable, deprived as 
 he generally is of books, amusements, or recreation 
 of any kind, and too often without the education 
 which would enable him to enjoy books if he pos- 
 sessed them. On shore it is worse with him. He 
 lands perhaps on a pestilential coast ; on the banks 
 of some river steaming with disease ; among a 
 heathen, savage, or strange people, whose language 
 be Qannot understand, and whose morals are by no 
 
•38 
 
 TJu Old Lieutenant 
 
 means improving ; or if he lands in a so-called Chris- 
 tian country, just think of the population that gathers 
 round him, or of the circumstances in which he finds 
 himself when he steps on shore ! His life for months 
 previously, combined with his mental and moral 
 training, are calculated to produce a violent reaction. 
 Wind and tide carry him towards the rocks, and he 
 is furnished with very little power to resist the im- 
 petus. Without a friend to meet or to welcome him; 
 — ^without an object he has ever read of to give him 
 rational interebt or innocent amusement, he is let 
 loose among strangers with idle hours to spend, and 
 an idle purse to empty ; and is at once surrounded 
 by the basest of the population, and dragged (alas 1 
 not unwillingly) to the vilest dens of dissipation, 
 there to be robbed and ruined. 
 
 Many people, accordingly, have come to think 
 that he is doomed as a * ne'er-do-weel,' and that for 
 him a sober, righteous, godly life was never intended, 
 and is but a dream of sanguine philanthropists, as 
 if there was a peculiar gospel and special heaven 
 for sailors ! It was but the other day I heard a 
 highly respectable Christian, who would have been 
 alarmed if his boy had not given him all the heads 
 of a long sermon on a Sunday evening, remark very 
 coolly, and with a smile of complacency, as some 
 sailors with bronzed faces staggered past him, while 
 one lay helpless and miserable, cut and bleeding 04 
 
mmdhis !Son, 
 
 »J9 
 
 the pavement, ' What a set of blackguards ! But 
 what else can we expect from sailors V As if poor 
 Jack had not a God to judge him, or a soul to be 
 saved or lost, as well as Bishops or Presbyters ! 
 
 I well remember, many years ago, entering into 
 conversation on shipboard with a sailor, who had, as 
 he said, < been foundered at last, and was fast break- 
 ing up.' He was one of several who were being- 
 taken to England as prisoners, on account of a 
 mutiny in which they had been engaged in a mer- 
 chant ship, commanded by a brutal captain. These 
 men seemed so solitary, so cut ofif from all human 
 sympathy, *», ""'^ and apathetic, until roused by a 
 little kindness, that it was impossible not to pity 
 them. 
 
 * Where were you bom, my man V I asked. 
 
 *■ Don't know, sir,' he replied with a careless air. 
 
 * Where did your parents belong to V 
 
 *I s'pose had parents — never saw or he-ard of 
 them.' 
 
 ' But when did you go to sea f 
 
 * Don't know, sir ; the longest memory I have was 
 on board a ship up the Straits, off Gib.' 
 
 ' And have you been at sea ever since )' 
 
 * Ever since.' 
 
 * And where have you been sailing to V 
 
 * To all parts, and a bit beyond,' he answered, with 
 a smile. 
 
14© 
 
 Tlie Old Lieutenant 
 
 < And have you no friends or relations ?' 
 
 'Friends and relations!' he exclaimed, with a 
 bitter laugh, looking at his rough hands and bend- 
 ing his head; 'what's a fellow like me to do with 
 friends and relations ! None, sir, none ; except,' he 
 added, with a nod, and looking at his disconsolate 
 fellow-prisoners, 'except them chaps are among them.' 
 
 Poor fellows ! Heaven have mercy on them, and 
 all such, for they find little mercy or help from us ! 
 
 Depend upon it Jack himself will never call a 
 public meeting on land or at sea to describe either 
 his sufferings or his vnrongs; neither will he make 
 speeches, pass resolutions, appoint committees, write 
 circulars, or letters in the newspapers ; nor take any 
 steps to create 'a movement' on his own behalf.' 
 He can do many things better than most men. He 
 
 ' I do not foiget, but thankfully remember how much has 
 been done by noble shipowners for their seamen since the days 
 of the 'John.' Seamen's 'Homes,* * Seamen's Friends' So- 
 cieties,' have also proved immense blessings ; while very many 
 'reforms,' effected by Act of Parliament, have all tended to pro- 
 tect the sailor, and, above all, to elevate the character and 
 education of the officers in command. But very much yet re- 
 mains to be accomplished to improve the social condition of the 
 men, which private companies, however philanthropic and gener- 
 ous, cannot accomplish. Can nothing be done to unite sailors 
 as a body 9 to lessen their sense of isolation, and to elevate them 
 as members of a corporation ? Is it impossible to localize them 
 more, and give them a pecuniary interest in the ship, and in the 
 success of the voyage? Anything, in short, to alter the ever- 
 changing, unsettled, roving character of their life, which is so 
 Uicompatible with all real progress^ 
 
and his Son. 
 
 141 
 
 can eat hard biscuit or salt junk, drink muddy water, 
 sleep in wet clothes at night, and stand during the 
 day up to his middle in salt brine. He can do his 
 duty without thanks or reward ; have a hand-spike 
 thrown at him without returning the insult ; can be 
 bullied by master or mate; can work for hours, 
 swinging like a speck somewhere between the deck 
 and the zenith ; can be shipwrecked or drowned 
 without saying much about it ; but to agitate society, 
 and create s)rmpathy amongst philanthropists in the 
 Church or State, is beyond Jack's power. The only 
 luxury he indulges in is growling, and yet even that 
 is seldom heard above the wind that roars through 
 the rigging, or the great seas that wash his decks. 
 
 But I must return to the ship * John,' and to our 
 old friends in her forecastle. 
 
 It was a sultry afternoon in the latitudes of the far 
 west, with a sun pouring down with a Jamaica heat 
 The sea was rolling with long, low ridges of leaden 
 waves, while the ship creaked in all her bulkheads, 
 and the sails hung idly from the yards, tapping with 
 their reef-points, as one taps with his fingers when he 
 has nothing better to do. Whistling on board pre- 
 vailed, as the usual traditional device used by sailors 
 to raise more wind than their lungs can command. 
 
 Suddenly every eye was directed by a cry from the 
 look-out, to a speck that rose and fell on the line of 
 
t4l 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 \ 
 
 3 
 
 the horizon, and which had been reported as ' a sail 
 on the starboard bow.' 
 
 A sail it evidently was not ; nor was it« whale out 
 of its reckoning; nor an iceberg half melted, and 
 about to sink in the warm Gulf-Stream. 
 
 Salmond, after looking steadily at the object for 
 a few seconds with his glass, pronounced it to be a 
 wreck, and ordered the long-boat to be cleared 
 away, and Cox, with four hands, to go and over-haul 
 her. 
 
 In a few minutes the boat was manned, and Ned 
 selected to pull the bow oar, or take a turn at 
 steering. 
 
 Away went the boat with a will towards the wreck, 
 of which for a while they could only catch occasional 
 glimpses when she or they rose out of the hollow of 
 the swell, and gained some Ic^ smooth ridge. After 
 an hour's hard pulling they got near enough to dis- 
 cover the hull of a timber ship water-logged, without 
 masts, rudder, boats, or bulwarks, with her jib-boom 
 pointtjag, like a broken finger, in the direction of 
 home. 
 
 They pulled under her stem and read, *The Hope, 
 of Plymouth.' Cox uttered a sharp exclamation as he 
 read the name, and ordered the boat to pull as close 
 as possible to her bow. 
 
 He went forward, and laying hold of the loose rig- 
 ging, swung himself on board. In a few minutes he 
 
and his Son, 
 
 143 
 
 appeared, saying, 'All is clean and bare as on a 
 washed plank ; neither man, nor log, nor boat, ex- 
 cept this,' he said, as he held up a black silk hand- 
 kerchief, which he found tied to one of the spars. 
 * Perhaps some poor fellow,' remarked Cox, * has tried 
 this as his last hawser, but they are all gone now/ 
 
 Silently the crew pulled once more round the 
 wreck. Her look was unutterably dreary and deso- 
 late. Rolling, rolling day and night alone on the 
 wide, wide sea ! and not a tongue to tell her history. 
 
 It was on the same evening that Wilson, the gene- 
 ral growler of the forecastle, indulged in his usual 
 luxury. 
 
 He had been reading during the afternoon a soiled 
 newspaper, that seemed old enough to have recorded 
 the battle of the Nile. Most of the watch were 
 gathered round the empty stove, enj03dng an evening 
 pipe, and expressing various conjectures about the 
 wreck which they had been so recently examining, 
 and which still rolled a speck on the distant horizon. 
 
 * Well,' remarked Wilson, with a bitter laugh, * I'm 
 blowed if that ain't a good joke !' 
 
 'What's in the windf some sailors asked. 
 
 'Wind !' replied Wilson, 'if there had been any 
 wind or water, it would have been a different affair ; 
 but it's all on land, and a dead calm without either 
 sea or storm, but only a capsize of an old coach 
 from Ayr to Glasgow ; and here they goes, makin' 
 
144 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 such ado about it as if the world had been cap- 
 sized !' 
 
 * What about it, Wilson 1 Tell us.' 
 
 *What about itl' replied Wilson; 'why, there is 
 nothing about it, but only that the horses slipped 
 their cables, forged ahead, the driver could not heave 
 to, and away they went overboard into a ditch, all 
 hands.* 
 
 * Any one hurt V asked one of the crew. 
 
 *Why, that is the joke,' replied Wilson. *I see 
 old Thomson, the teacher, from Irvine, has got his 
 arm out of joint. Served him right, all the same, for 
 many a hundred cracks he gave me. And there is 
 Mrs. Morton. I know her also, the grocer's wife, 
 from Saltcoats, as has sprained her big ankle ;' and 
 so on through half-a-dozen more. ' But what a pre- 
 cious row they do make ! Only hear this ' — and 
 then he read the following extract from the news- 
 paper with peculiar gusto, and more than one inter- 
 ruption : — * " We are delighted to hear that Mr,. 
 Thomson is in a fair way of recovery, and that Mrs- 
 Morton was able to be conveyed last night to her 
 own home. All the people residing near the spot 
 where the accident occurred, were most attentive 
 and kind. The other parties, who are considerably 
 bruised, were two weavers from Kilmarnock, but we 
 are informed that they are also in a fair way of re- 
 covery." ' 
 
and his Son. 
 
 "45 
 
 . * Well, Wilson,' said the carpenter, * surely you 
 have no fault to find with thatT 
 
 'Perhaps I have,' said Wilson. *What I say is 
 this only : Who of them people, with their shaking 
 of hands, and piping with handkerchers in their eyes 
 for the dominie and Mrs. Morton, cares for huz 
 sailors ) Who thinks or cares for them poor chaps 
 as have been washed out of that wreck ? The do- 
 minie gets his arm out of joint, the old humbug; and 
 Kirsty Morton gets her leg twisted, and there go the 
 parsons and newspapers, all signalizing and taking 
 soundings, and a-hollering and a-botherin'. But if 
 a whole ship's company, worth a dozen cargoes of 
 them weavers, shuttles and all, gets smashed with the 
 ice, run down, foundered in a tjrphoon, crunched like 
 nuts by sharks, starved in boats, cast away to die by 
 the inch on a barren island, or have their legs, arms, 
 hands and all, sent floating among the rocks on a 
 lee-shore, — who cares for them, unless the gulls or 
 the cod ? Who cares for them ? ' And Wilson put 
 his pipe into his mouth, his hands into his jacket- 
 pocket, looked meditatingly at the cold stove, and 
 then resumed his newspaper. 
 
 * Not many,' said the carpenter, with a sigh, * un- 
 less, perhaps, their wife or bairns.' 
 
 * If they have any,' remarked Wilson ; * and what 
 will they hear about their daddy 1 Perhaps some 
 Christian will let them know that his ship was 
 
T46 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 lost, " with all hands." That is all they '11 hear of 
 us.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is what they will say of us/ said Bob 
 Martin \ * or " never heard of more." ' 
 
 * Ay, ay,' continued Wilson, ' short and pithy, never 
 heard of more ! That 's all your Mary and bairns 
 will hear about you, my chap. No letters, carried 
 by the gale ; no messages floated by the surf ; no 
 kind people to pick you up, and tell about you in 
 the newspapers. " Never heard of more ! " That *s 
 your superscription, Neil ! without a grave in the old 
 kirkyard to put it on. That 's it, my boy j so fill 
 your pipe for consolation.' 
 
 * Perhaps them chaps belonging to the wreck were 
 all washed overboard,' remarked Nimmo. 
 
 *0r took to the boats till they foundered,' said 
 Mackay. 
 
 'Or took to eating of one another, till the last 
 man got mad, and tried to swim across the ocean,' 
 chimed in big Currie. 
 
 * Belay there ! ' said Cox. What is the use of 
 all this baby-whimpering ! What does a fellow sign 
 the Articles for if he won't be drowned 1 Isn't it our 
 lot to be washed overboard if it can't be helped 1 or 
 to founder if we can't float % Who is to blame ? No 
 one, say I; so be done. Who wants women and 
 children to be a-blubberin' about us, or newspapers 
 singing out when all hands go down 1 Plenty of noise 
 
and his Son, 
 
 H7 
 
 above and below without that. So I say, Every man 
 to his post ; the weaver to his shuttle, if he likes it, 
 I don't ; and the sailor to his ship, I do ; and let aU 
 do their dooty, and die game like men.' 
 
 ' HoY'somever, as Fleming's song says,' added an- 
 othef of the hands : — 
 
 "There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, 
 And takes care of the life of poor Jack." ' 
 
 'All right,' replied Wilson; 'but what I complah 
 of is, there is desperate few of them cherubs here 
 away.* 
 
 ' 'Deed,' said the carpenter, who was disposed to 
 moralize more than the most of them, ' the warst I 
 see about our ships is, that they are no just the best 
 place for a man to learn hoo to die, game or no 
 game. There's our ain Captain, that auld bully, 
 Saumund ; he swears and blasphemes at every one ; 
 and M*Killop rages wi' him, as if we were brute beasts, 
 and a man hasna even the Sabbath to himsel', but 
 must work momin', noon, and night, and little need- 
 cessity for't either.' 
 
 * But we all know,' said Bob Langwill, * what the 
 sailor's commandment is : — 
 
 *Six days shalt thou labour, and do all that thou art able, 
 And on the Seventh, holystone the decks, and scrape down 
 the cable." 
 
 That's our life at sea, old boy, and even the carpenter 
 can't mend it' 
 
148 
 
 Tfu Old Lieutenant 
 
 'And then v\rhen we landl' remarked another 
 young sailor, with a whistle and a crow, 'won't we 
 make up for it) With a rattling breeze, we shall be 
 running past the battery of Port Royal in less than a 
 week, and then. Cox, what shall we do 9 I am ready 
 for a pint of rum the first go ! What say you 1'' 
 
 ' I say, " don't boil or broil your fish till they are 
 hooked."' 
 
 * I don't give a farthing,' said Wilson, ' if all the 
 fish in the sea, and the sea itself, and all that is on it 
 and in it, were boiled to nothing, if only the 'John' 
 was in dock, and wgK)ut of her.' 
 
 ' We maun submit to all that 's wrang,' said Neil 
 Lamont, meditatively, and, as he meant, religiously. 
 * A' things are ordered. Our voyage of life is settled 
 — captain, mate, ship and all' 
 
 * Don't tell me,' said Wilson, ' that anything bad is 
 ordered, except by one who is bad himself, and that 
 is not by Him aloft anyhow. If the ship 's bad, the 
 compasses bad, the provisions bad, well then, I knows 
 the voyage will be bad. But I know that there is 
 bad hands and hearts been a-doin' of this mischief, 
 and I won't submit if I can put them right, /won't; 
 you may,' he added, as he shook the ashes out of his 
 pipe. 
 
 * It 's all very fine talking, Wilson,' said Cox again, 
 'but who is to put it right? What is wrong that has 
 not been wrong since Noah shipped in the Arkt 
 
and his Son, 
 
 149 
 
 Vou may as wjsU put the tides and winds right, and 
 lash the helm all the voyage over, as try to get sailors 
 their rights. So, I say, no use growling, but, when 
 there is a dead calm, go dodging down with the tide ; 
 — ^when there is wind, go ahead, or lie to ; — ^when it 
 is a dead lee-shore, anchor, founder, or take to the 
 boats ; and when you can't do more, hail the first cod 
 and give in! Come Ned, give us the "Arethusa," 
 or old " Ben-Bow." Jack's alive ! Never say die I 
 Fire away, my lad ! Silence for Fleming's song.' 
 
ISO 
 
 The Old Lieutenani 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SHIPWRECKS ON SHORE. 
 
 Mv readers must suppose the 'John' to have 
 passed through Port Royal harbour, to be safely 
 moored at the wharves of Kingston, Jamaica, her 
 cargo discharged, and another cargo received, with 
 everything ready to enable her to resume her home- 
 ward voyage. It has been a busy time for all hands, 
 under scorching heat that made the tar bubble in 
 blisters on the deck, and was well-nigh intolerable 
 to all but Sam, the cook, whose face shone like a 
 black topaz, slightly greased to prevent its cracking. 
 A freed black himself, he felt an aristocrat among 
 his enslaved brethren. The crew were all on leave 
 before starting on their voyage, with the excep- 
 tion of the carpenter and the three apprentices. 
 These were under the immediate command of 
 M'Killop, who seemed burning with an intenser glow 
 in the fervid atmosphere. While one eye appeared 
 to be always watching a large shark that swam about 
 the harbour, the other performed the ordinary duties 
 on board. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 i5« 
 
 The men had not made their appearance at the 
 appointed hour. M'Killop was anxious to have them 
 on board, in order to warp out at early morning, and 
 be in readiness to take advantage of the first pufT ol 
 favourable wind to get to sea. As he sat, without 
 his coit, under a temporary awning, he ever and 
 anon looked at his large silver watch, from which 
 dangled a string and small shell, with a right-angled 
 brass key. 
 
 At last he summoned Ned to his side, and com- 
 missioned him to run up to ' Big Ben's ' store, and 
 tell Cox to come down with the hands immediately. 
 'I know they are a-drinking there,' said M'Killop, 
 ' and will never stop unless they are started.' Ned 
 went off accordingly to the well-known tavern, kept 
 by a negro, in «» w^ len house, painted green, with 
 proj rtir planted in one of the low streets 
 
 T c J he ascended the outside stair 
 
 w. ch led J the principal entrance, he heard tne 
 chorus tr the * Rover of Lochryan,' sung by all hands 
 with a perfect tornado of sound : 
 
 ' Gi'e her sail, gi'e her s; 
 
 Gi'e her sail, boys. 
 She has roared throi 
 And she'll roar thrc 
 
 and bury her wale, 
 
 le she can sit ; 
 I heavier sea before^ 
 h a heavier yet I' 
 
 Again and again was the chorus repeated, and then, 
 after loud shouts of applause, began the well-known 
 sound of Sam's fiddle, accompanied by the tramping 
 
151 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 of feet and sundry shouts and cries from familiar 
 voices. When he opened the door, he could but 
 dimly perceive, through the cloud of tobacco-smoke, 
 a table covered with bottles, round which were sit^ 
 ting some of the crew, while others were shuffling 
 and cutting, sailor fashion, to Sam's music, Sam 
 himself being seated on the top of a barrel in the 
 comer. 
 
 A few minutes sufficed to disclose the effects of 
 the new rum upon the countenances and manners of 
 his friends. No sooner was he himself discovered at 
 the door than Sam's violin stopped. A general tipsy 
 hurrah was given, and Cox, springing to his feet, 
 staggered towards him, and embracing him, said, 
 * Welcome, my boy 1 Now's the time of day. Come, 
 Sam, up with Jack-a-tar ! Here's a hero that can do 
 it ! Clear decks for action, my hearties ! Or, avast 1 
 Let's have "Black-eyed Susan" first Fill your 
 glasses ! " Black-eyed Susan," say L' 
 
 * " Black-eyed Susan " ' was repeated by therti all, 
 as each rolled to his seat and demanded a song, 
 while Ned was compelled to sit on Cox's knee, held 
 fast by his powerful arms. 
 
 * I say. Cox,' began Ned, * now, like a good ship- 
 mate, as you are. be easy and hear me : M'Killop 
 wants you.* 
 
 * M'Killop ! ' shouted Cox, followed by a chorus of 
 « M^KiUop !' 
 
I 
 
 and his Son. 
 
 tS3 
 
 * Hang the lubber !' said one. 
 
 * Heave him overboard to the big shark !' s. '4 
 another. 
 
 ' Hang up his red face to the mast-head for a lan- 
 tern !' said a third. 
 
 * Put him in the stove to save coals, and to be 
 ready for cold weather !' roared a fourth. 
 
 Ned whispered something to Cox — who was re- 
 cognised as his friend and protector — which induced 
 Cox to strike the table, and shout as usual < Belay !* 
 
 'Silence, gentlemen! Mr. president and gentle- 
 men, I should say,' repeated Wilson, with a thick 
 voice ; * silence for Mr. Cox's speech.' 
 
 ' Hold hard,' said Cox. ' Fleming wants to say a 
 word.' 
 
 'All right ; go a-head !' was the response. 
 
 'Well, my lads,' said Fleming, 'you know the 
 " John " sails to-morrow, and the mate has sent me 
 up to bid you all come down and prepare her for an 
 early start. Do come, my hearties, and you'll thank 
 me in the riioming for this. I have delivered my 
 message, however, and so I am off.' 
 
 ' Can't slip your cable so fast as that,' said Cox, 
 holding Ned firmly, while a tumult of sound arose, 
 in which M'Killop and the 'John,' Salmond and 
 old Caimey, with everything most venerable in the 
 service, came in for a portion of abuse, while Sam 
 struck in with ' Jack-a -itar ' to improve the din. It 
 
»54 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 was in vain that Ned attempted to move ; but amidst 
 the uproar Cox was busy smiling and talking into his 
 ear. 
 
 * I saw you \ she looked at you when she came on 
 board that morning. Ay, old Cox can see down a 
 few fathoms when needed ; can't he 9 She's a regular 
 clipper, ship-shape, Bristol fashion, with lots of bunt- 
 ing, and a splendid run. Good luck to you, my lad I 
 I am your man to stand by you in a gale of wind. 
 If you can't get the parson, hail old Cox. Oh, come I 
 come ! no jumpmg about here-away. I have you in 
 limbo, can't stir anyhow. So don't you come over 
 us with M'Killop. You are a lad to our liking, 
 mind you, and among friends.' 
 
 A pause in the tumult enabled the proposition of 
 Cox to be heard, * And the proposition is this, my 
 lads,' said he. ' If Fleming drinks this glass to any 
 one*s health he likes * — and here he gave a friendly 
 poke with his elbow — *say to the sjiip "John," 
 or his honourable father, or even to old Caimey, 
 or'— 
 
 *Cox!' shouted Ned, looking confused, 'mind 
 what you are about, and don't bother a fellow who 
 is doing you no harm.' 
 
 ' I love you, my darling,' said Cox ; * just uncom- 
 mon. And what I say is this : If you tops this glass 
 oflf like a man, we'll follow you like men.' 
 
 But Ned did not see the wink arid leer, intended 
 
 m 
 
and his Son, 
 
 155 
 
 for others, with which this proposition was accom- 
 panied. 
 
 *Yes, I say,' continued Cox, *we'll follow him, 
 every man of us, and kiss M'Killop's beard, or light 
 our pipes from his blind eye, provided always, as 
 tiow Ned gives the song, and just one or two cuts 
 afterwards of Jack- -tar to Sam's "College horn- 
 pipe.'" 
 
 The men cheered the proposition. 
 
 VI never drink, you know,' said Ned, 'and I must 
 go. Do let me off.' And he struggled to get free, 
 but he was in the grasp of a giant 
 
 ' Well, what a regular swab you are !' said Cox. 
 'Ain't it fair? If you take but one glass to the 
 health of any one ; any one, mind I say, you young 
 skipper, we'll follow you to a man. If not, call me 
 a marlinespike, or a dead-eye, if I heave anchor for 
 a week. Here I stay, and here you will find me if 
 you clap a buoy on me.' 
 
 'And here we all stay,' said the men, 'till there's 
 ebb-tide in the Baltic^ or the Needles mend our 
 breeches.' 
 
 I shall not enlarge on all the coaxing, bullying, 
 and well-laid devices by which poor Ned was at last 
 induced to swallow that glass of new and potent 
 rum, which had never been reduced by any mixture 
 of water. It was nauseous, horrible, burning lava, 
 liquid cayenne, molten lead, but down it went, as a 
 
156 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 price .to be repaid by the honour and glory of lead- 
 ing the ship's company back ; and in quick succes- 
 sion he paid also the other demands of the song and 
 dance. The dance, with the heat of the room, helped 
 the rum-demon to do its deadly work. 
 
 Alas ! my unfortunate Neddy ! Beyond this period 
 all memory failed. 
 
 When he came to his senses he was in his ham- 
 mock in the ship *■ John,' with a tongue like a bit of 
 leather, a head glowing like a crackling furnace, and 
 a body pained and bruised. Why enter into further 
 details of that, to him, dreadful and disgusting night? 
 With his poor messmates he had fallen a victim to 
 what Cox considered a capital practical joke on an 
 innocent youngster. But his comrades, in spite of 
 their experience and habits of drinking, had them- 
 selves become involved in a serious riot, which ended 
 in Cox receiving dangerous internal injuries. In a 
 fit of insane and wild intoxication he had attacked 
 every thing and every person, until knocked dc./n 
 by a heavy blow on his side from a policeman, which 
 left him in a state of temporary insensibility. 
 
 The sailing of the *John' had been delayed by 
 this riot, which necessitated an investigation before 
 the magistrates, until both Salmond and M'Killop 
 vowed that the whole world had gone mad, and 
 that it was best to scuttle the ship and take lodg- 
 ings in the Old Port Royal, which the earthquake 
 
and his Son, 
 
 157 
 
 had buried beneath the waves, or settle for life in the 
 well-known spot, among the o£fal at ' Johnnie Crow's 
 .Tavern/ down the harbour. 
 
 The forecastle had been turned into an hospital of 
 sailors, beaten and bruised, shamed, sulky, miser- 
 able ; indififerent though the ship went down with all 
 hands. 
 
 Let the *redding-up' between the crew and the 
 master, as well as the investigation before the magis- 
 trates, and the fines imposed by the court, be passed 
 over in silence. 
 
 Ned was aroused from his lethargic repose by the 
 
 voice of Buckie, singing — * 
 
 *Our ship, the "John" was named, 
 From Greenock we were bound,' etc. 
 
 And then his large face peered into Ned's hammock 
 with a grin, congratulating him upon the grand spree 
 he had had, and askicg him if he would like his 
 Bible 9 Even he did not know what daggers his 
 words were to the heart of poor Ned. 
 
 Buckie, struck by the look of utter misery of his 
 comrade, ceased to banter, and recommended a bowl 
 of coffee, which he considerately went to get from 
 Sam, who had been the only sober man of the party. 
 In the meantime, it was difficult to say whether Ned 
 suffered most in body or in mind. The oft-repeated 
 visions of home returned with singular vividness, and 
 pvercame the tendency to ima^^ine that he was in 
 
158 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 some different and dreadful world. The cottage and 
 all its inmates, down to Babby, vrith the cat and dog, 
 seemed to torture him like accusing spirits. His 
 mother's voice and holy words ; his father's last in- 
 junctions ; his own promises ; even the famous signal 
 of Nelson rose up as if in mockery of his present 
 condition. He recollected the last words of Curly, 
 and felt a strange contrast between the poetry of 
 Wordsworth and his own state, as he looked up from 
 his fevered hammock to the burning deck. Drunk- 
 enness — ^rioting — ^faugh ! Could it be 1 Yes, it was 
 so ; every ache in his body, every throb of his fevered 
 head, every attempt to speak with his dusty tongue, 
 all recalled a nightmare which he could neither com- 
 prehend nor banish. He shut his ^yes, and buried 
 his head under the sheet, that felt like a covering 
 of fire. So ended his first and last experience ^of 
 intoxication, 
 
 ■ J. >•' 
 
 v. 
 
 ■«- 
 
and his Son, 
 
 »^9 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A seaman's friend. 
 
 The evening before the 'John' sailed, a boat 
 pulled alongside, with a little, round-faced man in 
 the stem, who quickly ascended the ship's side, and, 
 touching his straw hat, asked in a frank, off-hand 
 manner for the Captain. 
 
 * At your service,' replied Salmond, who met him 
 at the gangway. 
 
 ' Beg pardop, sir ; Captain Salmond, I presume V 
 said the little man. 
 
 * The same,' said Salmond. 
 
 * My name is Walters,' exclaimed the little man, 
 *and though I have not the pleasure of your ac- 
 quaintance, Captain, yet I have ventured on board, 
 as I have been to sea myself in my day, though I 
 am now a parson — a Methodist parson, I must tell 
 you,' he added, with a smile, as he perceived the 
 gloom gathering in Salmond's face; 'and though 
 but lately come to Jamaica. I am anxious to be of 
 service to the seamen in the port' 
 
i6o 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 * And what do you want V inquired Salmond. 
 
 *0h, merely that, if you have no objection, I 
 should like to have an opportunity of saying a good 
 word or two to your crew before they leave for 
 home.' 
 
 'The crew!' exclaimed Salmond. * A greater set 
 of scoundrels are not on sea or land. The crew I' 
 
 *I was present in court, Captain Salmond, when 
 the riot came before Mr. Jobson, the magistrate,' 
 remarked Walters, * and I am not inclined, I assure 
 you, to defend them ; but the worse they are, the 
 more they need good counsel, and that is all I mean 
 to give them.' 
 
 *And that's just what they won't take,' replied 
 Salmond ; * but you are welcome to heckle them with 
 fire and brimstone for me, as much as you like. It's 
 what they deserve ; for they care neither for God nor 
 man, no to speak o' me or M'Killop.' 
 
 After some further preliminaries and explanations, 
 managed with great tact by Walters, liberty was at 
 last obtained to collect the crew for half an hour in 
 the forecastle. Salmond, however, protested that 
 the Only discourse they would attend to would be a 
 rope's-end or a cat-o'-nine-tails, and vowed that when 
 he got them into deep water he would * give them 
 a round of texts of his own making, which they 
 would understand better than any Methody dis- 
 course.' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 i6i 
 
 When Walters descended into the steaming den 
 of the forecastle, he said, 'Good evening, my 
 lads !' taking off his straw hat His presence cre- 
 ated no little stir, and more than one head looked 
 over the hammocks, to know what all this was 
 about. Was it a policeman) or magistrate? or 
 some other official, resolved to continue what 
 seemed to them a persecution of men who had 
 
 * only been on the spree,' and who had paid already 
 what seemed to them more than a sufficient sum 
 for it. 
 
 Walters seated himself on one of the bunks, and 
 said, ' I am an old sailor, and have sailed over every 
 sea, and this forecastle puts me in mind of old times ; 
 bad times they were for me, as I fear they are for you, 
 my lads.' 
 
 A general movement took the place of asking 
 
 * What next?' 
 
 * Now, boys,' Walters continued, * I like to be 
 above-board like a sailor, and to show my papers 
 at once. I do not like luffing or yawing, but to 
 go stem on to port when possible ; so I tell you I 
 have come here to see you before you sail for the 
 dear old country, which I don't expect to visit again. 
 I wish to speak to you as I would to old comrades, 
 and for no reason whatever but for your good. I 
 want no money, no honour of any kind, but the satis- 
 r^tion of your listening to me for a few minutes until 
 
l62 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 I 
 i 
 
 I tell you a bit of my story. Will you hear, then, ao 
 oM sailor spin his yarn V 
 
 * By all means,' said the carpenter. 
 
 * Fire away, old boy,' repeated a voice from a dark 
 corner. 
 
 * Take out your reefs and scud,' said another, while 
 the greater part were silent and gave no sign. Those, 
 however, near the hatch might have seen the shadows 
 of M'Killop and Salmond listening on the deck. 
 
 Walters took out a small Bible, and amidst re- 
 spectful silence and evident curiosity, not unmingled 
 with some suppressed tendency to laughter at the 
 oddness of the interruption, said, * As I told you, I 
 was a sailor before the mast, and served my time. 
 I have tasted salt-water like the best of you, and 
 drank, swore, and went to the devil like the most 
 of you. I became mate of a fine ship, " The Lord 
 Melville," you may have heard of her, sailing out 
 of Liverpool. We were wrecked on a coral reef, 
 near the Bahamas. Most of the crew were washed 
 overboard \ the rest took to the masts, and I reached 
 the mizzen-top, along with the second mate, who, 
 to speak the truth, was the only man on board who 
 had any fear of God in him, and many a time I 
 laughed at him, for I was then an ignorant heathen. 
 Well, as the sun was setting on that awful day, with 
 the waves breaking over the ship, and little hope of 
 her keeping together long, Wilkins, that was his 
 
and his Son, 
 
 163 
 
 name, says to me, pointing to the sun, " Messmate," 
 says he, " where will you and I be when that sun rises 
 to-morrow morning )' "The devil knows!" says I. 
 Yes, that was what I said ; for I'd no care for any- 
 thing. On that, Wilkins, as brave a fellow as ever 
 stood on deck, says to me, " Tom," says he, " if the 
 devil knows you are to be with him, it is poor com- 
 fort. But I know that when I die I shall be with my 
 Father and my Saviour, and all the good who have 
 ever gone before me. Oh, I am sorry, sorry for you ! 
 I would let go my hold and drown if I thought that 
 would save you !" "Would you, indeed?" says I. "I 
 would, indeed," says he, " as sure as God sees my 
 heart." And then he began to preach to me on that 
 mizzen-top ; — ay, on that queer pulpit, such a sermon 
 as I never heard before. Would you like to hear itf 
 my lads?' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, sir,' said more than one voice. 
 
 * If it is no offence, speak a little louder, sir,' said 
 Cox. 
 
 * Well, then, Wilkins said, " Tom, God made 
 you and me, and all men, to be good and happy. 
 He has loved us ever since we were born, although 
 we have not loved him. He has given us everything 
 good that we ever had, though we may never have 
 asked it of him, nor thanked him when we got it. He 
 has told us our duty in the Bible, and written it upon 
 our consci'^nces, although we have not done it ; for 
 
164 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 we have taken the devil's side and not his. And if 
 we do the devil's work, depend upon it we shall get 
 his wages, and that is misery, and nothing but misery. 
 But," said Wilkins, — for to tell the truth I began to 
 tremble, and for the first time in my life felt afraid to 
 die — " But," said Wilkins, " God in his love sent his 
 own Son Jesus Christ into the world to seek and to 
 save the chief of sinners ; the chief of sinners, mind 
 you," said he, " and to bring back his poor prodigals 
 to himself, their Father. And Christ died for sinners 
 on the Cross, and suffered, the just for the unjust, to 
 bring us to God ; and rose from the dead, and lives, 
 to forgive every man, and to give his good Spirit to 
 make every man who will trust him, and try and do 
 his will, and be a good son, as he himself was to his 
 Father and our Father. Oh, Tom," he said, " believe 
 on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved. 
 Yes, Tom, even you, before the sun sets, he will re- 
 ceive as a poor prodigal, and save you on this mast- 
 lead, without church or Bible or parson, but by his 
 own love. Accept the forgiveness of sin, His own free 
 gift, for if you don't you will never love your God and 
 be at peace, but be frightened for him and hate him. 
 Don't," says he, holding on for his life, and talking as 
 peaceful as a child, " don't go up to judgment with 
 all your sins written in God's book, and not one of 
 them forgiven ! Don't damn yourself, messmate, when 
 God wishes to save you ! Don't ruin the soul that 
 
^m 
 
 aitd his Son, 
 
 i6j 
 
 does not belong to you, but to him that made it, and 
 who loves it, and died for it ! Don't put off turning 
 to God until it is too late ; for if you die without a 
 Saviour, without repenting and being at peace with 
 your Maker, and a stranger to your God ; if you say 
 to him, < depart from me,' then he may take you at 
 your word at last, and say to you, 'depart;' and 
 where will you go then 1" 
 
 ' With that the sun set, and Wilkins, holding on by 
 one hand, lifted up the other and prayed, — " God our 
 Father, give this prodigal son of thine true repent- 
 ance, and save his poor soul through faith in the 
 Lord Jesus Christ, and grant that if we both die this 
 night, we may both wake in heaven and not in hell." 
 That was Wilkins's sermon, and that was Wilkins's 
 prayer,' said Walters. 
 
 * What became of Wilkins V asked a gruff voice 
 from one of the hammocks. 
 
 * We were both picked off the wreck next morn- 
 ing,' said Walters ; * but before morning I had given 
 my heart to Christ, and I have never taken it from 
 him, nor don't intend to do so for ever and ever; 
 and I find him one of the best and kindest of masters, 
 while I found myself and the devil the worst.' 
 
 After a pause, during which no remark was made, 
 Walters rose and said with affectionate and earnest 
 voice : — ' My men, I am neither hypocrite nor hum- 
 bug ! I appeal to Him that made me, that I believe 
 
^ ..-*v 
 
 i66 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 what I say — that I speak the truth, and risk my soul on 
 k. As God showed mercy to me nine years ago come 
 tenth of next May, I desire to make my fellow-raen 
 share the same niercy, and to enjoy the same peace 
 and Hberty ; to deliver them from the foul slavery of 
 sin, and to set them free in the liberty of Christ's 
 service. I solemnly testiiy to you, that* as sure as 
 there is a God we must live as long as he lives — for 
 ever ; that we must be saints or devils ; good and 
 happy, or wicked and miserable. I testify to you, as 
 saith the Scriptures, what you know to be true, that 
 " the wicked are like the troubled sea which cannot 
 rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt," and that 
 " there is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked " I 
 speak to you what he has given me to say, and it is 
 this : " Say ye to the righteous that it shall be well 
 with him, for he shall eat the fruit of his doings. Woe 
 unto the wicked, it shall be ill with him, for the re- 
 ward of his hand shall be given him." " Woe unto 
 them that are mighty to drink wine, and men of 
 strength to mingle strong drink." I testify to you 
 what you know is true, that " wine and women take 
 away the heart," ard ma^e it hard, dead, and miserable. 
 But I testify more than this, that as God liveth, he has 
 no pleasure iii the death of a sinner, but rather that 
 the sinner would tum from his wickedness and live ; 
 that he who knows all your sins, says, " Though thy 
 sins be as scarlet, I will make them white as snow." 
 
and his Son, 
 
 167 
 
 Oh, my lads, my comrades of the sea ! don't ship- 
 wreck your poor souls for ever when there is a life- 
 boat at hand, and when you have your Lord and 
 brother able and ready to save. There's but one 
 plank to reach the shore. K 's our only hope. Re- 
 fuse it, and we die. But no one who ever trusted 
 to it perished. What say you? Come, my lads, 
 what say you? What has the devil done for yout 
 What soit of master have you found himl- What 
 sort of wages has he given you ? Are you happy t 
 Are you ready to die? Are you fit to meet your 
 God?' 
 
 Walters paused as if for a reply. 
 
 *It is God's truth yo': are saying,' said Neil 
 Lamont, looking at the palm of his huge hand, 
 * and there is no contradicting you. It is Scripture, 
 I believe, every word.' 
 
 Walters, as if anxious to get the men to think, and 
 if possible to * bring them to the point,' as he said, 
 tried another tack, and remarked, 'Say your ship 
 is drifting in a hurricane on a lee-shore ; last anchor 
 out ; masts cut away ; black rocks and wild breakers 
 under astern, and the last cable is just snapping, — 
 Where next, my lads ?' 
 
 ' The long-boat ! ' cried a sailor. 
 
 * So be it,' said Walters, * unless oiie is stove in, or 
 cannot be launched, or won't live a minute in the 
 breakers. But suppose she is able to take you all 
 
i68 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 off in safety, then I say the ship is your soul, and the 
 life-boat is your Saviour ! ' 
 But there was no response. 
 
 After a pause, he asked, with an energetic voice — 
 ' Who cares for you, my men ? Who cares whether 
 you are dead or ah've, sober or drunk, going to 
 heaven or hell? Fifty fathoms deep, lying dead 
 among the tangle, or tossed about by the tide ? Who 
 cares whether it's all hands lost, or all hands saved I 
 Who cares V 
 
 * You are right,* said Jock Wilson, who could not 
 stand that question. ' No one cares for us more 
 than for the brutes.'. 
 
 * No one V asked Walters. * I say, yes ! One 
 does care. One who preserves both man and beast ; 
 One whom sailors seldom think of, and seldom 
 speak of except in oaths. The God that made you, 
 and who preserves you, cares for you, as I l.ave testi- 
 fied to you, cares for you, even for you: cares as 
 no father or mother ever did. Oh, shame ! shame ! 
 my men. Why don't you care for Him V 
 
 * Why, sir,* said Wilson, ' you know sailors can't 
 be saints.* 
 
 * What do you think a saint is V asked Walters. 
 
 * Why, I do not know,' said Wilson, 'except, perhaps, 
 he is a sort of melancholy chap, with black clothes, 
 who is all day singing of psalms, except when groan- 
 ing or abusing sailors for taking their liquor.' 
 
lie 
 
 and his Son. 
 
 169 
 
 Walters smiled, and said, ' I'm sure I don't look 
 like such a saint as that? and yet I hope I am a 
 saint by God's grace that is offered to all. My lads,' 
 he continued, ' a saint may be a sailor as well as a 
 parson, wear duck as well as black, and be out on a 
 yard as well as in a pulpit For I'll tell you what 
 a saint is ; he's a man that does God's will with a 
 heart, because he likes Him. And if he won't be 
 a saint, depend upon it he is a devil, or very like one, 
 and no mistake. For what can be worse than a man 
 who hates God, and God's will 1 I defy the devil him- 
 self to do more than that ! And as for your taking 
 liquor, one thing is certain, that whatever is good 
 for a man, for his soul or for his body, his Father in 
 heaven will give it to him ; but I take it that getMng 
 drunk is good for neither, nor is any other wickeduess.' 
 
 * Ye're no far wrang there, minister,' said a Scotch 
 voice, * for this has been an awfu' job for us.' 
 
 * Chaps can't help a-doing what's wrong,' remarked 
 one of the hands, * that's ray opinion ; the devil gets 
 the weather-gage of them all i. spite of them.' 
 
 * That's a devil's lie, my lads, depend upon it,* 
 said Walters; *a man is a man, and not a brute, 
 and no power on earth or hell can force him to sin 
 unless he likes it, and then it needs no force, no 
 more than it needs force to sink a stone when you 
 throw it overboard.' 
 
 * But wind and tide are always against a fellow 
 
 
 
 151^ II 
 
 
 mil III mill ^BmsMammm 
 
I70 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 when he tries to work his way in the rignt course, 
 my hearty, isn't iti' 
 
 ' Yes, when he tries without God ; but if he seeks 
 God, He will be with him, and then God is stronger 
 than wind or tide, for He can make the weakest 
 craft overcome both.' 
 
 * How do you know 1 
 
 * Because He says it, and because I have tried it 
 myself, and know it. How do I know that I see 
 the light 1 Because I see it, and thousands on thou- 
 sands se-^ it as well as I. The God who has de- 
 livered poor Tom Walters, is fit to save any man I 
 And oh, it's peace, my lads ; peace and freedom 1 ' 
 
 ' But what, suppose,' remarked another gruff voice 
 i'^om a corner, * I m-^kes up my mind, do you see, 
 to go ahead, and says, as it were, says I, I'll not 
 pray, nor read the Bible, nor give up my grog or 
 anything else, nor be a saint, but a sinner, and sail 
 where I like, and when I like, and be my own cap- 
 tain? Eh] Cai. . fellow get along well enough in 
 that way V 
 
 * And what, my lad,' replied Walters, * if the 
 Almighty takes you at your word, and tells you to 
 go ahead, and sail when and where you like % When 
 you give up God, and get your own way, what will be- 
 come of you ? Can you get a better master than Him 
 who is your owner 1 Can you have a better cargo 
 than truth, honesty, kindness, love to God and man t 
 
 i 
 
and his Son. 
 
 171 
 
 kest 
 
 
 Can you sail to a better harbour than heaven I 
 Where else will you go tol What will become of 
 you on the ocean of eternity, without sail or rudder, 
 without compass or provisions, and without a friend?* 
 'The devil knows! as you said yourself, messmate.' 
 
 * Ay, that he does ! You '11 go right on with him, 
 and to him, and lose your God and Saviour for ever, 
 and yourself. — But I must go, my time is up,' continued 
 Walters; * I have left God's message with you; I'll per- 
 haps never see you till fhe judgment-day, and you'll 
 know then for weal or woe, I have spoken the tnuli. 
 Faiewell !* he said, rising. ' From my heart I wish 
 you well, and that all good and all peace may be 
 yours ! But remember there is no good or peace for 
 man unless he takes Jesus Christ to be hi» Saviour, and 
 becomes acquainted with the God who made us, pre- 
 serves us, loves us, and will guide us. I will leave you 
 some tracts, and two or three books which you may 
 like to read on the voyage, and, perhaps, for the sake 
 of old Tom Walters, you will grant me one request — 
 that you will hear read a portion of the Bible every 
 Sunday, when possible, and a prayer from this prayer- 
 book, which I give you V 
 
 'There is the lad that will do it,* said Buckie, 
 pointing to Ned. 
 
 * Buckie ! ' shouted a voice, as if to rebuke him. 
 
 * Na, but I'm real serious this time,' replied Buckie, 
 as if he felt it an insult to joke at such a moment. 
 
lyi 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 *I will read it,' said Ned, * if the crew will allow mc* 
 
 The crew expressed their consent in their own 
 peculiar phraseology. 
 
 Walters thanked them for their kindness, and 
 added, after shaking hands with all he could get 
 near, ' My dear brother seamen, for I like to think 
 of myself as one of you still, I speak just what I feel 
 when I say before we part, that I think the prettiest 
 sight which God Almighty could look at on the 
 bosom of the deep, would be a ship manned by 
 Christian sailors ! Oh, my lads, what a sight, what 
 a sight that would be! Goo(i,vill and prayers instead 
 of quarrelling ; praises instead of cursing ; and the 
 vessel shining beautiful as she went round the world 
 like the glorious sun of heaven! She would be a bless- 
 ing to every port she entered, and yood men would 
 pray for her and welcome her, and cry God be with her ! 
 Jesus would be on board, and give peace to all, and 
 say in the storm, " It is I, be not afraid !" And if she 
 was " lost with all hands," «^' '*'-'"'°r heard of more," 
 poor Jack would not be lost, but fall asleep to wake 
 iii the bosom of his father and his God. But, farewell ! 
 God bless you all ! a good voyage to you, and a hap^^jy 
 meeting with all friends here, and a happy meeioug 
 with us all when the voyage of life is over I' 
 
 'Good-bye, sir!' 'Farewell!' "Good luck 20 
 you !' 'A fair wind to you, my hearty !' 'Thank 
 you, old boy I' * God bless you !' came from differ- 
 
 
and his Son. 
 
 173 
 
 ent voices in the forecastle, as Mr. Walters ascended 
 the ladder. 
 
 Ned followed to the deck, and Walters taking him 
 aside for a minute, said, ' Young man, I was much 
 pleased with your appearance in court. You are not 
 hardened in sin anyhow ; I can see that. Take an 
 old man's advice, and pray to God for his Spirit to 
 guide you, strengthen you, and make you out and out 
 good. Let this adventure of yours be a warning to 
 you, to show what a bitter thing sin is ; and, mind 
 you, my lad, you may fall down a pit in a moment 
 as a snail can do, but it may take a long time to crawl 
 up. It is but one step over the precipice, but a long 
 fall, and perhaps broken bones or death at the bot- 
 tom. So begin soon to be a good man, and you will 
 find it a far easier thing than to begin afterwards, if 
 once you are a bad one. Every act of sin is another 
 chain to bind us in the devil's service.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir,' replied Ned. * Both my father, 
 who is an old officer, and my mother, have taught me 
 aQ that,' he replied, as he hung down his head, half 
 with shame and half with modesty, and murmured, * I 
 fcail my Bible, and pray, sir, and wish to serve God, 
 but the other night 1 could not help it, for ' — 
 
 'Let us not argue about that, my boy,' said Walters, 
 kindly clapping him on the shoulder ; * believe me, 
 there is no good excuse for doing what is wrong. 
 Trust God, my boy ; trust God for all good to soul 
 
174 
 
 The Old Luutenani 
 
 and body, and he will give you the best things at the 
 best time, and in the best way. But trust yourself, 
 or sin, and forsake God, and it is all over with you.' 
 
 Mr. Walters shook him by the hand, and went aft 
 to speak to the captain. Joining him and the mate 
 on the quarter-deck, and again taking off his hat, he 
 saluted them, presenting the captain with a neat 
 pocket Bible. ' Please accept this. Captain Salmond,' 
 he said, *■ as an expression of my gratitude to you for 
 allowing me to speak to your men. They have pro- 
 mised to hear the Scriptures read on Sundays, if you 
 have no objection, and I have got a young lad, one 
 of your apprentices, to be chaplain.* 
 
 * That'll be Fleming,' said Salmond; *he is a 
 gran' han' at the Bible already. As for the crew, 
 they may do as they like, if they only do their duty 
 to me. But saunts or no saunts, by jingo I they 
 maun work the ship.' 
 
 * I trust they may work her better than ever,' said 
 Walters ; * she won't sail the worse if God is in her 
 to help and bless her.' 
 
 'I'll no say she will,' said Salmond; 'but ho'so- 
 ever, if these devils o' men are better, the "John" will 
 be better too, and that's my only look-out' 
 
 * One word, before parting, to you. Captain, and 
 mate, my fellow-men : Unless we repent we shall all 
 perish ; unless we are bom again we cannot see the 
 kingdom of God ' 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 »7$ 
 
 
 t 
 
 u 
 e 
 
 * That micht be an awfu* job,' said Salmond. 
 
 * But remember what I say is true,' said Walters, 
 as he shook hands, and vanished over the ship's side. 
 He was soon seated in his boat, rowing rapidly to- 
 wards the shore. 
 
 Salmond and M'Killop stood staring at one an- 
 other, smiled, shrugged their shoulders, turned their 
 quids in their mouths, and put their hands in their 
 pockets. 
 
 * That's a queer ane,* said Salmond. * Daft a wee V 
 
 * Doubtfu',' said M'Killop. 
 
 * Carries a press o' canvas V said Salmond. 
 
 * Moon-rakers and sky-scrapers !' said M'Killop. 
 
 * Unco godly 1' said Salmond. 
 ' Uncommon,' said the mate. 
 
 * What am I to do with the Bible, Peter? 
 
 *Ye ken best,' said Peter. 'Maybe he intended 
 ye to read it' 
 
 ' I wadna wonder,' said Salmond. * Ye had better 
 put it in the cabin till we hae time to think about 
 what to mak o't,' and he handed it to the mate, 
 holding it with an outstretched arm cautiously, as if 
 he feared it would bum his fingers. 
 
k 
 
 176 
 
 The Old LieutenatU 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ANOTHER SUNDAY AT SEA. 
 
 The blue mountains of Jamaica have disappeared 
 like a cloud below the horizon, and the 'John' is 
 once more in blue water, 
 
 ' With nothing above and nothing below, 
 But the sky and the ocean.' 
 
 On the first Sunday after the * John' got fairly out to 
 sea, the weather being propitious, Ned was anxious 
 to fulfil his promise to Mr. Walters. The men were 
 rather eager than otherwise to try the new experi- 
 ment. There might, perhaps, have been at first a little 
 awkwardness visible ; some joking, and here and there 
 a remark approaching to irreverence even, but yet, 
 on the whole, there was an evident disposition on the 
 part of all to mark the day of rest by at least some 
 sign of religion, or by a more decorous solemnity 
 than they were in the habit of manifesting. The re- 
 membrance of Ned's fight made the crew at once 
 recognise him as the 'fox'all parson' — and so they 
 dubbed him. Walters had very wisely given a small 
 
and his Son. 
 
 ^11 
 
 printed set of directions for the conducting of the 
 services during the voyage, whether it was short or 
 long. There was one circumstance, I may state, 
 which tended perhaps more than any other to bring 
 about this better state of feeling, and that was the 
 marked change which had, strange to say, come over 
 Cox, and to which we shall afterwards more particu- 
 larly allude. To the astonishment of all, it was he 
 who took the lead in summoning the crew and ar- 
 ranging them for service. 
 
 Ned, following the directions he had received, first 
 of all read aloud what Walters called a Sailor's Psalm, 
 — ' They that go down to the sea in ships, that do 
 business in great waters ; these see the works of the 
 Lord, and his wonders in the deep. For he com- 
 mandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth 
 up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, 
 they go dov/n again to the depths ; their soul is melted 
 because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger 
 like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end. Then 
 they ciy unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bring- 
 eth thtui out of their distresses. He maketh the 
 storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. 
 Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he 
 bringeth them unto their desired haven. Oh that 
 men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for 
 his wonderful works to the children of men ! ' — (Psalm 
 sni. 23-31.) 
 
 

 
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 270 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 elegance, as well as strength and activity in her gai^ 
 which at once arrested attention. Floxy did not dis- 
 like her mistress — far from it ; but yei she looked 
 upon her somewhat as a grown-up child, and felt no 
 real liking for any point in her character except her 
 thorough good-nature, which, however, she was in- 
 clined sometimes to despise, as evidencing want of 
 power rather than the possession of principle. But 
 she doated on Kate, and the object nearest her heart 
 was to live with her or near her. 
 
 Peter had once — and only once — tried to pick up 
 a sort of free-and-easy acquaintance with Floxy. 
 But one look — one word from her — had made even 
 him shrink back into respectful distance, and assume 
 the expression which, as his greatest effort and master- 
 piece of propriety, he habitually wore on Sunday in 
 the front gallery of the church. 
 
 The only person near Ardmore whom Floxy made 
 her friend was Morag, the daughter of Rorie the 
 fisherman, whose cottage was situated about a mile 
 off, beyond * the point * where the Atlantic waves 
 rolled in all their glory. And glorious indeed was 
 it to watch the great sea waves, so deep and 
 strong and unchecked by the land, pouring in green 
 cataracts over the outer boulders, and rushing 
 through them in white foam, wave chasing wave, 
 then meeting in conflict behind them, and sending 
 their snowy spray upwards into the air, and onwards 
 
and his Son, 
 
 271 
 
 to the land, through innumerable channels, seething 
 ■ and boiling to the strip of the higher sand. A 
 channel, which formed an avenue from the hut to the 
 sea, was cleared through them for Rorie's fishing- 
 boat. The hut was adorned not with roses, but with 
 rods, nets, and lines. Ah! they were memories of old 
 Martin, and of early days of poverty but freedom, 
 which made Floxy delight to walk to that cottage, to 
 bring tobacco to old Rorie, to sit on the rocks and talk 
 to him about fishing, which she knew so well, and to 
 tell him how the folk fished in other places far away, 
 and how they had hardships elsewhere as well as in 
 the Highlands. And Rorie's daughter seemed to be 
 herself grown younger again. Morag was a bonnie 
 lassie, about seventeen, and 'just come frae her 
 mammy ;' quiet, and pure, and innocent as a sea-tern 
 with fairy wing and graceful form. And Floxy doated 
 on the girl with almost a passionate attachment, 
 making her half-toy, half-companion, a thing at least 
 to admire, to pet, to lavish her heart on, and then 
 to teach in the best way she could. It was her de- 
 light to bring Morag to the house, and to smooth her 
 head of dark haur until it shone like the long tangle on 
 the sea rocks ; and then to dress it up in some tasteful 
 fashion, with red rowan berries, or ivy-leaves ; when 
 pointing her out to Jane she would say with pride, 
 * Did you ever see such a sea-nymph 1 There is not 
 a merman of taste in the wild ocean but must fall ia 
 
272 
 
 TJie Old Lieutenant 
 
 love with her ! I declare she must take care or she 
 will vanish some day, and be seen in a car drawn by 
 sea-horses, with Old Rorie trying in vain to over 
 take her in his boat !' and then Floxy would burst 
 into a fit of laughing, in which the girl would join 
 her, looking more beautiful from her awkward 
 blushes when dragged by Floxy to see herself re- 
 flected in the mirror. 
 
 It was Floxy's delight to spend an idle hour in 
 teaching her English ; and when at last Morag could 
 translate some of her Gaelic thoughts, she would say, 
 in reply to the sharp question 'Now, Morag, what 
 are you saying to me 1' * I was just saying that you 
 are the calf of my heart, and so you are, my love I* 
 Floxy seemed to have bewitched Morag; while Morag 
 was to Floxy an ideal being of simplicity and love, 
 like an Undine bom of the deep sea, and in com- 
 parison with whom Miss M'Dougal was as a wax 
 figure or an actor on the stage. 
 
 Yet Jane was not far wrong when, partly from 
 truth, and partly from mere jealousy of attention, 
 as even ladies are capable of with reference to their 
 waiting-women, she used to say — 
 
 'Floxy, you will utterly spoil Morag, and make 
 her unfit to gather peats, dig potatoes, or be useful 
 in any way.' 
 
 'Morag cannot be spoilt, Miss M'Dougal! She 
 is born a lady.' 
 
and Ins Son, 
 
 ^73 
 
 * Don't talk stulS*, Floxy ! That romantic non- 
 sense of yours will bring you into trouble some day. 
 Morag is a fisherman's daughter — that is all' 
 
 'And what more am I? yet I can read,, write, 
 enjoy life such as it is, having received education, 
 through your kindness and good Miss Duncorabe's. 
 I can be happy with rocks, and heather, and birch 
 trees, and can make them my friends ; why should 
 not she ) Besides, I feel strong for life's battle, and 
 able to defend myself in the world, but she, little 
 tender thing, when she wanders through the wood, 
 singing after the calves, is as easily struck down by 
 some hawk as a robin redbreast or linnet I wt7l 
 teach her, and make of her, and love her.' 
 
 ' Floxy, attend to my hair, and give me that pin, 
 and don't be a fool.' 
 
 I said that Peter had presumed to pay attention 
 to Floxy ; yet she did not dislike Peter, but passed 
 him by as she would one of the red cattle on the 
 moor, with indifference or contempt. But she loathed 
 M'Dougal. His smiles, his looks, and courteous 
 manners, and that whole bearing by which he was 
 wont, with low voice, affected, mincing accent, and 
 inane, flattering remarks, to make himself agreeable, 
 even to her, excited in her an aversion which was 
 akin to what some people experience towards certain 
 animals or insects. 
 
 'Where did yon pick up that splendid-looking girlf* 
 
274 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 he asked his sister one day, as he sat beside her on a 
 seat in the garden, while he smoked his cigar, and 
 drew figures in the gravel with his stick. *■ She is a 
 regular beauty, I do assure you. I'm quite taken 
 with her ; I really am.* 
 
 *• She is a poor fisherman's daughter, in England,' 
 replied Jane, * in whom I have a great interest.' 
 
 *Our own fisherman's daughter, by the way, Rorie's, 
 I mean,' interrupted M'Dougal, * that girl, Morag, is 
 another angel ! But let me hear about Floxy, or 
 Miss Shillabeer, as I always call her.' 
 
 Jane told him the outlines of her story. 
 
 *Most romantic, on my honour !' said Duncan; *it 
 only increases my interest in her.' 
 
 *Tuts!' said Jane, impatiently, * say no more about 
 her. Did my mother tell you that we expect Kate 
 Cairney hefe V 
 
 * Of course she did. Why, she has bored me to 
 death about her ; and has given me mysterious hints, 
 as if she wanted her to be my wife.' 
 
 * Your wife, forsooth ! Pray, how do you know 
 she will take you % You fancy, I suppose, that you 
 have only to ask anybody, and that whoever it be 
 she is to be so honoured as to accept at once. I 
 don't believe Kate would look at you.* 
 
 '^ So you would'nt like the match, Miss Jane 1' 
 ' I did not say that, quite ; but she is not so easily 
 caught as you imagine.' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 175 
 
 ' I am told she has become quite a belie since I saw 
 her — ^the beauty of Greenock, in fact* 
 
 *She is a lovely girl, a clever girl, a good girl, 
 a—' 
 
 •Any tin r 
 
 * Any what % Money, do you mean % — ^there again 
 comes in the horrid selfishness of men !' 
 
 * Oh, it's very fine talking, my lady ; but do you 
 imagine that if beauty was all a fellow needed, that I 
 could not have married a hundred times? Why, 
 there was not a ball in Halifax, in the Bermudas, 
 or anywhere, in fact, in which the regiment was 
 quartered, that we did not meet lots of pretty girls, 
 beautiful girls, who would have snapped at the red- 
 coats. But what of that 1 would not pay, Jane ! — 
 would not pay, my girl. That sort of romance is all 
 very well when one is young, but when we know the 
 world it is a very different affair, very.' 
 
 Jane, who had set her heart on the match, and who 
 admired Kate most sincerely, saw that she had gone 
 too far, and said — 
 
 * As for money, they say old Caimey is very rich, 
 and that she will have quite a fortune.' 
 
 * Then I^m at her command — ^if the humour seizes 
 me,' said Duncan, lighting another cigar, *and I'm 
 much mistaken if she won't be mine. Anyhow, we 
 can amuse the time by a good flirtation. It would 
 be famous fun to make the Greenock lads iealous I' 
 
276 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 * Oh, you vain one !' said Jane, quite pleased at 
 the promising appearance of things. 
 
 * I believe, after all,' continued Duncan, * marriage 
 is the best thing for a fellow who wishes to settle 
 down, and cheaper in the long run, though it is a 
 bore at times. However, we shall give our fair 
 Greenock coz a trial When does our beauty come, 
 did you say f ' 
 
 *Next month. And do, Duncan, now do be at- 
 tentive to her for my sake.' 
 
 * Fear not, my excellent sister ; she and I have met 
 here before, in the days -.vhen we were young. I re- 
 member yet a box in the ear she gave me for teasing 
 her, and I shall as soon as possible repay it with a 
 kiss of charity.' 
 
 * No impudence. Master Duncan ; so let us away 
 to dinner.' 
 
 * In the meantime, Jane, I wish you would tell old 
 M'Donald to prepare the marriage ceremony ; for he 
 will require some months to '' mandate," as he calls 
 it, so important a service ; and give a hint to Red 
 Peter to keep himself sober, and to be in readiness 
 to act as best man, should I fail in the reginlent, or 
 in the whole county, to get one, but not till then. 
 My mother, also, would require timeous warning for 
 the marriage dinner, to get livery for the gardener, 
 and, I suppose, for old Rorie, the fisherman ; and to 
 purchase in Edinburgh a new embroidered handker* 
 
 ■ 
 
and his Son. 
 
 47? 
 
 chief to put to her eyes at the right time. You had 
 better arrange also with Colin Duncaple to fix the 
 same day. Ehl' 
 
 * I'm off!' said Jane, laughing, as she left Duncan 
 to finish his cigar. 
 
 But when she left him, Duncan threw the cigar 
 down, knit his brows, rolled his arms, and seemed 
 sunk in thought * Not a bad " spec " after all,' he 
 said, as he rose ; * but I have other plans in hand,* 
 he added, with a grim smile, * before that one can be 
 finished. May fortune favour me as of yore !' And, 
 humming a tune, he follow^ed his sister to the house, 
 smiling to himself like sunshine that falls on the sur- 
 face of a black, deep, mountain tarn. 
 
 
27^ 
 
 The Old Lieuianani 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 In due time Kate visited her friends at Ardmore. 
 I shall not chronicle the commonplace every-day 
 life of the visit, yet I must do the M'Dougals the 
 justice to acknowledge that they tried to make it 
 as agreeable as possible to their fair gues^ each in 
 his or her own way, and all probably for the same 
 object The days were varied by drives and calls to 
 the Stewarts on this side, the M'Lauchlans on that, 
 and to the Campbells on all sides. There were seve- 
 ral successful pic-nics to a glen, a hill-top or island, 
 with the usual productions of cold meat, discussed 
 in the usual uncomfortable positions. There were 
 dinner-parties, also, dotted round the circle of their 
 acquaintances ; with the addition of staying all night 
 in some cases, and one day more in others, until all 
 the songs of the ladies and gentlemen, and the whole 
 current talk of the day seemed well nigh exhausted. 
 Rate went through all this with a fair amount of en- 
 joyment She interpreted all the kindness shown to 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ^79 
 
 
 bcr with the boundless charity of her own heart, and 
 never thought of subjecting it to any curious analysis. 
 But her great delight was in the scenery of that 
 West Highland country. Italy has its gorgeous 
 beauty, and is a magnificent volume of poetry, his- 
 tory, and art, superb within and without, read by the 
 light of golden sunsets. Switzerland is the most per- 
 fect combination of beauty and grandeur ; from its 
 uplands — with grass more green and closely shaven 
 than an English park ; umbrageous with orchards ; 
 musical with rivulets ; tinkling with the bells of wan- 
 dering cattle, and flocks of goats ; social with pic- 
 turesque villages gathered round the chapel-spires — 
 up to the bare rocks and mighty cataracts of ice; 
 until the eye rests on the peaks of alabaster snow, 
 clear and sharp in the intense blue of the cloudless 
 sky, which crown the whole marvellous picture with 
 awful grandeur ! Norway, too, has its peculiar glory 
 of fiords worming their way like black water-snakes 
 among gigantic mountains, lofty precipices, or prim- 
 eval forests. But the scenery of the Western High- 
 lands has a distinctive character of its own. It is 
 not beauty, in spite of its knolls of birch and oak- 
 copse that fringe the mountain lochs and the innu< 
 merable bights and bays of pearly sand. Nor is it 
 grandeur, although there is a wonderful vastness in 
 its far-stretching landscapes of ocean meeting the 
 horizon, or of hills beyond hills, in endless ridges, 
 
19o 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 mingling afar with the upper sky. But in the sombre 
 colouring of its mountains ; in the silence of its un- 
 trodden valleys ; in the extent of its bleak and un- 
 dulating moors ; in the sweep of its rocky corries ; 
 m the shifting mists and clouds that hang over its 
 dark precipices ; in all this kind of scenery, along 
 with the wild traditions which, ghost-like, float around 
 its ancient keeps, and live in the tales of its inhabi- 
 tants, there is a glory and a sadness, most affecting 
 to the imagination, and suggestive of a period of 
 tomance and song, of clanships and of feudal at- 
 tachments, which, banished from the rest of Europe, 
 took refuge, and lingered long in those rocky fast- 
 nesses, before they 'passed away for ever on their 
 dun wings from Morven.' 
 
 It was Kate's delight to wander by the narrow 
 sheep-walks until she reached the breezy heather, and 
 to sit among the ruins of old shielings in an oasis of 
 emerald-green grass, created long ago by the cultiva- 
 tion of human beings, but now encroached upon by 
 a glowing border of crimson heath. Near at hand 
 was a clear, cold spring that sung on its way as it 
 did when the shielings were blythe with songs of 
 herd lads and milkmaids, who make the echoes of 
 the grey rocks ring, ere the sheep took possession of 
 the hills, and drove the cattle with their attendants to 
 the lower valleys. 
 
 * You sit there like a statue,' said Jane to Kate one 
 
and his Son, 
 
 281 
 
 day when they met on such a spot as I have de- 
 scribed ; ' all my news about the ball seems thrown 
 away upon you. What are you looking at V 
 
 Kate started as from a reverie, and said, — 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Jane. I was not looking at 
 anything in particular j but everything seems looking 
 at me, and taking possession of me, like some 
 mysterious presence, which one feels, rather than 
 sees, in a dream. What a glorious landscape ! Yet 
 80 sad ; is it not V 
 
 *Sad1 How sol Are you unhappy, Kate) Do 
 tell me, dear,' asked Jane, with some curiosity. 
 
 * Unhappy 1' replied Kate, ' the very reverse ! The 
 sadness that comes from such a scene as this is not 
 unhappiness, but pure and blessed enjoyment. But 
 tell me what you were going to say when I inter- 
 rupted you.* 
 
 ' Oh, I was going to tell you about the ball we had 
 at Inverary the week before you came; but it is 
 really of no consequence. Besides, you never cared 
 about balls; and I suppose the good people of 
 Greenock think them very sinful.* 
 
 'As to balls,* replied Kate, 'they are, I think, like 
 a thousand other things in this world, evil or inno- 
 cent according as people use them. For myself, I 
 like a family dance with a few friends well enough. 
 I fancy it is natural to every one to dance, and that 
 in the lives of most people " there is a time to dance.** 
 
282 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 But what are called balls were always to me a dread- 
 ful weariness of flesh and spirit, and, in spite of the 
 music and motion, the very essence of twaddle and 
 drawl. So far, they are a sin to me. But, Jane, do 
 look at the colouring on those hills, such blues and 
 purples ! and watch that flush of bronze or gold on 
 Benmore ! and see the silver gleam on yonder sea ! 
 I wish for nothing to make all perfect but a piper to 
 play to me on that rock.* 
 
 * A piper ! * exclaimed Jane, laughing heartily ; * a 
 piper, of all beings, and of all things ! Do you mean 
 that you would like a reel to dance to V 
 
 ' Oh, shocking ! you a Highlander? I don't believe 
 it ! The bagpipe is fit only for the grand old pibroch, 
 just as an organ is fit only for sacred music; and 
 when well played it is the only music that har- 
 monizes with this scenery, and with its wild music 
 of winds, waves, and streams. I never will forget 
 when I first heard a lament well played, that is, with 
 power, and feeling, and execution. It was on a 
 
 stormy autumn evening in the hall of Castle, 
 
 with no other accompaniment than the thud of the 
 great ocean waves on the beach heard at intervals 
 mingling with the storm that roared overhead. I felt 
 how thoroughly national it was. To the English it is 
 merely a loud hurdy-gurdy. I declare I could cry 
 when I hear it ! It is to me unutterably sad ; like a 
 nrail, an agony for the dead, a lament for the olden 
 
and his Son, 
 
 28j 
 
 time, and for the old people who have passed, or are 
 passing away. But it seems almost profane to speak 
 in the presence of that glory of heaven and earth 
 before us !' 
 
 * Well done, Kate !' exclaimed Jane ; 'most poeti- 
 cal and romantic, on my word ! I always told you 
 how that sort of thing was your weakness. I had no 
 idea you were so fond of the Highlands. . But I love 
 you the better for it. Now, Kate, tell me, just be- 
 tween ourselves,' continued Jane, in a very confiden- 
 tial voice. But her sentence and Kate's silent en- 
 joyment were interrupted by a shrill dog-call, and 
 the sudden appearance, round a neighbouring knoll, 
 of M'Dougal with his gun and a couple of pointers. 
 * There is Duncan, J declare !' said Jane ; ' I wish 
 he would leave us alone. But, after all, we must 
 not deny him, poor young man, the happiness of 
 being with us,' she added, laughing. Duncan soon 
 joined the ladies, and, sending his gun and dogs 
 home with the keeper, sat down beside them, glad 
 to have this unexpected opportunity of walking 
 home with Kate. Ever since she had come to 
 Ardmore, his attentions were marked, his manner 
 most guarded and respectful towards her, and every 
 art which he possessed of making himself agreeable 
 was put in practice. With the perfect self-possession 
 of a man not loving, but admiring to the utmost of 
 his nature, anxious to be loved, or rather to be ad- 
 
384 
 
 The Ola Lieutenant 
 
 mired, at all events to possess, he arranged and car- 
 ried out his little plans of conquest with remarkable 
 skill. He watched Kate's disposition, perceived her 
 tastes, and did everything to gratify both. Kate, 
 iudging of him by her own true and honest nature, 
 and having heard his praises for years from Jane, 
 was, to some small extent, impressed by him. She 
 recognised him at first as a young man, with an 
 agreeable person and manners, above the ordinary 
 run of people whom she met, and one whom, if she 
 did not love, she would try in the meantime to like. 
 Yet the more she penetrated into his inner spirit, 
 revealed in moments when the most prudent are off 
 their guard, and when those who act a part are at a 
 loss to know what part to act, the less she felt in 
 8)rmpathy with him. He I-nocked only at the outer 
 gate of her spirit 
 
 When he joined the ladies, on the day I speak of, 
 Jane, as if taking up the thread of her conversation 
 with Kate, said — * I had 110 idea, Duncan, that Kate 
 was such a Highlander. I wish you had only heard 
 her grand speech a few minutes ago about scenery 
 and bagpipes.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Jane !* said Kate, with slight irritation. 
 *Why allude to my trumpery? It was only meant 
 for ourselves.' 
 
 ' Let me just light this cigar, ladies,' said Duncan, 
 'T won't come too near you; and then I shall be 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ^H 
 
 able, with satisfaction and repose, to hear Miss 
 Campbell's speech, especially if it is in praise of the 
 Highlands.' 
 
 *The Highlands,' said Kate, 'require no speech 
 from any one, far less from me ; they speak for them- 
 selves.' 
 
 * After all,' exclaimed the Laird, rising and looking 
 round him, 'it f> a noble thing to be a Highland 
 proprietor ! Just look at this same property of mine. 
 It begins at yonder point of Ard, goes along the 
 coast, on and on to that bold headland, and away 
 far up Glenconnan, until it meets the wood which 
 you see in the distance, beyond that grey rock. I 
 have a right to be proud ! Eh V he inquired, with a 
 smile, turning to Kate, as if in fun ; but his lairdship 
 had a purpose in his geography. 
 
 . ' Do you know,' remarked Kate, * I never felt how 
 small our Scotch lairds were — ^pardon me for sa3ring 
 so — until I went across the border. I was amazed, 
 when travelling with Miss Duncombe through the 
 south of England, to see what princely houses', and 
 parks, and fortunes, were possessed by persons of 
 whom we never hear, but any one of whom could 
 buy up our small properties by the sackful. The 
 English possess a wonderful and great aristocracy in 
 their landed gentry.* 
 
 * And yet, Miss Campbell, when I go to London, 
 and sport my Highland dress,' said Duncan, *and 
 
V 
 
 I 
 
 lS6 
 
 TAe Old Lieutenant 
 
 allow myself to be recognised as a chief, — ^I don't 
 allege the fact, of course, but don't contradict it — ^too 
 knowing by a half for that ! — you would be amazed 
 how I cut out those rich big-wigs in the estimation 
 of some of the romantic old dowagers and young 
 ladies. They look on me as a sort of Rob Roy, or 
 Prince Charlie, a Walter Scott, or Highland novel 
 sort of fellow, Ha ! ha ! ha ! I do assure you, the 
 Londoners are so easily humbugged that I laugh in my 
 sleeve, and tell such romantic stories of family tradi- 
 tions and second sight, and battles of the clans, that 
 you would scream at the absurdity if you heard me, 
 and then heard the ladies say, " How interesting !" 
 Of course our incomes as lairds are small ; that's the 
 mischief, since those commercial rascals swindled us 
 out of our kelp. But emigration will cure that in 
 time, and free us of the people ; and sheep farming, 
 with large rents from south-country farmers, will make 
 up for our losses.* 
 
 * You don't mean to say that you could turn away 
 those people V asked Kate, with astonishment 
 
 * What people do you mean V inquired M'Dougai. 
 'I mean such people as I have met in Glencon- 
 
 nan — your small tenants there !' 
 
 * Every man Jack of them ! A set of lazy wretches I 
 Why should I be bored and troubled with gathering 
 rent from thirty or forty tenants, if I, can get as much 
 rent from one man, and perhaps a great deal moie V 
 
and his Son, 
 
 287 
 
 away 
 
 ches ! 
 
 tiering 
 
 much 
 
 noi«r 
 
 * But you will thereby lose the privilege, Captain 
 M'Dougal, the noble talent given you of making 
 thirty or forty families happy instead of one. In my 
 life I never met such people 1 Yes ! I will say such 
 real gentlemen and ladies ; so sensible and polite ; 
 so much at their ease^ yet so modest ; so hospitable, 
 and yet so poor !' 
 
 'And so lazy!' said Duncan; 'whereas in the 
 colonies, where "* have seen them, they get on 
 splendidly, a^ ,ke first-rate settlers.' 
 
 < How does it happen that their laziness vanishes 
 there V asked Kate. 
 
 * Because in the colonies they can always better 
 their condition by industry.* 
 
 * But why not help them to better their condition 
 at home ? Why not encourage them, and give them 
 a stimulus to labour V 
 
 'Because, Miss Campbell, it would be a con- 
 founded bore, and after all it would not pay,' replied 
 M'Dougal, lazily puffing his cigar, and evidently more 
 interested in Kate's face, all beaming with feeling and 
 sweetness, than he was in the discussion of the ques- 
 tion which she had started. 
 
 * But surely, surely,' she continued, * money is not 
 the chief end of man. What is it worth except for 
 what it brings to us ; and can money ever get for us 
 anything more valuable than the power of increasing 
 the happiness of our fellow-beings, and through them 
 
a88 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 of our own % Is there any property equal to human 
 hearts V 
 
 * Your humble servant, Miss Campbell !' said Dun- 
 can, bowing and smiling. ' But what on earth, fair 
 lady, has that argument of yours to do with rentf 
 You know, it is the first maxim in human nature 
 ** Every man for himself." It would be unreasonable, 
 therefore, to suppose that I should sacrifice an in- 
 creased rent to increase the happiness of Tom, Dick, 
 or Harry, or, to be more correct, of Donald, Dugald, 
 or Duncan; and, therefore, go they must for their 
 own sakes fully more than for mine.' 
 
 ' I can't argue,' said Kate, ' but my whole soul tells 
 me that this system of sacrificing everything to the 
 god. Money, is an idolatry that must perish ; that 
 the only way for a man truly to help himself is to 
 help his brother. If I were old M'Donald, I would 
 preach a sermon against the lairds ^nd in favour of 
 the people.' 
 
 ' Might I ask yoir text, fair preacher V inquired 
 Duncan, with an ad niring smile. 
 
 * Why,' said Kate, * the text is the only thing about 
 it I am certain would be good ; and the one I would 
 choose rings in my ears when I hear of the overturning 
 of houses, the empt3dng of glens, and the banishing 
 of families who have inhabited them for generation^ 
 and to whom every rock and stream is a part of their 
 v*?ry selves.' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 289 
 
 * But tfie text, the text, my lady I* 
 
 * My text would be,' said Kate, * ** Is not a man 
 better than a sheep ?'" 
 
 ' Bravo !' said M'Dougal, * though, by the way, I 
 don't think, entre nous^ it is in the Bible. But, be that 
 as it may, the day you ascend the pulpit I shall promise 
 you such an attentive audience as M'Donald never 
 had. I myself will go to church to patronize you, and 
 I'll wager Red Peter won't snore, for once in his life i' 
 
 ' But,' chimed in Jane, ' those people you admire 
 so much are so filthy — Faugh T 
 
 * Come, come, Miss Jane,' said Kate, smiling^ 
 * don't you join the laird against me.' 
 
 * Aha r said Jane, * I think I have put my finger 
 on the black spot' 
 
 * Oh, it is very easy for you, with Floxy to attend 
 you ; to mend your clothes, and put them on ; to 
 dress your hair, and deck you every day; to be 
 always at your call to bring you this, and to fold you 
 that, so that you never know what care or trouble is, 
 — it is easy, I say, for you or me to call these people 
 filthy ! There is Mrs. M'Callum, for instance, whom 
 we visited the other day, a comely, respectable Chris- 
 tian woman, with sense and feeling, but with six 
 children, her cottage a miserable hut without grate 
 or chimney, peat reek within, rain without, and a wet 
 undrained soil around ; her husband, as you heard 
 tier say, never being able to earn more than ten 07 
 
190 
 
 Tke Old Lieutenant 
 
 twelve shillings weekly ; yet you expect her, forsooth, 
 to be so neat, so tidy, so orderly — ^to feed and clothe 
 herself, her husband, and family, and without help 
 from any one but little Mary ; — how can she do all 
 this or the tenth part of it 1 I declare my brain would 
 get crazed in such a position !' 
 
 * Well then, my fair coz, I say turn them o£f, there- 
 fore, and send them elsewhere.' 
 
 * Well then. Captain, — rather, I say, build better 
 houses for them, such as you give your highly respect- 
 able pigs ; get tiles and drain their land ; help to 
 educate their children, the girls especially, so as to 
 fit them for service, and I'll back Mrs. M'Callum for 
 doing her part, and then she will turn out boys and 
 girls, more beautiful and precious than all the sheep 
 that ever grazed from the days of Nabal till now ! 
 But why should I be tempted,' said Kate, laughing, 
 ' into this long argument about your duties, when I 
 ought to attend to my own V 
 
 * 'Pon my honour, you should go to Parliament 1' 
 said Duncan, with his white teeth shining; 'you 
 would carry any vote against the Tories — for of 
 course you are a Radical — especially if you tossed 
 your beautiful curls in that way. Splendid, I say ! 
 But, nevertheless, all your fine theories, fair lady, 
 have the old objection to them, that they -won't pay.' 
 
 * You are just as bad as Floxy, Kate,' said Jane, 
 '^tJi her ravins about Morag.' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 901 
 
 'Ah, the little beauty!' said Duncan, *l won't 
 tim her ofif, depend upon it She is the greatest 
 ornament of the place, eVen the proud and stately 
 Miss Shillabeer not excepted. Have you made 
 Morag's acquaintance, lady Catherine )' inquired 
 Duncan. 
 
 'Of course I have; Floxy introduced me to her 
 the second day after I arrived here,' replied Kate; 
 ' and Morag is just a specimen of what those poor 
 huts can produce — a sweet, fascinating creature, and 
 with a nature most gentle and loveable, modest and 
 refined. Old Rorie himself is also to me a perfect 
 poem in his patriarchal simplicity.' 
 
 ' If Morag was in London,' remarked Duncan, 
 thoughtfully, ' she would sell for any price — I mean/ 
 he said, recovering himself, and evidently confused 
 by expressing his thoughts in such language ; * that if 
 she was educated, many a rich man would be proud 
 to marry her. It is seldom, one sees such a beauty. 
 But it is time to be home,' he said, looking at his 
 watch ; • but, fair coz, I thank you for your lecture, 
 it has quite interested me.' 
 
 ' No quizzing, please. Captain ; it was all your own 
 fault,' said Kate, ' you provoked me to it.' 
 
 * Depend upon it, I will provoke you as soon as 
 possible to give another, and I will sit at your feet 
 like a Highland child ; and to show you that I have 
 already learned one lesson, like a good boy, I pro- 
 
292 
 
 the Old Lieutenant 
 
 mise not to turn your friends off without consult- 
 ing you; therefore let the argument rest for the 
 present' 
 
 'I wish you would forget your purse, and open 
 your heart, and then any further consultation would 
 be unnecessary/ said Kate; 'and depend upon it, 
 that which is right is always in the long run that 
 which is profitable in the truest sense of the word. 
 You recollect, Jane, Miss Duncombe's lesson on the 
 gain of our life from losing it f ' 
 
 But this was a lesson which Jane had forgotten, 
 and Duncan had never learned ; so Kate, pondering 
 it in her heart, took a last look of the landscape, 
 and descended with her friends to dinner. 
 
 Her last day at Ardmore soon came. She went 
 alone to visit her friends among the cottars in Glen- 
 connan, with peculiar interest On her return she 
 skirted the higher pasture lands of the glen, until she 
 foimd a quiet nook among the rocks. It was early 
 in the day, for she had resolved to have some quiet 
 hours of enjoyment by herself among the hills, ere 
 returning to the Greenock streets for the winter. It 
 was seldom she took a book with her at such times ; 
 for Nature afforded her more readings than she could 
 exhaust But on this occasion she had a volume 
 which she devoured with deepest interest, for it was to 
 her as a prophet interpreting the language addressed 
 to her spirit by the outer world of sense ; and the 
 
and his Son, 
 
 293 
 
 volume, moreover, had sundry pleasant associa> 
 tions connected with it, as it had been sent to her 
 by Ned. It was Wordsworth's * Excursion,' which 
 Curly had given his friend on the shore of the 
 sounding sea. 
 
3g4 
 
 TAi Old LuuUnani 
 
 CHAPTER XXin 
 
 A MARRIAGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 Some time after Kate's return to Greenock, her 
 mother one forenoon tapped at her bed-room door, 
 and immediately entered. Kate was writing in a 
 window recess. Her mother had a letter in her 
 hand, and a peculiar smile on her face, neither cir- 
 cumstance, however, attracting Kate's attention. But 
 she was fully roused to the fact that something more 
 than usual had occurred, when her mother kissed her 
 cheek, and placing her hand fondly on her shoulder, 
 looked into her face. 
 
 Now Mrs. Campbell never had been in the habit 
 oi fondling her daughter. She had governed her, 
 corrected her, advised her, guarded her, and did her 
 * all manner of justice,' and was always kind, with an 
 every-day transparent, crystallized kindness, but none 
 of the freedom and openness of hearty, confiding love 
 existed between them. Kate would have been boni- 
 fied if any one, even her own heart, had hinted that 
 ■he did not love her mother, But in truth she had 
 
and his Son, 
 
 295 
 
 aever experienced that blessed fellowship, in which 
 love and reverence become one, when the mother is 
 lost in the beloved f'-iend, and the friend exalted in 
 the beloved mother. 
 
 Accordingly, when Mrs. Campbell manifested this 
 unumal manner, Kate looked up, and asked with 
 wonder, ' What in the world is it, mother 1* 
 
 'Guess if you can 1' said Mrs. Campbell, with the 
 lame benign smile. 
 
 * How can I V said Kate ; * has the " William Pitt" 
 anived)' 
 
 *The "William Pitt," child I what a stupid ideal 
 Something has happened which concerns yourself — 
 something that will delight you, and make you proud 
 and happy, as I hope — listen' — and the mother put 
 her eager lips to Kate's listening ear, and said, in 
 low but marked accents, * A proposal from Duncan 
 Ardmoret' and kissing Kate again, she thrust the 
 letter into her hand, and hurriedly left the room. 
 
 There is not a moment in a woman's life more 
 solemnly affecting to her than that in which she 
 receives her first proposal of marriage. Whether 
 she accepts of it or not, it is a great event in her life. 
 She feels that another's happiness as well as her own 
 may be at stake, and apart from every other circum- 
 stance, the mere fact that there exists another per- 
 son who proposes to share his whole future with her 
 while life lasts, in the closest of all human relation* 
 
i 
 
 u 
 
 296 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ships, is itself a most memorable event in her histoiy 
 —awakening new and strangely contending thoughts, 
 and demanding a decision which makes her realize 
 the importance of her existence as she never did 
 before. Kate's first impulse was to laugh heartily, 
 then to cry as heartily ; but she thought it b At in 
 the meanwhile to do neither, but to open and read 
 the letter. It was an immense relief to her to find 
 that it was addressed by Mrs. M'Dougal to her 
 mother, and was intended merely as a feeler of feel- 
 ings, and to pave the way for a proposed visit by 
 Duncan, when it was quite convenient to receive him 
 at the Glen. It was meant, in short, to ascertain if 
 possible how far Kate encouraged his suit It de- 
 clared, moreover, that many circumstances — Mrs. 
 M'Dougal knew not how urgent some of these were 1 
 — made it desirable for him to sell out, now that he 
 had got his company, and that henceforth he would 
 live at Ardmore. Nothing could have been gone 
 about in a more orderly manner, or with more im- 
 maculate propriety, than the whole affair was by the 
 acute Mrs. M'Dougal. She even hinted that money, 
 were it at Kate's disposal (well did she know, what 
 Kate knew not, how good her prospects were !) was 
 no consideration to her, etc. Kate breathed more 
 freely as she finished the letter. 
 
 Then came various speculations, which in such cir- 
 ^mstances were surely natural and <pxcusable. Ob, 
 
and his Son, 
 
 497 
 
 yes, Kate, think about it ! You could be happy from 
 home j your father would miss you, indeed, when the 
 time came for reading the newspapers, and when a 
 party had to be entertained ; so would your mother 
 at many times ; but they would nevertheless rejoice in 
 the marriage, :.nd be sadly disai^ointed if it did not 
 take place ; and Ardmore was a comfortable house 
 in a lovely land ; and you would do so much good, 
 Kate, to those tenants, would you not % and then this 
 constant bother about being married would be over j 
 and Duncan is in your opinion an unexceptionable 
 man in character, is he not ? quite — ^with more than 
 ordinary cultivation when compared to most whom 
 you have met ? yes — and if he were your husband — 
 Here Kate's speculations came to a dead stand-still, 
 as if 'she had reached a deep chasm, which she was 
 unable to cross. She then followed a bye-path that 
 led her to the sea-shore — and then she saw a ship ! 
 and crossing the sea she entered it, and a sun- 
 burnt face all smiles and love welcomed her, and 
 said — 
 
 'Kate, dear, may I come in now?* asked Mrs. 
 Campbell, as she slowly opened the door. Kate's 
 dream and speculations vanished as she replied, 
 'Surely, mother!' 
 
 * Well, my dear,* said Mrs. Campbell, rubbing her 
 hands, as she glided into the room, after closing the 
 door and putting in the bolt — the Achanabeg broocn 
 
298 
 
 The Old LieuUnani 
 
 seeming twice its usual size — * well, my dear ?' and 
 she sat down nearly opposite Kate. 
 
 *This is not a proposal,' replied Kate, smiling, 
 and slightly flushed, ' and it can keep cold.' 
 
 Mrs. Campbell was silent for a moment, her sim- 
 mering enthusiasm somewhat chilled by the idea of 
 keeping such a document cold. * It comes of course, 
 Kate, to the same thing as a proposal ; and you know 
 I must say something in reply to Mrs. M'Dougal. 
 It would be unpolite, rude, not to do so, and that 
 immediately.' 
 
 * Had you not better simply tell her that you had 
 handed the letter to me, and that when you received 
 a reply it would be communicated V 
 
 * But surely, Kate, you can give a satisfactory re- 
 ply now % so far, at least, as to encourage Duncan f 
 As you must say something, you may surely say 
 thatV 
 
 *Why, mother, if I must say something now, I 
 must say. No.' 
 
 * Kate, dear, don't be foolish. Why do you speak 
 80 ? I am aware that it is a very serious matter for 
 you, and not less so for myself and for your dear 
 father, for I'm sure we ' — (here Mrs. Campbell took 
 out her pocket-handkerchief and blew her nose, 
 wiping both her eyes) — *I am sure we have your 
 happiness at heart — ^your happiness only. Now, you 
 never, never, had such an offer as this, and are not 
 
and his Son, 
 
 a99 
 
 likely to receive such an offer again.' And then Mrs. 
 Campbell went on at a steady pace expatiating on the 
 Ardmores, telling how long this offer had been the 
 subject of her thoughts and of her prayers (a phrase, 
 Mrs. Campbell, not a fact !) — and how she and her 
 husband had set their hearts on it— and what a 
 wonderful Providence it was (being agreeable to Mrs. 
 Campbell !) — and hints were thrown out of how 
 lonely Kate would be if her parents were to die ! 
 —(tears moistening her words). But an idea here 
 suddenly flashed on Mrs. Campbell which made her 
 pause in her discourse — was it possible that Kate 
 entertained any other object of affection 1 And then 
 a series of Greenock aristocrats, men right well-to-do 
 in life — albeit wanting in the pure chieftain blood 
 which trickled through M'Dougal's veins — passed in 
 procession before her thoughts, with sundry things, 
 once forgotten, but now recalled, which kind friends 
 had told her in confidence, regarding the admiration 
 of Mr. A. or Mr. B. for Kate. But Kate satisfied 
 her mother that these stories were all nonsense, 
 pure inventions. Mrs. Campbell was relieved, and 
 soon ended her discourse with the practical question 
 with which she had commenced it — *What, then, 
 shall we say to Mrs. M'Dougal V ' 
 
 *What can I say but what I have already said, 
 dear mother 1 I like Duncan well enough, very much, 
 perhaps, in a way, but that is not love ? And if I do 
 
300 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 not love him, nor see any hope at present of loving 
 him, how can I encourage him 1* 
 
 *Love,' remarked Mrs. Campbell, with a slight 
 cough, and looking out of the window, * is no doubt 
 desirable, if one could always have it when required, 
 but it is not essential to happiness. I have been 
 young like yourself, Kate, and of course I have 
 known all those feelings (she never did !), and they 
 are all very well and natural when young ; but they 
 pass away, however, and are forgotten, while a sen- 
 sible, judicious husband and domestic comforts re- 
 main. Love is mere girl's talk.* 
 
 * It is to me, mother, a woman's reality. I have 
 no fear of being what is called an old maid; I 
 don't covet money; I could work for my bread; 
 I could live in a garret ; so long as I did my duty 
 and respected myself, I could live in peace any- 
 where ; but to marry a man I did not love, soberly, 
 calmly, decidedly, so as to peril my life on him, 
 that to me would be impossible! I should sooner 
 diet' 
 
 * What then am I to say to Mrs. M'Dougal V con- 
 tinued Mrs. Campbell. * Really, Kate, it is too bad 
 of you to put me in this awkward position ! * 
 
 *My dear mother, again I ask you, what can I 
 say? I tell you I dorit love Duncan M'Dougal at 
 present — that I can say, and therefore will not marry 
 him ; and as I am not at all sure that I shall ever 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 301 
 
 love him, how can I encourage him % If his mother 
 sends him here, and he comes here, and you receive 
 him as a relation, I can of course have no objection 
 to that. I shall be to him as I have ever been. I 
 can be no more, and will be no more to him unless 
 I love him. I cannot force love. If it comes, it 
 comes !' 
 
 Mrs. Campbell, bitterly disappointed, and whirl- 
 ing a key in her hand, said nothing ; yet not wish- 
 ing to pull her thread too strongly, lest it should 
 break, she remarked, *Well, Kate, I will give him 
 an invitation, and tell him that we shall all be glad 
 to see him. I suppose you have no objection to 
 that?' 
 
 ' None, mother,* said Kate. * He deserves this, at 
 least, for his kindness to me.' 
 
 Kate buried her face in her hands as her mother 
 left the room, and had her first vision of confused and 
 troubled I'fe. She saw a family storm gathering — 
 and she thought, and thought with flushed face and 
 tearful eye, until her head throbbed writh a racking, 
 nervous headache. But after walking up and down 
 the room she remained some minutes in silence, and 
 then, with a calm countenance, resumed the letter 
 she had been writing to Miss Duncombe. A longer 
 postscript was added than she at first intended. 
 
 Cairney duly received from his wife as much in- 
 formation as she deemed it prudent to impart regard- 
 
'Ill' 
 
 JOi 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ing his daughter's prospects ; for Mrs. Campbell was 
 the head of the house, even as he was head of the 
 business. The campaign which promised to end at 
 last so prosperously in the conquest of Duncan, had 
 been hitlierto conducted solely by Mrs. Campbell. 
 She assumed that it belonged to her department, like 
 sewing or cooking. But the time had come when it 
 was both necessary and expedient to reveal to Caimey 
 the general results of her scheming. He would be 
 surprised — such was the substance of her communi- 
 cation to him when alone — to hear the news, and 
 glad, no doubt; though she confessed that the 
 thought of this alliance had more than once crossed 
 her own mind ; but she would do nothing, of course, 
 without consulting him ; (Oh, Mrs. Campbell !) 
 Kate, poor thing, felt very deeply ; but this was 
 natural, and by and by all would go on smoothly. 
 It was a mere question of time, etc. Cairney was 
 standing before the fire, basking himself, like a tur- 
 key-cock with outspread tail in the sun's rays ; and 
 he gobbled out his satisfaction in his own peculiar 
 way. He cordially admitted that it was a highly 
 iionourable connexion ; he did not, indeed, know 
 much about the young man, but his father he knew 
 v/ell, and a most worthy man," both prudent and sav- 
 ing was he, and a better mother than Mrs. M'Dougal 
 could not be. 
 
 * But, Ann,* said Cairney in conclusion, * don't 
 
and his Son. 
 
 303 
 
 bother the lassie. Young women are often queer 
 and thrawn. Kate is like her neighbours in that re- 
 spect, and prouder than most ; so ca' canny, woman, 
 ca' canny — ^very canny, I tell you, or the thread will 
 snap in your hand, ay, even in yours, 1 vy dear ; and 
 then — whew! away goes Kate, or Duncan! so ca' 
 canny 1 It's a kind of discreet fishing.' 
 
304 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 NBD TAKING SOUNDINGS. 
 
 But what has become of Ned ? Alas ! is it not 
 hard that, he should be pacing the quarter-deck, or 
 holding on to the weather rigging, with a thick dread- 
 nought jacket buttoned up to his throat, and dripping 
 with rain and spray, his sou'-wester tied under his 
 chin, and his voice hoarse issuing commands, as the 
 'William Pitt' ploughs under close-reefed top-sails, 
 through briny seas, onward to port — is this not in 
 truth a hardship, while M'Dougal has all the talk 
 with Kate to himself, on the hill-side or round the 
 fireside of Ardmore ? But does Ned never think of 
 Kate) Ask rather if she does not lie deep, deep 
 down in his heart, night and day, like a pearl beneath 
 the waves. Do not, however, trouble the manly skipper 
 by inquiring to whom he alludes, when he sometimes 
 says to himself, as his vessel bowls along before a 
 quarter-wind, * Cheer up, messmate ! the lassie is at 
 the end of the tow-rope. I have seen worse ships 
 than myself come to land, Bah ! you never did, you 
 
and his Son, 
 
 305 
 
 foolt So don't flatter yourself. Give up looking 
 out for holding-ground in that harbour.' 
 
 Need I say that while his passionate attachment 
 to his father and mother made him devote almost 
 all the time at his disposal between each voyage to 
 visiting them, yet that, nevertheless, some time was 
 necessarily given to the fair one at the Glen % Oh, 
 what a flutter of heart — ^what longing — ^what anxiety 
 — ^what confusion did he experience at such time? 
 — But why should I tell how a man in love feels 
 when going to see his sweetheart ? 
 
 After each returning voyage he called at the Glen 
 — * half daft,' as we say in Scotland ; and he chatted, 
 read, and sang with Kate, and took supper with the 
 family — ^for supper was the meal to which Cairney 
 attached most importance. But while his heart was 
 always rolling about his throat, he looked so calm 
 and quiet, that Mrs. Campbell never suspected his 
 real feelings. Dare I say nei>er ? For dark thoughts 
 did occasionally cross her mind of the possibility of 
 tAts cousinship ending in something moic serious. 
 Yet, after all, she thought the idea, if seriously en- 
 tertained, was as absurd as it would be to suspect 
 Cairney of a robbery, or Mrs. M'Dougal, Ardmore, 
 of going on the stage. Did Kate herself ever dis- 
 cover, or suspect, Ned's feeling towards herl Away 
 with all hypocrisy ! She did ; she felt that he loved 
 her She saw it in his eye, in his voice, in his 
 
joS 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 words, in his songs, in his whole manner, even as 
 the electricity in the atmosphere is perceived in a 
 thousand subtile forms by those who are at the 
 moment susceptible of such influence. Never was 
 her love to him brought home as a reality, until 
 she read Mrs. M'Dougal's letter. And the more she 
 saw the military captain drawing near to her as her 
 intended husband, the more she saw with sorrow Ned 
 departing from her as one who could not — (Oh, father 
 and mother 1 Oh, selfish pride 1 Oh, society thou 
 tyrant !) — dared not occupy that position. And so 
 she felt often as in a night-mare, in which a power 
 that seemed irresistible compelled her to be the 
 wife of M'Dougal, while an opposite power separated 
 her more and more from Ned, to whom she could 
 not speak out, nor he to her, yet with whom she felt 
 as if bound up for life ; or, alas ! for death. 
 
 The only time in which Ned ever approached to 
 any revelation of his feelings, was one evening — a time 
 of day always more dangerous for lovers than morn- 
 ing ! — ^when chatting together alone in the window of 
 the drawing-room at the Glen. 
 
 * How do you. Captain Ned, employ your time 
 now at sea? I mean your idle time?' inquired 
 Kate, as she sewed some worsted work, and looked 
 occasionally into Ned's face. And, by the way. Miss 
 Kate, I am not prepared to say that there was not 
 much more feeling in tliose looks of thine, taking thy 
 
and his Son, 
 
 307 
 
 ' 
 
 tnouth into account, than the occasion necessarily 
 demanded. 
 
 * How can you, fair lady Kate, suppose it possible 
 that I should have any /V//<f time ? To tell the truth, 
 between looking after the men — * 
 
 * Now, pardon my interruption in asking you 
 whether any good seems to come from your attempts 
 to make those poor, rough, salt-water fellows better 1 
 Do they attend to what you say ? Do they fee/, in 
 short, and are they humanized 1 You know what I 
 mean.' 
 
 * I understand you perfectly,* replied Ned. * As 
 to what I have done for the men, it is, without any 
 humbug, very little. But I really cannot help domg 
 it. I like the fellows. Besides, it is my duty. But 
 you have asked me a question, to reply to which 
 fully would look so like cant, and mouthing about 
 one's own doings, as if they were anything un- 
 common, that I really feel ashamed to attempt it 
 Yet it t/oes help me not a little to find any one, 
 especially you — ah ! you may smile sceptically, but 
 it is truth I speak — I say it encourages me far more 
 than you can comprehend, when I think you really 
 care about those poor fellows, wild, rough, thought- 
 less, impulsive, uneducated, but yet human beings, 
 with hearts and souls like yours and mine, and much 
 more easily impressed than people imagine. As for 
 their gratitude ! it has pained me often to receive it 
 
^oi 
 
 T/ie Old Lieutenani 
 
 in return for such common, every-day kindness. But 
 you know it is a right good thing for one's-self to 
 have some persons to take care of ; and, ever since 
 I was a child, my dear old dad inspired me with a 
 love of the sea and of sailors.' 
 
 * Of all gifts bestowed on us from above,' said 
 Kate, putting down her work, and speaking as if to 
 herself, ' I should say that helping human beings to 
 become better and happier is the greatest.' 
 
 *How it rejoices my heart, Kate, to hear you 
 speak so ! for on shipboard one does feel so lonely, 
 with no person to talk to about what most interests 
 them, until at last they begin to doubt whether any 
 other being thinks or believes as they do themselves. 
 There is a strange loneliness in the sea-life which 
 land-people cannot understand.' 
 
 *But you have books, and poetry too? Oh, by 
 the way, I forgot to return you that delicious volume 
 of Wordsworth. I shall get it now,* said Kate. 
 
 * Please, not now !' replied Ned, hurriedly, as if 
 afraid that the interview would break up. * Have 
 you had time to read it 1' 
 
 *I read it in the most favourable circumstances, 
 when at Ardmore — ^which is so lovely, and has such 
 nooks among the hills, as if created for reading those 
 quiet, human, thoughtful poems.' 
 
 The mention of Ardmore was not agreeable to 
 Ned. 
 
dnd his Son. 
 
 it>9 
 
 \( 
 
 * I had forgot that visit,' he remarked, * as I don't 
 know the people. Was it pleasant to you V 
 
 'Extremely so. Mrs. M'Dougal was most kind; 
 my old school-companion, Jane, equally so, and her 
 only brother, the Captain, all attention to us both, so 
 that the time passed most pleasantly. And Floxy I 
 how odd that I never mentioned her, and she so 
 handsome, and really a singularly attractive creature. 
 She always speaks of you as if you were a relation, 
 from your connexion with her uncle.* 
 
 * Poor Tom ! ' said Ned, ' what a strange dream 
 that story, seems now ! and how wonderful, too, 
 that his niece should yet link him and me to- 
 gether.' 
 
 'Talking of poetry,* she said, 'what has become 
 of your old friend Curly? — the lad who gave you 
 Wordsworth V 
 
 * I heard from him yesterday. He is an enthusi- 
 astic physician with no practice, who lives in a garret, 
 greedily gathering up, day and night, such knowledge 
 upon all subjects, especially those connected with his 
 profession, as few provincial practitioners possess. 
 The result is that he has become sceptical about all 
 drugs, and, indeed, about everything, I fear, in Church 
 and State. But he is too truthful, dear old Curly, to 
 believe in anything false.' 
 
 * Dees he still dabble in poetry V asked Kate. 
 
 * Devours it,' said Ned. * I have been charmed 
 
jio 
 
 The Old Lteuienani 
 
 with a volume which he sent me lately by a Mr. 
 Coleridge, which contains a translation from a Ger- 
 man play called Wallenstein, with some other poems 
 that have quite turned my head — especially the " An- 
 cient Mariner " and " Genevieve." Oh, such poems ! 
 Here is the volume,' added Ned, taking it out of his 
 pocket and handing it to Kate. 
 
 * I must do my work, Captain, so please let me 
 hear your favourite passage.' 
 
 Oh, Ned, thou cunning man, yet without cunning! 
 was it for this thou didst bring the book ? Thy trem- 
 bling voice betrays thee — take heed — keep the volume 
 between thine eyes and hers ; — there now — ^read. 
 
 And so Ned read aloud the well-known scene be- 
 tween Max and Octavio, in the first Act of 'The 
 death of Wallenstein,' ending with the words — 
 
 * There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this 
 To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart ! 
 Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not. 
 This cannot be the sole felicity, 
 These cannot be man's best and only pleasures.' 
 
 When he finished the passage, he feared to look at 
 Kate, as if he had expressed his own wants and long- 
 ings too palpably. 
 
 * Take this volume,' he said to Kate, * and please 
 read " Genevibve " yourself, for I cannot do it justice.' 
 Then, changing the subject, he remarked that Curly, 
 alias Dr. Morris, was to be in Greenock in a few 
 
and his Son, 
 
 5*» 
 
 • 
 
 days, on his way to visit one of the towns where 
 cholera had broken out, and that he would, if per- 
 mitted, introduce his old friend to his fair cousin. 
 
 * I shall be delighted,' replied Kate, ' to make his 
 acquaintance. But why should he endanger his life 
 by going amidst that awful cholera ! It makes me 
 shudder to think of the mysterious scourge.' 
 
 * Curly goes because he ought to learn how to save 
 life. Every man, of course, is bound to risk his own 
 life continually in the discharge of duty ; and, after 
 all, what great gain ever came without some previous 
 loss? But as to cholera, I believe fear kills half of 
 those who are seized, or fancy they are seized. I have 
 seen much of it in the East Indies, and have helped 
 to cure several.* 
 
 * By what means, pray?* 
 
 * My good lady, let us not enter on the question. 
 God grant it may never come here. If it does, be 
 assured a good conscience and cheerful mind are 
 among the best preservatives against it. But I must 
 bid good-night at present, as I have some business to 
 transact.' And so they parted, to meet soon again ir 
 veiy differeat circumstances. 
 
 
I 
 
 pi 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MORAG. 
 
 It was early in spring. Duncan M'Dougal had 
 left Ardmore for Greenock to pay his addresses in 
 person to Kate. The death of his old uncle, the re- 
 tired East Indian physician, who lived at Cheltenham, 
 did not retard his suit by any sorrc w, but made it 
 more promising by his succession to a fortune of seve- 
 ral thousand pounds. * Wasn't it lucky,' he re- 
 marked to his sister Jane, * this happening at such 
 a moment? He was a good old fellow, my uncle, 
 but he must have died some time; and to have 
 died just at the nick of time, when I require every 
 iron to be put in the fire, in order to gain the beauty ! 
 — now, Jane, isn't it jolly I or very providential, as 
 the parsons say.' Thus full of hope in his heart, and 
 full of money in his purse, the Captain packed up his 
 things, and whistling, 'Duncan Gray cam' here to 
 woo,' started for Greenock. 
 
 Accounts were in due time received of his safe 
 arrival with a most satisfactory report of his gracious 
 
and his Son, 
 
 J13 
 
 reception by the family. Kate, he said, was a per- 
 fect Venus, her old mother his stanch friend, and her 
 father as clay in his hands. He had met (was added 
 in a P.S.) a Captain Fleming at supper, who inquired 
 kindly for Floxy. Was he the common sailor, he asked, 
 about whom Jane had told him some story in which 
 a brother or friend of Floxy's was involved? He 
 had only a confused remembrance of the thing ; but 
 he, however, congratulated Miss Shillabeer on having 
 such a smart admirer, and wished her further success 
 in her conquest 
 
 One evening, after the receipt of this letter, Floxy 
 was occupied in making a dress for Jane, which she 
 intended soon to wear at a party where her devoted 
 admirer, Colin Duncaple, was to be present Jane 
 being at the time full of matrimonial plans, and her 
 heart soft from matrimonial hopes, thought it only 
 kind to inform Floxy confidentially about the 
 object of her brother Duncan's visit to Greenock. 
 She expected Floxy to give way to a burst of obedi- 
 ent and sympathizing enthusiasm, becoming to her as 
 a dependant of the family, and expressive of the 
 gratitude which she owed her mistress ; and she was 
 therefore greatly surprised and annoyed by the steady 
 manner in which the maid threaded her needle, re- 
 marking quietly, * So I supposed.' 
 
 'Supposed! 'Pon my word, Shillabeer, you are 
 cool J How could you suppose anything of the kind V 
 
mam 
 
 \ 
 
 i ! 
 
 
 314 
 
 T/te Old Lieutenant 
 
 * By no second sight, I assure you, Miss M'Dougal, 
 but just as one supposes that a shepherd's dog when 
 he barks in the hill is in pursuit of sheep, or that 
 a hawk, when it is seen fluttering over a field, is in 
 pursuit of mice or small birds.' 
 
 * So you suppose Duncan to be a dog or a hawk V 
 said Jane, more piqued than ever. 
 
 ' I never said so. Miss M'Dougal, but only that one 
 may suppose many things without being actually in- 
 formed about them.' 
 
 * Then I am at liberty to suppose^ continued Jane, 
 harping peevishly on the word, * that you do not 
 share the family satisfaction about the match; I 
 thought you liked Kate.' 
 
 *I love her as my own soul,' replied Floxy. 
 
 * Oh, then, perhaps you doa't think my brother a 
 good enough match for berl' 
 
 ' Really, Miss M'Dougal, you are too severe, press- 
 ing me with such questions. I can only say that 
 whatever can affect your happiness, or Miss Camp- 
 bell's, cannot be indifferent to me. In the mean- 
 time, please, ma'am, try this dress, and I will be 
 much disappointed,' she added, smiling, ' if it does 
 not make its wearer more attractive than ever to one 
 I could name ; but I dare not suppose anything more, 
 in case I get into your bad graces,' and thus Jane 
 was led into another current of thought, much more 
 agreeable to herself, and to Floxy, who by d» grees 
 
 ' 
 
' 
 
 and his Son* 
 
 3'5 
 
 Boothed her into momentary forgetfulness of every 
 one but herself and young Duncaple. 
 
 How ignorant are we of what is passing in an- 
 other's heart 1 There are times when we can no 
 more discover its inner history by any visible sign, 
 than we can the history of a family from the light 
 we see burning at midnight in a window of their 
 home ! 
 
 . Floxy was most unhappy. Everythmg seemed an 
 oppression to her heart. People, in spite of their 
 smiles and kind words, moved as automatons around 
 her. The air seemed dead ; the winds sang dreary 
 among the leafless trees. The sea waves beat heavily 
 and sullenly on the shore. The world appeared a 
 churchyard with persons like ghosts gliding through 
 it What ailed her 1 It was Morag. The girl had 
 been for months estranged from her ] and when they 
 met, she was not the same Morag, but cast down, 
 heartless, and unhappy. When she visited her, the 
 cottage door was more than once kept shut, and 
 that too when there was no doubt of Morag being 
 within. Yet there was no one to whom she could 
 speak freely about the girl. Her inquiries would 
 have been misunderstood j and everything of which 
 she could complain was so indefinite, that complaint 
 seemed unreasonable. Floxy thus felt like one who 
 had been gazing on a rural landscape that had gradu- 
 ally become dim and indistinct from cloud and mist 
 
376 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 She mourned the loss of the beautiful vision in silence, 
 but earnestly hoped that sunshine might soon again 
 visit it. In the meantime all was clouded in their 
 friend r tup. 'I lie lessons she had been wont to teach 
 Morag hud io .^^ ago been given up, from this or that 
 v*xcuse by her pupil for non-attendance. Rebukes 
 wtie coluy c ' pen .'y received. The old fondling 
 child-like expressioas : ^ove had vanished. To 
 make this alienation still more perplexing, Morag had 
 been absent for some weeks, and old Rone could 
 give no further explanation of her absence than that 
 his daughter had gone ' to visit her granny at Craig- 
 dhu.' Floxy started at her own suspicions, as if she 
 had seen a murderer. 
 
 But one night Floxy was surprised by a message 
 conveyed to her with great secrecy by one of the 
 female servants, to the effect that Morag had come 
 home very ill the night before ; that the Doctor pro- 
 nounced her case to be hopeless ; and that she par- 
 ticularly wished to see Miss Shillabeer immediately, 
 but no one else was to know about it : ' You under- 
 Stan', you understan'/ said the girl, nodding her head 
 mysteriously. 
 
 *I understand nothing, Nelly,' said Floxy, 'but 
 feel only something that wrings my heart What 
 4o you mean ] Oh, tell me ! Dying 1 Morag dyings 
 did you say?' But Nelly only again shook her 
 ^ead, and nodding slowly, as she looked over her 
 
and his Son, 
 
 3>7 
 
 
 &ii. 
 
 sjjoulder, passed througli the nearest door to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 Floxy, left to herself, lost not a moment in putting 
 on her bonnet with trembling hands and with sick 
 heart, then rushed out of the house to pursue the 
 well-known path to the old fisherman's hut. TJie 
 night was in harmony with her spirits. The full 
 moon was speeding fast in the stormy chase; now 
 hurrying across a field of blue, again gleaming 
 through a misty veil, and then plunging into sombre 
 shadow. A low mournful wind sang through the 
 trees, and the moan of the distant waves heralded 
 a coming storm. Floxy passed across the lawn, 
 through the fir-wood, over the low hill, wth its scat- 
 tered boulders, down into the birchwood along the 
 shore, until she emerged on the green spot near the sea 
 on which the fisherman's cottage stood, and which 
 at that moment was gleaming white in the moonlight. 
 With beating heart she approached the door, and 
 passing the little window, saw at a glance that there 
 were several persons within. The well-known horse 
 of the Doctor was cropping the grass, with the bridle 
 fastened to the stirrup. Floxy's tap was responded 
 to by a woman from one of the hamlets, who no 
 sooner recognised the visitor than she retreated to 
 the apartment, saying, * The English leddy frae the 
 big house.' Floxy followed her, but was met in 
 the narrow passage by the kind-hearted Doctor— 
 
3»8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 the most const.ant, self-sacrificing, and least rewarjed 
 philanthropist in the parish. With him she returned 
 to the outside of the cottage. 
 
 'What is wrong, Doctor? Oh, tell me, is there 
 danger 1 ' she eagerly inquired. 
 
 The Doctor whispered a few words in her ear. 
 
 'Gracious heavens!' exclaimed Floxy, staggering 
 back with a feeling of faintness at her heart, and 
 covering her face with her hands, * My horrible dream, 
 then, is a reality ?' After a little time she asked, *Is 
 there any hope, Doctor? a ray even V 
 
 * There is no hope as far as I can see— none ; and 
 my heart is sore for the poor ignorant lassie ; and she 
 so bonnie ! And then her lonely old father, one of 
 the best men in the parish, who has seen six coffins 
 go out at that door since I remember. Heigho! 
 Miss Shillabeer, this is a sad world !' 
 
 Floxy heard his words as in a dream. She made 
 no further remark, but entering the cottage, went at 
 once to the bed, where she discerned a figure be- 
 neath the blankets, with the face in shadow and a 
 white arm exposed. Kneeling down, she seized the 
 hot clammy hand, dasping it with her own, and 
 pressing it to her cheek as she buried her face in 
 the bed-clothes. Morag lifted her head from the 
 pillow ; bending forward, she passed her other hand 
 over Floxy's face, and whispered, * My darling, are 
 you come?" 
 
and his Son, 
 
 3'9 
 
 After a great effort at self-comtnand, but without 
 daring to lift her face, Floxy replied, * Yes, my darling, 
 I am come.* 
 
 No one else spoke. 
 
 A single feeble light and flickering fire hardly 
 penetrated the shadowy darkness of the dwelling. 
 Yet one form was revealed to those who could 
 look around, and that was old Rorie, sitting on a 
 low stool near the peat-fire that glowed on the floor, 
 with his face buried in his hands, and motionless as 
 a stone on the shore covered with weeping sea-weed. 
 
 • Miss Floxy,' said Morag, in a whisper, bringing 
 her head nearer the spot where the hands were that 
 held her own, until her bright eyes — now brighter 
 than ever, and shining with a feverish lustre — met 
 the weeping eyes of her friend. * Miss Floxy, I 'm 
 going away to-night — and — and — oh, dear, I canna 
 speak ! but I love you ; and don't be angry with me, 
 for I canna help loving you, my dear, dear, though 
 you canna love me now.' 
 
 ' Morag, my own Morag,' said Floxy, * I love you 
 with all my heart. God be with you ! God pity 
 you ! God bless you ! I cannot help you or I 
 would, with my life's-blood. But no human being 
 can do it.' 
 
 * Pity me, dear, I have no peace,' and her chest 
 heaved at every senter.ee. * I have prayed ; I have 
 prayed in the woods and on the shore. I have cried ; 
 
I 
 
 320 
 
 The Old Luutenant 
 
 [ have cried ; my heart can greet no more. For oh, 
 me! Ochonel Ochone! O my God!' and she 
 turned away her face, while her hand grasped Floxy's 
 with convulsive energy. 
 
 * My own Morag, remember what I told you so 
 often about Jesus Christ. He can save the worst, — 
 you and me and all, if we go to him ; and he is beside 
 you. Think of the good Shepherd who died for his 
 sheep, who went to seek the lost sheep, and was glad 
 when he found it. He is mighty to save my Morag.' 
 
 * But not me — not me. I'm too bad — too bad; 
 but I know He^s good — the best And, Floxy, do 
 you think I 'm too sinful to expect that — ? ' 
 
 She paused, as if struggling with her thoughts and 
 defective language. 
 
 * To expect what, dear V asked Floxy gently. 
 *To expect that He'll not send me where — where 
 
 —the bad folk would be cursing him, for I could not 
 bear that ; it would break my heart.* 
 
 * Oh ! Morag, speak to your Saviour ; tell him 
 everything, and confess everything ; excuse nothing, 
 and ask his forgiveness, and he will give it, dear, 
 and save you from all sin, and bring you to himself 
 
 *God be thanked!' said Morag; 'for should he 
 not forgive me he may forgive him for all he has done^ 
 and that's some comfort.' 
 
 * Forgive who, Morag V 
 The girl hid her face? 
 
and his Son. 
 
 J2I 
 
 * Never mind just now. I cannii name him.' * O 
 iV7 God ! ' she said, after a short silence, and iookinp 
 ^(iK— 'Help! help!' 
 
 ' Who are you praying for, my own Morag V 
 
 * For my father, yonder,' she replied. ' I'm feared 
 kc'U never get ower this. I have killed him too.' 
 
 The old man caught his name, though it wis men- 
 tioned but in a whisper, and suddenly rising from his 
 seat, he approached the bed, and .said, ' Mlwrag a 
 c/teist, is there anything you would like that I can 
 give you 1 I wish you would just try and eat some- 
 thing ; it would do you good, my lamb. I have got 
 some fine fresh fish. You used to like them. I'll 
 get some ready.' 
 
 She looked at him with a smile of love, and he at 
 her. Then the old man sat down in a recess, and 
 took up a fish in his hand, to prepare it, as he had 
 often done since his wife died, for himself and his 
 only daughter, the pride of his heart. He moved and 
 spoke like a man bewildered. But as he saw oppo- 
 site to him a small body covered by a white cloth 
 on a table in a dark corner, the fish dropped from his 
 trembling hands, and they who dared to look at the 
 old man would have seen him wiping his eyes with 
 the sleeve of his ragged fisherman's jacket, though 
 every sound of grief was suppressed that could reach 
 the ear of the dying girl 
 
 The silence was again broken by Morag whisper- 
 
I 1 
 
 322 
 
 Tlie Old Lieutenant 
 
 ing in a voice still more tremulous and weak, < Miss 
 Floxy, my dear, thanks to God you came to see me. 
 I have more comfort. Jesus died for sinners — for 
 me :* and after a pause she added, * For him.' Then 
 looking long and fondly at Floxy, she said, * I gathered 
 some nuts for you at the end of the year, but did not 
 like to give them. Will you take them with you 1 
 It is all I can give you, my dear darling, before I go 
 away.' And her damp hands again squeezed those 
 of Floxy, who could not utter a word. Yet fearing 
 lest she might be selfishly indulging her own feelings 
 at the expense of the poor sufferer, she rose, and 
 bending over Morag, whispered, * Have you anything 
 more to say V 
 
 * O yes, yes ; but — I canna say it — ^but mmd I 
 forgive him^ and I hope God will ; but tell — tell him 
 to repent, as he shall answer to God when we meet 
 again.' 
 
 A few choking half articulate words of mutual 
 blessing, and Floxy tore herself away, and sat near 
 the old fisherman, who seized her hand. She thought 
 she was once more a child, sitting beside her uncle 
 Martin in the old cottage at Torquay. 
 
 A venerable-looking man had in the meantime 
 noiselessly entered the small room. It was Sandy 
 Cameron, schoolmaster and catecb- .*, one of those 
 men who are often selected, for their piety and 
 knowledge of the Scriptures, by the ministers of large 
 
and his Son. 
 
 3^i 
 
 Highland parishes, to instruct the peasantry, from 
 house to house, and also to visit the sick and pray with 
 them. Sandy sat down, and knowing the power of 
 Christian song, he selected the 130th Psalm, and 
 reading out two verses in Gaelic, sang them. The 
 doctor sat beside the bed ; while the old fisherman, 
 with reverential calm, put on his spectacles, and tried 
 to follow the psalm in his book ; but he was obliged 
 to close it, and sit with bent head, closed eyes, and 
 clasped hands. The low solemn melody arose from 
 voices trembling with sorrow. Then a short Gaelic 
 prayer was offered up by old Sandy. When he 
 ended all was silent again for a few minutes ; then a 
 :,»JJi;n movement was made by the doctor, and 
 a few hurried words spoken; then a gathering of 
 the people round the bed — and then a cry from 
 Rorie, which no one who heard it could ever forget, 
 as the old man fell prostrate with outstretched arms 
 over his d^ad daughter. 
 
3H 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 AN OLD SCENE UNDER NEW CIRCUMSTANCEa 
 
 Ned was spending a few days of sweet domestic 
 peace in the old cottage, before commencing another 
 outward-bound voyage in the ' William Pitt* These 
 evenings when, as of yore. Freeman formed one of 
 the small party round the fire ; and Mrs. Fleming 
 knit apparently the same identical stocking through 
 which her wires had glanced, with Ned at her knee, 
 twenty years ago ; and the Captain talked over the 
 evergreen stories of the old wars ; and Babby brought 
 in the shining brass kettle, and put it on the hob of 
 ^he grate, staring, with her large eyes full of delight 
 at Ned as she entered and retired, — these evenings, 
 I say, were as calm, sheltered, blessed harbours of 
 refuge, in which Ned would willingly have anchored 
 for life. There was in them a domestic simplicity, 
 and a sunshine of purity, truth, and love which were 
 to him as a holy religion of the heart. He was the 
 more touched by such a vision of unchanged quiet, 
 from his own thoughts being now stirred as they had 
 
 ' 
 
^ 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 325 
 
 never been. Kate possessed him. She was a con- 
 stant under-song in his heart, yet one that sounded 
 more like a farewell lament than a glad welcome. 
 An emotion which in a less degree would have 
 been a happiness, had become a pain from its in- 
 tensity. 
 
 There was one person only in the burgh whom 
 Ned could call his companion and friend, and that 
 was Dr. Morris, the Curly of schoolboy memory. 
 He saw him daily; strolled with him through their 
 old haunts ; sat up many hours with him after the 
 inmates of the cottage were asleep, and every day 
 each advanced further and further, by a series of 
 affectionate zig-zags, into the- citadel of the other's 
 secret being. 
 
 Immediately before Ned's departure they both 
 visited the sea-shore, to sit down and talk again, 
 on the spot where they had parted so long before. 
 Everything was changed but nature. Yet what is 
 nature, what is her life, her beauty, her pathos, her 
 joy, or glory, without the moulding and creating 
 spirit of man ? And so she too seemed changed to 
 them. The sounding sea ; the sunbeams that played 
 upon it from behind the canopy of clouds ; the dis- 
 tant sail ; — all spoke a different language from what 
 they did in other days when the future was every- 
 thing, and the past nothing. 
 
 They both sa-t down beside the rock, and pn the 
 
J26 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 very spot where Curly had promised to pray for Ned. 
 Each by the instinct of sympathy interpreted the 
 other's feehngs. 
 
 * Ah, Ned,' said Curly, with a sigh, * I never forgot 
 that day, nor my promise, so long as I remained here. 
 Would God one could only keep alive those fresh 
 feelings, and unclouded, unhesitating beliefs of early 
 youth ! But the toil, the tear and wear of common- 
 place existence, fill the sunshine with so much dust 
 that it gets dark.' 
 
 * Nor did I forget that day. Curly. But you 
 cannot know what strength it gave me, and how it 
 kept my heart up in my rough life, which would have 
 been all dark except Cor the early sunshine of the 
 past But you are a sadder man. Curly, than I then 
 thought you would ever be. How is that ?' 
 
 * It is difficult to explain that fact to any one, even 
 to myself From bad health, want of money, want 
 of relations, I found myself rather a solitary mortal. 
 I took to study, and dissected many books ; but, 
 next to those subjects more strictly bearing on 
 my own profession, metaphysics became a passion. 
 Then came what Wordsworth calls " obstinate ques- 
 tionings," which I could not answer. Dalrymple 
 and Co. did not help me. I became bitterly 
 disappointed with the teaching I heard from the 
 pulpit ; my old ideal of life was dethroned by the sort 
 of people I met ; there was a narrowness, a self-satis- 
 

 and his Son, 
 
 i'^1 
 
 fied pride, a want of truthfulness, of common sympathy, 
 and of humanity, about them, which made me recoil 
 upon myself, until, can you believe it, I became scepti- 
 caH Don't think me proud or conceited, as some call 
 me, when I speak thus to you, openly, frankly, but with 
 a sad heart. For if you only heard that man with his 
 hard, dry, logical reasoning, leading on, step by step — 
 not one of which I can dispute — to conclusions from 
 which my whole heart and conscience recoil ! If you 
 only heard him last Sunday, for example, on what 
 he called the love of God, how he raged, and abused 
 people for not seeing it in the way in which he 
 was pleased to present it And then, Ned, some of 
 :he pious ladies 1 how they double me up, and make 
 me feel like a heathen !' 
 
 * You are sceptical of what. Curly ? Not surely of 
 the Bible Y 
 
 ' Well, dear Ned, I fear to say so aloud, or even to 
 my own heart. It was possibly more in regard to 
 men whom I could not trust, and to myself whom I 
 could trust least of all. Rut, strange to say, my 
 whole scepticism left me the moment I read the 
 Bible, for it never seemed to be the Bible I heard 
 preached ; for the Bible teaches me what seems 
 to me to be the light on every page, the light of the 
 world, the only light in my heart, and the only light 
 in the universe, and that is our " Father ;" and there 
 is another word like it, Jesus, the "Son," our brother. 
 
• ^ 
 
 328 
 
 The Otd Lieutenant 
 
 But for such words, with the worlds they illumine, I 
 would have perished.* 
 
 * I was never tempted by scepticism,' replied Ned, 
 after a moment's silence ; * my life was perhaps too 
 practical and full of danger for that ; and, to tell the 
 truth, I cannot understand the feeling. For if I did 
 not believe what Paul or John said, not to speak 
 of the blessed Saviour, I would neither believe my- 
 self nor any one else, and I cannot come to that yet ! 
 Fancy me not believing the word of even my old 
 father ! And although. Curly, you know I feel it very 
 difficult to speak about those holy things, as I fear 
 too much talk is apt to become mere talk only ; yet, 
 I must confess that, as far as my personal experience 
 goes, I have always found the Bible true. I never 
 steered by that compass without finding the course 
 come right.' 
 
 * 
 
 * Is that the case, old fellow % God bless you, 
 Ned ! It does me more good than a thousand ser- 
 mons to find any man like you without cant or hum- 
 bug, who truly believes. How little did your father 
 or mother think that they were my most convincing 
 preachers on the evidences of Christianity when I was 
 most troubled ! ' 
 
 * How was that ? You don't mean to say that the 
 old couple argued with you 1' 
 
 * I am thankful to say that they did not, or perhaps 
 they would not have convinced me as they did. But 
 
and his &on. 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 their Christianity, their pure, loving, truthful. God- 
 fearing lives which I constantly saw, as their friend 
 — thanks to you — the reality of their love to God 
 and man — that was a proof of Christianity I never 
 could, and never wish to disprove.* 
 
 * But, Curly,' said Ned, ' you don't mean to say 
 that you doubt Jesus Christ Y 
 
 * I won't lie against my soul by daring to say so I* 
 said Curly, rising and speaking with rather an excited 
 voice. ' No, Ned, I do believe Him, and, in spite 
 of all, I hope by his long-suffering goodness, that I 
 believe in him. Yes ! I believe all he said, and all 
 his apostles said. Yes ! I'll peril my soul on his 
 truth. I bless God that one person on earth has 
 perfectly loved and served God, and that He lived 
 and died, and lives for evermore to fill us like Him- 
 self with love to God and one another ! That is 
 heaven surely ; and my only doubts often arise from 
 thinking that the news is too good to be true.' 
 
 * If that boat of the gospel sinks,' remarked Ned, 
 * there's no other I know of can float' 
 
 * I believe you, Ned. No philosophy will weather 
 the storm in which the old Bible sinks. But con- 
 found men and women! — pardon the words — yet 
 I say again, confound men who profess to represent 
 truly His word, his teaching, and his life, but yet 
 who live, and act in such a way that a man 
 is tempted to think of them as being one with th« 
 
.130 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Enemy of Christianity, and so get soured and to 
 nauseate the whole thing ! But give me your honest, 
 hard fist, old fellow. On my word, it brings more life 
 to me than all the metaphysics I ever read ; for there 's 
 life in it. I wish I were a sailor, or rather I wish I 
 were you ; or, to be sober, I wish I were always with 
 you, just to feel that there is one whom I can trust 
 out and out,' and he grasped his friend's hand and 
 added, with a bitter smile, — * Hang scepticism ! It 
 has flattered my head, although it does not suit my 
 heart. Yet you see it has not taken a great hold of 
 either. But what made me pour out all this nonsense 
 to trouble you?' 
 
 * You should marry. Curly,' said Ned ; * that would 
 help to give rest to your head and heart ' 
 
 ' Of course I should ; so should everybody.* 
 ' Why then don't you 1' 
 
 * Pray, Captain, why don't you f 
 
 * There you have me. Dr. Morris.' 
 
 Then rose a something to Ned's heart ! What was 
 it ? Picking a stone up, he chucked it into the sea, 
 and said, ' Curly, I'm in love.' 
 
 'I wish you were,' replied Curly. 'But I don't 
 believe you.' 
 
 * Well, you are a sceptic, to be sure ! How am I 
 to convince you ?' 
 
 ' By showing me your sweetheart, with yourself, in 
 her society. Then I shall judge for myself 
 
a7id his Son. 
 
 331 
 
 * I am ready to give you the required proof.' 
 
 * Whore and when V 
 
 * When you go with me to Greenock on Wednesday.' 
 
 * Now, are you serious, Ned V 
 
 'Intensely so — miserably so— out and out sol- 
 Yea, drowned in love a hundred fathoms deep with- 
 out a buoy ; and to no living person have I said what 
 I now say.' 
 
 ' Then I shall joke no more about it,' remarked 
 Curly; 'for of all serious and solemn things to a 
 man, next to religion, I hold being in love is the 
 most serious.' 
 
 Fleming told him the outline of his love-story. 
 
 * Any hope, old chap 1' 
 
 * None, Curly ! as far as I can see. I understand 
 that she is engaged j and I go to meet my doom.' 
 
 * You don't ! you know you don't \ the thought 
 would kill your love.' 
 
 * Passion it might kill, but not love.* 
 
 * Oh, stuff! I'll wager she is not engaged. Don't 
 
 tell me ; the hope keeps alive your love. You hope 
 
 in spite of you. Depend upon it, your doom is not 
 
 to be an ancient mariner — 
 
 •* Long and lank and brown, 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand," 
 
 looking out, like that mysterious hero, for marriaj?,e- 
 guests to tell your story to, with your old sweetheart; 
 like an albatross, round your neck ! Ha ! ha ! ex 
 
33'i' 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 cuse my hilarity, but I cannot help it Cheer up 
 old sea-captain ! you and she will both be snug in 
 port yet. But again I must be serious. Tell me 
 what do you mean to do 1' 
 
 * Curly, I will tell you, that as far as I know my- 
 self, I mean, if possible, at such a crisis, to steer the 
 course which my dear old father and mother gave me 
 long ago, and which never yet led me wrong — I 
 mean, come what may, to trust in God, and to do 
 the right' 
 
 'Then as sure as there is a right, it will come right.' 
 *But not, perhaps, as I would wish it to come; 
 yet, come it must, as I ought to wish it to do.' 
 
 * It is not easy to act on such a principle, so trying 
 to flesh and blood.' 
 
 * Yet, Curly, it is, after all, the simplest. For we 
 sailors know, that if we have a good chart, it is safer 
 steering by it in darkness, in spite of all appearances, 
 than trusting to one's own eyes.' 
 
 * From my heart — from my whole heart — I wish 
 you success ! Would that I had such hopes as yours, 
 dark though they seem to be ! Oh for a true woman 
 to love and by her to be loved ! But I shan't get 
 into the heroics again. Yet let me say to you, Ned, 
 that most of the girls here are such a simpering, 
 idle, empty, dancing, flirting, chattering, gew-gaw set 
 of creatures, that I would as soon marry a humming- 
 bird or paroquet, with beak and claws, as any of them.' 
 
and hts Son, 
 
 333 
 
 
 * Too hard, Curly I But why are you such an 
 abusive sceptic V 
 
 ' I am a truthful critic, I do assure you. And I 
 maintain that our girls in the burgh give one the 
 impression that they consider all thought, all litera- 
 ture, all solid education and sober sense, to be stupid 
 and unattractive ] and that balls, parties, and chitter- 
 chatter, were all that was required to make them 
 good wives and good companions. If your girl, 
 Ned'— 
 
 * My girl, you villain, like one of those ! You shall 
 see her on Wednesday ; then speak thus, if you dare ! 
 In the meantime, let us up anchor and run for it to 
 port, or my old father will polish his big gold watch 
 to nothing looking at the hour, and wondering what 
 has kept us. But, of course, not a word, Curly, about 
 what I have been saying. Remember, I have no 
 hope, but I wished to get some peace by telling you 
 everything.' 
 
 ' Do you remember the ship I pointed out to you 
 when we last met here V 
 
 * I do perfectly.' 
 
 *Then,' said Curly, Mook yonder; there are two 
 ships sailing in sunshine ! ' 
 
 * Yes ; they represent Kate and Captain . I 
 
 cannot mention the fellow's name ! ' said Ned. 
 
 * I can,' replied Curly ; ' it is Captain Fleming.' 
 
 * Don't torture me, Curly ! March ! Home I' 
 
3U 
 
 The Old LieuUnatU 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A SURfi'RISE. 
 
 While Ned and Curly prolonged their conversa- 
 tion in the cottage beyond midnight ; and Floxy was 
 returning through the woods with hurried steps and 
 a heart wrung with anguiah; and the Captain was 
 smoking and drinking brandy and water with Peter 
 McDonald in the Tontine Hotel of Greenock,— Kate 
 was perusing a letter received from Miss Dun- 
 combe, in reply to the one which she had written 
 when interrupted on a memorable occasion by her 
 mother. 
 
 After some preliminary matter, Miss Duncombe 
 came at last to the consideration of Kate's P.S.. 
 which, as is alleged of most letters written by ladies, 
 contained the most important intelligence. She thus 
 wrote — 
 
 'Though you do not ask my advice, yet, dear 
 Kate, I am disposed to take the liberty of an old 
 friend and offer it unasked — a course in general 
 very hazardous. But in such eases how difficult 
 
 ' 
 
and his Son. 
 
 335 
 
 it is, after all, to see things as others see them, so 
 as to judge justly and advise wisely 1 My idea is, 
 that where common sense and sound principle are 
 possessed — as they are, I think, without flattery 
 (which you know I hate) possessed by you — these, 
 with higher aid, direct, as by an instinct, along a 
 path sufficiently clear and safe for all practical pur- 
 poses. But if these are wanting, what can advice 
 do 9 It is like putting a pair of spectacles on a blind 
 eye ! I have myself seen very absurd, yet still very 
 serious, illustrationo of this want of sense among my 
 old pupils. One of these, whom I shall call Jemima 
 — for I won't mention real names — was captivated 
 by the mere good looks and fascinating manners of 
 a young man I shall name Noodles. She thought 
 that an ardent admiration for his person was love 
 to himself. They married. Now Noodles had no- 
 thing but his looks to commend him, and so Jemima, 
 and her little nursery, of Noodledom, have become a 
 heavy burden, from their poverty, upon her family, 
 who thus suffer for her tastes. Another of my old 
 pupils, as if to avoid the evil of poverty, married a 
 coarse-minded vulgar rich man; and she possesses, 
 accr>rdingly, the wealth which was courted ; but she 
 pos 'sses nothing more. Two other girls accepted 
 h uids, the one, a young clergyman, the other a 
 yo % barrister, because they had excellent charac- 
 ter ; but the clergyman cannot preach or get a liv* 
 
336 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ing, and the lawyer cannot speak or get a brier, and 
 the characters don't support the family ! What mere 
 rules could suffice to guide the selection of such 
 ladies ? Yet I must confess that I have often won- 
 dered how contented many are who ought^ judging 
 from my own feelings, to be unhappy. They don't 
 seem,"*as far as one can discover, to have the capa- 
 city of being very happy or very unhappy. They 
 jog along ; some satisfied if they can only feed their 
 children with bread and butter ; and others, if they 
 can feed their vanity with silks and satins. I pre- 
 sume each person, unless when grossly deceived or 
 consciously deceiving, really gets what he or she 
 seeks, and is consequently more contented than we 
 should have anticipated. But I am discoursing about 
 marriage in general, and forgetting you, my love. 
 Well, dear, this affair is a trial, a severe one to you, 
 and requires God's grace, as well as common sense, 
 to enable you to act rightly ; — ^for, after all, to know 
 the right and follow it is the only difficulty, and not 
 anticipated consequences. I notice what you say 
 about the strong wishes of your father and mother. 
 A solemn thought verily ! Yet we must follow 
 Christ always^ not father nor mother, and in follow- 
 ing what is right we follow him. But, oh ! let us 
 have a care lest we mistake our ov»n shadow for the 
 Saviour, or our own self-will for self-sacrifice. This 
 advice I do give : — never marry a man whom you do 
 
and his Son. 
 
 337 
 
 not thoroughly respect, and therefore do not truly 
 love. Money, or the means of su) >ort, is of course 
 a most important consideration, which none but fools 
 will despise. But I "incy no man whom you could 
 respect would be so selfish as to induce you to share 
 your deepest affections with him first, knowing that 
 you must share penury with him afterwards. Yet it 
 is a great struggle to sacrifice one's feelings to prin- 
 ciple ! Were I by your side, I might possibly con- 
 vince you that I am not writing as one who, though 
 an old maid, has been ignorant of such struggles. 
 But dare I whisper one little suspicion? If I am 
 wrong, don't scold me. / dotit think you are in 
 love I There, now ! If my suspicion is well founded, 
 my long letter is unnecessary, and if not, perhaps my 
 letter is in vain !* 
 
 Miss Buncombe added a postscript, of course, to 
 her letter. 'You told me nothing about Floxyl' 
 I had a letter from her, rather mysterious, but ex- 
 pressing great unhappiness about some rustic beauty, 
 for whom she has contracted an enthusiastic affec- 
 tion, but who had disappeared for a time. I often 
 tremble for Floxy's wild impetuous nature. But she 
 has noble elements of character, if these were only 
 more undtr control. My dear old mother used to 
 apply to her the tinker's proverb, saying that she 
 would either " make a spoon or spoil a horn." I re- 
 gret now that I was tempted by her great cleverness 
 
338 
 
 T/ie Otd Lieutenant 
 
 to teach her so much and to educate her so little. I 
 ought to have given her fewer books, or, at all events, 
 I should have trained and disciplined her more to 
 occupy the humble sphere for which she is appa- 
 rently destined by her circumstances. She seems 
 determined to leave Ardmore, come what may, 
 and wishes to come to me or you. But I don't 
 know why ; tell me about her. Why is she so un- 
 happy 1' 
 
 Shortly after Kate received this letter a dinner- 
 party had been summoned to meet at the Glen, in 
 honour of Captain M'Dougal. Few provincial towns 
 could assemble better society round a dinner-table 
 than the busy little merchant-town of Greenock ; and 
 the klite of its shipowners and West India merchants 
 were to be present on this occasion. 
 
 There was a tacijt understanding among the guests 
 as to the position held by the Captain in Caimey's 
 family. He was recognised as Kate's ' intended ;' 
 and Mrs. Campbell accordingly received, with serene 
 satisfaction, the confidential congratulations of the 
 old ladies, who smiled and nodded, and whispered 
 and smiled again, as they sipped their tea beside 
 her on the sofa, in the drawing-room after dinner. 
 No one, somehow, presumed to congratulate Kate, 
 who had a singular power of being retired and dig- 
 nified, without being in the least degree haughty or 
 rude. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ^30 
 
 The Captain acted his part with marvellous pro- 
 priety and tact Never did his clothes fit him more 
 perfectly; never did his teeth shine with greater 
 whiteness ; never did a more constant smile of quiet 
 power and self-satisfaction rest on his features. He 
 hung over Kate at the piano, turning the leaves of 
 her music while she played or sang, and ever and 
 anon looked into her face with some approving or 
 admiring sentiment, such as no lady could be dis- 
 pleased with. * Young Ardmore' was at once cor- 
 dially accepted into the very bosom of all the con- 
 nexions and friends of the family. 
 
 But any one at that party, who possessed the power 
 of discernment, would have failed to discover, in 
 spite of Kate's frank manner and kindness to th'? 
 Captain, that indescribable something which pervades 
 the look and the whole manner of one in love, and 
 which the most watchful self-consciousness cannot 
 conceal. 
 
 Now that same night was destined, according to 
 Mrs. Campbell's plans, to see her daughter's fate 
 sealed for life. Her complicated arrangements had 
 been, day after day, slowly but surely driving her 
 daughter and Ardmore into a comer, where they 
 must meet alone, face to face, and *yes* or *no* 
 be uttered by Kate. Either word is speedily 
 uttered, but its consequences are not so speedily 
 ended I 
 
540 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Kate had made every attempt to escape from this 
 position. She had craved delay ; and, indeed, was 
 under the impnjssion that delay had been granted, 
 and that Duncan was to return home for the present 
 just as he was, with hope or no hope as he himself 
 pleased to indulge in either emotion. But her 
 mother, fearing the effects of such cold procrastina- 
 tion, anxious to bring matters to a close, and be- 
 lieving that the presence of favourable circumstances 
 was all that was necessary to secure a satisfactory 
 result, had at last taken upon her to inform the Cap- 
 tain that after the party was broken up she would 
 manage to give him and Kate a quiet and undis- 
 turbed interview in the drawing-room. 
 
 As the time drew near, and carriage after carriage 
 drove off, Duncan, full of excitement, resolved to 
 take a quiet walk in the shrubbery, and thus afford 
 Mrs. Campbell an opportunity of spreading her nets 
 and completing her plans. Old Caimey had to be 
 consulted, in order to get him quietly to bed with 
 his rum punch, and this necessarily took up some 
 time. 
 
 As the Captain pacea alone at a little distance 
 from the house, under the shade of the laurels, where 
 hi? cigar, glowing like a fire-fly, marked the spot he 
 occupied, he saw the figure of a woman with hur- 
 ried step advance to the door and ring the bell, and 
 after a minute or so pass within. The said woman 
 
 
dnd his ^on. 
 
 441 
 
 had asked if Miss Campbell was disengaged. The 
 servant, lifting up the light, and seeing the face and 
 dress of one whom she never doubted to be a lady, 
 replied, — 
 
 * Yes, Miss Campbell is disengaged, but * — 
 
 * I know it is an untimely hour. I have most im- 
 portant business, however, with her. Tell her — ^but 
 it is all your place is worth, my girl, if you tell aiv 
 one else ! — tell her that Miss Floxy wishes to see het 
 inimediately^ 
 
 * Miss who V 
 
 * Floxy.' 
 
 But this conversation did not reach the ears of the 
 meditative Captain, although it had more to do with 
 him than he suspected. 
 
 The servant disappeared, but quickly retumeti, f©- 
 questing her unknown and mysterious caller to * come 
 up.' As Floxy ascended the staircase, Mrs. Camp- 
 bell was coming down. They both stopped, and 
 gazed into each other's faces. Mrs. Campbell, with 
 an expression of mingled fear, wonder, and curiosity, 
 at the unexpected apparition, asked, * Who is this I 
 It cannot be !' 
 
 * Shillabeer from Ardmore,' said Floxy. 
 *Shillabeer !' exclaimed Mis. Campbell, stretching 
 
 out her hand to welcome her, * in the name of wonder, 
 what puts you here at this time of night V 
 ' Important business,' said Floxy drily. 
 
342 
 
 TJie Old Lieutenant 
 
 * Any one ill % Any one dead 1 Come up stairs. 
 What, what is iti' continued Mrs. Campbell, as she 
 returned towards the drawing-room. 
 
 Kate was at her bedroom door, and running to 
 Floxy, warmly greeted her, asking similar ques- 
 tions. 
 
 * Miss Campbell,' she replied, in a suppressed tone 
 of voice, * as I have met your mother, I shall speak 
 to her alone ; but don't be alarmed ; Miss M'Dougal 
 and her mother are both quite well. You will know 
 why I am here before I leave to-night' 
 
 Mrs. Campbell led Floxy into the drawing-room, 
 shut the door, sat down on the sofa, motioned Floxy 
 to be seated opposite to her on a chair, and asked, 
 *Whatra«itber 
 
 * Mrs. Campbell,' said Floxy, after composing her- 
 self, yet speaking with a trembling voice, * I owe all I 
 possess, and all I am, to your daughter, and Miss 
 Duncombe. I wish to return some portion of the 
 debt of gratitude which I owe to Miss CampbeU. 
 Nothing but an overwhelming sense of duty could 
 bring me here to-night' 
 
 * In heaven's name, what is it? Out with it !* said 
 Mrs. Campbell impatiently. 
 
 * I understand, ma'am,' continued Floxy, ' that you 
 intend giving your daughter in marriage to Captain 
 M'Dougal.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
and nis Son. 
 
 
 343 
 
 * Go on ; go on, pray,' said Mrs. Campbell, saving 
 ittr hand impatiently. 
 
 * Presuming it to be so,* continaed Floxy, * I have 
 come to say that he is a wicked wretch.' 
 
 Mrs. Campbell looked at Floxy as on one insane, 
 and quietly asked, *What do you mean, woman 1 
 Have a care what you say 1' 
 
 * I mean what I say. Listen' only to my sad errand, 
 and you will not be astonished at my having used 
 vich language to describe that man.' And Floxy, 
 with an awful impressiveness, told the story of 
 Morag, more fully than it is recorded in these 
 pages. As she proceeded, Mrs. Campbell, to her 
 amazement, became more and more composed ; and 
 when Floxy ended with a vehement burst, saying, 
 * That is the man to whom, ma'am, in your ignot- 
 ance, but in your ignorance only, you would have 
 consigned for life the happiness of your beautiful 
 and noble girl !* 
 
 Mrs. Campbell, loosing her cap-strings, and throw- 
 ing them over her shoulder with nervous energy, re- 
 plied, with suppressed wrath, * Ton my word ! really, 
 Shillabeer, you have taken a great deal upon you to 
 come here on such an errand! You, forsooth! I 
 wonder what servant girls will come to ! This is a 
 high farce, indeed ! Pray what right have you to 
 know what gentlemen do? What right have you, 
 indeed, to meddle with any business that does not 
 
344 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 belong to you? Not but that I may i egret, as far 
 as that girl^what's her name? — ^who died is con- 
 cerned' — 
 
 * For heaven's sake,' said Floxy, her face flushed 
 and her eyes flashing, * don't disgust me, Mrs. Camp- 
 bell !' 
 
 ' Yout disgust you / Are you mad ? / disgust 
 you /' 
 
 *Not mcy but rather that woman's nature, Mrs. 
 Campbell, common to us both,' said Floxy, unmoved. 
 * Heavens ! would you bury your daughter — that 
 sweet, dear girl — in such a sepulchre of rottenness 
 and dead men's bones ? You^ a woman ! a lady ! a 
 Christian wife and mother ! You cannot ; I know 
 you cannot ! Let your heart speak, and you dare not !' 
 
 * Go out of the house instantly !' said Mrs. Camp- 
 bell, rising, in wrath, and ringing the bell violently. 
 
 But at that moment Kate entered the room in evi- 
 dent confusion and perplexity. 
 
 * I can stand this mystery and noise of words no 
 longer,' she said ; * what is it, Floxy ? I command 
 you to tell me !' 
 
 Poor Floxy rushed across the room, and, throwing 
 herself upon her, burst into convulsive sobbing. * Oh, 
 dear friend,' she cried, * best of friends — noble, good 
 soul, pity me ; forgive me ; I cannot help it ; it was 
 laid on me.' 
 
 Es calisi, Floi-y ; what — ^ 
 
 '1^^^ —>»><»♦■ <#■ 
 
 it?" 
 
and his Son. 
 
 345 
 
 
 
 * Ask your mother,' replied Floxy ; then she added 
 in a calmer and even stern voice : * But before the 
 Pure and Holy One who made us, I conjure you, 
 whom I love as my own soul, never marry that man 
 M'Dougal! He is vile!* she added, as if grinding 
 her teeth ; * he is vile ; and by his lies, his arts, his 
 devilry, he has murdered Morag !' And Floxy rushing 
 past Kate, hurried dowij stairs, meeting the servant 
 who was hurrying up, and departed, shutting the door 
 behind her. 
 
 She immediately encountered M'Dougal. Her 
 first inclination was to fly anywhere, if only to escape 
 out of his sight. But they met : and as she stood 
 before him her feet did not seem to touch the earth 
 on which they trod. 
 
 * Hollo ! ' he shouted, coming close up to her, * who 
 the doose are youl' 
 
 ' Floxy,' was the only reply. She immediately add- 
 ed, ' Captain M'Dougal, Morag is dead !' 
 
 'Morag is dead? Well, Miss Shillabeer, is that 
 all you have to say 1 What under heaven puts you 
 here just now, and at this hour of the night? Is 
 tliere anything wrong at Ardmore V 
 
 * Morag is dead ! ' she repeated in a hollow voice, 
 as if something was choking her. 
 
 ' Now look here, my fine woman,' said M'Dougal, 
 speaking low but fierce. * I see what yoti are after j 
 I have long suspected you as a vile spy. You thinjt 
 
346 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 yourself mighty clever, but perhaps you have got your 
 match in me. You insolent, proud jade ! how dare 
 you come here with all your infernal gossip ) Little 
 would make me ' — 
 
 'Back, sir !' said Floxy, *you know how heartily I 
 have ever despised you ; and how / understand your 
 character. You know full well how I unravelled and 
 defeated all your cunning %nd cursed plots against 
 myself; and how I always abhorred you. But never 
 did I abhor you as I do now I' And she seemed, as 
 she spoke, to tower up before M'Dougal-s eye in the 
 dim light ' You are a villain and a murderer 1 The 
 curse of the childless is on you 1 and though I could 
 not save one victim from your fangs, I hope I have 
 saved another from your foul embrace. Yonder 
 girl,' she added, pointing to the upper window, * shall 
 never be thine, as sure as a God of justice and love 
 reigns !' 
 
 M'Dougal, hoarse with passion, again attempted to 
 interrupt her with a wild oath. 
 
 * Silence !' she said, * you shall hear rae ! With 
 her last breath the murdered girl forgave you ; with 
 her last breath she prayed for you ; and with her last 
 breath she commanded you to repent, and to pre- 
 pare to meet her before the judgment seat of God 1 
 I leave with you her only legacy !' 
 
 Before M'DougaJ could reply, and while the ftont 
 door was opened, and his name called, almost shouted. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 347 
 
 from the drawing-room window by Mrs. Campbell, 
 Floxy had vanished out of the little gate into the 
 public road, and from the echo of her steps she 
 seemed to run from the house. 
 
 That midnight the cry was heard in many a dwell- 
 ing throughout the town, and next morning it was 
 reported, with under breath, and anxious look, iron) 
 home to home — the cholera has come! 
 
 <«.; 
 
548 
 
 The Old LieuUnajd 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIi 
 
 CHOLERA. 
 
 The news which Ned and his friend Dr. Morris 
 heard, when they reached the Greenock quay, was 
 all about the cholera. Those only who remember 
 the first outbreak of that disease in this country 
 can understand the mysterious awe and terror it so 
 generally inspired. No small degree of moral courage 
 was required to maintain a peaceful spirit amidst the 
 general excitement produced by the daily intelligence 
 concerning those who in the morning were in good 
 health, and in the evening were dead. There was 
 among all a sense of insecurity arising from utter 
 ignorance, both as to the laws which regulated the 
 transmission and the cure of the desease, which power- 
 fully affected the imagination. The most exagger- 
 ated reports increased the fear, which often swelled 
 into a panic. But never was there more devotion 
 displayed by all classes in the discharge of their 
 duties. I may here add that the ministers of religion 
 
and his Son» 
 
 349 
 
 orris 
 was 
 tiber 
 ntry 
 it so 
 fage 
 the 
 nee 
 ood 
 was 
 tter 
 the 
 irer- 
 ger- 
 lled 
 ion 
 leir 
 ion 
 
 were not behind the physicians in activity, putting 
 to silence in every parish the false and ungenerous 
 opinions, sometimes entertained by vulgar minds, of 
 their unwillingness to visit cases of dangerous sick- 
 ness. Wherever their services could avail, they were 
 present with words of cheer and with labours of love. 
 
 M'Dougal, on his return from the Glen on the 
 night, or rather morning, after his interview first with 
 Floxy, and subsequently with Kate and her mother, 
 had sat up drinking and smoking with Red Peter 
 M'Donald until several of what Burns calls * the sma' 
 hours,' were numbered. 
 
 Peter had accompanied his friend from the High- 
 lands, to fill up his vacant hours, to cater to his minor 
 wants, and, as a confidential ally, to share his coarse 
 dissipations. 
 
 As they sat alone in M'Dougal's lodgings, Peter's 
 face became more fierce and red, when, with each 
 additional glass of brandy, he heard from the 
 Laird additional comments upon the exciting scene 
 through which he had passed ; and listened to his 
 vows of vengeance, and curses loud and deep, heaped 
 upon Floxy, mingled with contemptuous expressions 
 regarding Kate, and bitter annoyance at the prospect 
 of losing her person and her fortune. 
 
 ' Leave that strapping wench Floxy to me ; just 
 leave her to me ! I'll revenge you — that I will ; take 
 my word for it !' said Red Peter, with an inane 
 
1 1 
 
 
 UL 
 
 350 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 laugh, which he intended to be very knowing ; and vnth 
 a shake of his huge fist (a smoked ham it appeared), 
 which he intended to be very threatening. But Peter 
 had no defined plan or purpose of any kind in regard 
 to Floxy, though capable of any vice short of punish- 
 able crime. He wished only on the present occasion 
 to say something agreeable to his patron, preparatory 
 t-:" another glass. * And as for the young lady — that is 
 Miss Camill — she's yours, she's yours yet,' Peter 
 went on to say, as he grasped his friend's hand, and 
 proposed Kate's health about three in the moniing. 
 The proposal was received by the Captain with only 
 a grave and bitter smile. * But if not — hang her and 
 her pride ! who cares?' added Peter, as he assumed 
 an attitude intended for dignity. *I would think 
 Ardmore may get the best in the market for the 
 axing. There are, you know, as good fish in the 
 sea as ever came oot of it* 
 
 Ere the symposium broke up, Peter had reached a 
 degree of boldness and aflfectionate confidence to- 
 wards his superior, which enabled him to communicate 
 a suspicion to the Captain which he had kept in his 
 breast ever since it had been suggested to him by a 
 Greenock shipmaster during a quiet gossip over a 
 forenoon glass the previous day. 
 
 *By the by,' remarked Peter, as if he suddenly 
 remembered some trifle too worthless almost to men 
 tion ' I heard a curious story yesterday from my friend 
 
 I 
 
' 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 35« 
 
 to- 
 
 M'Kellar, who knows well what is going on in Green- 
 ock. He says that sa'.lor fellow, I forget his name, 
 one of Cainiey's captains, him that we thocht was 
 coorting the jade Floxy' — 
 
 * Fleming !' suggested M'Dougal. 
 
 *Ay, that's the name; M'Kellar says — he! he! 
 he ! — that he was casting his eye, in his impudence, 
 on Miss Camill ; and that he is far ben wi' the 
 family — that's a good joke, isn't it?' 
 
 M'Dougal knit his brows ; and if one might judge 
 from his expression, he did not view this gossip of 
 Peter's as a joke. He rose suddenly from his chair, 
 and as suddenly fell back into it, and striking the 
 table with his clenched hand, said, — 
 
 * I know the fellow 1 I remember him. Courting 
 Kate: it is impossible! and yet — ^whew!' — and the 
 Captain tried to perform a long whistle — ' I smell 
 a rat I' After a moment's silence, in which he 
 blew a series of slow whiffs with his cigar, and 
 emptied his tumbler, he bent over towards Peter, 
 whose face, red as a glowing furnace, shone on 
 M'Dougal's, dark as night * I have it, Peter ! I 
 would not wonder but the low-bred beggar, the 
 vulgar snob, has some such intention, and that he 
 has hired the waiting - mrid for money ; or,' he 
 added with a leer, ' because she is his sla^-e and fears 
 him, d'ye seel he has terrified her or coaxed her 
 to mterfere with me. What say you ta that, Peter V 
 
35^ 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 I 
 
 to-morrow 
 
 Peter thought more justice would be done to his 
 opinion if he appeared to think before uttering it 
 Throwing himself back in his seat, he tried to 
 assume a thoughtful expression, like a pig court- 
 ing repose, and looking as steadily as possible at 
 M'Dougal, caid — * We shall challenge the blackguard 
 and shoot him ! That's my game.* 
 
 * Come to me early to-morrow morning 
 morning early! you understand, Peter!' said M'Dou- 
 gal, vowing vengeance, as he rose, shook hands with 
 his friend, and wishing him a hurried good-night, 
 staggered off to his bed. 
 
 Next morning new circumstances altered their 
 plans. Peter was off by the steamer at ten o'clock, 
 and M'Dougal was writhing in cholera. 
 
 But we must return to Ned and Curly. 
 
 No sooner had they entered iWrs. M Kelvie's lodg- 
 ings, where Ned always * put up,' than the landlady, 
 after expressing he- delight in having him again in 
 the house, especially when accompanied by a doctor. 
 If "lid, ' Miss Camill, that's auld Cairney's dochter, 
 has been twice asking for you this very day, and has 
 left a note.' 
 
 Ned eagerly seized it, and read these few lines 
 — * Captain M'Dougal, Ardmore, has been seized 
 with that fearful cholera. I send you his address, 
 I hope Dr. Morris is with you, but whether he 
 ip or not, I beseech you to go and see biiiL 
 
 ! 
 
f 
 
 and his Son. 
 
 3S3 
 
 You told me that you had some experience of 
 this dreadful disease, and I know you have no fear. 
 For his sake; for my sake^ go and help him without 
 delay ! He had a friend with him, a Mr. McDonald, 
 who left this morning under pretence of bringing Mrs. 
 M'Dougal here, but I believe from cowardly fear. 
 Go; and come, and tell me, as soon as possible, 
 how h« is. Your ship does not sail, papa tells me, 
 till the day alter to-morrow. — Yours ever, c. c* 
 
 Ned put the note carefully into his pocket-book, 
 and joining Morris in the little parlour, said to him, 
 'Curly, I have just received a no;e from her^ and 
 she tells me that M'Dougal, about whom I spoke to 
 you, is ill with cholera, and asks you and me to visit 
 him and help him. Come along then, old shipmate, 
 and let us, by Goa s help, try what we can do to save 
 him who, I believe, is dear to her.' 
 
 Morris looked at his friend for a moment with a 
 most loving expression, as he replied, ' Let us go ; 
 I possess no cure, nor do I believe in any ; but we 
 whall help nature to battle with the enemy, and, if 
 possible, to overcome it. It is much if we can 
 only make him trust us, and believe that we can 
 be of service to him. So speak hopefully to him. 
 The mind has more to do with killing or curing, 
 than is dreamt of in our philosophy.' 
 
 As they thus disc*, ssed what waa indeed the ques- 
 
nil 
 
 354 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 tion of the day, Mrs. M'Kelvie, after knocking at the 
 door, entered and quietly said, * Gentlemen, ye'U no 
 tak offence, but this is a time when suddent death 
 maks a' folk equal ; and as yer young men, and I a 
 widow woman, wi' my world's life in the grave, I jist 
 wish to gie ye a word o' advice and comfort' 
 
 They both rose, and insisted that their worthy land- 
 lady should take a seat and freely speak to them. 
 * Aweel,' she said, * I have little to say, but that little 
 is mickle. Haud a gude grip o' yer Faither's hand, 
 for in thae times, and indeed at a' times, ye'U need it 
 Wi' thae twa ban's I streekit my bonnie man John 
 and my three bonnie bairns wi' fever in ae month, and 
 was left wi'oot a friend or bawbee on yirth, but wi' a 
 friend that sticks closer — tak my word for't, that's true 
 — sticks closer than a brither j and here am I this day, 
 that has never wanted meat in my house or music 
 in my heart sin' syne. I can never mair suffer frae 
 warldly loss as I hae dune, for ance a big hole is 
 made in the heart, a' things pass through 't wi'oot tear- 
 ing the puir flesh. But I ken noo, as I never used to 
 ao, that my Redeemer liveth ; and my John and the 
 bairns ken that too, and friendship wi' Him is better 
 than life and gear wi'oot Him. I humbly ax yer 
 pardon, gentlemen,' she said, rising and wiping a tear 
 from her eye ; ' but in the midst o' death we can be 
 mair free than at other times, and I couldna but gie 
 you the comfort our Faither in heaven has gi'en to 
 
and his Son. 
 
 3SS 
 
 mysel*. May He be wi' ye baith, and wi* us a' 
 this nicht' 
 
 They looked at each other, but, though they spoke 
 not, yet they felt that they had received strength from 
 hci words. 
 
 Mrs. M'Kelvie, finding that her lodgers not only 
 heard her with patience, but cordially assented to all 
 she said, entered into general conversation with 
 them, expressing, among other things, the hope that 
 none of the family at the Glen were ill. Hearing 
 that it was only an acquaintance of the family, a 
 Captain M'Dougal — 
 
 * Eh ! pity me !' exclaimed Mrs. M'Kelvie, * that's 
 him that is to be married to Miss Camill ! Keep 
 me, but that's awfu' — nae wunner the young leddy 
 cam hersel' wi' the note ! Little did I ken — ^wae's 
 me!' 
 
 'Married to Miss Campbell?' said Morris, for 
 Fleming moved not — ' is that the case V 
 
 'There's nae doot it's the case. It's the clash 
 o' the hale toon ; and a lass I'm weel acquant 
 wi' — it's ane Jessie Macdonald, that's serving wi' 
 Miss Shaw, the dressmaker — telt me that Mrs. 
 Camill — that's Miss Camill's mither — no twa days 
 syne, telt Miss Shaw a' aboot it ; and that he 
 was baith a braw ITielandman and a rich laird. 
 And him ill wi' cholera ! That beats a'. Puir chiel 
 to be the companion o' worms in the kirkyaird x^ 
 
356 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 stead o' Miss Catherine Camill at the Glen I fiut 
 gang awa, lads, and do your best to save him/ 
 
 These last words roused up Fleming from the 
 strange dream with which her announcement had 
 wrapt him. Yet tidings more or less authentic had 
 been wafted to him from various quarters to the 
 same effect He had not met Floxy, though he found 
 that a person answering her description had been 
 inquiring for him. In the meantime his duty was 
 clear, which was to help and succour Kate's intended 
 —the poor sufferer from cholera. 
 
 The first thing Curly did was to see M'Dougal's 
 medical attendant, and to offer his friendly services 
 to h' '1, These, after a few explanations, were cor- 
 dially accepted. 
 
 ' The ase,' said Dr. Steven, * is a very critical one. 
 He IS in great agony of body, and seems to be dis- 
 tressed in mind — I don't know why. But his expres- 
 sions are sometimes dreadful. I greatly fear the 
 reaction which is to follow — that horrid coma. But 
 I leave him with confidence in your hamds. After 
 aH, Morris, what can man do with the mysterious 
 disease ! ' and Dr. Steven shrugged his shoulders and 
 sighed. 
 
 This interview took plac» m a small parlour near 
 M'Dougal's room. Dr. Steven said he would first 
 introduce Dr. Morris as his friend, and then Fleming 
 could be brought in when i-eeded. 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 357 
 
 But 
 
 Poor M'Dougal was suffering too much pain to 
 object to anything. But his face lighted up with a 
 peculiar expression, full of wonder and alarm, as Ned 
 was in due time introduced. 
 
 Ned stood beside his bed, and, taking hold of hia 
 trembling and clammy hand, said, in the kindest 
 voice, *I have come here at the earnest request of 
 one whom you know and value, and who is in deep 
 anxiety about you — Miss Campbell.' The Captain's 
 chest heaved; as by an effort he opened his eyes 
 wide, and dropped Fleming's hand. * Having heard,' 
 continued Ned, ' that I had seen much of this disease 
 in India, she begged of me, for your sake, and for 
 her own' — Fleming uttered these last words with 
 marked emphasis — * to do everything which would 
 help to restore you to health and to your friends j 
 and we shall do it, and, by God's help, make you as 
 well as ever ;' and gently squeezing M'Dougal's hand, 
 and arranging the pillow under his head, he sat down 
 beside him. The few words which Ned spoke were 
 intended to give strength to the sufferer, by remind- 
 ing him, as delicately as possible, that his life was 
 precious to another as well as to himself. His 
 words seemed to have a soothing effect, for the sick 
 man shut his eyes, and was quiet and silent for 
 a few minutes, as if more peaceful. In so far as 
 he could think of anything be^'ond his present 
 suflferings, M'Dougal could nca help feeling that 
 
358 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 he had misunderstood Fleming, and perhaps Kate. 
 He was willing, however, to accept of the services 
 so kindly offered, and to clutch at any addii<onal 
 straw which seemed to add to his chances of re- 
 covery. 
 
 It is unnecessary to narrate the history of that long 
 night; how the sufferer snatched hope, — half his cure, 
 —from their looks and words ; how Ned with his 
 powerful arms, and Morris with his ingenious con- 
 trivances, laboured all night ; and how they cheered 
 him amidst his agony of body and also of mind, for 
 he thought his last hour was come, and, from half- 
 uttered confessions, seemed to be in great fear. 
 
 Ned dropped a comforting note to Kate, as- 
 suring her that though it was a very bad case, 
 there was no cause for despair, as Captain M'Dou- 
 gal had a good constitution, etc. On the afternoon 
 of the next day he had the satisfaction of pronouncing 
 him to all appearance out of danger ; but he promised 
 that, agreeably to her request, he v\'0uld see her in 
 the evening, and report personally. That hour soon 
 came when he must bid her farewell, and leave her 
 her under another's care. 
 
a?ui his Son* 
 
 3S9 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 
 
 r 
 
 It is difficult to realize the feelings with which 
 Ned anticipated his approaching interview with Kate. 
 The 'William Pitt' w'as ready for sea. In a few 
 hours he should again be pursuing his course across 
 the waste of waters ; but the light which had so long 
 shone upon him was then to be extinguished for 
 ever, and the ideal being who had been with him, 
 day and night, for yeafs, was now to become the 
 wife of a Highland laird. He had often resolved at 
 all times to trust God, but a great crisis in his life had 
 come, and could he trust Him now ? Could he, as a 
 child, resign himself into his Father's hands, and say, 
 * Be it as thou wilt V 
 
 Such were the questions which, in a confused yet 
 sufficiently practical form, suggested themselves to 
 him. He had no desire to avoid them. But never 
 was he so conscious of his weakness. Faith, he 
 began to think, had been hitherto more a fancy 
 
3^0 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 than a reality to him, and in his inmost soul he felt 
 that he could not submit to the loss of Kate, — that 
 without her he would become heartless and reck- 
 less. Yet this feeling, in its turn, brought a sense 
 of shame — of ingratitude — of moral turpitude, to 
 his soul. Perplexed, pained, almost agonized, he 
 left his lodgings without being able to impart his 
 thoughts to Curly even, and wandered along the 
 quays. 
 
 It was a lovely evening, deepening into night. 
 Gleams of glory, and golden touches from the de- 
 parted sun, lingered in the clouds that stretched in bars 
 across the sombre Argyleshire hills. Soon the moon 
 rose, and every mast and rope of the shipping stood 
 out in relief against the clear sky. The sea beat with 
 gentle ripple upon the pier. Voices and cries came 
 from boats and ships in the harbour. The long past 
 — ^his home, his parents, his early teaching, his school- 
 boy days, the * John,' Jamaica, Tom Revel, — all, all 
 came before him ; yet how long had she mingled with 
 all ! His eye at last rested on the pole-star as on an 
 old friend. It scintillated there as fixedly and calmly 
 as when he had watched it during many an anxious 
 and inquiring hour of his sea-life. Its very silence and 
 unchangeabteness amidst all the changes and noises 
 m the weary life of man, came to him as a revela- 
 tion of a living One beyond the stars. Why should 
 he not trust Him who maintained the heavens in 
 
and his Son, 
 
 »e felt 
 
 361 
 
 order and beauty, who was his Father, and who 
 had been hitherto so bountiful to him? Why not 
 let Him choose his portion? Was He not wiser 
 and more loving than all? Was he not safe in 
 His hands? Might not His kindness be shown in 
 withholding as well as in giving? 'I shall trust 
 Him I' cried Ned. ' Come what may, I will ! Give 
 or take, my God, as seemeth good to thee ! 
 But help me only to do that which is rights 
 Then fell a great weight off his heart, and a 
 sense of strength and freedom possessed his soul. 
 * Now,' he said, * lam prepared for this moment of 
 my life ; if not, I feel assured that He will prepare 
 me.* 
 
 He then proceeded to the Glen. * Can Miss 
 Campbell see Captain Fleming?' he asked the ser- 
 vant, and was informed that she was ordered by 
 Miss Campbell to show him up immediately, giving 
 time only to her father and mother to get out of 
 the way, as they were terrified lest they should come 
 into personal contact with one who had been attend- 
 ing cholera. Kate had no such fears. 
 
 The absence of the old people was an immense 
 relief to Ned. How to see Kate alone had been 
 a problem which was thus unexpectedly and satisfac- 
 torily solved. He was shown into the drawing-room, 
 where he was soon joined by Kate, who, with pecu- 
 liar cordiality, and with sundry ardent expressions of 
 

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•78 
 
 The Old Lieutenani 
 
 He next repeated a Sailor's Prayer, — *For thoii 
 hadst cast me into the deep, in the midst of the 
 seas ; and the floods compassed me about : all thy 
 billows and thy waves passed over me. Then I said, 
 I am cast out of thy sight ; yet I will look again to- 
 ward thy holy temple. The waters compassed me 
 about even to the soul : the depth closed me round 
 about, the weeds were wrapped about my head. I 
 went down to the bottoms of the mountains ; the 
 earth with her bars was about me for ever : yet hast 
 thou brought up my life from corruption, O Lord 
 my God. When my soul fainted within me, I remem- 
 bered the Lord ; and my prayer came in unto thee, 
 into thine holy temple. They that observe lying 
 vanities forsake their own mercy. But I will sacrifice 
 unto thee with the voice of thanksgiving ; I will pay 
 that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the Lord.' — 
 (Jonah ii. 3-9.) 
 
 The first portion of Scripture which was selected 
 was the voyage of St. Paul, recorded in the 27 th 
 chapter of the book of Acts,.which he read, explain- 
 ing, as he was able to do, some of the proper names 
 and less familiar phrases. It was deeply interesting 
 to watch the men's faces, and hear their remarks. 
 The whole narrative was to them as real as that of 
 any voyage which had taken place in their own time. 
 The interest got so great that Ned had to borrow an 
 ttlas from the Captain, and show the ship's course ; 
 
and his Son, 
 
 "79 
 
 a favour which Salmond gave with a growl, asking 
 what had an atlas to do with the Bible? and remark- 
 ing that * they might as well take a compass into the 
 pulpit' 
 
 By the time Ned came to the thirty-third verse the 
 men were eager to hear the end of the story. 
 
 * And while the day was coming on, Paul besought 
 them all to take meat, saying, This day is the four- 
 teenth day that ye have tarried, and continued fasting, 
 having taken nothing. Wherefore I pray you to take 
 some meat ; for this is for your health : for there 
 shall not an hair fall from the head of any of you. 
 And when he had thus spoken, he took bread, and 
 gave thanks to God in presence of them all; and 
 when he had broken it, he began to eat. Then were 
 they all of good cheer, and they also took some meat 
 And we were in all in the ship two hundred three- 
 score and sixteen souls. And when they had eaten 
 enough, they lightened the ship, and cast out the 
 wheat into the sea.' 
 
 Wilson observed, 'Well, I'm glad I was not on 
 board of her ! It must have been a wild job, with a 
 leaky ship, a cargo of wheat, shifting too, no doubt, 
 and two hundred and seventy-six souls on board, and 
 she riding by four anchors off a lee-shore in a Le- 
 vanter ! Now, Fleming, as you are up to the Bible, 
 tell me, "Was that man Paul a regular parson?'" 
 
 * He was a holy apostle, Wilson/ replied Fleming. 
 
 i 
 
 ' i 
 
i8o 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 *That is a parson, is it?* continued Wilson. 
 *In course he was,* said Lamont. *Pity m^ 
 VVilson, ye surely hae heard o* the Apostle Paul?* 
 
 * Perhaps I have, as well as you,' said Wilson, * but 
 what I ax is, Was he what we call a parson? for 
 if so, he was not like any that ever I know'd of.* 
 
 *In what way?' asked Lamont. 
 
 'Because the most of them chaps I have sailed 
 with, I'm blest if they weren't fine gentlemen, rigged 
 out with black coats that could not stand salt water ; 
 and the ship's company awaiting on them, and not 
 them helping or caring for the ship's company. Now, 
 that man was all alive, I say, and fit for a quarter- 
 deck.' 
 
 * What do you mean 1' said Lamont 
 
 ' I mean as how he got rations served out to all 
 hands, for'ard as well as aft, like a man, and kept a 
 bright look-out for the crew, and for the passengers 
 and sojers. And what I say is this, that he was an 
 out-and-outer! A right good fellow he must have 
 been, when the sea was a washin' over that old tub 
 in a gale of wind before break of day, on a lee-shore, 
 for him to rise up in that turmendous crowd of pas 
 sengers, and to say grace as peaceful as if he was in 
 a church ; I say he was a tip-topper, and no mistake ; 
 and a man I'd hear preach, I would. Go on, Ned, 
 I want to hear how they got along. It's first rate.' 
 
 * Well,* said Ned, * if you would listen to his preach» 
 
and his Son, 
 
 i8i 
 
 ing, I can read you many of his sermons, for there 
 are many of them here.' 
 
 * I never knew,' said Dick Martin, * that there were 
 any stories like that in the Bible. I thought it was 
 all about fire and brimstone.' 
 
 *Dinna joke, Dick,' said NeiL *Ye maunna try 
 that enoo.' 
 
 'It's nae joke, but a fact,' said Dick; 'for I am 
 just as pleased as ony o' ye wi' the Bible.' 
 
 * The Bible,' said Ned, * is full of stories, better and 
 truer than you can get out of any other book. In the 
 meantime, let's finish the voyage of St. Paul' 
 
 * Afore ye begin again,' remarked Neil Lamont, 
 *let me jist say ae word to our freen Wilson here. 
 Jock, my lad, ye were grumbling, yon nicht o' the 
 wreck, maist awfu' aboot I kenna what, and maybe 
 I was snarling a bit mysel' ; but tho' I'm nae minister, 
 and dinna pretend to preach, yet there's ae lesson I 
 think I hae learned already frae this chapter, and it's 
 this, that a man may be in a bad ship and in a wild 
 and lang gale o' wind, wi' little to comfort his body, 
 and be even a poor ill-used prisoner ; but yet he may 
 hae the peace o' God in his heart, and that^s a reform 
 which is in our ain power, wi' the grace o' God.' 
 
 * Maybe, Neil, maybe,' replied Wilson, 'I'm only 
 on my first voyage, like, through the Bible ; all I say 
 is, Paul was a man I honour and respect I do in- 
 deed. So I say, go ahead, Ned,' 
 
l82 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 And thus began the forecastle services, which were 
 continued during the voyage, and each Sunday saw 
 the crew more quiet, interested, and simple-hearted. 
 During prayers they all rose and listened reverently. 
 
 Salmond and M'Killop never joined them, but they 
 never internipted them, and both confessed they did 
 not think such a thing possible;* generously ad- 
 mitting that Hhey could not say they thought the 
 crew the waur o't' An incident occurred which 
 tended greatly to deepen good impressions. 
 
 ' It is pleasing to know that there are upwards of 200 mer- 
 chant ships Sidling from British ports in which worship is req[U- 
 larly conducted every Sunday, nnd, in a few cases, daily, with 
 the hearty concurrence of the crews. 
 
atid his Son, 
 
 i8l 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 ABOUT POOR COX. 
 
 Cox had never been the same man since that 
 night of the riot in Kingston. There was evidently 
 * something wrong' with him, though neither his 
 own sensations, beyond great internal uneasiness, 
 nor the medical skill of any on board could indi- 
 cate the nature of his malady. But he had lost his 
 appetite, slept poorly, and was haunted with night- 
 mares of dim and impalpable horror. He seldom 
 spoke, and seemed oppressed by some great weight. 
 His messmates in vain tried to rally him. Neither 
 their jokes nor their banter moved him further than 
 to draw forth a quiet request to be * let alone.' 
 
 'What is wrong with Coxl' some of them would 
 ask in a whisper. * Has he seen a ghost ? He has 
 broken no bones, nor has he had a wound more than 
 any of us. But his spirit has gone right off. He is 
 like a vessel waterlogged, or lying -to under bare 
 poles.' 
 
 li 
 
i84 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 *Cox is clean diddled,' said Salmond, *with that 
 new rum. We might as well hae a cuddie ass on 
 board, or a pig, for a' the guid he does. ' 
 
 ' I'm no sure but he's skulkin',' said M'Killop. 
 
 * Skulkin' ! ' exclaimed Salmond, as if some new 
 light had broken in upon him ; ' ye dinna say so ? 
 Has he ony spite at you or me f If I thought thaty 
 my word, I would start him, big though he is 1 But 
 na, na, Peter, it's no that He's ower proud for 
 that' 
 
 * Proud ! there's nae doubt he's proud,' replied the 
 mate ; ' the proudest man I ever kent And it's pos- 
 sible he may hae a spite ; for I was obliged to gie 
 him a guid crack that night o' the row ; yet after a', 
 I think he was ower far gaen to ken me, let alane to 
 keep it in mind.' 
 
 'Ye might try and rouse him when ye hae a 
 chance,' said Salmond. 
 
 * Tak' my word I '11 rouse him,' replied the mate. 
 * I'm just watchin* him. He'll no dodge me. If 
 he tries the game at odds and evens wi' me, I'll be 
 mair than even wi' him.' 
 
 Cox had somehow heard that the captain and 
 M'Killop fancied his sickness to be feigned, or 
 thought it proceeded from some grudge ; and in his 
 present mood, this but intensified his suffering. No 
 man at any time more thoroughly despised such 
 cowardicci and nothing but a sense of duty or pride 
 
and his Son. 
 
 «85 
 
 enabled him to stand on deck, and take his part in 
 the ship's work. He was daily getting worse. His 
 pale face betrayed his weakness. 
 
 In spite of the wrong he had done Ned, the boy 
 was irresistibly attracted to Cox. In his English 
 tongue, handsome face, and fine manly bearing, 
 there was a certain sailor grace and dignity which 
 made him Ned's ideal of a Jack-tar. He had very 
 frequently shown a great deal of kindness in his 
 own ^ay to Ned during the voyage. It was, there- 
 fore, with real pain that he saw poor Cox getting 
 visibly weaker and sadder. 
 
 One night, when the weather was rough and wet, 
 Ned had insisted on taking Cox's watch on deck. 
 Cox expostulated with him, and refused the offer — 
 the like of which, he remarked, had never been made 
 to him the whole time he was at sea. But his pain 
 compelled him to give in. Twice again the same 
 charitable substitution was insisted upon by the ap- 
 prentice. 
 
 M'Killop noticed it, and whispered to Ned to 
 * mind what he was about,' as he would * not put 
 up with skulking down below. You understand me, 
 don't you V he asked, looking with one eye steadily 
 at Ned, while the other seemed to follow his finger 
 as he pointed down the forecastle. 
 
 * I think I do,' replied Ned, manfully ; * but Cox 
 is ill, seriously ill, I say, and what can I do since 
 
i86 
 
 Tlie Old Lieutenant 
 
 you say that the whole starboard watch must come 
 on deck V 
 
 * All I say is, master,' said the mate, with firmness, 
 * don't come it too thick, and humbugging over me, 
 you understand ? I hope you do.' 
 
 But this kindness upon Ned's part, with sundry 
 little unostentatious attentions, such as getting him 
 his food or drink when he could not rise without 
 pain to get it for himself, and chatting to him cheerily 
 to keep his spirits up, and reading now and then with- 
 out making any fuss about it, or attracting too much 
 notice, seemed to awaken a new life in the heart of 
 the sick man. One night when it was their joint 
 watch on deck, he expressed his gratification at being 
 able to resume his duties. 
 
 It was a glorious night, without a cloud in the sky. 
 ' The moon shone round her with the heavens all bare,' 
 and a bright pathway of splendour streamed across 
 the sparkling waves from the ship to the horizon. A 
 gentle breeze swelled the canvas that crowded every 
 yard from the deck to the truck, and out to the end 
 of the stun'sail booms. The sea flashed in phospho- 
 rescent foam round her bows, gleaming past the ship, 
 and joining the white and sparkling wake astern. 
 
 It was past midnight when Cox was gazing in- 
 tently a-head. Ned joined him, and asked him 
 how he felt. He started, as from a reverie, made 
 no reply, but putting his hand on the shoulder of 
 
And his Son, 
 
 187 
 
 the apprentice, made him sit down beside him on a 
 coil of ropes at the heel of the bowsprit 
 
 'Fleming, my boy,' he said, 'I'm a dying man. 
 Hold hard now \ don't speak, for I am not one to 
 humbug you or any one, but I will take it kindly if 
 you listen to what I have to say.' 
 
 Ned felt a strange spell come over him that hin- 
 dered him from replying. 
 
 Cox rolled his arms, bent his head forward, and 
 leaning close to Fleming, spoke with a low and 
 earnest voice. * God forgive me,* he began, * and I 
 hope you will forgive me for the harm I did you on 
 shore. Yes, yes, I know you forgive me, but I don't 
 forgive myself. Yet what is this drop in the ocean 
 of my wicked life ! But that is not what I wanted to 
 talk about. It is past, and cannot be mended. Listen 
 to another matter. Fleming, you are young, and 
 I might be your father; but you are an officer's 
 son, have got good schooling, and can understand a 
 fellow better than our messmates, and I have some- 
 thing on my heart I must heave off somehow before 
 I get worse. It must not go down with me, like shot 
 in my hammock.' And then he rose, and, motion- 
 ing to Fleming to sit still, he looked over the bul- 
 warks in silence, as if debating whether he would say 
 more, and then resumed his seat. 
 
 'Listen,' he said, 'to my story. I will tell you 
 what I have been telling no one but myself for many 
 
The Old Lieutenani 
 
 a long year.' After a pause, he continued, *I was 
 bom and brought up in Dartmouth Forest, in a place 
 called Brentnor. My own name is not Cox, but 
 Revel. My father and mother, with young brothers 
 and sisters, went to live near a place called Anstey's 
 Cove, on the Devon coast It is many a day, Ned, 
 since I spoke these names aloud. My father had 
 taken a share in a smuggling venture, and used to do 
 a good deal in that line, making many a run in the 
 lugger, for the family was poorly off ; and we used 
 to think the rich were det«»rmined to rob the poor ; 
 and that, though we broke the laws of man, we were 
 not breaking the laws of God. For we thought man's 
 laws wer6 gone clean again' what was just ; and in- 
 deed in them days, gentlemen and parsons and all 
 were as keen to buy from the lugger as my father 
 was to sell. But my father never- did harm to any- 
 body, for a kinder heart never beat. Never ! never !' 
 Here Cox paused and looked aloft ; then, clearing 
 his throat, proceeded : * Well, one early morning he 
 and I were walking along the coast, until we came 
 to the top of a precipice that looks over a small place 
 called Baddicombe Bay. Oh, lad, my eyes have 
 never seen a prettier sight on land or water than 
 there ! Many a time I saw it afore ; and, though I 
 was but a boy, I used to stop to look down on the 
 big rocks and caves, and clear water and white sand, 
 and Torbay, and the far-away sea, with man-o'-war 
 
/ 
 
 
 
 and his Son. 
 
 1^9 
 
 ships t But why should I speak of them, that will 
 never see them again ? Well, as I was saying, we 
 were coming up the rocks thinking no one was there; 
 though my father knew that big Lillycrap, the coast- 
 guardsman, was on the look-out for him. But just 
 as we reached a green spot, nigh the edge of the pre- 
 cipice, there sprung out upon him the coast-guards- 
 man frv m behind a rock, and seizing my father, he 
 cried, with an oath, " I have got you now 1" ' 
 
 * Then began a terrible struggle. They went at i^ 
 wrestling and wheeling, with the dust flying about 
 Foot to foot and aim to arm, Lillycrap trying to get 
 the handcuffs on my father, and every now and then 
 yelling out for assistance. As they came nigh the 
 precipice, it was fearful to see them ! The coast- 
 guardsman cried out, with his face red and furious, 
 " I will pitch you over, I will, as sure as you have a 
 soul, if you don't give in." When I heard him say 
 that, I became half-mad. Though a mere boy, small 
 of stature, I was very strong, and I flew between them 
 and gave a trip to the man. He let go one hand to 
 catch me, and my father then, with all his might, 
 thrust him from him, striking him on the throat 
 With that he staggered back, and fell, rolling over 
 them dreadful rocks : I remember no more but my 
 father's crying to me- to be off to the forest 
 
 * Off I ran, and never stopped till I found myself 
 creeping along like a hare, half dead with fear, through 
 
t 
 
 iqo 
 
 The Otd Lieutenant 
 
 the brush and scrub of Dartmoor. I soon reached 
 the old oaks, and joined some gipsies that were in a 
 place called Whistman's Wood, and wandered, with 
 them; and it was months after that I heard my 
 father was tried and hanged for the murder, and that 
 he never told I had anything to do with it. But one 
 of the gipsies learned that the very first thing he said 
 to my mother, when she went to see him in prison, 
 was, "Thank God that Tom is safe!'" Here poor 
 Cox gave way, and sobbed like a child. 
 
 * Oh ! he had such a kind heart, had that man,' 
 he continued, after a time. * He loved me, if pos- 
 sible, more than my mother did. He could not, 
 Fleming, it was not in him, to hurt any man, but 
 it was all self-defence, and they swore his life away. 
 I forget many of them years now. They are cloudy 
 and confiised, like a fleet in mist. But at last I went 
 to the navy, and was not long there till I got fright- 
 ened one day, in hearing some man tell the story 
 about my father. Though I had changed my name, 
 I was afraid of being found out, and I ran for it, 
 and left England, and have been knocking about in 
 Scotch ships ever since ; but without peace, without 
 peace ! Something has always been a chasing me, 
 and smothering me. I do not know what has 
 become of mother or brothers ; and when I saw 
 that wreck of a ship from near my old home, it 
 brought these old times back, and I thought she said 
 
and his Son. 
 
 191 
 
 on reached 
 .t were in a 
 dered . with 
 
 heard my 
 
 r, and that 
 
 But one 
 
 ing he said 
 
 in prison, 
 Here poor 
 
 that man,' 
 ne, if pos- 
 could not, 
 
 man, but 
 life away, 
 are cloudy 
 ast I went 
 got fright- 
 
 the story 
 my name, 
 ran for it, 
 J about in 
 e, without 
 asing me, 
 what has 
 en I saw 
 
 home, it 
 t she said 
 
 to me : ** Tom, you are like me, alone in the wide sea. 
 all gone! all gone!"' 
 
 * Oh, Tom, cheer up, my man,* said Ned. * I am 
 sure that my father, who knows captains and ad- 
 mirals, will manage to put everything right. You 
 must not be miserable, Cox. Don't, old fellow.' 
 
 * Thank you, thank you, lad,' said Cox. *I am 
 not so miserable now, though I cannot overhaul what 
 is tumbling about in my heart. But that is another 
 thing I wanted to speak to you about most particu- 
 lar. Tell me, Ned,' he asked, after a pause, ' did you 
 understand yon parson as preached to us at Kings- 
 ton ? that old sailor V 
 
 * I think I did,' said Ned. * He was very plain.' 
 
 * Perhaps to you,' replied Cox; *for you are a 
 scholar and I am not. I never was in church or 
 chapel almost in my life. Could not be, you know. 
 It would not have done for a fellow like me to be 
 purtendin' to go to them good places. I am therefore 
 afeard I did not understand the Methody. But I 
 have been tumin' over and over what he said, and 
 i/tfs true, it is the only holding-ground I have found 
 yet. For, Ned, I think as how I have been pretty 
 near sailing under the colours he spoke of.' 
 
 * What do you mean V inquired Ned. 
 
 *I mtan the devil and sin,' said Cox. 'With a 
 cargo of misery for ballast, except when in drink, 
 and after that the cargo gets up to the bulwarks, an 'J 
 
192 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 sinks me deeper than ever. Ain't it summat like 
 thati' 
 , * Yes, Tom, we are all sinners.' 
 *No, no, boy ! Not you, not you ! I am the only 
 out-and-out sinner as ever I knowed. But did he 
 say that God Almighty that lives up yonder cared for 
 sinners here-away? Did he? Did he say that he 
 would forgive them ? Did he say that Jesus Christ, 
 that I have heard about only in cursing all my life, 
 was the Son of God, and actually died from love to 
 save sinners the chief)' 
 
 * He said all that,' replied Ned ; and the boy 
 added a few explanations of his own, with such 
 an interest in another's good as he had never felt 
 before. 
 
 Cox, the iron man, took Ned's hand and said, * Oh, 
 my lad, you do not know what it is to be a sinner or 
 you would ! — Now, lad, avast making a fool of a 
 dying man. Is all he said true % Tell me !' said Cox 
 sternly. * Give me your mind as a gentleman, and 
 on your word of honour ! Is it all trueV 
 
 * Would you not like it to be true ? ' asked Ned. 
 
 *' -I it!' exclaimed Cox, in a voice which ex- 
 preisacu his feeling, that it seemed almost too good to 
 be true. 
 
 * Depend upon it,' said Ned, * it is true ; and I 
 will read to you in the Bible alV that Mr. Walters 
 laid.' 
 
and his San, 
 
 >93 
 
 ' 
 
 * And Wilkins,' added Cox ; * that is him that was 
 in the mizzen-top, who I'm sure knowed about Godj 
 — didn't he say that God was willing to save a sinner 
 at once r 
 
 * He did,' replied Ned. 
 
 Cox, after a moment's silence, with his head bent 
 as if he was sinking deep, deep into his own spirit, 
 slowly rose, and leaning over the bulwarks^ gazed up 
 to the mo*^ .hining with unclouded glory in the 
 midnight -i».y; and as he gazed, the pitying angels 
 saw not among the treasures of the deep any jewels 
 more precious or more beautiful than the tears which 
 glistened in the old sailor's eye, and rolled down his 
 rough cheek, until they fell upon his heart, and gave 
 it such a life, such a softening and refreshing as he 
 had never known even in the days of his childhood 1 
 
 * Watch, ahoy ! Look alive there,' shouted M*Kil- 
 lop. * Stand by to set the foretop-gallant stun'sails.' 
 
 These commands suddenly ended their interview. 
 
 Poor Cox grew worse. He rose with increasing 
 difficulty, and crawled, rather than walked, along the 
 deck. He still tried to do his work bravely, and 
 manifested a singular meekness and thoughtfulness. 
 He seemed also to inspire the men with a peculiar 
 respect, almost awe, they knew not why. Perhaps it 
 was the new and strange way in which he spoke to 
 them. 
 
 * Mind what, the old parson said to us, for he spoke 
 
194 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 the God's truth,' he would say to one. * There is no 
 peace for a fellow but in a good conscience,' he would 
 •remark to another. * The best chart is the Bible : the 
 best compass the conscience ; and the best captain 
 Him who is above all, and died for all,' he would 
 confess to a third. Yet he spoke but seldom. The 
 sailors could not, as they remarked, * make him out.* 
 Some shook their heads and chewed their tobacco 
 energetically, as they remarked, *he is running his 
 log out fast over the reel !' 
 
 One evening as Fleming came down below, he 
 shook the water out of his sou'-wester, and remarked, 
 that they were going to have ugly weather. 
 
 ' The wind is piping loud,' he said, as the variously- 
 toned sounds were booming and whistling through 
 the rigging. 
 
 ' And I lying here,' said Cox, * like an old hulk,' 
 as the music of the rising wind began to stir him. 
 ' Look here, Ned,' he added, just come and speak 
 to me for a minute.' Will you,* he said, 'write a 
 letter to Dartmoor?' 
 
 * Oh, Tom, don't allow yourself to get on that tack 
 again. We'll soon be in port, and you will have a 
 doctor, and be all right* 
 
 * I have such wild dreams, Ned, about those times. 
 I have seen them both, you know who I mean, as 
 plain as I see you. And I went down, down theni 
 rocks. Oh. it was dreadful |' 
 
 . 
 
and his Son, 
 
 '95 
 
 * It is just your bad health, Tom. Don't be think- 
 ing about these sad times. It is all peace with you 
 now, old fellow, is it not I' 
 
 * All peace,' replied Tom, * all peace, Ned, by the 
 mercy of the good Saviour. I feel as how I'd got 
 new relations I never knowed before. But yet, lad, 
 do me a favour just this once to please me. Get a 
 bit of paper and a pencil, and bring it here.' Ned 
 soon got his note-book and pencil. 'Will you ask 
 your worthy father,' said Cox, * to write a letter to 
 Mrs. Revel, Backamoor, Dartmoor Forest, near Ply- 
 mouth j and if that fails, try another to Martin Shilla- 
 beer, Torquay, to tell about me ; that is, about Tom 
 Revel. To tell all who know me, and if she lives, to 
 tell my dear mother, or any of my brothers and sisters, 
 that Tom never forgot them, never forgot his father, 
 especially, and that he was proud of him, and loved 
 him even unto death.' 
 
 'I shall be sure to do so, dear old Tom,' said 
 Ned, an3 he could not resist clapping him as if 
 he had been a child, while the man clasped Ned's 
 hand and said, ' Friendship is sweet, lad, on a lon6ly 
 seal' 
 
 But again they were interrupted by a well-known 
 voice shouting 'All-hands-on-deck — reef-fore-topsails !' 
 while a handspike thumped above them. 
 
 * Ay, ay, sir,' replied several of the crew who ap 
 peared to have been asleej). 
 
igS 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 'Can't Cox bear a handl' shouted M'Killop. 
 
 * No,' said Ned, calling up the hatchway, * he can% 
 but I can.' 
 
 ' And he can, too, God helping him,' replied Cox, 
 as half-dressed he got out of his hammock. ' He will, 
 do his duty as long as he can keep on even keel.' 
 
 'Tom, don't be mad,' Ned shouted, springing up 
 the trap after M'Killop, to induce him to compel 
 Tom to keep his hammock. 
 
 The mate had run aft to speak to the man at the 
 wheel. When Ned reached him, he said, * It is not 
 perhaps for me to argue, but, for God's sake, don't 
 let Cox up, don't. You must not, you dare not!' 
 said Ned, in a state of excitement. 
 
 * He is up,' said M'Killop, * that shows who is 
 right. I knowed it. And if you dare come it mutin- 
 ous,' continued M'Killop, as with uplifted hand and 
 threatening look, he rapidly walked up to Fleming. 
 
 But Ned was too much absorbed with thoughts of 
 Tom to take in distinctly what either he himself or 
 M'Killop was saying; and as he looked and saw 
 Tom working his way up the rigging after the crew, 
 he sprang forward in pursuit. By the time he had 
 reached the foretop, Tom was still ahead. * Cox ! 
 Cox! I say!' he cried amidst the whistling wind. 
 Cox gave no heed, but, addressing the men who were 
 already lying out to leeward to reef the topsail, he 
 8aid| ' Let me pass, messmates ! the lee-earing is my 
 
 L 
 
and his Son, 
 
 197 
 
 
 T 
 
 place, and no man will say that I neglected my duty.' 
 And so saying, he worked his way to the end of the 
 yard, and began to reef. Ned followed, shouting, 
 ' I must be near him. He is mad. Hold hard, my 
 lads. He has not strength. We must get him in.' 
 As he reached Cox, the poor fellow looked at him 
 with a smile, and asked, * What puts you here, lad 1 
 You are too young to be out here in a gale of wind.' 
 For a minute there was a confused din with the flap- 
 ping of the sail, the rattling of the ropes, and shouts 
 of command from below. A moment more, and the 
 ship gave a great lurch to leeward. Tom, in his 
 weakness, lost his hold, and clutched at a rope. Ned 
 saw it, and, with a cry, seized him by the arm, but 
 in vain. Another lurch, and away he went, and Ned 
 after him, into the foaming deep ! 
 
 Those only who have witnessed a similar occur- 
 rence at sea can comprehend the sudden shock which 
 vibrates through every heart from stem to stem, at 
 the wild cry is heard of * A man overboard ! ' But 
 this is generally succeeded by an intense self-posses- 
 sion, and an instinctive interpretation of orders. As 
 quickly as possible the ship was thrown up to the 
 wind, the sails backed, while a man hurried up to the 
 masthead to keep in view his comrades struggling in 
 the waves. Several articles, amongst the rest a hand- 
 spike, had been thrown overboard by M'Killop, who 
 had seen the men fall, A rush was made aft to get 
 
198 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 out the boat, without a thought of personal danger. 
 The first who volunteered was Buckie. But he had 
 not strength for the work. It was a high breaking 
 sea, and the enterprise was eminently hazardous, but 
 every available man cheerfully offered himself, so that 
 there was no difficulty in getting a crew. M'Killop, 
 to his credit be it said, got on board, and steered the 
 boat ; and in a shorter period than a landsman could 
 believe, the boat was far astern, rising like a speck on 
 the top of the waves, and then out of sight in their 
 hollow, while the signal-man from the top was direct- 
 ing the boat by signs. 
 
 Captain Salmond had dashed his cap to the deck, 
 and with his glass was aloft, in wild excitement, look- 
 ing out 
 
 When Cox and Ned rose to the surface, they were 
 near each other. Fortunately a handspike passed 
 within a few yards, and was instantly seized by Cox. 
 Both were good swimmers, but as they floated to the 
 top of a wave, it was enough to make the boldest 
 despair to see the distance which had already sepa- 
 rated them from the ship. Not a word was spoken, 
 but Cox, watching the right moment, raised aloft his 
 sou'wester, which had been tied under his chin, and 
 by this means directed the course of the boat. Hav- 
 ing made this effort his strength seemed exhausted. 
 He let go the handspike, and treading the water, 
 while his ^ey hairs streamed over his old face, h^ 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 [ 
 
 199 
 
 sjJd, * Get it under your arms, lad ; can't hold us 
 both. I'm ready.' One or two words more were 
 spoken, but Ned could not catch them , nor was he 
 now conscious of anything beyond a confused sense 
 of difficulty in trying to keep his hold of the frail 
 support amidst the rolling mountains of green water. 
 He was seized by the jacket, and pulled into the boat 
 almost insensible. * Cox !' he muttered, rather than 
 cried, when he came to himself; but no Cox was 
 there. A flood of light broke through the wrack of 
 hurrying clouds, and the wild waves tossed their heads 
 in its glory. Every eye in the boat was strained to 
 catch a speck on the waste of waters ; but Cox was 
 seen no more. His last voyage was ended. 
 
 
aoo 
 
 The Old LieuUnant . 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 home! 
 
 It was a gusty autumnal evening. The old trees 
 gathered up their branches, and crouched beneath the 
 blast. The leaves were whirling and eddying about 
 as if seeking some place to hide themselves from the 
 storm, that chased them along the earth to which 
 they were utter strangers. 
 
 Kate Cainiey was sitting beside her cousin, Jane 
 M'Dougall, or Jatie Ardmore — as she was called, 
 Highland fashion, after the name of her residence 
 — in the windowed recess of a drawing-room in an 
 English boarding-school at Torquay. Jane had been 
 recommended by her uncle, a retired physician from 
 India, to reside for a season or two in the south of 
 England, on account of a weak chest — an ailment 
 which has sent thousands to the same locality. It 
 was wisely arranged that she should, if possible, im- 
 prove her education while improving her health. 
 And she had brought home such pleasing accounts 
 
 I 
 
and his Son. 
 
 201 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 of Miss Duncombe's school, that her mother found 
 little difficulty in persuading Mrs. Campbell and 
 old Caimey to allow Kate to accompany her as a 
 school companion. The whole plan fitted in most 
 admirably with Mrs. Campbell's general arrangements 
 with reference to Kate. She was most ambitious to 
 give her daughter a good education, if not in the 
 truest sense of the word, yet to give her at least a 
 ' genteel ' one, and to make her ' ladylike.' She was 
 no less ambitious to keep up a close connexion with 
 her relations, the Ardmores, who, with the Achna- 
 begs, were the most aristocratic spokes in her wheel 
 of fortune. The M'Dougalls inherited an old, though 
 not a large property in Argyleshire, the heir -appar- 
 ent of which, Duncan, had been selected in strict 
 confidence between Mrs. Campbell's own wishes 
 and her own thoughts, as the most desirable match 
 for Kate, when the realization of such alliances could 
 be seriously entertained. It was prudent, however, 
 to begin in time j she had, therefore, no difficulty 
 in complying with the suggestion made by Mrs. 
 M'Dougall and Jane. • 
 
 Kate had been a month only at school, when, on 
 that same gusty autumnal evening which ushers in 
 our chapter, as she was sewing and chatting beside 
 her cousin, Sally, the servant, stiff and straight as a 
 stick of wax, handed a letter to her on a small silver 
 salver. She recognised at once her mother's hand, 
 
loi 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 and eagerly opened it, with the thirst for home news 
 which those only can understand who remember 
 their feelings when they first left home. The letter 
 was written with a hard pen, on glazed paper, and 
 with extraordinary neatness. It ran thus : — 
 
 * My dearest Catherine, — I received your letter 
 — ^which, on the whole, was very well written, and 
 every word correctly spelt — and I was delighted to 
 hear that you liked Miss Duncombe. Your papa 
 and I are naturally very anxious that you should im- 
 prove to the utmost this excellent opportunity af- 
 forded to you of finishing your education. Be very 
 careful to acquire the English accent, and ladylike 
 manners. Manner is everything. Of course, I know 
 that other things are of great importance, but they 
 never can be set off to any advantage unless there is 
 a good manner. So attend to this. We are all well. 
 We dined at the Park the other day, and met the 
 Cunninghams and the Wilsons there, — Mary looking 
 so nice and pretty. I hear it is to be a match with 
 James Hamilton after all i Your father is very busy 
 — as usual. There is really no news. Write us soon. 
 With best love to yourself and Jane, and compliments 
 to Miss Duncombe, 
 
 * Your affectionate Mother. 
 
 * P.S. — Don't wear your blue silk, remember, ex- 
 cept for dress. 
 
 } 
 
 

 i 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 403 
 
 *By the bye, the "Amelia" packet arrived last 
 night from Jamaica. She passed the "John" on 
 her way home off the west coast of Ireland. All 
 well. They signalled that one of her sailors was 
 drowned. Capta'n Fleming will be anxious in case 
 it is his son.' 
 
 t 
 
 4 
 
 Kate had read the note with more feeling indeed 
 than had dictated its formal and cold sentences ; 
 but when she finished the postscript, with flushed 
 face, she laid it on her knee, exclaiming, 'Neddy 
 drowned !' 
 
 ' Who drowned V eagerly inquired her cousin, 
 startled by her sudden exclamation. 
 
 'Cousin Ned !' said Kate, with her eyes brimful of 
 tears, and gazing as if in a dream. 
 
 'You don't mean to say the handsome lad you 
 spoke of, with the black eyes and blue jacket 1 
 drowned !' 
 
 'Oh, Jane, just read that!' said Kate, as she 
 threw the note to her cousin. 
 
 * My dear Kate,' said Jane, after perusing it, ' what 
 nonsense yo.u speak ! your mother does not say that 
 he is drowned, but only that his father would be sorry 
 if he was drowned, which, of course, he would be. 
 What puts those ideas into your head 9 ' 
 
 ' I'm certain he's drowned !' said Kate, still gazing 
 vacantly, ' I had such dreams last night, when it wai 
 
104 
 
 Tfie Old Lieutenant 
 
 blovsdng. It will kill his father ! Oh me, Jane, what 
 will he do?' 
 
 *I declare, Kate, I can't help laughing at your 
 wild fancies. Why on earth should you drown the 
 -boy, as if there was no one in the ship but himself t 
 You are such a queer girl ! always imagining some 
 terrible thing about other people. Last week you 
 were sure your father was ill ! Then you were cer- 
 tain something had come over your mother; and 
 now your cousin. How is he your cousin? But 
 never mind — ^you are sure he is drowned! Why 
 don't you cry about me ?' 
 
 In spite of all this sensible banter from her merry- 
 hearted friend, who added a kiss and pat on the 
 cheek, as she playfully dried her companion's eyes, 
 Kate spent a miserable night, listening to the sad 
 wind that moaned through the trees, and seeing all 
 sorts of terrific sights in the green depths of the ocean, 
 and a body tossing among the long brown tangle, with 
 its eyes shut and arms stiff, rocking about, and rolling 
 hither and thither, so dead and powerless, the sport of 
 the cruel and angry tides. She never alluded to the 
 subject again, but tried to look cheerful, and to work 
 more busily than ever ; yet she had almost less diffi- 
 culty in suppressing her sorrow than her joy, when 
 she heard the John had arrived in safety, and when, 
 after a fit of hysterical sobbing by herself among the 
 trees, she carelessly told her cousin that she was quite 
 
 
 e 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ao5 
 
 right, for Ned was alive, and had gone home to see 
 his father. 
 
 ' Of course he is alive,* said Jane. * Now tell me, 
 whom will you next see dead with your second sight V 
 *she inquired playfully, as Kate, with joy beaming in 
 her own face, said, * I never knew such a happy girl 
 as you are, Jane, and I do love you, to-day espe- 
 cially.' 
 
 Had Salmond, when he saw the ' Amelia * packet- 
 ship passing him on her homeward voyage, been 
 contented with showing his number only, and sig- 
 nalizing nothing about the loss of one of his hands, 
 it would have saved more than Kate from temporary 
 anxiety. 
 
 But I must now transport my readers with more 
 than telegraphic speed from Torquay to the old 
 burgh. 
 
 Forty years ago or so, the Post-office in a small 
 provincial town was a place of great interest. Let- 
 ters arrived twice a week only, and were too expen* 
 sive a luxury to be largely indulged in. It was only 
 when an M.P. appeared — like a comet with a small 
 head and long tail — and when franks were obtained 
 for days to come, that epistles were written in num- 
 bers approaching to the plethora which characterizes 
 the era of penny postage, — an era, by the way, iij^v 
 our social progress, which, if it has added to the*' 
 
2o6 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 amusements of the idle, has added tenfold to the 
 sufferings of the busy. But at the time I speak of, 
 letters were letters ; family chronicles, historical docu- 
 ments, domestic newspapers, moral essays, delicious 
 chit-chat, written with dignity, received with respect, 
 read with solemnity, and preserved with care. Round 
 the Post-office, men of all parties gathered, discussed 
 public events, exchanged bits of gossip, and specu- 
 lated on what the leather bag would produce. They 
 hungered for food like men after a fast, and when it 
 was at last obtained, they devoured it in silence with 
 rare gusto. * The Post ' himself was a public charac- 
 ter, and a sort of private correspondent, who filled 
 up the blanks of the general intelligence by local 
 news and scraps of information gathered up en route. 
 Post-days were always feast-days to the Captain. 
 The large watch, long before any arrival was possible, 
 ever and anon was appealed to, as if to urge a more 
 rapid progress of time \ and the Captain was generally 
 the first to take his stand near the small window from 
 which the letters were delivered. On a certain day, 
 at the time we have reached in our narrative, he re- 
 ceived a letter from Old Cairney, a few days old, 
 announcing the fact already known to the reader, 
 that the 'John' had been spoken with; 'all well,' 
 he wrote, * except ' — oh ! why trouble that inland sea 
 of quiet in the Captain's breast with this puff of in- 
 telligence ! — 'except the loss of one of the hands;* 
 
and his Son, 
 
 207 
 
 and why express the conviction that it * could not 
 be one of the apprentices !' 
 
 The Captain read the letter on the street; took 
 off his spectacles, and put them into their shagreen 
 case; walked up the street with slow steps; took 
 out the spectacles again ; read the letter twice over, 
 and then went direct to Freeman. 
 
 Freeman was busy in the Custom-house, clearing 
 out a schooner. It was quite 'an event when the 
 Custom-house had anything to clear. The Captain 
 carelessly remarked that he had just heard from Cair- 
 ney, and. that the * John* had been spoken to, all well, 
 except that one of the hands was lost. 
 
 * Let me look at the letter, if you have no objec- 
 tion, Captain,' said Freeman. 
 
 Freeman read it, and as the Captain watched him, 
 he noticed that he also repeated the reading. 
 
 *Yes,' said Freeman, thoughtfully, as he looked 
 out of the window. ' Yes, all right ! I *m glad he 
 was spoken with. Let me see her lat. and long.,' 
 he added, as he rose and looked at a map which 
 hung on the wall, * why, Ned may be with us again 
 very soon.' 
 
 * He may,^ said the Captain, as if thinking to himself. 
 
 * He shall, God willing!' said Freeman, boldly, re- 
 suming his seat, and looking out of the window. 
 
 ' Freeman, old boy ! ' said the Captain, after a 
 short silence, ' you are not anxious, I hope ?' 
 

 2o8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ' It can't be him,' replied Freeman, his thoughts un- 
 consciously following the Captain's j ' /le never would 
 have been aloft, and there was no danger on deck. 
 No. It can't be him.' 
 
 * No man knows where a seaman should be better 
 than you, Freeman. He was but an apprentice. It 
 couldn't be he ; I'm sure it could not.' 
 
 * When I was in the " Vanguard," off Hyferes, in 
 the '97,* said Freeman, * we lost our main and mizzen 
 topmast as fast after one another as if they were fired 
 from a broadside, and then carried away our fore- 
 mast, and sprung our bo'sprit; and I know what 
 wind and sea can do ; and so do you, Captain. No 
 man living knows better ; but we never saw boys so 
 carried away; always your a.b.'s, always.' 
 
 * God bless you, Freeman,' replied the Captain. 
 * Come down, old fellow, to the Cottage.' 
 
 * Cannot to-night, nor yet to-morrow, Captain.' 
 *Then next right you must. It's the memory 
 
 of a small engagement, very ; the " Melampus" and 
 a Fr.inch frigate, you remember, and I must have 
 you.' 
 
 * With all my heart,* said Freeman ; * but depend 
 upon it. Captain, I know it, it could not be him ; it 
 could not. But, hark ye, say nothing about it to his 
 mother.' 
 
 As the Captain, after shaking him by the hand, 
 disappeared, and the door was shut, Freeman, all 
 
and his Son. 
 
 209 
 
 alone, threw himself on his chair, leant his head on 
 the desk, and muttered, *God forbid 1 and yet!— 
 no, no ; it would kill the old man.' 
 
 The Captain paced home with many thoughts. 
 In spite of all his arguments, he had terrible fore- 
 bodings. He was silent, absent, took up the news- 
 papers, laid them down, snuffed, tried to be cheerful, 
 and at last said . to his wife, as if he could contain 
 himself no longer, — * Oh ! I forgot; I have just 
 heard that the "John" was spoken to; all well on 
 board.* 
 
 Mrs. Fleming laid down her work, and exclaimed, 
 
 * The " John ! " why, my dear, did you not tell me 
 this sooner % Oh ! I am so thankful, for I have had 
 such anxious thoughts like presentiments which I 
 could not account for.' 
 
 * And why, my dear,' said the Captain, * did you 
 not tell me that sooner V 
 
 * Because they were all nonsense,' replied his wife, 
 
 * for Neddy, you see, is safe.' 
 
 * Presentiments, my dear,' remarked the Captain, 
 with some uneasiness, ' are not to be despised. 
 There is something in them. They are like shadows 
 in the clouds, cast by ships that are themselves below 
 the horizon, and not yet hove in sight. I don't like 
 that sort of queer things myself; but maybe they 
 are sent in mercy to warn us of danger, or to prepare 
 us the better for it when it comes.' 
 
2IO 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 'Yet, after all,' said Mrs. Fleming, *I have had 
 occasion in my life to notice a great number of pre- 
 sentiments, which' — 
 
 * Which came true V eagerly interrupted the Cap- 
 tain, looking at his wife earnestly over his spectacles. 
 
 'Which never once came true,* continued Mrs. 
 Fleming, smiling, * though by the rules of supersti- 
 tion they should have done so. Neddy ought to 
 have been — shocking ! what was I going to say — I 
 mean we should have heard bad news of him instead 
 of good. And so you see my presentiments are all 
 nonsense, as I said; or rather,' she added with a 
 sigh, ' I fear they are shadows cast on the clouds 
 from our own dark heart of unbelief Instead of 
 quiet faith in God, we " fear signs " like the heathen, 
 and trust our fancies instead of our Father.' 
 
 At that moment the Captain felt that his wife's 
 words were signs to him of coming suffering. Oh ! 
 why did he not take Freeman's advice and hold 
 his tongue? He resumed his newspaper, more dis- 
 quieted than ever, but soon made some excuse to 
 leave the parlour, trnd going up slowly to Ned's bed- 
 room, dimmed by the shades of evening, he looked 
 round it, as if expecting to see something. He 
 gazed on the bed where his boy had lain since he 
 was a child, — on his little library, and on his well- 
 rigged boats. Every article seemed a part of him- 
 self. The Captain walked softly to an arm chair and 
 
 km 
 
and his Son, 
 
 111 
 
 Aat down ; but felt afraid to breathe, as if his boy lay 
 dead beside him. As he left the room, and was pro- 
 ceeding down stairs, Mrs. Fleming met him. * My 
 dear,' remarked the Captain, * I think you should 
 have the sheets ready for Neddy's bed, for he may 
 arrive now at any hour ; you had better also air h!s 
 room with a fire.' These suggestions were of course 
 cheerfuHy acquiesced in by Mrs. Fleming. 
 
 Mrs. Fleming had in the meanwhile communicated 
 the glad intelligence to Babby, that the 'John' had 
 been spoken to, and that all were well. 
 
 * Spoken to V inquired Babby. * D'ye mean to 
 tell me that naebody has spoken to Ned on the sea 
 since he left V 
 
 Mrs. Fleming explained the peculiar phraseology 
 to the worthy domestic. 
 
 * Aweel, aweel,' said Babby, 'it's a queer business 
 at best Na, mem, ye really needna scold me, for 
 I've been a brustin aboot the callant. Was there 
 ever the like heard o' ! You sae glad, that some 
 far-off acquaintance, as I suppose, has been sae 
 ceevil as to speak to the ship, but what for could 
 ye no speak to the boy yersel' every day % Pity me I 
 if he had been in Mr. Dudgeon, the grocer's, in the 
 fore-street, as I wished, ye micht hae spoken to the 
 laddie twa or three times every day, forbye crackin' 
 to him at nicht; and there's the Captain has never 
 had that Sabbath pudding Ned was sae fond of iince 
 
212 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 I 
 
 he gaed awa ; nor fient a thing does the auld man 
 care aboot except that ship " John," confoond her I 
 —■that I should say't, till Neddy's oot o' her. I'm 
 sure if it was the apostle John, let alane an auld 
 ship, he couldna be mair ta'en up. I dinna think 
 the laddie has ever had a decent woman to wash 
 his sarks since I pit them in his kist. They'll be a' 
 ruined !' 
 
 ' But are you not happy that he is to be with us 
 soon again V 
 
 'Happy!' said Babby, 'I'm like to greet! For 
 it hasna been the same house ever since he left it 
 I have not had a real guid laugh since the mornin' he 
 gaed awa. Oh! he's a precious creatur. And there's 
 that dog, Skye, I tell you, mem, he's jist awfu' fall'n 
 awa' in speerits, and grown quite regardless aboot 
 himsel'. He taks up wi' other dogs for company ; 
 stray dogs, coUey dogs, and hafflin ne'er-do-weels, 
 that he wadna thole when Ned was here. Many a 
 time he sniffs at his parritch as if he had nae care 
 for't. That's no like him ; and a' that comes frae 
 commenting in his ain mind aboot Neddy. If it 
 wasna for Mause's company at nicht, wi' her kindly 
 pur-pur-purrin', I think he wad gang oot o' his mind 
 athegither. And ye expect my bairn hame soon ? I 
 maun pit his room real cozy for him. Hech, sirs ! 
 it's heartsome to think o't! The Captain 'ill no be 
 to ha'd nor bind, will he «' 
 
and his Son. 
 
 113 
 
 * We are all very thankful, Babby,' meekly replied 
 Mrs. Fleming ; * and I think you had better air his 
 room and his sheets to-morrow, as he may come at 
 any moment.' 
 
 There lived in the old burgh one of that class 
 termed * fools,' to whom I have already alluded, who 
 was called ' daft Jock.' Jock was lame, walked by 
 the aid of a long staff, and generally had his head 
 and shoulders covered up with an old coat. Babby 
 had a peculiar aversion to Jock ; why, it was difficult 
 to discover, as her woman's heart was kindly disposed 
 to all living things. Her regard was supposed to 
 have been partially alienated from Jock, from his 
 always calling her * Wee Babbity,' accompanying the 
 designation with a loud and joyous laugh. Now, I 
 have never yet met a human being who was not weak 
 on a point of personal peculiarity which did not 
 flatter them. It has been said that a woman will bear 
 any amount of disparagement that does not involve a 
 slight upon her appearance. Men are equally suscep- 
 tible of similar pain. A I'ery til!, or very fat hero, 
 will be calm while his deeds are criticised, or his fame 
 disparaged, but will resent with bitterness any marked 
 allusion to his great longitude or latitude. Babby 
 never could refuse charity to the needy ; and Jock 
 yas sure of receiving something from her as the re- 
 F.v.H cf ]:is weekly calls ; but he never consigned a 
 cc..!; ('f meat or bread to his wallet without a preli- 
 
114 
 
 TJui Old Lieutenant 
 
 minary battle. On the evening of the commemora- 
 tion of the ' Melampus ' engagement, Babby was 
 sitting by the fire watching a fowl which twirled from 
 the string roasting for supper, and which dropped its 
 unctuous lard on a number of potatoes that lay bask- 
 ing in the tin receiver below. A loud rap was heard 
 at the back door, and to the question, 'Who 's there 1* 
 the reply was heard of * Babbity, open 1 Open, wee 
 Babbity ! Hee, hee, hee 1' 
 
 * Gae wa wi' ye, ye daft cratur,' said Babby, ' what 
 richt hae ye to disturb folk at this time o' nicht 1 I'll 
 let loose the dog on you.' 
 
 Babby knew that Skye shared her dislike to Jock, 
 as was evident from his bark when he rose, and with 
 curled tail began sniffing at the foot of the door. 
 Another knock, louder than before, made Babby start 
 
 * My word,' she exclaimed, * but ye hae learned 
 impudence 1' and afraid of disturbing ' the company,* 
 she opened as much of the door as enabled her to 
 see and rebuke Jock. * Hoo daur ye, Jock, to rap 
 sae loud as that?' 
 
 * Open, wee, wee, wee Babbity !' said Jock. 
 
 * Ye big, big, big blackguard, I'll dae naething o' 
 the kind,' said Babby, as she shut the door. But the 
 stick of the fool was suddenly interposed. * That 
 beats a' !' said Babby, *what the sorrow d'ye want, 
 Jock, to daur to presume' — 
 
 But, to Babby's horror, the door was forced open 
 
and his Son, 
 
 Ui 
 
 In the middle of her threat, and the fool entered, 
 exclaiming, 'I want a kiss, my wee, wee bonnie 
 Babbity!' 
 
 * Preserve us a* !* exclaimed Babby, questioning 
 whether she should scream or fly, while the fool, 
 turning his back to the light, seized her by both 
 her wrists, and imprinted a kiss on her forehead. 
 
 'Skyel' half-screamed Babby. But Skye was 
 springing up, as if anxious to kiss Jock. Babby 
 fell back on a chair, and catching a glimpse of the 
 fool's face, she exclaimed, * Oh, my darling, my dar- 
 l"ng ! oh, Neddy, Neddy !' Flinging off her cap as 
 she always did on occasions of great perplexity, she 
 seized him by the hands, and then sunk back, almost 
 fainting, in the chair. 
 
 * Silence, dear Babby ! ' said Ned, speaking in 
 a whisper, * for I want to astonish the old couple. 
 How glad I am to see you ! and they are all well, 
 I know j and Freeman here, too ! ' Then seizing 
 the dog, he clasped him to his heart, while the brute 
 struggled with many an eager cry to kiss his old 
 master's face. 
 
 Ned's impulse from the first was to rush into the 
 parlour, but he was restrained by that strange desire 
 which all have experienced in the immediate antici- 
 pation of some great joy, to hold it from us, as a 
 parent does a child, before we seize it and clasp it to 
 our breast. 
 
<K I 
 
 fe \ 
 
 li6 
 
 T/ie Old Lieutenant 
 
 The small party, consisting of the Captain, his 
 wife, and Freeman, were sitting round the parlour 
 fire, Mrs. Fleming sewing, and the others keeping up 
 rather a dull conversation, as those who felt, though 
 they did not acknowledge, the presence of something 
 at their hearts, which hindered their usual freedom 
 and genial hilarity. 
 
 * Supper should be ready by this time,' ,suggested 
 the Captain, just as the scene between Ned and 
 Babby was taking place in the kitchen. * Babby and 
 Skye seem busy ; I shall ring, may I not V 
 
 * If you please,' said Mrs. Fleming, ' but depend 
 upon it, Babby will cause no unnecessary delays.' 
 
 Babby speedily responded to the Captain's ring. 
 On entering the room, she burst into a fit of laughing. 
 Mrs. Fleming put down her work, and looked at her 
 servant as if she was mad. 
 
 ' What do you mean, woman 1 ' asked the Cap- 
 tain, with knit brows, *I never saw you behave so 
 before.* 
 
 'Maybe no. Ha! ha! ha!' said Babby; 'but 
 there's a queer man wishing to speak wi' ye.' At 
 this moment a violent ring was heard from the 
 door-bell. 
 
 *A queer man — wishing to speak with me — at 
 this hour,' muttered the Captain, as if in utter per- 
 plexity. 
 
 Babby had retired to the lobby, and was ensconced, 
 
and his Son, 
 
 217 
 
 with her apron in her mouth, in a comer near the 
 kitchen. 'You had better open the door yersel,' 
 cried Babby, smothering her laughter. 
 
 The Captain, more puzzled than ever, went to the 
 door, and opening it was saluted with a gruff voice, 
 saying, 'I'm a poor sailor, sir — and knows you're an 
 old salt — and have come to see you, sir.' 
 
 'See me, sir! What do you want?' replied the 
 Captain gruffly, as one whose kindness some impostor 
 hoped to benefit by. 
 
 ' Wants nothing, sir,' said the sailor, stepping near 
 the Captain. 
 
 A half-scream half-laugh from Babby drew Mrs. 
 Fleming and Freeman to the lobby. 
 
 'You want nothing — what brings you to disturb 
 me at this hour of the night % Keep back, sir !' 
 
 ' Well, sir, seeing as how I sailed with Old Caimey, 
 I thought you would not refuse me a favour,' replied 
 the sailor, in a hoarse voice. 
 
 ' Don't dare, sir,' said the Captain, ' to come into 
 my house one step farther, till I know more about 
 you.' 
 
 ' Now, Captain, don't be angry ; you know as how 
 that great man Nelson expected every man to do his 
 duty j all I want is just to shake Mrs. Fleming by the 
 hand, and then I go, that is, if after that you want 
 me for to go.' 
 
 'Mrs. Fleming 1' exclaimed the Captain, with the 
 
2l8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 indignation of a man who feels that the time has 
 come for open war as against a housebreaker. 
 
 ' If you dare ' — 
 
 But Mrs. Fleming seeing the rising storm, passed 
 her husband rapidly, and said to the supposed in^ 
 truder, whom she assumed to be a tipsy sailor, 
 'There is my hand, if that's all you want, go away 
 now as you said, and don't breed any disturbance.' 
 
 But the sailor threw his arms around his mother, 
 and Babby rushed forward with a light, and then 
 followed muffled cries of * Mother !' * Father !' * Ned 1* 
 'My own boy !' 'God be praised !' until the lobby 
 was emptied, and the parlour once more ali ^e with 
 as joyous and thankful hearts as ever met in ' hamlet 
 or in baron's ha' ! ' 
 
 Never had a light burned in the cottage parlour to 
 so late an hour as on this famous one in its history 
 when Ned told his adventures — in their leading de- 
 tails only for the present — to that deeply interested 
 group. The Captain had only three bottles of 
 ' genuine old Port ' in his cellar, and one was pro- 
 duced to mark his sense as an officer of the i.-iport- 
 ance of the evening. He was no doubt anticipating an 
 approaching anniversary, when he would draw a cork 
 sacred to the memory of Trafalgar j but Neddy that 
 night blotted even Nelson out of memory. The Cap- 
 tain, in a fit of absence, helped himself to a bumper 
 with his back turned to his friends when he heard of 
 
and his Son. 
 
 219 
 
 poor Cox's adventures, and then, when their boy was 
 picked up, both father and mother, unable to restrain 
 themselves, fondly hung over him for a moment, as 
 if to make sure he was there, while Freeman stirred 
 the fire to make a noise, and to be useful. Mrs. 
 Fleming perceived a marked seriousness in Ned's 
 manner when he told Cox's story, which impressed 
 her with the happy conviction of a good work ad- 
 vancing in her boy's spirit, like the sun rising slowly 
 but surely unto the more perfect day. 
 
 ' Is it not strange,' remarked the Captain, ' that our 
 young friend, Kate — you remember her — should be 
 in Torquay? Most strange indeed ! We shall not 
 let a post pass without writing to inquire about that 
 poor fellow's friends. He rests in peace,' murmured 
 the Captain, as he threw himself back in his chair, 
 and looked upwards; *in peace ! Jack's aloft ! I'm 
 sure of it.' 
 
 'All calm above!' chimed in Freeman; 'there's 
 good in sailors, thank God ; not all bad !' 
 
 * Freeman,' said the Captain, with a quiet, solemn 
 voice, * it 's late, but I know you '11 not object to join 
 us to-night,' he said, pointing to the large Bible and 
 Prayer-book. * It has been a wonderful night this ; 
 let us thank God.' And the old man asked Ned to 
 read a portion of Scripture, which he cheerfully did, 
 selecting the 103d Psalm, with an appropriateness 
 which delighted his mother, and did not escape the 
 
220 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 watchful eye of his father, who himself selected an 
 appropriate thanksgiving from the Prayer-book. Then 
 all parted for the night, and, with hearts overflowing 
 with gratitude, retired to rest, while the breeze whis- 
 pered through the clustering ivy on the cottage wall, 
 the waves of the full tide beat gently upon the pebbly 
 shore, and the stars twinkled and scintillated in the 
 depths of the peaceful sky. 
 
 1 
 
and his Son. 
 
 211 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A HOLIDAY AT THE SCHOOL. 
 
 Next day Ned, with strange and almost awkward 
 feelings, encountered the gaze of the inhabitants of 
 the burgh as he walked up the ' main street ' to pay 
 his first visit to the school 
 
 He could not account for the change which seemed 
 to have taken place in the town. The streets seemed 
 narrower and shorter, the houses lower, and the 
 church steeple did not reach the sky as it used to do. 
 Nor had he any idea that so many people knew him, 
 for never in his life had he received so many smiles and 
 nods, or shaken so many hands. But nothing made him 
 realize more the length of that dream of his, than his 
 reception in the school. He entered it with a flutter 
 about the heart, but with the bold determination to 
 ask a boon which was associated in his own memory 
 with the joys of an earthly paradise, and that was 
 'The Play!' — or a holiday for the boys. He had 
 often seen the stem, but, on the whole, kind old 
 dominie, Mair, grant this favour when asked by old 
 
112 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 scholars, and Ned was willing to run the risk of a 
 refusal in the ho^^jc or « jiaining his request. When 
 he entered and sav/ jc xr. .1 / of the well-known faces 
 gleaming wHh joy, and he?.vO tte cheers, and beheld 
 the real, yet iubdue ' pleasure " the master, and re- 
 ceived his hearty shake, with jve/" ^ 'he cross coat' 
 on, as a certain grey school-garment, like a dressing- 
 gown, was named; and then, after humbly and re- 
 spectfully asking a holiday, heard the old familiar rap 
 on the desk, and the old familiar cry of * Si-lence — 
 or-der, bo-oys !' followed by kindest words about 
 himself, and the permission to dismiss for the day, 
 but * with order, and to come well prepared to-mor- 
 row ;* and then, again, when he was carried out in the 
 stream of the rejoicing school amidst dust, and cries, 
 and rapid packing away of books ! — oh, that was a 
 reward for the most dangerous voyage! Then fol- 
 lowed such gatherings round him in the yard, such 
 exciting proposals for various ways of enjoying the 
 holiday — ^football, cricket, and all the sources of boy 
 life, with Ned himself to take part in them all. And 
 little Cocky, who was there, made a flying leap over 
 Ned's back, and as some alleged, kissed his cheek ; 
 but all gave him a welcome that made his heart so 
 soft, that he found it diflicult to conceal his emotion. 
 Salmond and M'Killop, with all his recent life, seemed 
 a vision, and his present one the unbroken reality. 
 There was not a phrase or expression connected with 
 
and his Son, 
 
 aij 
 
 the various games that did not seem to breathe 
 poetry, and spring. After satisfying, as far as pos- 
 sible, all the demands which were made upon him, 
 as, for example, to look at the mark * Peggy Walker ' 
 had cut on a branch in the big tree, higher than 
 ever Ned had reached ; only to see the spjendid set 
 of wickets and new bats * Maxy Mason' had got in 
 a present ; just to hear the famous story about ' Big 
 Rowan ' and the master, etc. ; — there was a general 
 rush to the green, where the football was once more 
 kicked by Ned high into the breezy air, amid the 
 shouts of his old companions. 
 
 Oh, how enduring are such memories; and how 
 those school-boy days mould our after years ! These 
 old familiar faces to us never die, with their sweet, 
 kind voices, their free, frank, and joyous life ! No 
 outward changes in the after life of our old play- 
 mates change them to us. Whatever they become 
 as men, in whatever else they may differ from us, in 
 wealth, in rank, or in party, yet the remembrance of 
 all they were to us in the days of * auld lang syne,' 
 still survives, and ever must survive. Masters and 
 teachers ! if you but knew the immortality of your 
 smiles or frowns, of your acts of justice or injustice 
 toward those to whom ye are for a time as very gods ! 
 Your true and generous words will echo endlessly 
 when a thousand weightier words spoken by others 
 are lost in the eternal silence. When the wrong done 
 
124 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 by far greater men may affect us little, a single act oi 
 mjustice on your part will have become a lasting reve- 
 lation of wrong that will cast a life-long shadow over 
 us. Companions on the play-ground ! you little 
 know what histories you too are writing every day 
 on your comrades' hearts. Oh ! be just and gener- 
 ous, pure and true, and then the days of boyhood 
 will be as a light in after life \ and in old age even, 
 when other lights are departed, these rays of early 
 mom will flash like the aurora with gleams of glory 
 across the wintry gloom. 
 
 After reporting himself with due respect to Dr. 
 Yule, and the other notables, Ned's first inquiries 
 were about Curly ; but he learned, to his great dis- 
 appointment, that he had obtained means sufficient 
 though scanty, to enable him to attend the medical 
 classes for the ensuing winter, and that he had left 
 for Glasgow a few days only before Ned's arrival 
 
and his Son, 
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 AT TORQUAY. 
 
 We must again shift the scene and return to 
 Torquay, where Kate and her cousin are in the same 
 window recess, and where a letter is delivered to 
 Kate by the same Sally on the same salver. 
 
 * No cousin drowned this timel* remarked Jane, as 
 she noticed the eager countenance with which Kate 
 perused the letter. 
 
 * Silence, dear,' was Kate's only reply ', * it's from 
 my cousin himself, and a very melancholy one, I can 
 assure you, and it is about a drowned man too. Oh, 
 do not, Jane, like a good girl, interrupt me for just a 
 minute !' Kate had hardly finished her letter with 
 breathless interest, when she handed it to Jane, say- 
 ing, * I must see Mise Buncombe immediately.* 
 
 Now Miss Buncombe was not moulded after the 
 received type of ladies who keep boarding-schools, 
 and who are represented as cold, stiff, duenna-like. ' 
 But she was, what very many of that most estimable 
 glass of ladies are, cheerful, hearty, sympathizing, an^ 
 
 
226 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 most loveable. She possessed more than the remains 
 of good looks, sobered by a cast of care, arising 
 partly from her struggles to maintain her position in 
 society, to do justice to her pupils, satisfy stupid and 
 unreasonable parents, not to speak of a few stupid 
 and unreasonable girls, and more than all, to make 
 her own dear mother happy — the old lady with the 
 white hair and white cap, who sat in the little parlour 
 upstairs with peace in her eye, a smile of love on her 
 face, and around her a sunshine of quiet, which in its 
 meek resting in God, was the very strength of her 
 daughter, and one of the best lessons unconsciously 
 taught in that school. 
 
 Miss Buncombe entered at once into Kate's feel- 
 ings of anxiety to discover Martin Shillabeer, and, 
 through the clergyman and an old boatman friend of 
 hers, made such inquiries as very soon resulted in 
 learning that a man of that name inhabited a small 
 cottage near Baddicome Bay. 
 
 A visit was promptly arranged to Martin by Miss 
 Duncombe and her two pupils. Others who heard 
 the story begged hard to become members of the 
 deputation, but it was wisely thought better to confine 
 it to the smaller party. 
 
 There are few more lovely scenes on earth tnan 
 that which greets the eye of the traveller, on a calm, 
 autumnal evening, as he wanders along the heights 
 ibove and around Torquay. The town itself consist^ 
 
and his Son, 
 
 227 
 
 chiefly of white houses that rest upon the low, green 
 promontories, and undulating coast around the bay, 
 like sea-birds resting on the ocean's rolling waves. 
 The clear and joyous atmosphere ; the crystal water ; 
 the brown-red colouring of the rocks and soil, con- 
 trasted with white, shelly beaches, blue sea, and green 
 herbage or luxurious foliage ; the picturesque forms 
 of the rocks along the far-winding shore ; the noble 
 sweep of the great Torbay, with the ocean line be- 
 yond, — all this, together with the exquisite beauty of 
 the inland groupings of green fields, rustic cottages, 
 shady lanes, and rural churches, make up a landscape 
 of rare gladness and beauty. Baddicome Bay, 
 whether seen from the crags above or the beach 
 below, is one of the sweetest bits in this great 
 picture. 
 
 Yet, in spite of all this scene of loveliness, Kate 
 felt a strange creeping fear as she drew near the 
 cottage in which Tom Revel's friend was supposed 
 to live, and saw the steep rocks above, and the 
 ocean rolling and breaking beneath them, with white 
 foam fringing its emerald green. Death, drowning, 
 murder, and every painful idea haunted her. But 
 these feelings were in some degree counterbalanced 
 by her youthful curiosity, and a wish faithfully to 
 execute Ned's commission. 
 
 Before the door of a poor cottage, built against a 
 rock of red sandstone, sat an old man arranginfj^ 
 
228 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 hooks and lines. His little short legs were encased 
 in canvas trousers, covered with patches, and his 
 large rough jacket seemed, like his face, to have 
 weathered many a storm. As Ke looked up to the 
 strangers, who were close beside him before attract- 
 ing his attention, they saw a round, wrinkled face 
 with small clear eyes, sheltered by grey bushy eye- 
 brows. Under a mere button of a nose, a mouth 
 crossed the face in a firm, straight line, except when 
 it slightly diverged to adjust a quid of tobacco. The 
 fisherman having taken his observations, renewed 
 his work. 
 
 ' This is a beautiful evening,' remarked Miss Dun- 
 combe. 
 
 ' It is, ma'am,' briefly replied the fisherman, without 
 lifting his head. 
 
 * Have you been successful in your fishing V 
 'Tolerably; pray who axes?' replied the old 
 
 man. 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know us, but is not your naire 
 Martin Shillabeerl' 
 
 * The same, ma'am.* 
 
 * Well, we wished to inquire from you, as an old 
 man, about the history of the places near this.' 
 
 * Humph ! that's it, is it?' said Martin testily. * I 
 knows no more than my neighbours about places or 
 about people hereaway. I only know that it's hard 
 to get a living, and I needs all my time to win it,' 
 
and his Son, 
 
 229 
 
 'I'll give him my spare half-crown,' said Jane, 
 •peaking, as she imagined, in an under-voice to Miss 
 Duncombe. 
 
 < Thank ye ; but I wants no crowns, nor half- 
 crowns, young woman,' said Shillabeer, waving his 
 hand impatiently, without looking at the speaker. 
 
 he ladies had apparently got rather an intract- 
 ^. character to deal with. Miss Duncombe tried 
 another and more decided course, and asked accord- 
 ingly,— 
 
 ' Was there not an awful murder or accident many 
 years ago, among those rocks V 
 
 The old man put down his lines, and, with a firm 
 and rather irritated voice, replied — 
 
 'Ladies, I've been in my time a questioned about 
 many a thing ; but I 'm not over fond of giving 
 answers. No offence, I hope. But I don't bite 
 every bait that comes, although any one who pleases 
 may try and hook me. D'ye see ] Well, then, what 
 should I know about murders and the like ? If you 
 wish for real fish, say the word. I '11 try and catch 
 them for you ; but it takes more than three hooks to 
 catch fish like me. It does ; I tell you — no offence.* 
 And he resumed his work with a dogged earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 * I beg your pardon, Martin, if I have by mistake 
 given you offence ; but may I ask one question 
 more, and then I am done ?' 
 
ajo 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 < Well, then,' said Martin, leaning back, and look- 
 ing up with a look of half-curiosity, half-anger, ' let 'a 
 have it' 
 
 ' Did you know Tom Revel?' inquired Miss Bun- 
 combe. 
 
 The old man was silent for a moment, then letting 
 his lines drop, he asked, in a quiet and subdued 
 voice— 
 
 ' Did you^ ma'am % Tell tne who asks that ques- 
 tion.' 
 
 * I did not know him, Martin, but a relative of my 
 young friend here sailed with him, and was with him 
 when he was drowned.' 
 
 Martin started. 'Drowned!' he exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes, drowned,' continued Miss Duncombe, * and 
 Revel asked him to write and to inquire for you, 
 and to tell you all about him. I know all the story 
 about his father, and if you are the right man, we 
 wish to tell you all about his son, and to learn 
 about his friends. We shall read you tiie letter 
 containing the account of Tom's death, and of all 
 he said about his family.' 
 
 The ice was broken. Martin rose to his feet, and, 
 approaching the ladies, said — 
 
 ' I ax your pardon. I am the right man, \\ *\ is, I 
 am Martin, Old Martin Shillabeer, as they calls me. 
 Woe's me! woe's me! My old head has got con- 
 fiised. Sit down, sit down on this bench. Toip 
 
and his Son, 
 
 231 
 
 k- 
 
 >- 
 
 in- 
 
 •« I 
 
 Revel drowned ! ay, ay, drowned is he? and he wrote 
 about me ! and you know all about his father ! I 
 ax your pardon. Sit down, sit down. Well-a-dayi 
 ay, ay !' 
 
 And the old man moved about like one in a 
 dream, until he finally settled on a large stone before 
 the ladies ; and supporting his cheeks with his hands, 
 while his elbows rested on his knees, he heard all 
 the details of Tom's death. Shillabeer bent his 
 head to the earth, and a silence ensued, which was 
 broken only by low exclamations from the fisher- 
 man, such as * Poor Tom ! he's gone ! All are now 
 gOD'v . 11: "■"- - brave a boy as I ever knowed, 
 and he stuck to his father till the last, did he ! He 
 was right Oh, his father deserved it ! Yes, it was 
 over them rocks,* he said, pointing with his hand, 
 but not looking up. ' It 's long ago now, but it 
 was there. You need not look long at them. It 
 was a sad business, and may hurt you.' Then an- 
 other silence followed, which jio one interrupted. 
 
 ' He was my nephu, was Tom ; that is, his mother 
 was my sister,' he at last abruptly remarked. 
 
 < Is she alive )' inquired Miss Duncombe. 
 
 * No, no ; died of a broken heart ; was always de- 
 licate. The awful day — that is the day, you under- 
 stand, at Plymouth — ^killed her — killed her.* 
 
 * Any brothers or sisters V 
 
 * None, none. The last alive was Bill, and he, w^ 
 
! 
 
 ! : 
 
 11 
 
 M 
 
 i 
 
 132 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 heard a few weeks ago, that he was lost in the 
 "Hope," from Pljrmouth. Three of the crew were 
 picked off; but Bill never was.' 
 
 The fisherman here rose, and as he proceeded 
 towards the door of his hut, he said, ' Just wait a 
 bit ; I'll show you something.' 
 
 Re -appearing in a few minutes, he produced a 
 small pocket-book, made of seal-skin ; and untying 
 a long roll of string, which closed it carefully, he 
 said, * Now, ma'am, the time has come for to open 
 this here document' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 * What is it, Martin V inquired Miss Buncombe. 
 
 'Why, then, I'll tell you,' said Martin. 'Tom's 
 father — that's old Tom Revel — hau a letter wrote for 
 him by the chaplain in prison, for to be given to his 
 son Tom; and old Tom's wife — that's my sister — 
 would never open it, but gave it to me for Tom, if 
 ever I should meet him. Well, I never did meet 
 him, and never will, in this world anyhow; and here's 
 the letter,' he said, as he took a sealed letter from 
 the pocket-book. ' It's fit that you should read it, 
 ma'am, for I can't do it, and there's none alive cares 
 now to do it' 
 
 ' How extraordinary !' exclaimed Miss Duncombe, 
 as she took the letter, written by the dead iminal 
 to his dead son. With a feeling approaching to 
 awe she opened it, and read aloud, while Martin 
 
and his Son. 
 
 233 
 
 pre 
 
 led 
 
 a 
 
 a 
 
 tesumed his old seat and old attitude. It was evi> 
 dently written for the prisoner, but at his own dicta- 
 tion. It ran thus : — 
 
 * My dear Tom, — By the time you get this your 
 father will be no more. Mind, I don't blame you, 
 dear Tom, for what you did. You did your duty 
 to save me. I did not intend to harm the man, 
 as you know ; but as he was killed through my means, 
 I don't refuse to give my life for his. May God for- 
 give us both at the last day, and may He help my poor 
 wife and children, as well as his, — ^that is Lillycrap's. 
 Dear Tom, you're but a boy yet, but you must help 
 Bill and the little ones, and your mother, who was a 
 good mother to you, and a good wife, God bless her 1 
 to me. Dear Tom, your uncle, Martin, will get some 
 one to send this to you. Farewell ! Don't cry 
 much, but keep up your heart; and you need not 
 be ashamed for your poor father, for he has peace. 
 Dear Tom, the chaplain has told me things I never 
 heard before ; for if I had heard them I would have 
 told them to you, and might have been a better 
 man. But neither you nor your poor brothers got 
 schooling. The chaplain has told me about God 
 that made and loved us, and His Son Jesus Christ, 
 that died for us to save us ; and you must love 
 Him, and your mother, Tom, and everybody. Don't 
 get angry, Tom, nor swear nor drink, nor be a 
 smuggler, for it brings shame. Tom, fear God and 
 
434 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 honour the king. Dear Tom, farewell ! Ever since 
 I heard and read about God, He knows that I have 
 every night wet my dungeon floor with my tears, 
 praying to Him to forgive my sins, and to bless 
 you, and mother, and Bill, and Jane, and Mary, 
 and all, that we may meet in a better world. Fare- 
 well, dear Tom! God bless you! farewell. I'm 
 sorry to part from you all ; farewell ! Your loving 
 father until death. 
 
 ^P,S. — The chaplain has promised to give you 
 my watch, and Bill my black silk handkerchief. 
 Mother is to get my clothes that's to be on me 
 when I die. God keep and bless her ! I am sorry 
 we cannot lie in the same grave. God's will be 
 done ! Farewell !' 
 
 Miss Duncombe with difficulty read this letter, 
 and the girls pressed their handkerchiefs to their 
 eyes. Martin moved not, but kept his head bent to 
 the earth. As she finished, his voice was heard re- 
 peating portions of the beautiful liturgy which he 
 had heard in the parish church. Did Martin thus 
 jrield to the instinctive feeling that he could not be 
 in sympathy with those he once loved on earth, un- 
 less he was 'religious?' and was this the method 
 which suggested itself of his being so, as it was with 
 the boy who, terrified in the storm, repeated, again 
 and again, as a pious exercise, the first question 
 in the Church of England Catechism, the only 
 
dnd his Son, 
 
 *55 
 
 Ice 
 Ive 
 (rs, 
 :ss 
 
 IT. 
 Ire- 
 
 'm 
 
 bit of 'religion' he could remember? Or had 
 the old man hitherto retained in his mind those 
 truths in the * form ' merely ' of sound words,' even 
 as the dead mummy retains in its hands the grains 
 of wheat, which circumstances may at last transfer into 
 kindly soil, there to be quickened into new life ; and 
 did this sorrow oblige his mind to relax its cold grasp 
 of those truths, and allow them to drop into a soft- 
 ened heart, there to spring up into life everlasting? 
 Whatever was the reason, certain it is that Martin 
 Degan with bent head and clasped hands to mutter 
 to himself snatches of confessions and prayers. ' We 
 have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost 
 sheep.' 'Yesl' *We have followed too much the 
 devices and desires of our own hearts.' * We have I' 
 * But Thou, O God, have mercy upon us, miserable 
 offenders. Spare us, good I-ord, spare usl* 'Lord, 
 have mercy upon us ! Christ, have mercy upon us !' 
 No one dared intrude upon such outpourings of his 
 heart. Miss Duncombe gazed with intense interest 
 upon him, while her own thoughts could not choose 
 but rise to God in his behalf, so that out of the 
 darkness of those old memories light might come 
 from Him who worketh how and when He wiU. 
 
 The scene was suddenly interrupted by a girl of 
 about twelve years of age, with long jet-black locks, 
 large black speaking eyes, and a beautiful gipsy 
 cast of countenance browned like a hazel nut. She 
 
236 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ran up to the old man with noiseless step, and putting 
 her hands round his shoulders, said, 'Uncle, uncle 
 dear, who's meddling with you V 
 
 The old man started, and, taking her hand, said, 'No 
 one, no one, my poor girl. It's just something these 
 kind ladies and I are a talking about. My ladies,' 
 he continued, * this is Floxy — Flora, I believe, is her 
 name — ^poor Bill Revel's only child, and her mother 
 is dead, and she lives with me ; a good girl — a good 
 girl, and keeps my house all tidy, as you will see if 
 you step in.' 
 
 Floxy, still holding by Martin's rough hand, stood 
 like a beautiful statue, and gazed through her hang' 
 ing black hair upon the two ladies. Miss Duncombe 
 rose, and clapping her kindly on the back, said— 
 
 * We shall come and see you again.' 
 
 *And take this,' Kate added, springing forward, 
 and putting a half-crown into her hand. *Yes, dear, 
 you must — ^from me — and buy some tea, or tobacco, 
 or anything you please for your uncle, and I'll come 
 and see you too, and you'll find us true friends.' 
 
 Floxy looked at the piece of money, and then at 
 her uncle. 
 
 * Thank you, you're too kind, no needcessity for this 
 —none,' said Martin, while Floxy attempted a curtsey, 
 but seemed altogether bewildered. She put the half- 
 crown in the meantime into her uncle's jacket pocket 
 
 Miss Duncombe and her young friends then tooh 
 
and his Son, 
 
 m 
 
 mg 
 
 leave, giving their names and place of residence, and 
 promising to return soon. They requested Martin 
 to send Floxy with fish to them as often as possible. 
 Kate begged the letter to copy for a friend. 
 
 * If it's Tom's friend,' said Martin, * let him have 
 it He will be able to read it, and he has a right to. 
 Keep it, my young lady, keep it, and bless your 
 pretty face for caring about poor Tom.' 
 
 The ladies walked on in silence, each rapt in 
 their own thoughts. At last. Miss Duncombe said, 
 'God is merciful; man alone is cruel! Oh, how 
 intensely I feel our selfish pride, our shut-up hearts 
 to our fellow-men, as if the poor were a different 
 species from us, who were to be used or only patro- 
 nized by us, and as if the ignorant and the bad were 
 no longer our brothers or sisters to be cared for and 
 helped to share our own undeserved mercies ! What 
 sin and sorrow might be prevented by a timely work 
 of sympathy and unpretending, simple, considerate 
 love ! What wealth is given us — and given to bestow 
 on others, in order to enrich ourselves also — ^which 
 we lock up until it leaves us, and we do not make 
 others richer but ourselves poorer. The history of 
 these Revels crushes me.* 
 
 'Can't we do something for Floxy 1' inquired 
 Kate. 
 
 'I shall have her as my waiting-maid, she is so 
 pretty and nice !' said Jane. 
 
!| 
 
 ■}' 
 
 238 TAe Old Lieutenant and his Son, 
 
 • We shall see,' quietly remarked Miss Duncombe ; 
 ' but, oh, dear girls, the difficult and first work is, not 
 the (hingy but the being right. If we but seek and 
 follow the light within, it is wonderful how all things 
 without will become light Let us follow God in 
 humble faith, and not lead in proud self-confidence, 
 and the work we are best fitted for will be given us to 
 do. But, alas ! we are either idle, or carve out our 
 own work and fail These Revels are given us, and 
 I hope and believe we shall yet be of use to that old 
 man and his niece.' 
 
 And so ends the early life of Ned and his friends. 
 Our next chapter will open with the history of later 
 year& 
 
SECOND EART. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 TEN YEARS. 
 
 The kind reader — that is, the reader who enter- ' 
 tains kind feelings towards the Old Lieutenant and 
 his Son, must suppose several years, shall we say 
 ten? or thereabouts, to have passed away since he 
 last met those heroes so unknown to the great and 
 busy world. Ten years ! What changes does even 
 this short period mark in the outer and inner history 
 of every man ! What a passing away of old things, 
 and what a coming in of new ! But I will not 
 moralize in my story unless when it must be done by 
 an inevitable 'moral necessity,' as the phrase goes. 
 For, in truth, I suspect that the most indulgent reader 
 who ever opened these pages, is sure to let slip such 
 
240 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Mi 
 
 moralizing paragraphs, in order to seize the thread of 
 tbe narrative wherever he can pick it up. Let me 
 say nothing, therefore, to refresh the memory of any 
 one of my readers about honeymoons that may have 
 come and gone during any ten years he may fix 
 upon ; nor of the morning stars which have succeed- 
 ed those honeymoons, and have grown into smart 
 boys, with satchels, or into chubby girls, with music 
 lessons — such morning stars giving considerable 
 anxiety, and costing considerable money to enable 
 them to shine — bless them, nevertheless ! nor of the 
 lads and lasses who have passed out of their teens, to 
 the great comfort of their relations ; — nor of people 
 who were 'nowhere' when the ten years began, and 
 are now * everywhere ;' — nor of the ' everybody- 
 knows-their-people' who have, during this period, 
 sunk into the * what's-become-of-them 1' Ten years I 
 why, it is a period long enough to change everything, 
 within and without, in each man's individual history ! 
 Ten years ago, ay, and ten years hence ! I can smile 
 no more as I solemnly think of all that we or others 
 were, or must become within ten years ! 
 
 Ten years have altered the old burgh in many re- 
 spects. The school has been emptied of all its old 
 scholars, and Ned's name has perished from the play- 
 ground, its only memorial being the initials on the 
 big tree, with their once fresh lines, now swollen and 
 deformed with the ten years' growth of the bark. 
 
•r 
 
 ' 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 d4t 
 
 Some of the old scholars have gone to their graves, 
 and some to the ends of the earth. The old school- 
 master, Mr. Mair, has also passed away, and the 
 cross-coat is seen no more, though there is a tradition 
 that it remained for several years after his death, as 
 a scarecrow and terror to young birds in his suc- 
 cessor's garden. 
 
 Mr. Mair was succeeded by a good-looking, smirk* 
 ing, thin, little man, with black hair, which rose 
 erect, like stubble, from his forehead. Mr. Crosby 
 * developed,' as he said, * the commercial, and sunk 
 the classical departments.' He was full of theories 
 on education — gave lectures, in the town-hall, on its 
 methods, in an ambitious English accent — was great 
 in elocution, and in showing off his pupils on examina- 
 tion-days as tragic actors, who could, without the 
 book, take each their part in 'sensation' extracts 
 from the poets. The parents of the pupils, especially 
 the mothers, were thus charmed by the dramatic 
 exhibitions of their children. This was a thing they 
 could understand — which made its merits doubtful — 
 and they wondered how they could have put up so 
 long with the dry teaching and hard exercises of old 
 Mr. Mair. These ten years produced, therefore, a 
 crop of young lads who were assumed to be far in 
 advance of the old stock. Young Bunkum wrote 
 beautiful essays, and sometimes poems on such sub- 
 jects as 'Liberty,' 'The Death of Wallace,' the 
 
24^ 
 
 'The Old Lieutenani 
 
 * Grave,' etc. Bunkum rejoiced in debating societies, 
 iiad a decided opinion on every subject under the 
 sun; was superior to his father, wiser than his 
 mother, despised all that was past, and cared only 
 for what was present Bunkum has at last be- 
 come rich ; reigns in the town-hall ; is sublime in 
 local committees ; awful in reforms, and whirls about 
 as the wheel within a wheel, moving always fast 
 and in a small circle. Some are ignorant enough 
 to maintain that Bunkum would not have been 
 the worse of the tawse — which never of course 
 was in Ais school — as that long leathery-fingered in- 
 strument was once administered by the arm of flesh 
 which inhabited, with singular vivacity, the right 
 sleeve of the old cross-coat 
 
 The Reform Bill has also inaugurated several 
 changes in the old town as elsewhere. It elevated 
 men into importance who were formerly unknown to 
 the aristocratic portion of society in the burgh. 
 When the Colonel and the Factor actually heard a 
 draper and shoemaker make speeches, and presume 
 to take part in public afiairs, giving forth their opin- 
 ions in the town-hall, as to what King, Lords, and 
 Commons might have done, or ought to have done, 
 with reference to our foreign or domestic policy, and 
 when, at the election of an M.P., or part of one, they 
 discovered that the old leaders of opinion and men 
 of pow«r were now in an insignificant minority, — then 
 
F 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 443 
 
 did those two worthies resolve to retire from public life, 
 and weep together over the grave of their dead country. 
 This they did generally over their walnuts and port- 
 wine, before joining the ladies in the drawing-room. 
 
 * The fact is,' the Colonel would say, with a growly 
 voice, ' Radicals may argue as they please, but 
 there must be a governing class who are born to 
 govern, educated to govern, and who have in them 
 by nature the blood, the peculiar blood, sir, to 
 govern. We who have been in India know that 
 Bless you, sir, caste is founded in nature 1 It is 
 the greatest mistake to suppose that it is a religion, 
 or a sort of thing which a man can put on or take 
 off as he pleases. No, sir, it is birth and blood, and 
 therefore talent and power Your Pariah fellows, 
 
 jther at home or abroad, your impudent shoe- 
 
 kers, smirking haberdashers, sugar-scented grocers, 
 . white-faced bakers, can no more get it, than a 
 jack-ass can become a blood-horse. Why do we 
 white faces govern India? — because we are the 
 higher cas , that's all, sir, that's all !/ And the Col- 
 onel woul pread out his arms from the elbows, open 
 his eye d elevate his eyebrows, as his grandfather, 
 who, by way, was of the tailor caste, would have 
 done when criticizing the fit of a new coat. 
 
 *I quite agree with you, Colonel,' the Factor 
 would reply, taking a large snuff, and spreading 
 out his brown silk handkerchief on his knee, while 
 
"W 
 
 
 11' 
 
 J ! 
 
 (144 
 
 The Old LietUenant 
 
 his gallant host helped him to another glass ol 
 high-caste port ; — ' as his Lordship remarked to me 
 one day lately, when I was dining with him at 
 the Castle (though I can assure you, Colonel, he 
 could not produce wine with a finer bouquet than 
 this), " Scott," said he, " no man knows the country 
 better than you do, and mark my words, mark them 
 well, before ten years are over, Scott, we shall have a 
 revolution, and these lands of mine will be," ' — here 
 the Factor snapped his fingers like his Lordship. 
 
 * Of course,' said the Colonel, * there 's not a doubt 
 of it — ^not a doubt of it — none whatever, sir, none.' 
 
 * " When beggars get on horseback, we know where 
 they will ride to, Scott." He often said that to me, 
 did his Lordship.' 
 
 But long before ten years had passed, his Lord- 
 ship's eldest son stood for the liberal interest in the 
 burgh, and submitted to be cross -questioned upon 
 his political views by little M'Kim, the shoemaker, 
 and gave pledges to Patterson, the baker, promising 
 to reform everything in the nation — ^leaving the price 
 of leather and the price of wheat as open ques- 
 tions — and the Colonel and Factor supported the 
 young liberal, protesting, however, that th^v did so 
 only 'for the sake of his worthy father.* What 
 chrnges do ten years produce in man and beast ! 
 
 Surely it is not ten years since we last met the 
 old Captain and his wife, for they both look as fresh 
 
 
 I 
 

 And his Son» 
 
 Hi 
 
 fts ever t Yet, on careful examination, the Captain's 
 under lip is not so well set ^p as it used to be; 
 and there is a greater bend in his shoulders, and a 
 slight shuffle in his gait, though Freeman maintains 
 that he sees no change whatever either in him or 
 in Mrs. Fleming. Babby has been rolling about 
 the kitchen in her old way throughout the whole 
 of this decade. She is contented with everything-, 
 except with the new minister who has succeeded 
 her friend, the good old Dr. Yule, who had 'fallen 
 asleep.* * Him like Dr. Yule ! ' she exclaims with 
 indignation, to any one who presumes to put the 
 two ministers on a par; 'he's nae mair like the 
 auld Doctor than a black singed sheep's head is 
 like the Captain's bonny white ane ! Dr. Yule 
 was a braw man, a real genteel man, weel bom, 
 and weel brocht up among the Yules o' Craigie- 
 law. He aye wore bonnie white sarks, and was 
 clean and trig like a new preen, and had a ceevil 
 word for ilka bodie, for man or woman, bairn or 
 dog. I have even seen him stan' and crack, and 
 laugh wi' the Catholic priest himsel' ! When he 
 met me it was aye "Babby" — that's what he ca'd 
 me, wi' his familiarity way, ye ken — " Babby lass," 
 he would say wi' a smile, "hoo's a' wi' you and 
 yours 1" Then on Sabbath, wi' his goold specs on, 
 he gie'd out what he had to say, sae kindly, that the 
 verra sough o' his voice has made me dirl and greet 
 

 M 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 He coaxed poor walk craturs like me to be gudej 
 just as I used to coax Ned — that's the young cap- 
 tain — when he was at the schule, wi' a bit o* short- 
 bread, or peppermint draps, to do what was richt, 
 when he was thrawn or proud; and I have seen 
 me mony a time, after hearing the Doctor, just mad 
 at myser that I wasna a better woman. But this 
 chield Dalrymple that's come amang us ! Hech, sirs I 
 what a round black crappit head he has, like a bull- 
 dog's, and a body round and fat like a black pudding ; 
 and the cratur gangs strutting aboot wi' his umbrella 
 under his oxter, crawin' like a midden cock, wha but 
 him, keep us a' ! and pittin' his neb into every ane's 
 brose, wi' his impudence. And syne he rages and 
 rampages in the pulpit, wi' the gowk's spittle in his 
 mouth, flytin' on folk, and abusin' them for a' that's 
 bad till my nerves rise, and I could jist cry oot, if it 
 wasna for shame, " Haud yer tongue, ye spitetV 
 cratur 1 " The Captain canna thole him — nae wunner ; 
 for the very first day he cam to visit here, did he no 
 abuse him for takin' his bit sober daunder on the 
 Sabbath afternoon, as if the gude auld man had been 
 a wild Hielandman ! But a' the young leddies are 
 daft about Dalrymple — ^they ken best for what ; and 
 some of the auld anes, that dinna ken for what. But 
 no me ! He never lets on when he sees me — ^he's ouer 
 prood and ta'en up wi' himsel' for that. Him like Dr. 
 Yule ! Gae awa, gae awa, dinna tell me. I ken better * 
 
and his Son, 
 
 HI 
 
 Caimey has weathered these ten years manfully, 
 like a brig lying to. As he stood with his blue coat 
 and large buttons, like twinkling stars, beneath the 
 portico of the Greenock Custom- House, watching 
 one of his heavy-laden vessels, with loosened sails, 
 returning from her voyage, and about to cast anchor, 
 he seemed like a statue erected the^-e to an old gene- 
 ration of honourable, wealthy, though a somewhat 
 rough guild of shipowners, who were passing rapidly 
 away. 
 
 Duncan Ardmore has long ago obtained a com- 
 mission in the army — served abroad, and is daily 
 expecting his company. Old Martin Shillabeer has 
 been dead several years ; but his niece Floxy, care- 
 full;' educated *^v Miss Buncombe, and also trained 
 by her as a waitmg-maid, is acting in that capacity 
 with Mrs. and Miss Macdougall at Ardmore. Finally, 
 little Curly has become Dr. Morris, and occupiis the 
 second flat of a house in the main street of the old 
 burgh, the lower flat of which is distinguished by a 
 large window that gleams with two huge bottles of 
 green and pink water. 
 
 But it is necessary to enter a little more into detail 
 regarding two at least of those persons about whom 
 I have been speaking in a general wr.y, and whom 
 the busy hands of ten years have been moulding untfi 
 they have well-nigh assumed the form which they 
 will probably maintain for life. 
 
^4$ 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Ned has made several voyages to different parts 
 of the world since we last parted with him; and 
 has been for some time in command of a fine 
 new ship of Caimey's, called the * William Pitt,* in 
 honour of the great pilot who had weathered the 
 storm. 
 
 Never did a truer man pace the deck, although 
 that field of his fame belonged to a merchant-ship 
 only ; yet it is the hero who makes the field illustri- 
 ous, and not the field the hero. In his outward ap- 
 pearance he was what the old writers would have 
 described as * a pretty man,' which expressed what- 
 ever was comely as well as manly. 'Jack* never 
 attempted to picture him in words, but every man on 
 board of the * William Pitt' was proud of the skipper. 
 He had little of the Jack Tar in his dress, or in his 
 appearance (beyond the sunburnt face and hands), 
 and still less in his manners. Those habits of study, 
 and literary tastes which he had acquired in the old 
 Grammar School, were of immens:^ importance to him, 
 even in his rough sea-life. He d*, voted every spare 
 hour to reading, and his constant ambition was to be- 
 come thoroughly accomplished in his profession, as a 
 scientific seaman. The merchant-navy, thanks to im- 
 proved legislation, as well as to improved civilisation, 
 has now very many officers of the same stamp. At 
 that time they were more rare. His only amusement 
 was the key-bugle, which was taught him by the black 
 
w 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 249 
 
 
 cook, who had been once in a regimental band, but 
 who from dissipated habits was forced to adopt an 
 artistic profession of another kind in the caboose of 
 the 'William Pitt' 
 
 The manner in which Ned discharged his duties 
 as the Captain of the * William Pitt ' was, unknown 
 to him, described to old Caimey by Jack Musters, 
 his boatswain, an Englishman whom he had picked 
 up and appointed to this post of honour. Caimey 
 was what is called * a knowing old hand,' and, afraid 
 of being deceived by those whom he employed, was 
 in the habit of questioning the sailors, when he had a 
 quiet opportunity of doing so, about their officers. 
 This he did in an apparently easy off-hand, * by-the- 
 way ' style, as if he had no interest whatever in any 
 information he might elicit, but was talking merely 
 for talking's sake. Yet all the while he would greedily 
 drink in every word ; and no witness on a trial for 
 murder was listened to by a jury with more eager 
 attention than were those sailors by Caimey, when 
 anxious to learn what sort of men had charge of his 
 ships. Accordingly, when Musters came one day to 
 his office, on some business or other, Caimey, with 
 an apparently artless, careless air, and while filling up 
 some printed form on his desk, asked — 
 
 *Well, how do you like the Captain?' 
 
 'First-rate,' said Jack ; * true blue !' 
 
 * Good seaman V continued Caimey, looking at 
 
aso 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Musters, who leant upon the sort of counter in the 
 office, which fenced off from the passage the inner 
 sanctum that contained the Owner's desk and stooL 
 
 'Seajpanl' replied Jack, *I should like to knowl 
 It would do your heart' good, sir, just to come a 
 voyage to see how he handles his ship. He's a 
 navigator, sir, no mistake. Fair or foul, he works 
 with them instruments of his most amazing, taking 
 lunars, or taking stars ; for your moon or stars are all 
 the same to him ; and he'll tell you to the length of 
 a marline-spike where the ship is any hour, day or 
 night, or at what bells he'll make the lights or the 
 land. He's wonderful, I do assure you, sir, — he 
 really is wonderful !' 
 
 Caimey chuckled inwardly, but continued his exa- 
 mination. 
 
 * Keep you in good order — eh V 
 
 * We don't need it,' said Musters, with a smile ; 
 *we likes to please him; and mind you,* remarked 
 the boatswain, leaning forward and talking in a con- 
 fidential tone of voice, * he never speaks an oath nor 
 abuses one — ain't it queer V 
 
 ' Never swears V asked Caimey, dropping his pen 
 and looking over his spectacles at Musters Mrith the 
 look of a man that begins to think he is humbugged. 
 But Jack's face betrayed no feeling save open honesty. 
 
 * Never heard an oath from his lips,' said Musters, 
 • I do assure your honour.' 
 
 * 
 
and his Son, 
 
 251 
 
 ' Go on/ said Cairney, shaking his head as if he 
 had heard of a miracle on shipboard 
 
 * Ay, continued Musters, * and he gives the men 
 liberty to read, and has books for them too, and talks 
 tor them friendly like ; and every Sunday, I do assure 
 your honour, he is like a parson — he is indeed — a 
 reading the Scriptures and explaining them — the men 
 tell me, and I am of the same mind myself, that they 
 would rather hear the few words of our Captaip than 
 most of them long-winded parsons who have been 
 rigged out in dock. Anyhow, we all likes him, for 
 no mistake he likes us, and it's a pleasure to sail with 
 him ; and the ship is like what a ship should be, and 
 not, as I have seen it, begging your honour's pardon, 
 like a hell upon earth.' 
 
 * I am afraid, boatswain, he is a soft-hearted, easy, 
 lubberly chap, who will give you all your own way,' 
 said Caimey. 
 
 * That's a good un ! Excuse me, sir, for using 
 such freedom with you, but I wish you only saw our 
 skipper in a gale of wind ! I wish you saw him in 
 the great gale you knows about, of last October, when 
 we nearly foundered ! Lubberly!' Musters chewed 
 his tobacco with great vehemence, looking up to the 
 root ' And as for soft,* he continued, again direct- 
 ing his conversation to Caimey, * I'd like to see the 
 man who would dare come to close quarters with 
 Captain Fleming ! Let them but see his eye — it 
 
25* 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 shines; I will maintain it does — it shines at night, 
 your honour. I've seen it j and as for his hand, why, 
 it's iron ! I think he would shake the life out of 
 every man on board, except, mayhap, big Ben. Lub- 
 berly ! soft ! No, no, Captain Cairney. He is like 
 his ship, well built with heart of oak ; well found 
 from junk to biscuit ; well rigged and all taut from 
 keel to truck \ beautiful and quiet in harbour, but 
 strong and glorious in a gale of wind ; a craft fit for 
 all seas and all weather !' 
 
 Cairney opened his eyes and ears, and only said, 
 * All right ! Here's half-a-crown to drink success.' 
 
 As in the case of many others whose position in 
 the arbitrary social scale was not high, because not 
 elevated by riches or rank, Ned's cultivation of mind, 
 refined tastes, and inward appreciation of all that was 
 beautiful and good in man and woman, made him 
 feel more solitary and utterly hopeless of ever find- 
 ing one who would satisfy the secret longings of his 
 heart This was to him no small trial. For strong 
 men with strong wills, and with strong passions, 
 it is not easy, though it is life and peace, to yield 
 meekly to God's will as our Almighty provider; to 
 hold fast our confidence in Him as a Father who 
 knows the things we stand in need of, who remembers 
 every fibre of our frame which He has made, and 
 who in His Son has witnessed for His oneness with 
 us as hi man beings, and believing this, to tell God 
 
and his Son, 
 
 ^53 
 
 who 
 bers 
 and 
 with 
 God 
 
 Otir every care, and then to wait on Him in patience. 
 * Why was I made for love, and love denied to me 1' 
 is a question which many have answered for them- 
 selves in the flush and strength of youth, by losing 
 all faith in God, and departing from Him with the 
 portion of their goods, to waste them in riotous living. 
 Then comes the great famine of the soul, when it 
 feeds on husks, and grovels with swine ! Why that 
 spring-time * when a young man's fancy lightly falls 
 on thoughts of love,' should be the subject of so 
 much comedy, I know not ; for to most it is a solemn 
 crisis, and to many it is a tragedy, acted within the 
 soul on a midnight stage, with no lights and no 
 spectators, but where wounds are nevertheless given 
 which, if they do not kill the heart, may yet leave 
 scars on it for life. In no moment in our history is 
 the reality of faith in a loving God and Father de- 
 manded more than when the heart is yearning for a 
 creature affection to fill up its void, or when the 
 bright hope dawns that the lamb is found which God 
 has provided for the great and blessed sacrifice of 
 devoted love ! 
 
 But how shall I describe Kate Caimey ? — I frankly 
 confess my inability to hold out from me, to look at, 
 and to criticise those whom I admire, so as to per- 
 ceive their faults. I suppose Kate had her faults. 
 Outwardly she had none ; that I will boldly maintain, 
 should any conceited critic or envious rival dare to 
 
254 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 suggest their existence. Look at her graceful figure 
 with its graceful movements, and notice the waving 
 gleams in her hair; study the head that wears it, 
 and see how it is poised on her lovely neck; gaze 
 on that face, at mom or even, in laughter or in 
 tearful sadness ; and, after having been attracted by 
 each beautiful feature, when you can at last see 
 nothing but those eyes that pierce you through and 
 through, as sunlight pierces through the clouds, fall- 
 ing on the dull earth, — do you not feel that they 
 are the out-looks from an inner depth of purity, 
 love and beauty, greater even than all the beauty 
 you behold % Do you not feel assured that truth and 
 goodness are within, and look through them from a 
 most genuine soul; — and not the less genuine but 
 the more, because of its keen sense of the ludicrous, 
 which can make her laugh with such thorough Enjoy- 
 ment, or of its keener sense of wrong, which often 
 casts a shadow on her browl Could we see her 
 inner life as she herself, no doubt, perceives it, many 
 a spot would' be discovered on the bright disk of her 
 sun. A large spot of pride; another of self-will; 
 another of impatience when crossed, and of fretful- 
 ness at evil-doers ; another dark spot of strange fears 
 and despondency ; but in spite of all, a light shines 
 there ' that never was on sea or land.' If Kate had 
 no faults she could not have been a daughter of her 
 mother — I don't mean Eve^but Mrs. Campbell 
 
 I 
 
and his Son. 
 
 ^55 
 
 ^» 
 
 The mother admired her daughter as her daughter, 
 and used her as daily food wherewith to nourish her 
 own ambitious hopes. Her manners, and pronuncia- 
 tion, and music, Mrs. Campbell frankly admitted, 
 did great credit to Miss Duncombe. But 'Miss Dun- 
 combe had conferred benefits on Kate which her 
 mother could not estimate, and were greater than 
 she herself understood. By the wisdom of her teach- 
 ing ; above all, by the serene beauty and consistency 
 of her character, she had awakened in Kate the idea 
 of a truer and higher life than she could have received 
 from the ordinary society in which she mingled. To 
 what extent she yielded her own spirit to the higher 
 Teacher, from whom alone all real life comes, it 
 might be difficult to determine, without further ac- 
 quaintance. All admitted that she was 'a good 
 girl,' 'most attentive to her studies,' so 'kind and 
 unselfish,' so ' cheerful and unaffected ;' but was all 
 this, and even more than this, but a growth from im- 
 pulsive and instinctive promptings of the old nature, ad- 
 justed to a self-made outward rule of conduct, or was 
 it the product of a new and a living sap derived from 
 another tree into which she was grafted 1 Oh 1 how 
 impossible it is to apply justly to the state of others 
 those Christian tests of character which, with scrupu- 
 lous honesty, we must apply to ourselves ! For the 
 manner in which souls are led out of darkness into 
 light, and are educated for immortality, is almost as 
 
256 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 h 
 
 various, in the manifold wisdom of God, as their In- 
 dividual temperament and outward circumstances. 
 Some, like the jailer of Philippi, seem to pass with 
 wondrous and conscious rapidity from death to lifi^ 
 from slavery to freedom. In others it is a discipline 
 of years, as in the case of most of the apostles — 
 truth dawning on the soul, and strength gradually 
 imparted as they follow Christ as obedient yet igno- 
 rant and wondering children from day to day. Some 
 appear to have lived in light before they could recog- 
 nise the source from whence it flowed. Some ad- 
 vance like stormy waves beneath a driving storm, — 
 now receding, and again rolling farther on the beach ; 
 while others advance as a calm and steadily flowing 
 tide. Some, like trees, send forth at one time their 
 leaves, and then hang with fruit, but anon have their 
 winters in which they appear dead, with bended heads 
 and loud meanings among their branches, yet even 
 then becoming more hardy and strong from within. 
 Let us, in judging of others, exercise towards them 
 the love that ' hopeth all things,' and cover all with a 
 mantle of charity — except ourselves. And if in our 
 perplexity we ask in vain respecting another's state; 
 *what shall this man dol' let us meekly hear the 
 voice of love and wisdom which whispers to us, 
 * What is that to thee 1 follow thou me.' 
 
 How often in human life do we see great storms 
 assail a character, which, if real, becomes more strong 
 
w 
 
 and hts Son, 
 
 »57 
 
 by the trial, but if unreal falls into ruins to rise no 
 more, unless rebuilt on a new foundation. Will our 
 friends Kate and Ned be thus assailed 9 And if so, 
 how will they stand the ordeal ? 
 
 But why do I unite those two names together 9 
 Is it because they were cousins? A most prosaic 
 genealogical reason verily. Is it because Ned loved 
 Kate, or Kate Nedl I never said so. No doubt 
 long ago Kate thought her cousin Neddy the nicest of 
 laddies. But what of that ) She and he were then in 
 the chrysalis state, or if out of it, were only butter- 
 flies taking their first excursion among flowers. Kate 
 never denied at a later period even that she was very 
 fond of him — as a cousin only — he was so manly, so 
 intelligent, so unaffected, so winning, so agreeable, 
 and — yes — so very good-looking, and the best cap- 
 tain her father confessed he ever had or expected 
 to have. But was there necessarily real love on 
 her part? I never alleged that there was. And 
 did Ned love Kate ? Nonsense ! Was he a fool, and 
 had he no common sense 1 Would he make an ass of 
 himself, and insult her and her family by entertaining 
 such an idea? To say that he never had seen such 
 a girl — that from the day on which he had first met 
 her until now, she had been his ideal of all that 
 was beautiful and fascinating — all this was true as 
 a matter of course. But what of that? Nothing! 
 It is pbssible that when disposed to be very confi- 
 
258 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 dential, on some moonlight night, when the rip- 
 pling waters of a tropical sea had bewitched his 
 brain, he might have confessed to the binnacle 
 or compass that Kate was a presence to him, a 
 very star that ever shone far ahead, as if guiding 
 him, and 'ighting up his path across the waste of 
 waters ; rid that her voice, her form, her words, all 
 exercised a marvellous undying power over him; 
 — ^but all this was nothing more than the decision 
 of cool justice. Did she not deserve it? Ned 
 had heard, besides, that a certain M'Dougal of 
 Ardmore was her destined bridegroom — a cousin 
 too by another family branch — (why did not 
 some winter gale break it?) — and little fussy Miss 
 Ramage had expressed her surprise to him at a 
 tea-party in Greenock that he had never heard of 
 this * match.' Often did Ned conjecture what sort 
 of fellow M'Dougal was, and many imaginary scenes 
 were enacted by him, in which he repeated all Kate 
 and M'Dougal might say to him in certain given 
 circumstances, with all he could or would say to 
 them, until a crisis came in the performance of this 
 drama, when, hit face getting red, he would stamp 
 witli his foot, and declare himself fit for Bedlam. 
 Such dreams, half tragic half comic, were gene- 
 lally ended by a rush from the cabin to the deck, 
 with the snatch of a song or effort at whistling ; and, 
 Z» he then paced about, he sometimes thought that 
 

 and his Son. 
 
 25s 
 
 the stars twinkled sadly, and that there was in the 
 heaving sea a dread irresistible power, like an un- 
 fathomed destiny, that bore him on, with its wild 
 waves and surging tides. But brain and heart be- 
 came more calm, and settled into their usual state 
 of rest, as he seized his key-bugle, and after linger- 
 ing softly for a moment on 'the banks and braes 
 o' bonnie Doon,' burst forth in triumph with the 
 immortal strain of * A man's a man for a' that.' But, 
 again I ask, what did all this prove 9 Ah ! it proved 
 more than Ned would dare to confess even to him- 
 self Yet why should he not have been deeply 
 thankful for such a mercy 1 For next to the highest 
 of all influences, the presence in the thoughts of a 
 pure and loving woman is the most refining and 
 elevating which visits the heart of man. 
 
26o 
 
 Tlie Old Lieutenant 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE M*DOUGALS. 
 
 Ardmore House had originally been constructed 
 after a type of architecture which required no 
 genius for its production unless the genius of ugli- 
 ness ; for does not perfect ugliness, or perfect any 
 thing, require genius to produce it ? The said habi- 
 tation was not the legitimate successor of the old 
 Highland home of ' gentlemen tenants,' inen who were 
 often nearly related by blood to the Laird, and to the 
 best in the land by educati jn and manners ; for that 
 Highland home of the olden time, with its roofing of 
 straw or heather, fitted into the landscape like a grey 
 boulder crowned with tufted heath or waving bracken, 
 which this house of Ardmore never did. Nor was 
 this habitation the ancestor of the railway station- 
 house style of architecture, which, in every variety of 
 peaked gable-ends and bow-windows, obtrudes itself 
 on the margin of our western lochs. The dwelling- 
 place of the M'Dougals was a house of two storeys, 
 
and his Son. 
 
 261 
 
 with slated roof, and a chimney at each end, three 
 small windows above, and one on each side of a 
 square porch, which, like a large nose, protruded 
 from between those small, square eyes. The build- 
 ing sprung out of the green grass, alone and solitary, 
 like a mushroom, and without ornament of any kind 
 from shrub or flower. Its only accompaniments were 
 a black peat-stack, which supplied the fuel ; and at 
 a little distance ' the square ' of houses required for 
 horses and cattle, pigs and poultry, which reposed 
 there at night, though, during the day, they were free 
 to gather their food up to the walls of the mansion- 
 house. The only object of interest in its immediate 
 neighbourhood was the beautiful" sea -beach of Ard- 
 more Bay, flanked on each side by wooded promon- 
 tories, interspersed with grey rock and natural copse. 
 On one of those low headlands were the remains of 
 an old feudal keep, that towered above a row of 
 scattered cottages, with patches of green fields be- 
 tween them and the sea. In the distance, behind 
 Ardmore, rose a range of hills, whose dark moor- 
 lands mingled at their base with green pasture lands, 
 and fed a full -flooded stream that sw^pt past the 
 house to join the sea. 
 
 This was the Ardmore of John M'Dougal, the 
 father of the late laird. The said John was an 
 activ;, industrious man, who, from the manufacture 
 of kelp and the successful breeding of Highland 
 
i! 
 
 262 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 cattle, guided by enormous greed, and an easy con- 
 science in buying and selling, was enabled to add 
 considerably to the original property by purchasing 
 several farms, with such euphonious names as Drum- 
 nacladich and Corriemehanach. 
 
 John's son, Duncan, who inherited his father^s 
 character as well as property, with the addition of a 
 love for ardent spirits, especially when smuggled, 
 married the daughter of a neighbouring proprietor, 
 and by her received two or three thousand pounds, 
 which was considered rather a handsome * tocher ' in 
 the district Mrs. M'Dougal had been induced to 
 read Waverley when published, and this gave her an 
 impression, which afterwards became to her a settled 
 truth, that a Highland proprietor was the true type 
 of mediaeval chivalry, and his house, with bagpipe, 
 kilts, and barges, the abode of the arts and of 
 romance. It was she, accordingly, who resolved 
 that Ardmore should be changed into an abode 
 worthy of an old family j although a very small rill 
 fn . ^le fouiitain of chieftainship flowed in Duncan's 
 veins. She accordingly began to dress up the old 
 prosaic dwelling-place into one more consistent with 
 picturesque antiquity and modem pretensions. It 
 was quite marvellous how the original walls were con- 
 cealed or eni.'^bled by alliances with high gables, 
 pepper-box turrets, clusters of chimneys, and other 
 ((dditionSj until it looked quite baronial — in a smalt 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 26:? 
 
 way. She also carved out a winding avenue, ending 
 with a porter's lodge, which served to accommodate 
 the gardener, and also a family in the rear, paying 
 rent. A new garden was laid out, and beneath the 
 drawing room window appeared a flower-plot, out of 
 which, however, she never managed to banish the 
 hens and turkeys, who burrowed under the rose-trees, 
 and left their feathers on the fuchsias. Larch plan- 
 tations also grew up, like green beards bristling on 
 j every round chin of waste land near the house. 
 Then came a gig instead of the old cart, a new 
 * barge ' instead of the old boat ; above all, a tawdry 
 awkward lad, called the footman, in place of the 
 sonsie lass who was wont to open the door; until 
 at last Mrs. M'Dougal felt herself in circumstances 
 which entitled her to change the house of Ardmore 
 into the more dignified title of 'Ardmore House,' 
 and to engrave the M'Dougal arms on some new 
 silver-plate, as well as to have them painted on the 
 backs of two stiff chairs which stood in the lobby, 
 beneath two deers' heads with branching antlers, 
 flanked by some swords and guns brought by her 
 brother from India, and an old Highland shield, 
 bought in the Saltmarket of Glasgow. When at latt 
 she entered her new drawii>g-room, innocent as yet 
 of peat-reek, gazed on her gilt paper and handsome 
 window-curtains, arranged the newly-bound books on 
 the centre table, with some bits of china on each 
 
a64 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 •ide of the new clock upon the table in the recess, 
 and when she finally sat down upon the sofa, con< 
 templating all through her spectacles, she seemed a 
 little, dumpy, self-satisfied, asthmatic female Nebu- 
 chadnezzar, who said, ' Is not this great Babylon that 
 I have built for the throne of my glory 1' 
 
 Her husband died leaving her with a son and 
 daughter — Duncan and Jane. The widow did all 
 justice to the memory of the dear deceased ; for, as a 
 Highlander once remarked of his wife's death, *It 
 was a great loss, nae doot, and also a heap o' ex- 
 penses.' T' e funeral left an inheritance of cold 
 meat, which it required immense perseverance and 
 self-sacrifice for several days on the part of the 
 mourrmg domestics, and numerous adherents of the 
 funily to consume. The whisky gurgled from casks 
 and jars during all hours to supply commemorative 
 services. Mrs. M'Dougal spared no expense in 
 sorrowful garments ; her handsome jointure demand- 
 ing this handsome funenLpile. Then came the con- 
 dolences from all her neighbours, and their most 
 liberal contributions of tears for the dead Duncan, 
 — the more remarkable considering their sennments 
 about him while alive. The most acute sufferer, 
 perhaps, was old M'Donald, tiie mirn-'er, who felt 
 bound to write a new sermon, or x new tail to an old 
 head, so as to make the character of Duncan har- 
 monize with his text on the blessedness of the righte- 
 
and his Son. 
 
 265 
 
 Ous dead. But the tragedy soon passed away — the 
 curtain fell — the lights were extinguished, and soon 
 it rose again with the same actors in a drama of 
 marriage, of which more anon. 
 
 Mrs. M'Dougal was what is called an active manag- 
 ing woman. She superintended the farm herself, 
 although she professed, for * gentility's ' sake, to leave 
 it to an old confidential servant of the family, who 
 occupied the situation of * ground officer,' as an in- 
 ferior kind of land-steward is called in the Highlands. 
 Her talent consisted chiefly in a sort of cunning pru- 
 dence, by which she never lost sight of, but steadfastly 
 pursued her own interests, though with great bland- 
 ness of manner, and the exercise of a liberal hospita- 
 lity. Her daughter Jane, our old, acquaintance, was a 
 comely girl, now quite restored to robust health. She 
 was full of animal spirits, had beautiful white teeth 
 and skin, and a frank manner without any reserve. 
 But she had no force or depth of character; had 
 always one flirtation at least, on hand, and was sel- 
 dom if ever absent from regatta and county balls. 
 Her marriage with some one or other was assumed 
 to be a question of time, much more than of affec- 
 tion. Not that Jane would ever marry a man v/hom 
 she did not profess to love ; but if he was * a suitable 
 match' in other respects, she could very easily get 
 up that amount of liking which was ,>.oper and be 
 coming, and which she herself, perhaps, would, for 
 
^66 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 decency s sake, call love ; and when on her marriage 
 tour, she would be sure to write her mother, telling 
 her how happy she was in having * such a considerate, 
 attentive husband, who spared no expense,' etc., and 
 * how unworthy she was,' etc. Nor was she one who 
 was likely to break her heart in any case, (iive her 
 only a respectable marriage, and her old flirtations and 
 gleams of more tender attachments would all be ab- 
 sorbed, like meteors in the sun of an ' excellent con- 
 nexion.* 
 
 Duncan, the laird, with whom we have most to do, 
 had, in his youth, all the disadvantages arising from 
 the teaching of a mother who gave him his own way, 
 and of a tutor, afterwards his minister, Mr. M 'Donald, 
 who dozed over a few lessons with him, but felt 
 it unnecessary, almost riide, to trouble a laird of 
 ^looo a year with education. So Duncan, in his 
 youth, galloped about on a red pony with large white 
 eyes and shaggy mane ; and educated half a dozen 
 terriers with such care, as, if expended on himself, 
 would have made him equally obedient, brave, and 
 interesting. He fished, of course, and that to per 
 fection, and never knew, as a boy, what a headache 
 was, except when extra company in the house secured 
 to him extra sweets. He was bold, imperious, and 
 selfish. In due time a commission, as we have al- 
 ready said, was obtained for him in the army. His 
 mother recognised this as the gentlemanly thing for 
 
and his Son, 
 
 o.bf 
 
 him ; and Duncan himself, as he grew up and inin< 
 gled with other young men, longed for so good an 
 opportunity of enjoying independence, and * getting 
 quit of his mother's leading strings,' as he expressed it. 
 He was known in his regiment as being the ' fastest ' 
 of those who boasted of running along the broad road. 
 Some laughed at his vanity ; others pitied his folly ; 
 while the more thoughtful and higher bred officers 
 avoided him as much as possible as * a bad style of 
 man,' or *a vulgar snob.' But Duncan was saved 
 from many a scrape by that prudent cunning which 
 he had inherited from his mother, and which checked 
 him ere he passed the brink of any precipice. 
 When, after some years of experience, he returned 
 home, he had acquired a certain manner that was 
 considered very * gentlemanly ' by the circle in which 
 he moved. He dressed well, spoke a strange mix- 
 ture of Highland Scotch and high English, assumed 
 the airs of a man of the world, and kept his old com- 
 panions in roars of laughter at the recital of his pecu- 
 liar adventures. 
 
 One of his boon companions was Peter M'Donald. 
 Peter, or 'Red Peter* as he was called, was short, 
 round, strong, like a Highland bull. Yellow hair 
 crisped in short bleached curls under his Glengarry 
 bonnet, spread as down over his freckled face, and 
 covered the portion of his enormous limbs dis- 
 played beneath his red kilt. A row of short white 
 
2^8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 teeth, small piercing eyes, and broad nose with 
 expanded nostrils, completed his face. I hardly 
 know what was Peter's trade or profession. He had 
 been farmer, distiller, land-agent, and whisky agent 
 in turn. But how he lived in his later years no one 
 could very well telL Yet Peter never seemed to want 
 what was necessary to keep him in kilts and comfort 
 He attended every district fair, and was considered 
 an excellent judge of the merits of black cattle. 
 He was a ready boxer after twelve at night Few 
 marriages, from the blacksmith's daughter's to the 
 laird's son's, but included Peter as one of the 
 guests, and then his dancing powers seemed as inex- 
 haustible as his songs, stories, and thirst He was 
 famous in all athletic sports, played the bagpipe, 
 and danced Gille-callum. He attended church, as 
 he did every public place, and his face was a mark 
 in the front gallery, which constantly attracted the 
 notice of the preacher. It was like a centre point 
 of red paint in the building. Funerals alone were 
 eschewed by Peter, his wardrobe being defective in 
 ceremonial suits of mourning. M'Dougal had known 
 him from his youth, and indeed had in early life 
 been taught his first lessons by him as a man of 
 the world. The Laird found his old ally a patient 
 listener to all his stories, an accommodating assist- 
 ant in all his undertakings of doubtful morality, a 
 8u>tle flatterer of all his weaknesses, and one who 
 
and his Son. 
 
 26g 
 
 at all times was ready to kill time or game with 
 him from morning till night, or from night till mom* 
 ing. 
 
 The only other personage in Ardmore who has any 
 special interest to us was Floxy, Miss M'Dougal's 
 waiting-maid. Ever since the interview with her at 
 Torquay, Miss Duncombe, as I have already noticed, 
 had taken a special interest in the girl, and when her 
 old uncle, Martin Shillabeer, died, she had brought 
 her to live at the boarding-school. While teaching 
 her domestic work. Miss Duncombe had bestowed 
 great pains otherwise on her education, as she had 
 formed the highest opinion of her talent. Floxy re- 
 tained the same cast of figure and countenance which 
 she possessed as a girl ; the same dark, handsome, 
 keen gipsy features, with eyes of singular brilliancy, 
 that seemed to search those whom she addressed, as 
 if she was dealing with their inner thoughts. Her 
 manners and appearance were those of one accus- 
 tomed to command rather than obey. She possessed 
 a nature that seemed ever struggling to break through 
 the impediments of the circumstances of her position, 
 which demanded a submissive reserve. Like some 
 animals that have been taken from their wild state 
 in early years, she never seemed thoroughly domes- 
 ticated, but to have her real life elsewhere in the wide 
 world and beneath the open sky. Her figure was 
 singularly handsome, and there was a lithe, pliabJs 
 
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3^2 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 gratitude, received him, and heard from him a full 
 account of M'Dougal's illness. 
 
 The candles were lighted, but the blinds were not 
 yet permitted to conceal the lovely picture which 
 was visible from the drawing-room window. The 
 full moon lighted up a pathway of golden glory 
 across the harbour, away towards the northern hills. 
 Stately ships ever and anon slowly crossed the line of 
 glittering splendour, as they were beginning their voy- 
 age to distant climes, or were returning from afar. 
 The dark hills around Loch Long reared their out- 
 line, fantastic and wondrous, as if cut out by forked 
 lightning in the cloudless sky, while a few bright 
 stars, like watch-fires, burned along tneir summits. 
 The whole scene was fitted to excite the fancy, and 
 to intensify every tender emotion. 
 
 'I am so glad, so thankful,' said Kate, 'for his 
 own sake, and for his mother and sister's sake, that 
 the poor Captain has been spared. How much we 
 all owe to you. Captain Ned, and to Dr. Morris 1' 
 
 * No thanks, please,' replied Ned. * He bore it, 
 on the whole, wonderfully well At first he was un- 
 happy, but as his chances of recovery increased, so 
 did his hopes rise. And now, for your sake, I re- 
 joice to think he is out of danger.' 
 
 * Ned, you cannot know what good you have done 
 by helping to preserve that life,' said Kate, with pecu- 
 liar feeling. 
 
f 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 3^3 
 
 What? Was Ned not aware that he was preserv- 
 ing the life of Kate's husband 1 He did not know 
 that, forsooth ! 
 
 After some further conversation on matters of less 
 interest — for how often do we speak about trifles 
 when the heart is full with what we cannot utter — 
 the time came when he must leave. He had noticed 
 an agitation of manner, a nervousness, a want of 
 repose in Kate which he had never seen before. 
 But poor M'Dougal's circumstances satisfactorily ex- 
 plained these unusual appearances. 
 
 But can Ned now say farewell for everl He can- 
 not yet. Give him a few minutes to compose him- 
 self The internal struggle is not quite over, lie 
 more than once rose to depart ; but sat down again. 
 
 ' You sail to-morrow, NedT remarked Kate at last, 
 with saddened voice. 
 
 * Yes, I do,' was the short reply. 
 
 Ned was still battling with some strong emotion, 
 dreadful to him, though he was outwardly calm, and 
 under firm self-control. At last he spoke withou* 
 looking at Kate, but bent forward, and looking a 
 the carpet, every figure and colour of which seemed 
 to compel his attention. 
 
 'Kate,' he said, *I am to sail to-morrow. We 
 may never meet again.' 
 
 A pause. 
 
 ♦ How well,' continued Ned, still studying the 
 
3^4 
 
 The Old Lieutetmnt 
 
 floor, while Kate sank back into a comer of the 
 sofa, and covered the lower part of her face with 
 her handkerchief, while she hardly breathed, *how 
 well I remember the first night I came to this 
 house ! I was entering life for the first time — 
 a boy — inexperienced in the ways of the great 
 world, never having loved before — I mean known,' 
 stammered Ned, ' any one except my dear old father 
 and mother. And you were so kind to me ; I like 
 to thank you for it, Kate ; it made me happy ; it did 
 me good ; I never could forget it' 
 
 ' We were indeed very happy then, Ned, but almost 
 children,' remarked Kate ,•* * and I remember every 
 hour of that time as if it were yesterday.' 
 
 * Do you really V said Ned. * I am glad you do. 
 Here is a proof how well /remember it;' and with 
 a blush on his face, and a hand that trembled, he 
 produced an old red pocket-book (the same which 
 contained the famous order of Nelson !) and out of 
 one of its many recesses he exhumed what seemed to 
 have been once a letter, written on white paper, but 
 was now soiled and almost in tatters. 
 
 < Look at that !' said Ned, with a forced and awk- 
 ward laugh. * There is a note of yours.' 
 
 * A note of mine !' exclaimed Kate, as she received 
 the dingy-looking document. 
 
 ' A note of yours,' said Ned — and again he traced 
 out the flowers of the Brussels carpet — * which I am 
 
 
' 
 
 •mM!^'j^._ 
 
 ^i,^ 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 3^S 
 
 but 
 
 »ure you don't remember. Its contents will not in- 
 terest you much, if, indeed, you can decipher them, 
 for the note has been often handled during these long 
 years. It is only an invitation to dinner, written by 
 you at your father's request .to me, / won't say how 
 long ago, but it has been in my pocket ever since. 
 Let that trifle prove to you what a clinging I have 
 had in my rough sea-life to those early times of 
 peace.* 
 
 Any one who had watched Kate at that moment, 
 which Ned certainly did not, might have seen her 
 bosom heave, and her eye glance as if she must say 
 something very decided. But she c«.ily made one of 
 those commonplace remarks which persons under 
 strong feelings are, in certain circumstances, so apt 
 to utter. 
 
 * How very odd ! * was her most prosaic reply. 
 
 * To you, perhaps, it may seem very childish and 
 absurd,' said Ned, without lifting up his eyes ; * but 
 I could not help it.* 
 
 Then followed another pause, during which Ned 
 rose and looked out over the sea, while Kate, motion- 
 less as a statue, covered her eyes with her handker- 
 chief. 
 
 He thought he saw the * William Pitt * among the 
 distant shadows. In a few minutes he must leave 
 this house, and in a few hours the harbour. He 
 cared not, but for the sake of those who lived in the 
 
3^6 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 small cottage far away, if he never returned. A 
 great weight lay on hit heart. Come what may 
 will he now depart and say no more 1 What harm 
 can a frank confession of his love dol It can- 
 not grieve her to have been so loved, and it will be 
 some comfort to himself for life to know that she 
 knew it. Yet it seems unmanly, selfish, womanish. 
 Bah! he will be calm and cool; laugh at all he har 
 said ; thank her civilly for her kindness ; depart, and 
 for life smother his passion. He has done his duty 
 to M'Dougal, and proved his love. He can do no 
 more now than make his bow and exit, and thus 
 end the long drama which, during half his life, he 
 has been playing in his own heart. 
 
 Some such thoughts as these were going hurry- 
 scurry through Ned's mind during the brief seconds 
 in which he was looking out on the sea, when sud- 
 denly he was recalled to the present by a soft voice 
 coming to him from the sofa, 
 
 'Ned, dear, I hope I have not given you any 
 pain V 
 
 Ned started. Never had he heard Kate address 
 him in more kind and familiar language. But he 
 accepted it simply as an additional proof of her 
 altered circumstances in relation to M'Dougal, 
 which he supposed would enable her to speak more 
 freely to him. 
 
 ' Pain V replied Ned, still gazing on the sea, ' you 
 
i^^ 
 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 367 
 
 gave me the greatest happiness I have ever enjoyed 
 in life.' 
 
 Another pause, during which Ned paced the darker 
 portion of the room, as if uncertain whether to go or 
 stay. 
 
 At last, rapidly turning towards Kate, and assum- 
 ing mechanically his former attitude, he said, * I 
 hate this hypocrisy on my part. I must and will 
 say something to you, before we part, tnisting to 
 your good, kind heart for forgiveness, Kate. Never, 
 never did I presume to tell you till now how for 
 years I have loved you, or how I have locked 
 you up in my heart from the first time I ever saw 
 you. My love has been deep, sincere, respectful, 
 devoted, as it is possible for any human being to 
 love.' 
 
 ' Kate,' he continued, with faltering voice, * I be- 
 seech you, pardon my selfish intrusion. I only 
 wished — . Oh ! that I were a thousand miles away ! 
 Have I in my rude and rough ignorance insulted 
 you 1 Pardon me, pity me, forgive me, and say fare- 
 well !' He rose and approached her. But she sat 
 sobbing with her handkerchief pressed with both 
 hands to her eyes. 
 
 * O Ned, dear, don't break my heart, I only am to 
 blame.' 
 
 * You are not to blame in anything, Kate. I ex- 
 pected nothing, asked nothing, and hoped for no- 
 
368 
 
 The Old Lieutenani 
 
 thing,* replied Ned ; adding, ' this is cruel, unmanly 
 of me, thus to pain you ! yet I thank you for the 
 comfort you have permitted me to have, in getting 
 my heart out once and for ever. Give me your hand, 
 Kate !* and he took hers, * I know you won't forget 
 me ; and if you ever wish one friend on earth who 
 will stand by you and yours, in fair or foul, through 
 life and in death — , But I cannot trust myself to 
 gay more j your own heart must speak for me.' 
 
 *Now, farewell,' said Ned, with calm voice, al- 
 though his heart was breaking. Farewell — once 
 more, farewell ! God bless you and him / May 
 he prove worthy of you ! Farewell, my first, my 
 last, my only love.' And, kissing her hand with 
 fervour, he turned away to leave the room! 
 
 ' If you allude to Captain M'Dougal,' said Kate, 
 still with covered eyes, * I am not to be married to 
 him, never !' 
 
 Ned stood motionless as a statue ; astonished, 
 and silent, from contending and overwhelming feel- 
 ings. Not a word was spoken for a minute on either 
 side. 
 
 *0h, Ned dear,' said Kate, without moving, 'it 
 has been a terrible time for me. I cannot speak 
 to you about it Floxy is in town, ask her. My 
 heart is almost broken. But whatever you hear 
 from others, you hear now from me — tha^ never, 
 never, shall I marry that man I' 
 
' 
 
 ^sm 
 
 and fits Son, 
 
 369 
 
 Ned walked towards the sofa, and, kneeling down, 
 seized Kate's hand with a strong grasp, while he 
 hid his sunburnt face, now sufiiised with manly 
 tears, in the folds of the shawl which hung from her 
 shoulders. What he said I know not, but Kate bent 
 towards him, threw her arms round his neck, mur- 
 mured some words in his ear, and he knew that 
 she was his for ever 1 • 
 
 « A 
 
370 
 
 Th^* Old Lieutetiani 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 entIring harbour in a storm. 
 
 ' I AM to understand, then/ says the reader, * that, 
 like all novels, the story now ends with the marriage 
 of Kate and Ned, and that they lived long and 
 happy, etc.* Good reader, you assume without any 
 proof, as far as I know, that this is * a novel / and 
 you further assume that it must have a certain end ? 
 Why so ? If I presumed to write so ambitious, and, 
 in the opinion of not a few, so doubtful a production 
 as * a novel,* the probability is, that I, who am utterly 
 unfit for such an artistic work, would, if attempting 
 mere fiction, depict human life on paper such as those 
 who, like myself, walk along in the jog-trot of every- 
 day life, never see :t to be in fact 
 
 I acknowledge that according to all the rules of 
 novel-writing, Ned should now be married, as the 
 Americans say, 'right off,* amidst music and sun- 
 shine. But the fact was otherwise. Nor need we 
 be surprised at this. 
 
 For, to write seriously when the thoughts are sen- 
 
and his Son, 
 
 37t 
 
 Ous, human life is an education^ a training up from 
 right beliefs to right habits, and from right habits to 
 right beliefs, and that by discipline administered in 
 manifold wisdom by a living Person, ever varied and 
 readjusted by Him to meet the changing circum* 
 stances of men, both without and within. And there- 
 fore just in proportion to the conscious subjection of 
 any person to this discipline, and his willingness to 
 be taught, may the lesson given him be more trying 
 to flesh and blood, more * mysterious,* as the phrase 
 is, than that which is given to another who ' sets at 
 nought all the counsel,' and ' will have none of the re- 
 proof,' and who consequently is permitted most righte- 
 ously to ' eat of his own ways, and to be filled with his 
 own devices.' The fact, therefore, need not seem 
 strange to us, that noble and beautiful characters, whose 
 personal and family life are so harmonious with the 
 good and true, should often be subjected to trials and 
 sufferings from which the heartless and selfish are 
 exempted. Teaching is vain where there is no dis- 
 position to be taught. Gold, not clay, is purified by 
 fire. On the other hand, there are apparent losses 
 which are real gains; painful amputations which 
 secure health ; and a more liberal bestowal of good 
 in a higher form, by the taking away of a good in a 
 lower form. Men crave for happiness from what 
 * happens;* but God promises peace, happen what 
 may, and bestows it often through unhappiness, so 
 
37^ 
 
 T/ie Old Lieutenant 
 
 that in the midst of sorrowing there is rejoicing. To 
 be made possessors, moreover, of the passive virtues 
 —of patience, meekness, faith, and the like — through 
 the knowledge of a Father, is our most glorious pos- 
 session, by whatever labour or suffering it can be 
 obtained. Besides, trial becomes the means of mak- 
 ing manifest our faith and love for the good of others, 
 as well as of strengthening these graces to bless our- 
 selves. And, therefore, I do not wonder that Ned 
 and Kate were soon called to endure trial. 
 
 But I must tell the rest of my story as briefly as 
 possible. 
 
 Ned sailed immediately after his engagement with 
 Kate. Never had he such a peculiar voyage. The 
 winds seemed to baflle his return to port, although 
 his old logs recorded as many days of strong and 
 adverse storms in other voyages. The weeks ap- 
 peared longer than they used to do. He thought the 
 ' William Pitt * had lost her sailing powers. Would 
 she nev^ reach Greenock ) But in spite of all this he 
 never was so happy ; never did he and the crew get 
 on better ; never did they acknowledge more grate- 
 fully in the forecastle the kindness and consideration 
 of the Captain. There was a life and heart in his 
 meetings with them during divine service on board, 
 which kept, as they said, * all hands alive.* The boys 
 were taught daily by him to read and write, and, from 
 his patience towards them, they made rapid progress. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 373 
 
 I 
 
 Nfasters had retired from the sea, and his new boat 
 swain, our old friend Buckie, — who had lately joined 
 tlie ship, after having been long sailing out of Lon- 
 don in the East India trade, — seemed devoted to 
 Captain Fleming, whom he boasted of having known 
 since boyhood, and who was always declared by him 
 to be ' the tip-topest, as a man and seaman, he had 
 ever knowed.* Buckie, the old foe, had become long 
 ago attached to Ned, who, having been the means of 
 humanizing the boy, was now rewarded by having 
 the man under his command, as a first-rate, steady, 
 brave sailor, and a most reliable link between Captain 
 and crew. 
 
 After Ned's return he was suddenly cast into 
 greater depths of sorrow than he had ever be- 
 fore endured. He had not been as yet received 
 at the Glen by Mrs. Campbell. Caimey had held 
 out to him his parental hand with unreserved good- 
 will; and often told some of his old friends, in 
 confidence, ' that Fleming was a gentleman bom, a 
 gentleman bred, the son of an officer of whom his 
 country might be proud ; that M'Dougal was too 
 much of a puppy for his taste, though he never liked 
 to say so ; that he preferred an honest seaman to him ; 
 that the lassie, his daughter, liked him, and could 
 judge for herself, but that Mrs. Campbell, who had 
 her own feelings, was too proud to give in.' Cairney 
 had written approving of the match to the old Captain, 
 
374- 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 but Mrs. Campbell had never acknowledged the 
 letter which, in her warm affection, Mrs. Fleming had 
 written to her. In these uncomfortable circumstances 
 it would be difficult for Ned to have frequent and 
 easy intercourse with Kate. But when the * William 
 Pitt' entered harbour, Caimey, with a really loving 
 wish to please his daughter, and with a less becom- 
 ing wish perhaps to tease his wife, or to show his 
 own independence, went one morning into Kate's 
 room, saying, * Look here, lassie,' and he winked to 
 her, the wink accompanied by a smile, made up of 
 affection and fun, * if you are very good to your old 
 dad, I will give you a treat to-day.' 
 
 ' No bribe is required to make me good to you, 
 dear fathei !' said Kate, fondling the old man, to 
 whom she clung with almost a new affection from 
 his kindness to her during her late isolation and 
 domestic trials. 
 
 Caimey taking her pretty chin between his finger 
 and thumb, and bringing his large face close to hers, 
 like a full moon looking into a clear fountain, said, 
 ' What think you, Kitty, of coming to my office to- 
 day and shaking hands with an old friend of mine, 
 the Captain of the " William Pitt 1" ' 
 
 Kate's face flushed into scarlet ; the fountain was 
 full of light, and her heart throbbed like water bub- 
 bling firom it. Throwing her arms about her father's 
 neck, and concealing her confusion, she murmured 
 
and his Son, 
 
 375 
 
 in Ws ear, * Thank God for your goodness, and that 
 you are not cold to me ! Never, never, can I forget it 1' 
 
 Caimey got soft about the eyes — an unusual event, 
 which made him feel ashamed. So, with a short 
 cough and chuckling laugh, he said, ' Come to the 
 office at two o'clock, my bonnie bairn.* 
 
 What were Ned's thoughts and feelings when he 
 met those two friends so unexpectedly in the office ; 
 and \ hen Caimey left him and Kate alone to talk 
 over whatever they pleased 1 
 
 It was arranged by Caimey that they should visit 
 the ship. They did so, and when Ned saw Kate in 
 the cabin, the reality hardly seemed more a presence 
 to him than the dream of past years. 
 
 When they both appeared on the quarter-deck, 
 Kate was gazing up at the rigging, in which the men 
 were busy making all fast. Strange to say, she had 
 only been once before on board of a ship. 
 
 * I hope, Ned, tha,t you never go up those dizzy 
 masts, or out to the end of those yards in a storm,* 
 remarked Kate with a playful smile. 
 
 Ned, laughing at her ignorance of sea life, replied, 
 Of course I do. What ! do you forget the scene 
 with poor Tom Revel 1 The fact is that I must go 
 up now, as I have to give some orders about a top- 
 mast we sprung. I see they are bungling it, as the 
 mate has gone on shore, and the boatswain is work* 
 ing in the hold.' 
 
376 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 *I beseech you !* interposed Kate, more seriously, 
 * don't begin to climb in my presence — now Ned — ^I 
 shall get sick and dizzy looking at you.' 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! ha ! what would the " Pitt" come to if 
 you were always on board ! I must go, Kate, but 
 pray keep your eye on the compass, on the shore, or 
 on the deck, or on,' he whispered, * your new ring, till 
 I come in a few seconds, for I see I must go aloft' 
 
 Kate accompanied him into the waist of the ship, 
 where, getting confused with the bustle on board, she 
 sat down until Ned could join her. In a few minutes, 
 amidst a cry of alarm from the decks and from the 
 sailors aloft, a body fell with terrible crash on the 
 deck, rebounded, and rolled past her. A sailor, who 
 was nn^ killed however, had fallen from the yards. 
 Tht wOnviction seized Kite's excited imagination 
 that it was Ned, and with a loud scream she fell 
 prostrate on the deck. In a moment Ned and her 
 father, who both had witnessed the scene, were at 
 her side, and lifted up her apparently lifeless form. 
 
 I shall not pain my readers by attempting to de- 
 •cribe the occurrences of the weeks that followed — 
 Aow she awoke from her swoon, but, oh, horrors 1 
 with a mind that seemed lost for ever; how the 
 shock caused the delirium of a brain fever, and life 
 and reason reeled, and for many a day, the horrible 
 alternatives were presented of death, with all its 
 desolation, or of life with lunacy. 
 
and his Son, 
 
 377 
 
 I remember only one picture described by Curly, 
 who, from love to Ned, had come to Greenock to 
 attend Kate. * Never,' he said, ' in my whole practice 
 did I behold a spectacle more touching than on a 
 stormy night when her danger had reached a climax, 
 she seized Ned's rough hand, and prayed fervently 
 for his return from sea I I shall never forget the 
 sight of those two faces.' 
 
 Ned never shed a tear. From the first moment he 
 raised her up, his calmness was terrible to look on, 
 and singularly affecting from the tenderness of his 
 manner. Not an expression of alarm or grief escaped 
 his lips. His wound was too deep for that. Every 
 thought seemed to be occupied about others. He 
 only asked, in low and humble tones, to be permitted 
 to sleep at the Glen, in order, as much as possible, 
 to watch beside her whom he called his own. Some 
 of the servants alleged that the bed in his own room 
 was never disturbed, and that if he slept, it must have 
 been in his chair or on the floor. The first time he 
 gave way to tears was one night when in his room 
 alone, and sitting beside the fire. Curly crept in, and 
 embracing him, said, 'Dear old Ned, I have now, 
 for the first time, great hopes, I am thankful to say, 
 of ultimate, and, perhaps, of speedy recovery, thank 
 God!' 
 
 Kate recovered slowly but surely, until, at last, on 
 an evening ever remembered in the family, she wag 
 
378 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 
 laid on the sofa in the drawing-room, and Ned sat 
 beside her, as he once had done on another night 
 memorable in their lives. And then, as weeks passed 
 — for I need not say the 'William Pitt' found an- 
 other commander for her next voyage — and the old 
 hues of health returned, with strength and beauty, 
 more than one person who had stood around that 
 sick-bed, felt that the God of love and peace had 
 been with them, imparting to them all, in His own 
 marvellous way, lessons of love, forbearance, gentle- 
 ness, and forgiveness, — ^lessons which could not have 
 been taught by a milder discipline. 
 
 This affliction had been the means of producing a 
 great change in Mrs. Campbell She never had come 
 before into close heart-contact with sorrow. But 
 that sick-room by day and night ; the looks and the 
 sufferings of her daughter, with her own alternations 
 of hope and fear, had drawn forth the best part of 
 her nature, which, like some soil shaded by circum- 
 stances from sun and rain, had hitherto remained 
 hard, dry, and unproductive. Affliction prepared it 
 to receive seed that promised to spring up into life 
 everlasting. As remarkable effects had been pro- 
 duced in her feelings towards others. Kate, in her 
 delirium, had cried passionately for Floxy, and no- 
 thing but some such demand, coming from a daugh- 
 ter when at the gates of death, could have induced 
 her mother to admit Floxy to her presence. Th?- 
 
 
and his Son, 
 
 379 
 
 
 
 old lady's heart was softened and won when she saw 
 the unwearied, unselfish devotion of the girl, how she 
 accepted of every work laid upon her, and ministered 
 so gently, so lovingly to her benefactress, and was 
 ever so considerate, kind, and obedient to Mrs. 
 Campbell, even expressing her deep regret, if in love 
 to Kate, she had so far forgot herself as to have ap- 
 peared disrespectful on a certain occasion. And 
 Ned? The old Achnabeg blood proved to be in 
 Mrs. Campbe"' :ase ' thicker than water,' and began 
 to warm h ,,axt to her cousin. His sweet temper, 
 his calm, deep grief, his pleading looks for her sym- 
 pathy, all helped, in spite of her pride, to bind her to 
 him. To these influences for good, we must add 
 one which told in the same direction, but more from 
 the bad side of her nature. Impertinent, almost 
 abusive, letters were written, before Kate's accident, 
 by the M'Dougals to herself and Kate, and even 
 to old Caimey, while only one tolerably kind note 
 liad been received from Jane since it occurred, but 
 without any apology for the past. Yet why should 
 we be so unjust as to stereotype human character as 
 if it could not be changed and improved? Why 
 should we in our own vanity and pride assume that, 
 though we can become better, other people must al- 
 ways remain the same ? There is one to whom all 
 souls are dear, whose love, in its patience, is incom- 
 prehensible, and who can soften and subdue the old 
 
' 38o 
 
 The Old Lietitenmit 
 
 as well as the young, and refresh with his dew the 
 aged thorn as well as the blade of grass. So had it 
 been through this sorrow with Mrs. Campbell. But 
 whether Ardmore House had become less selfish I 
 know not. 
 
 Other blessings were bestowed through that sick- 
 bed. Cairnev became a better and wiser man. He 
 never thought, he said, so much before of practical 
 Christianity. His opinions of its ministers, too, 
 were raised since Mr. M'Kinlay had attended Kate. 
 Cairney began to think that, after all, some of them 
 at least believed what they preached, and tiiat religion 
 was not a mere respectability and propriety, nor a 
 thing necessary chiefly to keep the masses in order. 
 The gospel he discovered had to do with himself, and 
 was full of direction, strength, comfort, peace, for him 
 and his. 
 
 But to Kate and Ned themselv*"', who were more 
 immediately visited by this sorrow, its effects were 
 indeed twice blessed. Ned received his betrothed 
 as from the grave, and as a gift again bestowed by 
 God. He felt that he required this baptism of fire. 
 His life on the whole had been hitherto one of great 
 evenness. The highest summit of his ambition had, 
 at last, been reached ; and the greatest treasure earth 
 could give to him had been obtained. And now he 
 acknowledged how good it was for him' to have been 
 afHicted ! If a cloud had covered his sun, it but 
 
and his Son, 
 
 381 
 
 enabled him the better to lock up to the sky. He 
 was taught the lesson of lessons more deeply, that * a 
 man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the 
 things which he possesseth,' whatever these things 
 may be ; and that his ' life/ as a true and an eternal 
 life, must necessarily be the knowledge and love of 
 that eternal God of love, who was found to be all- 
 sufficient in the hour of greatest need. His faith 
 having thus been tried, had come forth as gold. But 
 his love for Kate became only more deep and real, 
 because more in harmony with the truth of things. 
 They were both brought nearer to God, and there- 
 fore nearer to one another. For this sickness had 
 also produced in Kate's inner life results, if possible, 
 still more marked. It did not lessen her joy, but 
 only changed its character. It cast a sober colouring 
 over all things, and helped to produce a chastened, 
 holy feeling, as if she had been out of the world, and 
 returned after having seen heavenly realities. The 
 old forms of thought became instinct with spiritual 
 life ; old truths more full of truth ; while old duties 
 grew into new privileges. She and Ned had also been 
 made to appreciate more keenly than ever the love 
 that shone in other human hearts, and of which they 
 had received such touching proofs in many self-deny- 
 ing labours, when, during those weeks of intense 
 anxiety, friends and acquaintances so tenderly carried 
 their burden. Without this blessed experience their 
 
382 
 
 Tfte Old Lieutenant 
 
 own mutual love might have ended in subtile selfish- 
 ness. The wall which shut themselves in as suffi- 
 cient for each other, might soon have shut their 
 neighbours out. But as it happened, love over- 
 turned the wall of self, and never let it be built 
 again ; and so during life their greatest riches were 
 gathered by giving even as they had icceived. 
 
V; 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 3^3 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 WINDING UP. 
 
 While recording all these changes in Ned's his- 
 tory, not a word has been said about * the old folks at 
 home,' whose life was bound up in his. We must 
 therefore go back a long way in our story to the day 
 in which the first intelligence of Ned's engagement 
 to Kate was received at the cottage. 
 
 On that same memorable day, the old Captain had 
 been reading the newspapers, while his wife was sew- 
 ing on the opposite side of the lamp. He had dili- 
 gently penised every column in silence, for it was 
 dangerous to interrupt him while engaged in master- 
 ing the weekly despatch. But at length the constant 
 rustling and frequent turning of its large pages, with 
 the coughs which accompanied the operation, inti- 
 mated to Mrs. Fleming that every item of intelli- 
 gence had been gleaned, down to the prices of sugars 
 and molasses. It was therefore now safe for her to 
 break the silence, with a hope of being heard. 
 
3^4 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 * Poor Neddy,' she began — 
 
 These words, at this moment especially, had power 
 to make the Captain lay down the newspaper on 
 his knee, and look over his large spectacles at Mrs. 
 Fleming. 
 
 * Poor Neddy,* said Mrs. Fleminjr, ' will have com- 
 menced his voyage by this time.* 
 
 •I have carefully considered that point,* replied 
 the Captain, 'and since six o'clock, have come to 
 the conclusion that, as the wind has been blowing 
 pretty stiflF, both yesterday and to-day, up channel, 
 the probability, if not certainty, is, that the " William 
 Pitt " has not yet left her anchorage at the tail of the 
 bank.* Then taking out his large watch, like a sun- 
 dial, and looking at it steadily, he added, * If my 
 conjecture is right, we shall have a letter from him 
 by this night's steamer ; the puffer should be in by 
 this time, unless indeed she is blown up, which I 
 wonder has not happened to the smoking apparatus 
 long before now. By the way, I will just step down 
 to the quay, and, if the boat does not arrive soon, I 
 shall get Freeman to bring us the letter.* 
 
 * Oh, Edward, dear, take care of your throat. Hap 
 it well,' advised Mrs. Fleming. 
 
 * I have always told you, Mary, that my throat was 
 seasoned half a century ago. You might as well talk 
 of a speaking-trumpet getting a sore throat But to 
 
and his Son. 
 
 385 
 
 please you I shall wrap a cravat round it.' This was 
 always clone indeed, by Babby, and, on every 
 occasion, the process gave rise to the same series 
 of jokes, on the part of the Captain, about the ne- 
 cessity of Babby getting a ladder in order to reach 
 up to his 'figure-head.' 
 
 Wh^ the Captain returned from the steamer with 
 the expected letter, all the plans concocted with 
 Freeman between the pier and the cottage, as to the 
 most striking manner of communicating to Mrs. 
 Fleming the unexpected intelligence of Ned's engage- 
 ment, which it contained, utterly broke down. His 
 excitement was too obvious, his gladness too mani- 
 fest in his laugh and looks, to attempt further con- 
 cealment of the good news ; more especially as 
 Freeman, who accompanied him home, had re- 
 vealed the secret to Babby in the kitchen, and 
 both were standing laughing outside of the parlour 
 door, anxious to share Mrs. Fleming's surprise and 
 joy. That joy was very real. She was not given to 
 many words, but possessed of many thoughts, and 
 these, when they deeply stirred her, rose more in 
 silence upwards, than spread in much utterance 
 around. The soft-hearted old man gently clapped 
 the shoulders of his wife, who, though her head was 
 bent down, while her seam lay on her knee, was 
 quiet and serene as a May morning. Interpr$;ting 
 
38b 
 
 Tfte Old Lieutenant 
 
 her feelings by his own, he said, ' Mary, my love, 
 don't be agitated ; be quiet and composed. We 
 have every reason to be thankful' 
 
 His wife looked up in his face, remarking, ' I am 
 overpowered only by a sense of that goodness which 
 has now blessed our dear boy, and crowned his and 
 our lives.' ^ 
 
 When Babby and Freeman heard the talk thus 
 assume such a grave tone, they quietly shut the 
 parlour door, which was not opened until Ned's letter 
 was read by father and mother alone. 
 
 After this three poached eggs were ordered. Free- 
 man was invited to remain to supper, and one of the 
 Captain's only two bottles of wine drawn, from a 
 sense of what was due to the great occasion. 
 
 * Mem,'" said Babby, that same night to her mis- 
 tress, * this beats a', in my humble opinion, that ever 
 happened in our day! Dinna tell me that Ned's lass 
 is no a' that's gude ; that maun be, in coorse. Yon 
 laddie wadna put on an auld, bad -coloured sark — 
 for he was unco prood, in his ain way, ye ken — nor 
 ever put on his claes wi'oot fechtin wi' them till a* 
 the stoor was oot o' them ; and d'ye think, Mem, 
 that he wad marry a woman that wasna bonnie, trig, 
 and decent 1 I'll answer for't, no him !' 
 
 * But it's Miss Campbell, Babby, whom he is to 
 many !* 
 
and his Son. 
 
 387 
 
 * Camill or no Camill,' said Babby, as if the fact 
 interfered with her inferences, * I ken whaever she is 
 that she'll be a gude, sponsible woman, and fit to 
 manage a house. And him and her, depend on 't, will 
 no be like idle lambs that dae naething but sook and 
 wag their tails a' day. Na, na ; they '11 be usefu' in 
 their generation. She'll be a weel brought-up wo- 
 man, nae doubt, and fit to guide and help our bairn. 
 For I can tell you, Mem, that my laddie was nane 
 o' yer starved, puir, thin-skinned craturs, that didna 
 care what they ate, or how they got it, like ane 
 o' Paddie Murphie's thin pigs that gang grumph, 
 grumphin' ower their dinner in their trough, and 
 dinna heed what's under their snoots. My word I 
 he was ower genteel for that ! He was unco par- 
 ticular that his meals were set doon respectable and 
 nice-like, as ye aye directed. He couldna bide thin 
 parritch ! I'se wager, his wife will wear like a horse- 
 shoe — aye the langer the clearer ; I hope sae, for, ye 
 ken, it's better to be half-hanged than ill married. 
 And d'ye think that he wad marry a fusionless taupy, 
 wi' naething but curls and flounces and falderals, 
 skelpin a' day on ane o' thae — what d'ye ca' them ? — 
 pin-a-forty or fifty instruments, for onything I care, but 
 no fit to gie directions aboot cookin' a wee bit het 
 dinner ] Na, na ! It's a' richt, ye '11 fin', wi' my 
 bonnie bairn. I'm no a bit feared for him. But 
 
3*8 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 mind ye, Mem, I dinna intend to sleep the nicht, 
 just wi' joy, thinking about him ; and,' she added» 
 coming close up to Mrs. Fleming, whispering as if 
 telling a secret, 'and praying for him, in my ain auld- 
 fashioned way.' 
 
 The course of events made it necessary that the 
 marriage -day should be fixed. This could not be 
 done without knowing when the old Captain and his 
 wife could come to Greenock, for come they must to 
 take part in the ceremony. The Captain begged 
 Ned, in the letter replying to the invitation, that, as 
 a particular favour, since the marriage was to take 
 place in October, it might be upon the 21st of that 
 month, at four in the afternoon. There were im- 
 portant reasons for this proposal, which the Captain 
 assured his son wo^ld afterwards, if necessary, be 
 satisfactorily explained. Circumstances made the day 
 suggested by the Captain convenient for all parties 
 in Greenock. 
 
 Ned, with the cordial consent of his friends at the 
 Glen, sent a loving letter of invitation to Freeman to 
 * be present at the launch.' The old man was elated 
 by the compliment, and not less so was the Captain. 
 Freeman at first pretended, that though it was 'just 
 like the dear boy,' as he always called Ned, ' to re- 
 member him,' yet that it was ' not in his way to ac- 
 cept the invitation,' he was ' not accustomed to that 
 
ana /its Son. 
 
 3H 
 
 
 sort of navigation/ * he was better in a gale of wind 
 than rigged out with bunting ;' and he did not give 
 his consent until assured by the Captain, that if, for 
 no other reason than to keep himself and Mrs. Flem- 
 '"g company in the vile steamer, he must be one of 
 the party. Freeman, who loved Ned as if he were 
 a child of his own, thus finding his modest objections 
 removed, immediately ordered a * new rig,' in which 
 navy buttons shone like stars in a cloudless sky of 
 blue. 
 
 They both of course made their appearance on the 
 appointed day; the Captain in his somewhat de- 
 cayed but yet honourable uniform. 
 
 I do not attempt to describe the marriage. The 
 reader must picture to himself the usual routine of 
 such ceremonies ; the whirl of equipages to the Glen ; 
 the announcement of couple after couple in gay attire, 
 and full of smiles, as they glided into the drawing- 
 room ; the flutter, followed by the solemn silence, as 
 the lovely bride — truly most lovely — was led into the 
 room by Cairney, until the bridegroom, backed by 
 Dr. Morris as 'best man,' and the bride, with her 
 encircling bridesmaids, stood 'oefore Mr. M'Kinlay. 
 These details are all to be found by the curious in an 
 old Greenock newspaper. An account is also there 
 given of the wondrous number of flags which decked 
 the ships in harbour ; of the firing of cannon which, 
 
 1 
 
390 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 under the direction of Buckie, blazed from the 
 ' William Pitt,' and of the grand banquet, given at 
 Caifney's expense,, to the crew, who cheered lustily 
 one part of the day, and feasted sumptuously further 
 on in the evening. But the fact must not be omitted 
 that the crew in a body marched to the Glen, and to 
 the astonishment of the old shipmasters, presented 
 Ned with a present^the last that sailors might be 
 supposed to select, of a large Bible and Psalm-book, 
 and Kate with a gold ring, ornamented by a heart 
 and anchor. Buckie's speech on the occasion was 
 * short and appropriate,' as the newspapers say. 
 
 * Captain Fleming,' he said, * this here Bible is 
 from all hands — ain't it, my lads V A general mur- 
 mur and suppressed cheer served as an 'Amen,' 
 and served also to give Buckie time to breathe. 
 Shifting his tobacco in his mouth for a last effort, 
 and looking at the Bible, and then at Ned, he 
 said, with a smile, full of the memory of the olden 
 time, *I knows better than most how your honour 
 liked it in the " John," as well as in the " Pitt," and 
 we all likes it now, thanks to your honour ! Here's 
 the book. Long life ! Give three cheers, lads.' 
 
 * Mind your eye about the ring,' said the crew, 
 checking Buckie as his hat was beginning to move 
 round his head. Buckie, confused, took the ring out 
 of his pocket 
 
 II 
 
and his Son, 
 
 39 1 
 
 * It was stowed away under hatches !' he exclaimed 
 — a general titter — * But here it is, and — Now, Cap- 
 tain Fleming,' continued Buckie, handing it to Ned, 
 as he stuck his speech, 'you must pay out, for I'm 
 hove short ! Long life, anyhow, to you and her ! 
 May your log-lines run out threescore and ten knots 
 afore the glass is finished ! Now, lads, for it ! ' and 
 most lustily did the crew respond to the invita- 
 tion. 
 
 The marriage ceremony must not be considered 
 by any reader as wanting in solemnity and dignity, 
 because it took place, according to the custom of 
 Scotland, in a private house. I profoundly respect 
 all ecclesiastical usages, whatever their form may 
 be, which, from a sense of Christian propriety, early 
 teaching, or old associations, are fitted to express or 
 deepen in those who practise them, a truer Christian 
 feeling. But let no one who is a stranger to our 
 religious customs, do us the injustice of supposing 
 that there is any want of solemnity or of reverence in 
 a marriage which takes place before the * Church in 
 the house' only, when none are present but relations 
 and old friends, each and all of whom have a peculiar 
 interest in the union thus solemnized. To the Scotch 
 Presbyterian there is no more sacred edifice than the 
 walls which circumscribe his ' home.' 
 
 The joy of Ned and Kate was great, but not less 
 
39^ 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 ii 
 
 so because sobered by their journey to this earthly 
 paradise through the valley and shadow of death. 
 To these trials the minister touchingly alluded in his 
 prayer. 
 
 A little episode took place in an anteroom, im- 
 mediately after the marriage, and before the bride 
 and bridegroom, according to custom, departed on 
 their marriage trip. Ned took his father and mother 
 aside, to say a few words before entering this new 
 period of his life. What he said when trying to 
 express his sense of all he owed to them, and what 
 those two most loving parents said in return, I will 
 not repeat in public. But ere they parted, Ned pro- 
 duced an old pocket-book, out of which he took a 
 small bit of paj)er, and said to his father, — 
 
 'Have I dishonoured thatV It was the signal 
 order, with Nelson's signature, which Ned had re- 
 ceived the night before he left home for the first time. 
 The old man took the paper from his son's hand^ 
 and putting on his spectacles, looked at it. 
 
 * My dear Ned,' he replied, ' you could not have 
 done my old heart more good than by letting me see 
 his signature at this moment.' Then grasping his 
 son's hand, went on to say, 'And you have — you 
 have — my boy, done your duty ! And now I will 
 tell you why I asked you to be married to-day. On 
 this day, Ned,' and as he spoke he lowered his voice, 
 
and his Son, 
 
 393 
 
 and coming close to his son, put his hand fondly on 
 his shoulder, — *on this day, Ned,' was fought the 
 glorious battle of Trafalgar ! Now, my boy, think of 
 that ! arid about this very hour,' and the Captain 
 looked at his watch, * twenty minutes to five, the im- 
 mortal Nelson died. But before dying, he said, as 
 an admiral, what you may also say, by God's grace, 
 as a man, "I have done my duty !'" The Captain 
 turned his back as if to depart After recovering him- 
 self a little, he once more addressed Ned. * This was 
 one of my great battle-days, and it has been respected, 
 indeed, and nobly kept. What a victory we have 
 won ! Freeman is as proud as I am. I won't see 
 you again before you go ; but I need not ask you 
 and yours to visit us at the old cottage. I think,' 
 continued the Captain in a grave tone of voice, * that 
 Babby will expect it* 
 
 ' We have both, father,* replied Ned, ' arranged 
 to visit you as soon as we return from our little 
 tour.' 
 
 Ned was then left for a minute alone with his 
 mother; and the love of years was expressed In a 
 few words between them. 
 
 The scene between old Cairney, his wife and 
 daughter, in another room, was no less full of peace. 
 Fewer words were perhaps spoksn ; but much true 
 Jove was shown. As Mrs Campbell hung round 
 
394 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 Kate's neck ere she bade farewell, she said little , 
 but that little was life to her daughter. * Kate be- 
 loved, forget and forgive all the past; but let us 
 never forget the mercy of God, who is better than 
 us all.' 
 
 * Bless you, bless you, my own dear lassie,* said 
 Cairney, putting £ioo into Kate's hand, ' that's for 
 your journey ! Oh, come back to us soon ! 
 
 There were two other persons at that marriage 
 who had also a few parting words to deliver. The 
 one was Dr. Morris. As he shock his old friend by 
 the hand, he said, * My prophecy is fulfilled ! I see 
 the two ships sailing in sunshine !* 
 
 The other person was Floxy, who did not separate 
 herself from the group of servants near the door. 
 But her hands had dressed Kate for the marriage, 
 and after it for the journey ; and as bride and bride- 
 groom were passing through the crowd in the lobby 
 to the carriage, she whispered to Ned, ' The niece of 
 Tom Revel blesses you both !' 
 
 When the carriage drove off, under showers of old 
 shoes and slippers, the acknowledged witnesses on 
 such occasions of bachelor days for ever over, then 
 amidst the loud voices that loudly cheered the de- 
 parture. Freeman's voice was still the loudest, as of 
 ,old, above the storm. 
 
 In a few weeks the inmates of the small cottage 
 
avd his Son, 
 
 395 
 
 received with joy their old son and their new daugh- 
 ter. I pass without comment the history of tlieir 
 reception by the Captain and his wife. But wliat an 
 era that night was in the life of Babby ! ' There 
 she is!' said Ned, as he introduced his wife to her, 
 shortly after their arrival. Eabby seemed awe-struck 
 by her beauty, and gazed in silence on both her 
 visitors with eyes that orbed themselves beyond even 
 their extraordinary limits when under the influence 
 of strong emotion. She was dressed out in her 
 Sunday clothes ; no circumstance in her previous 
 history, except her old master's marriage, having ever 
 created such a revolution in her ordinary week-day 
 attire. One object of this demonstration may have 
 been to exhibit the new gown and cap, presented by 
 those now before her, full of smiles and happiness. 
 Presuming, at last, to take each by the hand, she 
 said, with a solemnity unusual to her, * The God o' 
 yer fathers keep you, my braw bairns ! If an auld 
 body's prayers will do you nae guid, they canna do 
 you harm, and ye hae mine frae the heart ! May ye 
 be like yer forbears ; and I canna wish ye to be 
 better than the twa ben the house.' 
 
 Now that the ice was thawed, Babby was her- 
 self again. ' Eh ! I was glad,' she exclaimed, ' that 
 ye wer'na married by Darymple ! He routs in 
 the poopit like a bull, and when the body's 
 
39^ 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 crackin' wi' ye, he cheeps, cheeps, like a chirted 
 puddock.' 
 
 * A what V asked Kate, overcome by laughter. 
 
 *A squeezed tade 1' replied Babby. 'D'ye no 
 ken yer ain langagel And as for his sermons, 
 they're jist like a dog's tail, the langer the sma'erl 
 But I maun haud my auld tongue, for, as ye ken, 
 corbies and ministers are kittle shot. It's a' richt 
 noo, howsomever, wi' ye baith. But ye dinna ken, 
 my young leddy, what a stirrin' laddie yer gudeman 
 was! It's me that kens him ! for him and me were 
 jist uncommon thick. Did he tell you hoo he lost 
 my cat on the island langsyne? And hoo the cat 
 loupit to me, and kent me ; for she was an auld far- 
 rant cratur, by-ordinar' ? Did he tell you what a job 
 I had to get hame ? And what a fricht the laddie 
 gied us a' wi' his rowing and sailing ; for, oh, I 
 never could bide the sea ! But, my certes, he has 
 brought hame a braw cargo wi' him at last ! And, 
 eh ! pity me, did he tell you about the nicht — ha I hal 
 ha ! — sirs a day ! when he purtended he was daft 
 Jock? But I mauna pit him in mind o' his auld joking 
 ways. He maun be douce noo. But I'm real prood 
 he has gotten ane that will look after his sarks and 
 claes ; for he was a terrible cratur for reiving them at 
 his play. But,' in a lower voice, 'there's the auld 
 Captain crying for ye to gang ben I Gang awa fas^ 
 
and his Son, 
 
 397 
 
 gang ben, and I'll pit otf my braw gown, and get the 
 tea ready. Oh, blcsshigs on ye ! blessings on ye 1 
 there's no sic a couple in the hale shire.* 
 
 With many kind words from Kate, and a few from 
 Ned, that stirred up old memories, and threatened to 
 call forth another speech from Babby, they retreated 
 to the parlour ; and that evening the cottage seemed 
 crowned with joy and blessing. Never did fuller 
 hearts than theirs bow together before a family altar I 
 As Mrs. Fleming bade good-night to Ned, she whis- 
 pered in his ear, * We have lived to see the em/ of the 
 Lord, that he is very pitiful and of tender mercy ! 
 Blessed are all they who put their trust in Him. 
 That, my love, is the secret which explains your 
 life.' 
 
 There remains for me but to record very briefly 
 some of the events of later years. 
 
 Time passed and Cairney died, and was followed 
 two years afterwards by his wife. The property, 
 which was large both in money and in shipping, was 
 inherited by his daughter and Ned, who retired 
 from the sea, and became a partner in a large ship- 
 ping-house in Liverpool, where he went to reside, and 
 where his name became familiar as a modest, active, 
 and generous friend of sailors, in whatever could 
 advance their temporal or spiritual good. 
 
 Our readers will be prepared to hear that Jane 
 
398 
 
 The Old Lien tenant 
 
 and Colin have long reigned at Duncaple over a 
 numerous household. Family distresses in the loss 
 of two of her children by scarlet fever, opened up 
 a correspondence with Kate, which restored their old 
 friendship ; but they rarely met 
 
 What became of Curly and Floxy 1 A full reply 
 to this question would involve a long story. But 
 the reader, if he wishes to know the end thereof, 
 must inquire at a most comfortable mansion in a 
 flourishing suburb of Liverpool, to which any one 
 will direct him if he asks for the house of Dr. Morris. 
 There is not a sufiering family in the district who 
 will not speak the praises of him and of his wife. 
 Should an old bed-ridden sailor be among them, his 
 eye will grow brighter as he mentions the name of 
 Mrs. Morris. 
 
 From the day on which Floxy left Ardmore, no 
 communication had taken place between her and its 
 inhabitants. But when that episode in her life began 
 to live in her memory like a dream, she received a 
 letter from the Doctor, whom she had met at Morag's 
 death-bed, and who was an old college friend of her 
 husband's, enclosing a Scotch ballad, that came to 
 her like thistle-down, wafted by the breeze from the 
 Highland glen, vividly recalling the scene in which it 
 had grown. The author of the ballad was a young 
 Scotch shepherd who had formed a passionate ad- 
 
and his Son. 
 
 399 
 
 miration of Morag, which, however, he never had an 
 opportunity of expressing, until his hopes, and with 
 them his health, had been destroyed by what had 
 befallen her. 
 
 * I never knew a finer lad,* wrote the doctor, ' than 
 Willie Scott. He was one of many tender souls who 
 " never told their love," but kept it in their heart 
 until it became a morbid possession. It seemed such 
 a relief to him to speak to me in his last days about 
 Morag. In his own simple language he said, "Oh, 
 sir, I canna tell you what that lassie was to me. I 
 saw her in the lambs ; I saw her in the light amang 
 the heather ; I heard her step in the breeze, her 
 voice in the Untie and laverock. She was never 
 mine, but I was hers. I was clean daft aboot her, 
 for I never saw her neebour in this world. But I 
 hope to meet her in the next. That man — God for- 
 gie him ! — has killed us baith." Scott gave me the 
 song I send you, which he composed to the old 
 Scotch air we all know so well, " Blythe, blythe, and 
 merry was she." I believe " May" is the Scotch name 
 for Morag or Marion. I thought you would like 
 to have this memento of the past ; and that my 
 friend, Morris, who I know is a bit of a poet himself, 
 might be pleased with the ballad. Poor Willie Scott I 
 Alas ! how many are the sad results of evil ! It is 
 easy to fire off the cannon-ball ; but when it flies on 
 
400 
 
 The Old Lieutenant 
 
 its course who can arrest or recal it ; and who rao 
 tell the numbers it may kill 1 
 The ballad was as follows :— 
 
 My little May was like a lintle 
 
 Ulintin' 'mang the flowers o' spring} 
 Like a lintie she was cantie, 
 
 Like a lintie she could sing ;'^ 
 Singing milking in the gloamin, 
 Singing herding in the morn, 
 Singing 'mang the brackens roaming. 
 Singing sliouring yellow com ! 
 O the bunnie dell and dingle, 
 
 O the bonnie dow'ring glen, 
 O the bonnie bicezin' ingle, 
 U the bonnie but and ben ! 
 
 Ilka body smiled that met her, 
 
 Nane were glad that said fareweui ; 
 Never was a blyther, better. 
 Bonnier bairn, frae croon to heel? 
 O the bonnie dell and dingle, 
 O the bonnie flow' ring glen, 
 O the bonnie bleezin' ingle, 
 O the bonnie but and ben ! 
 
 %Slmv. ) Blaw, wintry winds, blaw canld and eeri«^ 
 Drive the sleet and drift the snaw } 
 May is sleeping, she was weary, 
 For her heart was broke in twal 
 O wae the dell and dingle, 
 
 O wae the flow' ring glen ; 
 O wae aboot the ingle, 
 Wae's me baith but and lien I 
 
 One word more, and I am done. For many years 
 
 \ 
 
^ 
 
 and his Son, 
 
 401 
 
 —1 will not say how long — Ned, with his wife and 
 children, spent a great portion of every summer in 
 a cottage close beside his early liome. Little Ed- 
 ward and Mary Fleming, not to speak of John 
 and Ann and 'Curly,' etc. etc., renewed the youth 
 of grandfather and grandmother, and also kept 
 Babby alive in the joy of making these young ones 
 happy in her old age. Many a battle-day was 
 again enjoyed; many a boat was again built after 
 the model of the famous * Nelson ;' many a happy 
 evening was spent in the garden with the chil 
 dren clustered like barnacles about old Freeman, 
 many a thanksgiving ascended from that peaceful, 
 contented cottage, ere the long night closed over it, 
 to be followed by a newborn day that will have no 
 ending, when all shall meet again and be 'for ever 
 with the Lord'