THE TWO SAILORS.

One dark and cloudy evening in September, two young men were seen walking on the road that winds so beautifully along the shore of the Solway, below the mouth of the Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock. The summit of Criffel was hidden in clouds; the sky was dark and threatening; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening crests of the waves, as they broke before the freshening breeze, gave warning that a storm was at hand. At some distance, a two-masted boat, or wherry, as it is there called, lay on the beach, half afloat on the rising tide; and a boy sat on the green bank near, apparently watching her.

The two men appeared, by their dress, to be sailors. They were both in the prime of life, and remarkably handsome; but their countenances were of very different expressions. The one, whose short, crisp hair curled over a forehead embrowned by exposure to the elements, had the frank, bold, joyous look which we love to recognise as a characteristic of the class of men to which he belonged; the other, his superior in face and figure, as well as his senior in years, had a deep-set dark eye, whose very smile was ominous of the storm of evil passions and tempers within. Their conversation was loud and earnest, and was carried on in tones of considerable occasional excitement; the violent motion of their hands, and the increasing loudness of their voices, gave token that passion was beginning to usurp the throne of prudence; till at last the elder of the two, stung to madness by some observation of his companion, suddenly raised his hand, and struck him a blow on the head, which made him stagger for some paces. Quick as lightning, however, he recovered himself, and rushed to avenge the blow. A short and violent struggle ensued; and then the younger, whom we shall call Richard Goldie, sat astride the prostrate body of his antagonist, panting with violent exertion, and with his knees pinioning the arms of the other to the ground; while the latter, exhausted with his exertions, made feeble and ineffectual struggles to rise.

"Let me rise," said he, at last, in a sullen tone; "you need not be afraid."

"Afraid!" replied the other, with a contemptuous laugh; "it wad ill set a born and bred Nithsdale man to fear a mongrel o' a foreigner. Rise up, man—rise up; ye brought it on yoursel. I wadna cared for yer sharp words, or yer ill tongue, had ye but keepit yer hans aff. But dinna look sae dour-like man. Ye needna be cast doun aboot it; it was a fair stand-up fecht, and ye did yer best. Come, gie's yer han, and we'll think nae mair o't?"

"Richie Goldie," said Cummin, rejecting the proffered hand, and drawing back, as if he thought its touch would be contamination, while his eye flashed with vindictive fire—"Richie Goldie, hear me. When we were boys at school together, you were like a serpent in my eyes. Since we left it, you have always crossed my path, like the east wind, to blight, and blast, and wither all the flowers that lay in it. You have stood between me and my love; and now you have struck me to the earth, and wounded me, when fallen, with your taunts and sarcasms. You have roused the slumbering devil within me, and before he sleeps again, you shall bitterly repent this day's work: you shall find the mongrel foreigner is no mongrel in his revenge!"

"Dinna talk that fearfu gate," said Goldie, laughing; "ye'll mak a body think ye're clean demented—speakin o' revenge, and lookin at a man as if ye wished yer een war daggers. I wish ye a better temper and a kinder heart. I fear neither you nor yer revenge; and as we maun gang this trip thegither, just put yer revenge in yer pouch, and let's 'gree and be freends."

So saying, he sprang into the boat, which was now rocking in the tide, and rewarding the boy for his trouble, and followed in sullen silence by Cummin, he hauled aft the sheets, and in a few minutes the boat was dancing over the waves towards Annan.

It is now necessary that we should introduce the two heroes of our tale more particularly to the reader, which we will endeavour to do as concisely as possible. Edward Cummin's mother was an Italian, who had accompanied a family of rank to England in the capacity of lady's-maid. She was a beautiful woman, of warm and violent passions, and, for her station in life, remarkably well-informed and clever. Her mistress had a high opinion of her, and thought she was throwing herself away when she asked permission to marry her master's gardener; but, finding that her arguments to dissuade her from the connection were ineffectual, she gave her consent to it, and did all in her power to render her favourite's married state a comfortable one. For seven years the Cummins lived a happy and industrious life together—the only fruit of their union being a boy, the Edward of our story. He was an uncommonly handsome child, and was very much noticed by the family at the hall, from whom he received the rudiments of an excellent education, and acquired manners and habits superior to his station. He was the idol of his parents; but his father—a sensible, steady Scotchman—did not allow his partiality to blind him to his son's faults, and was firm and steady in his correction of them; while the mother, with foolish and mistaken fondness, endeavoured on all occasions to conceal his failings, and soothed and caressed, when she ought to have checked and punished him. The consequence was, that young Edward soon learned to fear his father, and to despise his mother—and dissimulation and hypocrisy were the natural consequences of such contradictory management. At this time circumstances obliged the family to leave the hall, and settle on the Continent—the estate was sold, and Cummin, being deprived of his situation, returned, with his family, to his native place. Here their nearest neighbours were the Goldies; and a considerable degree of intimacy arose between the two families. The boys, Richard Goldie and Edward Cummin, were sent, during the winter months, to the same school, where a great deal of apparent friendship subsisted between them. But, on Edward's part, it was all seeming—for he was a hypocrite by nature, and, to suit his own purposes, could fawn, and cringe, and flatter, with an air, at the same time, of bold off-hand independence; and it was his interest to keep on good terms with Richard Goldie, who, though younger than himself, was more active and hardy, and who really was, what he pretended to be, courageous and independent. But, in his heart, Edward hated his high-spirited companion; it was gall and wormwood to his proud and vindictive spirit to notice the evident partiality shown towards Richard by his companions, and the coolness and avoidance evinced towards himself. Several circumstances at last transpired, which served to open Richard Goldie's eyes to the true character of his pretended friend; and a coolness arose between them, which, though it never proceeded to an open rupture, for some time put a stop to the closeness of their intimacy. Years passed, and the young men both adopted the sea for a profession, and sailed for some time together in the same vessel—an American trader, "hailing" from Dumfries. Here, as at school, though equally active in the performance of their duties, Richard Goldie's frank and generous disposition rendered him a favourite with the rest of the crew, while Cummin in vain strove to make himself popular—he always was, or fancied himself to be, an object of distrust and aversion. Towards Goldie he maintained the same apparently friendly and kindly bearing, while he was storing up bitter feelings against him in his heart. It was strange that, with growing, though concealed, hatred on the one side, and with want of confidence on the other, these two young men should have continued to associate, and to keep up a companionship which it only depended upon themselves to discontinue; but so it was. They had learned from the same books; they had sported beneath the same roof; they had risen from boyhood to manhood together; and they could not, though so different in disposition, entirely sever the links with which early associations had bound them together. In the neighbourhood of Kelton lived an old fisherman, whose daughter was one of the loveliest girls in the district. Our two companions, being near neighbours of old Grey, were very constant in their attentions to him; they managed his boat for him, helped him to mend his nets, and made themselves useful in every possible way. Some of the neighbours insinuated, that all this kindness proceeded less from a regard for the old man, than from a wish to conciliate his pretty daughter. That, however, was matter of doubt; and old Grey took the "benefit of the doubt," and the compliment to himself. While flattering the father, however, they were both very assiduous in their attentions to the daughter, and each in turn fancied that he was the object of her exclusive regard. But Ellen Grey was as sensible as she was lovely, and had met with so much passing admiration, and knew so well what value to put upon it, that she was but little affected by this additional proof of her power. She liked both the young men as pleasant companions, but had, as yet, shown no decided partiality for either. She was perfectly well aware that they both admired her, and she was gratified by their attentions—as what pretty woman would not have been?—but the only use she made of her influence over them, was to restrain their angry passions, and to keep up friendly feelings between them. Of the two, Cummin was the most calculated to please the eye and attract the fancy of a young and inexperienced girl; for, besides being more strikingly handsome than Goldie, in his intercourse with the softer sex he had successfully studied the art of concealing and glossing over all the worse qualities of his nature. Goldie, on the contrary, was frank and open to all alike; he was manly and independent in his address to females, and never stooped to flattery or dissimulation. Things went on in this uncertain way for some time, till the young men, wearied of sailing backwards and forwards to and from America, resolved to vary the scene, by making a voyage to India. Although they both felt that friendship was with them but a name, yet they had become so united by habit and early association, that they could not make up their minds to separate, and accordingly agreed to "enter" on board the same ship.

The evening on which our story commences, was the one fixed upon for their departure. Goldie had been to Annan the day previous, to ascertain the time of the steamboat's sailing from Liverpool, and had borrowed a boat from a friend of his father's there, in which he and Cummin were to return. They had passed the afternoon together at old Grey's, and Cummin fancied that Ellen smiled more kindly upon his rival than upon himself. She immediately, with the quickness of woman's tact, perceived, and endeavoured to remove, the impression—but in vain; and, in so doing, excited the jealous feelings of Goldie. They left the house in gloomy silence; but had not proceeded far before their irritated feelings found vent in words—few, and cautious, and half-suppressed at first, but gradually increasing in loudness, and energy, and bitterness, till the result was the struggle we have already described. Cummin's face, as he sat beside Goldie in the stern-sheets of the boat, was a true index to the black and vindictive passions that boiled within his heart. His glaring eye, set teeth, clenched hand, and heavy breathing, told too plainly what was passing within. A child might have read his secret on his brow—and yet he was too great a coward to utter it. He sat brooding over his wrath, and nourishing dark thoughts of hatred and revenge against his unconscious companion, whose momentary anger had passed away, and left no trace behind it.

"Ye're as quiet's a sittin hen, Ned," said he; "I doot ye're hatchin mischief. Dinna tak on sae, man; let byganes be byganes, and think nae mair aboot it."

Cummin's first flush of rage had by this time passed away, and he began to think of the expediency of appearing to be reconciled to Goldie—for he knew that it was only by treachery and cunning he could hope to gratify his longing for revenge. He, therefore, in reply to Richard's speech, grasped him warmly by the hand, and said—

"Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that I bear you any ill-will on account of what has passed. The words I uttered in my passion I am sorry for and disclaim, now that I am cool. I was angry—very angry, certainly; but that is past. How can you wonder that I am sad and silent, when you remember that we may never return to the 'bonny banks o' Nith.' We are going among strangers, and into strange lands: let us not forget our old friendship—let us always be friends as well as countrymen."

"That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates," replied Goldie. "What wi' yer English lingo and yer grand words, ye talk for a' the warld like a prented bulk; it does a body's lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, 'shouther to shouther' is the word in the Highlands, and we'll tak it for our by-word." And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by the hand.

Next day, they took their passage in the steamer for Liverpool, and from thence made the best of their way to London. There they were soon picked up by one of the "crimps," on the look-out for men for the outward-bound Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped on board the Briton—a vessel of twelve hundred tons. Here everything was strange to them, and they were subjected to a course of discipline to which they had not before been accustomed. They both proved themselves to be smart, active young fellows, and good seamen; but at first Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie—for he was too cunning and timeserving to commit himself in any way; while the latter, always in the habit of speaking out his mind boldly and freely, frequently got himself into trouble by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness of his remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in their true colours, and the scale was turned in favour of Goldie, whose frank and open manners, and straightforward, fearless confidence, established him in the general good opinion of his officers and messmates; while, on the other hand, the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more apparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance to the latter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates rankled deep in the heart of the vindictive Cummin; and, forgetting that he himself was the cause of it, he attributed all to the influence of the detested Goldie. A circumstance soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of evil passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was within a few degrees of the equator, when one day a strange sail was seen ahead, which proved to be a "homeward-bounder." The captain immediately determined to board her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief mate.

"Midshipman! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the letters, and pass the word fore and aft that a bag is going to be made up for England. First cutters, clean themselves!"

The breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as the stranger was still at a considerable distance, orders were given to "pipe to dinner," and for the cutter's crew to come up as soon as they had dined, to lower the boat down. In a short time, the coxswain of the boat—a fine, active, young north-country man—came up with three of his crew, two of whom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat, while the coxswain, with the other man, jumped in, to be lowered down in her. One of the men at the "falls" was Cummin; lowering away, quickly and carelessly, he allowed the rope to run too quickly round the "cleat," and not being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go "by the run." The consequence was, that the stern of the boat was plunged into the water, while the bow hung suspended in the other tackle—the men were thrown out, and the poor coxswain, not being able to swim, made two or three ineffectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident was so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little apparent danger—for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the poor fellow was within arm's-length almost of the boat's gunwale—that he was gone almost before an alarm was given. The men were all below at dinner; but ill news flies fast—in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways, each hurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first up, and, rushing aft on the poop, he exclaimed, "Where is he?" and, hardly waiting for an answer, sprung over the taffrail into the water, a height of twenty feet, and dived after the sinking man; but in vain—the poor fellow was gone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin severely for his carelessness, degraded him from his station as topman, made him a "sweeper," and stopped his allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly praised on the quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a handsome present from the captain, besides being promoted to the station of boatswain's mate at the first opportunity. This was a bitter potion for the moody and jealous spirit of Cummin; and he brooded day and night over his fancied wrongs.

The ship was now rapidly approaching the "line," and the crew had been for some time anticipating with great glee the day of fun and license which was in store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with practising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-water sailors who had never been to the southward of the equator; and strange and mysterious were the notions which many of the latter formed of the dreaded "line," from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some imagined that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not be cut without the permission of the old king of the waves; others were gulled into the belief that there was a large tree growing out of the water, to which the ship was to be made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were gone through. But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed into certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his report to the captain—

"The sun's up, sir."

"What is the latitude?"

"Fifty minutes north, sir."

"Very well—make it twelve o'clock."

"Strike eight-bells, quartermaster!" And away went the old fellow "forward," to strike the bell, brimful of the intelligence he had just overheard; and in two minutes it was known all over the ship, that, if the breeze held, they would cross the "line" before morning.

"There it is at last," muttered one of the middies, who had been for some minutes apparently straining his eyes through a three-foot "Dollond," and who, knowing he was within ear-shot of a knot of young cadets, muttered loud enough to be overheard.

"What is it?" said a young Irishman.

"The line, to be sure—the equinoxial line—which we have been so anxiously looking for."

In the meantime, great was the bustle among all the old hands on board. Paint and tar were in constant requisition. A deputation had waited some days before upon the lady passengers, requesting from them some of their cast-off wearing apparel, as the crew expected "Mrs Neptune" to honour them with a visit in a few days, and wished to have a change of raiment in readiness for her, as she would most likely be wet and cold with her long cruise upon the water. A list had been drawn up, ready for presentation to Neptune, on his arrival, of all those who were for the first time crossing the line; and those of the passengers who were unwilling to undergo the ceremonies attendant upon being made "freemen of the line," had expressed their readiness to pay the customary exempting tribute, under the salutary dread of the razors, of three degrees of comparison, which were duly brandished before their eyes.

Towards evening, the breeze gradually decreased; the clouds were tinged with all the gorgeous hues of a tropical sunset, assuming every variety of strange and grotesque appearances; and the water reflected back their image, if possible, with increased splendour. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but the glassy, undulating surface of the sea, partially rippled by the "cat's paws"[5] which played over it. The ship was gliding slowly over the smooth expanse of water—her large sails flapping heavily against the masts, as the sea rose and fell, and her smaller canvas just swelling in the breeze, and lending its feeble aid to urge her onwards; the passengers were taking their evening lounge on the poop and quarterdeck; while the ship's "band" were "discoursing eloquent music" for their amusement; and the crew were scattered in groups about the forecastle and waist. Just as the dusk of evening began to render objects obscure and indistinct, the look-out on the forecastle called out—

"A light right ahead, sir!"

"Very well, my boy; keep your eye upon it, and let me know if we near it."

In a short time the man exclaimed, "The light is close aboard of us, sir!" and, at the same moment, a bugle-note was heard, and a glimmering light appeared, which gradually enlarged, throwing a broad, blue, unearthly glare over the fore part of the ship, till the smallest rope was as visible as in broad daylight; while a loud, confused, roaring noise was heard, and a stentorian voice shouted, apparently from the sea—

"Ho! the ship, ahoy!"

"Holloa!" replied the officer.

"What ship is that?"

"The Honourable Company's ship Briton."

"Ah! my old friend, Captain Oakum!—welcome back again! I am too busy to come on board just now; but I will pay you a visit to-morrow forenoon. Be sure to have everything ready for me, for I have a great deal of work on my hands just now.—Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

Again the bugle-note was heard; and then the car of his watery majesty—looking to vulgar and unpoetic eyes very like a lighted tar-barrel—floated slowly astern, throwing a flickering glare over the sails, as it passed; while the "band" almost knocked down what little of the breeze was left with their counter-blast of "Rule Britannia," which they puffed away with all their might and main, till the car of Neptune sank beneath the sea.

"Come forward," said a middie to the cadets near him, just before the car dropped astern—"come forward, and see Neptune's car; it is worth your while to look at the old boy, whisking along at the tail of half-a-score of dolphins, with a poop-light as big as a full-moon blazing over his stern; you can see him quite plain from the forecastle." And away they all ran, helter-skelter, towards the forecastle—the middie knowingly allowing the young aspirants for military distinction to get ahead of him, and bolting under the forecastle, while they ran thundering up the ladder. They had hardly reached the upper step, before a slight sprinkling from aloft made them look upwards; and, while they were gaping, open-mouthed, in wonder from whence the rain could proceed, as not a cloud was to be seen, they had soon reason to think that a waterspout had burst over their heads; for—splash, splash, splash—bucketful after bucketful of water was poured on their devoted heads from the "foretop." As soon as they recovered from the momentary shock and surprise, they made a precipitate retreat, amid roars of laughter from all parts of the ship, in which they were fain to join, to conceal their mortification.

All was now quiet for the night; the "band" had played "God save the King;" the watch had been called; and the captain's steward had announced, "Spirits on the table, sir."

"I had no idea, Captain Oakum," said one of the passengers at the "cuddy" table, "that Neptune was such a dashing blade, with his flourish of trumpets and car of flame. I shall feel a greater respect for him in future. Does he always announce his approach in such style?"

"No; he sometimes does it by deputy. Last voyage, I was walking the quarterdeck with some of my passengers, when we were all startled by seeing a figure, in white, come flying down out of the maintop. It fluttered its wings for a while, and then alighted on the deck, close before us; touched its hat, and delivered a letter into my hands; and then—whisk! before we had time to look round us, it was flying up into the mizzentop. The figure in white was one of the topmen—intended, I suppose, to represent Mercury; and the letter was from the King of the Sea, announcing his approach. The men had rove a couple of 'whips' from the main and mizzen mast-heads, and the end of each being made fast round 'Mr Mercury's' waist, he was lowered from the one top, and 'run up' into the other."

"Capital! It must have been rather startling, in the dusk of evening, to see such a strange sea-bird alight at your feet."

The next morning, as soon as the decks were washed, preparations were made for the approaching ceremony. The jolly-boat was got in from the stern, and secured at the gangway, from which a long particoloured pole projected, announcing that this was "Neptune's free-and-easy shaving-shop." All the "scuppers" of the upper deck were stopped, and the pumps were kept in constant motion, till the lee-side of the deck was afloat, and the jolly-boat full to the "gunwale." An old sail was drawn across the fore-part of the ship's "waist," like the curtain of a theatre, to conceal the actors in the approaching ceremony, while making their necessary preparations. There was an air of bustling and eager mystery among all the old hands, which, to the uninitiated, gave rise to vague and unpleasant feelings of fear. It was in vain they strained their eyes to penetrate the mysteries of the sanctum concealed by the provoking curtain, from behind which sundry notes of preparation were heard, mixed with disjointed ejaculations—such as, "A touch more black, Jem." "How does my scraper sit?" "Where's my nose?"—and so on. All was bustle and animation; the carpenter's gang converting an old gun-carriage into a triumphal car; the gunner preparing flags for its decoration; his mates busy, with their paint-brushes, bedaubing the tars who were to act as sea-horses; and the charioteer preparing and fitting on Neptune's livery. At length all was ready for the reception of the King of the Sea.

"On deck there!" shouted the man at the masthead.

"Holloa!" replied the officer of the watch.

"A strange sail right ahead, sir."

"Very well, my boy. Can you make out what she is?"

"She looks small, sir—not bigger than a boat."

The officer made his report to the captain, who kindly entered into the spirit of the thing, to gratify the men, and desired to be informed when the boat was near the ship.

"We are nearing the boat fast, sir." And the captain made his appearance on deck, to reconnoitre the approaching stranger.

"Ship ahoy!" roared a voice ahead; "lay your maintopsail to the mast, and give us a rope for the boat."

"Forecastle there!—a rope for the boat! Let go the maintop bowline! Square away the mainyard, after-guard!" bawled the officer of the deck.

In the meantime, the unfortunates who had never crossed the line were driven below; the "gratings" were laid on fore and aft, and sentries were stationed at the hatchways to prevent escape.

A bugle-note was now heard murdering the "Conquering Hero," who soon made his appearance in person, over the bows, and stood for a moment in a graceful attitude on the night-head, where he really cut quite an imposing figure, with his robe of sheep-skins and flowing beard of "oakum," and grasping in his extended hand a trident, with a fine fish on its prongs. A few minutes after he had descended into the "waist," the screen we before mentioned was withdrawn, and the procession moved on. First came the ship's musicians, fantastically dressed for the occasion, and playing "Rule Britannia" with all their might and main; next came the triumphal car, surmounted by a canopy decorated with flags of all nations, under which were seated Neptune, Amphitrite, or Mrs Nep, as Jack calls her, and a little triton; and immediately in the rear followed the suite, consisting of the barber, doctor, clerk, and about a dozen half-naked and particoloured demigods, who acted as water-bailiffs. Each of these gentlemen merits a particular description; for they were all great men, in their way. The doctor wore an immense floured wig, and an uncommonly long, unwholesome-looking nose, and over all a rusty piece of tarpaulin, pinched into three corners, to represent a hat; under his arm he carried his family medicine-chest, the lid of which was open, and displayed to view pills and powders of all shapes, sizes, and colours, in great profusion; and in his hand he carried a large bottle, labelled, "Neptune's elixir." The barber carried, slung over his arm, his shaving-box (a large tar bucket), with brushes to correspond; the pouch in the front of his apron was filled with little etceteras, such as boxes of grease for the hair, powder for the teeth, &c.; and in his hand he brandished three razors, each about three feet long—one made of smooth iron hoop, the next about as genteel as a hand-saw, and the third, meant for particular favourites, with teeth grinning at each other, half-an inch apart, more or less. The clerk, or scribe, was a dandy of the first water: he had on a small rarée hat, which looked as if it had been forced up on one side by an immense crop of oakum curls, which sprouted most luxuriantly from under one of the rims. His whiskers were pointed to the wind with the greatest nicety; and from behind his ear peeped the quill, his badge of office; while a little inkstand dangled at his button-hole. The tips of his nose and ears were almost hidden by a most magnificently stiff collar, and his chin nestled in a bed of frill, made to match the collar of the best foolscap. All these gentlemen wore long togs.[6]

On came the pageant: Neptune's sheep-skins and trident looked very majestic; Amphitrite, a tall, high-cheek-boned Scotch "topman," with the assistance of a little red paint and oakum locks, and arrayed cap-à-pie in cabin finery, made a very passable representation of a she-monster; the barber brandished his razors; the scribe paraded his list, and, every now and then, made use of an old frying-pan, with the bottom knocked out of it, for a quizzing-glass; the jack-tars who acted as sea-horses pranced as uncouthly as jack-asses; and the coachman, seated on the fore-part of the car, and proud of his livery and shoulder-knots, cracked his whip, d——d his horses for lubbers, and singing out to them, "Hard a-port!" contrived to weather the after hatchway, and then bear up round the "capstan," where, with a graceful pull-up of the reins, very much like a strong pull at the mainbrace, and an "Avast there!" to his obedient cattle, he stopped the car. The captain was standing under the poop-awning, in readiness to receive his majesty, who welcomed him most graciously to his dominions.

"Glad to see you once more, Captain Oakum," said he; "it warms the cockles of my heart to fall in with an old friend; and my wife here and I both wants comfort of some kind, after our long morning ride over the water; the cold air is apt to give one a cold in the stomach." The doctor immediately stepped forward with his bottle, and presented it to his majesty. "No, no," said he; "none of your doctor's stuff for me; keep that for my children; Captain Oakum knows my complaint of old."

The captain laughed, and his steward, taking the hint, produced a bottle containing a different kind of elixir, which old Neptune seemed to quaff with peculiar relish. A glass was then offered to Amphitrite, who pretended to reject it, and tried to blush—in vain.

"Come, come! none of that 'ere humbug, old gal," said the king; "tip it over; it'll do you good." And away it went, where many of its fellows had gone before.

"Ah!" said she, smacking her lips with unqueenlike gusto, "glorious stuff to drive out a cold!"

The whole of the suite were immediately seized with the same complaint, and all required the application of the same remedy.

"I understand, Captain Oakum, you have a good many of my children on board."

"Yes, a few. I hope you will treat them kindly."

"Oh, leave that to me, sir; I'll give none of them more nor they desarves."

He then thrust out his trident to the captain's steward, with a graceful air, as if he meant to impale him; but it was only for the purpose of presenting the fish on its prongs, as an addition to his honour the captain's dinner.

"I wish it war better; but we've had a sad sickly season down below, and all the dolphins and bonitos are on the doctor's list with influenzie."

During this interview, the men were all standing near the gangway, armed with buckets of water, wet swabs, &c., impatient for the commencement of the fun.

"But I must wish you good-morning, Captain Oakum; I have no time to lose. I have two or three other ships to board this morning."

"Good-morning!"

The band struck up "Off she goes." "Carry on, you lubbers!" said the coachman. Crack went the whip—off pranced the horses—and away whirled the car, which no sooner approached the gangway, than the procession was greeted with torrents of water, and his "godship" was half smothered in his own element. After gasping for breath, and shaking off the superfluous moisture, Neptune and the fair Amphitrite took their station on "the booms," to superintend the operations of the day. The clerk handed to his majesty a list of his new subjects, who were recommended to his peculiar attention.

"Richard Goldie is the first on the list," said Neptune; "send him up!" And away scampered the Tritons (or constables), who were naked to the waist, the upper parts of their bodies being hideously painted, fantastic-looking caps on their heads, and short painted staves in their hands. The main-hatch "grating" was lifted, and up came our friend Richard, blindfolded, between two constables, laughing and joking with his captors as he came along. As soon as he made his appearance, Neptune exclaimed—

"Who have we got here? I ought to know the cut of that younker's jib. Ay, I'm blowed if it isn't the same that was cruising about the other day after a drowning shipmate. One of the right sort that. Just put my mark upon him—give him a touch of the tar-brush, and let him go."

Almost untouched, Richard was allowed to escape forward, where he immediately equipped himself with a wet "swab," and prepared to follow the example of those around him.

"Edward Cummin! Bring Edward Cummin!"

And Cummin made his appearance, escorted as Goldie had been, with a face almost as white as the handkerchief that blinded his eyes, and shivering with anticipation. The attendant Tritons seated him on the edge of the jolly-boat at the gangway; and the barber, turning to Neptune, and holding up his three razors, said—

"Please your honour, which?"

"Let us hear first what he has to say for himself," said Neptune.

"Where do ye come from?"

"From Scot——oo! oo!" said the poor fellow, as the barber thrust a well-filled tar-brush into his mouth.

"How long is it since you left it?"

But Cummin had gained experience; he set his teeth, pressed his lips together, and sat, a ludicrous picture of fear, mixed with desperate resolution.

"A close Scot, I see," said Neptune; "give him some soap to soften his fizz, and teach him to open his mouth. Shave him clean."

The barber lathered his victim's cheeks with tar, which he dabbed on without much regard for his feelings; while the Tritons, with their hands in his hair, tugged his head about in the proper direction. The operation was performed with the "favourite's" razor, which left the furrows of its fine edge upon his cheeks. The doctor was standing by with his vial of tar-water, and his box of indescribable pills, ready to take advantage of every involuntary gasp of the poor patient. At last, after daubing his hair with rancid grease, "to make it grow," the bandage was suddenly taken from his eyes, and he was thrown backward into the boat, and left floundering among the tarry water, till some charitable hand dragged him out. Half-drowned and half-blinded, Cummin staggered forwards, blessing his stars that his torments were over; but, alas! he soon found that he had escaped from the fangs of the torturing few, only to encounter the tender mercies of the vindictive many. Groans and hisses from all quarters gave token of the dislike in which he was held—bucketfuls of water were dashed in his face, and a rope drawn suddenly right across, tripped up his feet, and he floundered on the deck at the mercy of his tormentors, who, whenever he attempted to rise, dashed torrents of water upon him, and half-buried him in wet "swabs." Mad with rage and mortification, wearied and exhausted, Cummin at last reached the forecastle, where he sat down for awhile, to recover breath and strength.

"Come, Cummin, man," shouted Goldie to him—"come and join the sport."

There was something in Goldie's joyous and laughing tone which jarred upon Cummin's excited feelings—it seemed to him like an insult, that his companion should be so merry and happy, while he was sitting, like an evil spirit, scowling on the scene of mirth before him. He made no reply to Goldie, but muttered to himself—"Laugh on, my young cock of the walk; you shall pay dearly for your fun." From that day, Cummin became an altered man in manner; he no longer attempted to conceal his dislike to Goldie, but on all occasions did his utmost to thwart and annoy him. He used to pace up and down the deck, in gloomy silence, while the rest of the crew were sleeping around him; and dark and deadly were the thoughts that crowded through his brain. He felt that he was disliked and avoided by all his companions, and, attributing their estrangement to the arts and influence of Goldie, over and over again did he vow bitter revenge against him. But how was his revenge to be gratified? There was the rub. He was too much of a coward to attack him openly, and feared to attempt any secret mischief, as he knew that he would be immediately suspected as the author of it; for his hatred to Goldie had, by this time, been remarked throughout the ship, where, it was equally obvious, Goldie had no other enemy. But, while he is meditating mischief, we must go on with our story.

When the Briton arrived in Madras Roads, several vessels were lying at anchor there; and one of them, a small merchantman, had her foretopsail loose, and "blue-peter" flying. This was the Columbine, a Liverpool ship, which was expected to sail that night about twelve o'clock. As Cummin stood on the forecastle in the evening, after the hammocks were piped down, looking gloomily at that vessel, his countenance suddenly brightened up. He rubbed his hands together, and laughed aloud; then checking himself, and looking cautiously round, to see whether any one was near him, he dived below. At midnight, the Columbine "got under way," and stood to sea.

Next morning, while washing decks, the officer of the deck called out, "Midshipman! I don't see Cummin; send him up."

"Cummin!—Richard Cummin!" was echoed round the decks; but no Richard Cummin appeared.

The hands were called out to muster; Cummin did not answer to his name. Strict search was made for him, but he was nowhere to be found. The first and most natural conclusion was, that he had deserted to the Columbine; but it was too late now to ascertain. But that belief was a good deal shaken, when one of the men, who happened to have been awake at eleven o'clock the night before, said that he had heard a loud splash in the water, and ran immediately to the "port" to look out; but all was silent again; and, if it was, as he now supposed, Cummin, he must have gone down immediately. He did not give the alarm at the time, for he was half-asleep when he heard the noise, and thought he must have been mistaken. While the man was giving this evidence on the quarterdeck, up came Goldie with a piece of paper, which he had found on the pillow of his hammock, on which were scrawled the following words:—"Richie, I must put an end to this life of misery and mortification; when I am gone, perhaps you will think more kindly of me. I was wicked enough to talk of revenge. I leave my chest and all my traps to you. Be kind to my poor mother, for the sake of your unhappy shipmate." It was now evident to all that the poor fellow, whose dejection and reserve had been long noticed, had committed suicide; and, much as he was disliked, his disappearance cast a gloom over the ship's company for some days. Goldie grieved sincerely for him, now that he was gone—all his violence, all his tempers were forgotten, and Richard only thought of him as the friend of his boyhood, and the companion of his early days; and he was much affected by the kindly feeling manifested in his note.

We must now transport ourselves, for awhile, on board the Columbine, and follow Edward Cummin and his fortunes. On the night of the Briton's arrival in Madras Roads, Cummin, who was a capital swimmer, dropped unperceived under the bows of the Columbine, about an hour before she got "under way," and climbed into the "head" by a rope that was hanging overboard. He passed the look-out on the forecastle; but the man, being half-asleep, took him for one of the ship's company. He then dived down the main-hatchway, and concealed himself in the "heart" of one of the cable-tiers, where he remained undiscovered during the day. Next night, when all was quiet, he stole up on the gundeck, and was in the act of helping himself out of one of the bread-bags there, when a man of the mess, who happened to be awake, seized him as a thief, and dragged him on the upper deck.

"Bring a light, quartermaster," said the mate; "let us see who this skulking thief is. Holloa!" continued he, starting back, with surprise, "who the deuce have we got here? Where did you spring from?"

"I came up from the cable-tier to get something to eat, sir; I was very hungry."

"Out of the cable-tier! But how did you get into the cable-tier?"

"I swam——"

"Swam into the cable-tier! You must be a clever fellow. Come, none of your tricks upon travellers—tell the truth at once."

"I was going to tell you when you stopped me, sir. I am a 'Briton.'"

"Well, what has that to do with it?"

"Why, sir, I was tired of being one."

"Tired of being a Briton, and swam into the cable-tier! What do you mean?"

"Why, sir, that I was one of the crew of the Briton, the Indiaman that lay next you in the roads, and I cut and run from her, and got on board of you, just before you got under way."

"Here's a pretty business! But we must make the best of a bad bargain. I suppose you're one of the company's hard ones."

The Columbine was short-handed, having lost several men at Madras, and the captain, though he blustered a little when he first heard the story, was in his heart pleased to have got such an unexpected addition to his crew; and, after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was rated able seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's arrival at Liverpool, Cummin immediately set off homewards, and made his appearance at Kelton again, about eight months after he had left it, much to the surprise of his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his sufferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of poor Goldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to cholera. After the death of his friend, driven to desperation by the ill-usage he was exposed to, he determined to run from his ship on the first opportunity, and had accordingly deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all occasions, in the warmest terms of Goldie's great kindness to him, and expressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad news was a death-blow to the poor old Goldies, who never recovered from the effects of it, and who, broken-hearted and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks afterwards, to an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and sincerely for Richard Goldie; she had always liked him as an agreeable companion, and respected him as an amiable and steady character; and though, at first, she had given the preference to the plausible Cummin, yet, before they parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon her better sense, that she had begun to experience that kind of partiality towards him which might in time have ripened into a warmer feeling. With the quick eye of jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this change in her feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself. He had never really loved her; his object in appearing to do so had been to annoy Goldie; but the wound thus given to his vanity had rankled in his heart, to the exclusion of every other feeling but that of a wish to punish her for her defection.

He now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was doubly assiduous in his attentions towards him. He had become, apparently, quite an altered character—that is, he had become a more finished hypocrite; he had learned to calm his temper and to smooth his brow; and appeared, on all occasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man began to feel the kindest regard towards him, and pointed him out to his daughter's attention as a pattern for the young men around, and one who would make a steady and respectable husband. There was at first, however, a changeableness in his manner towards Ellen that puzzled and surprised her. At times, he was almost servilely obsequious in his attentions towards her; at others, when he thought himself unobserved, she was startled by the malevolent expression of his countenance, and by the derisive smile that played round his lips, as he gazed upon her. Cummin noticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and became more guarded in his behaviour; he redoubled his attentions, and never allowed a shade of unpleasant feeling to be visible on his brow. His perseverance had the desired effect of reviving her old partiality, and in an evil hour she consented to become his wife. The morning after their wedding, he had disappeared, and had never since been heard of. A deserted bride, she was left in all the misery of uncertainty respecting his fate or his intentions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she could impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had treated her from the moment of their union.

But we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. Nothing particular occurred during the remainder of the voyage of the Briton, until their arrival in China, where, in consequence of a dispute with the authorities, the ships were detained for several months, and a year elapsed before they returned to England. As soon as he had received his pay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he proceeded by steam to Annan. When his foot was fairly planted on the soil of Dumfries-shire, and his face was turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the exuberance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved his hat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which could only be excused in a young sailor just let loose; and which, had they been witnessed by others of a cooler temperament, would have been looked upon as the freaks of a madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his parents, and of bonny Ellen Grey; and with thoughts of her came a sad recollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of flattering notion that the latter had had good cause for his jealousy on the night of their quarrel, when Ellen, every feature of whose face and every note of whose voice were vividly present to his memory, smiled so sweetly upon him, and bid him take care of himself "for a' our sakes."

It was late in the evening when he approached Kelton, on his way homewards; and he resolved to give the Greys a call as he went past. At length he saw the well-known cottage, and a flush came over his brow when he recognised Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to greet her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated, he was surprised and mortified to see her start up with a faint scream, and avert her eyes, with looks of horror and alarm.

"Ellen!" exclaimed he—"hae ye forgotten me? What gars ye turn awa yer head, as though ye'd seen a bogle? Am I sae changed, that ye dinna ken yer auld freend, Richie Goldie?" And he advanced to take her hand. The girl started from his touch, with a cold shudder, and muttered—

"Is it no gane yet?"

"What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen? There's nought here but yersel and me? Can ye no speak to me? It sets ye ill to turn the cauld shouther to an auld freend."

The girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over her shoulder, and exclaimed, with a start of joy—

"Oh! I believe it's himsel!"

"Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen?"

"For yer wraith, Richie; they tell't me ye were dead."

"And wha tell't ye sic a lee?"

"He tell't me sae himsel."

"And wha was he?"

"Ned Cummin: he said he saw ye dee."

"Ned Cummin! Why the lassie's head's in a creel. Ned drowned himsel, puir chiel! in Madras Roads; and mony a sair thocht has it gien me that we war unfreends when we parted."

"Weel, Richie, a' I ken is, that it's Gude's truth that Ned Cummin tell't me ye were dead—and I believed him." And the tears gushed from her eyes as she said so. "But come ben the hoose, and see my faither."

Old Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at the apparition, as he thought it, of Richard Goldie; for they both were infected with the superstition of the country, and firmly believed in the doctrine of wraiths, bogles, and other supernatural appearances.

"And, noo," said the old man, "that we ken that ye're yersel, and no yer wraith, sit doun and tell us a' that's happened ye sin ye gaed awa."

"I hae nae time 'enow," said Richard; "I maun awa hame; for I haena seen my ain folk yet—mair's the shame; but I'll come back the morn's morn, and gie ye my cracks."

"But Richie, my man, hae ye no heard—d'ye no ken?" said the old man, hesitatingly.

"What's happened?" cried Goldie, alarmed. "Are they no a' weel at hame?"

"They heard ye were dead, Richie: and ye ken, they aye said that ye war the life o' their hearts—they were never like the same folk again; the grass o' Caerlav'rock kirkyard is green abune their heads."

Goldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing intelligence; he had loved his parents with the fondest affection, and the hope of cheering and supporting them in their declining years had been the mainspring of his activity and industry. He covered his face with his hands, and remained for some moments silent; and at last, with a sudden outburst of grief, exclaimed—

"Gane! baith gane! and I am left alane without a leevin freend, or a roof to shelter me!"

"Yese no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore. Come, bide whar ye are; ye'll aye be welcome for the sake o' langsyne. I hae aften wished, and I ance thocht, that oor Ellen and you micht come thegither; but it wasna to be."

"And what for can it no be?" said Richie, forgetting his recent loss for the moment, and looking at Ellen. But she burst into tears, and left the room.

Goldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it; and the old man, in explanation, told him the story we have already related, and expressed his surprise at Cummin's conduct, and his wonder as to what could be his motive for such deception.

"What for did he tell us ye were dead, Richie?"

"I see it a' noo," said Richard: "when I struck him to the ground, he swore he would hae revenge—and sair revenge has he taen. My puir faither and mither! What had they dune?" And the poor fellow hung down his head, and sobbed aloud.

"But what could hae garred him leave our Ellen?"

"Oh, he kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she thocht mair o' me than o' himsel; and he just married her to spite me, and to be revenged upon her for slighting him at first. But there's a time for a' things; if I get a grip on him, he's repent it."

It was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the disappointment of all his fondest hopes; and when the first violence of his grief was past, the springiness and buoyancy of his disposition seemed to have left him entirely. He became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely ever seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his usual occupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if it mattered not to him how they were performed, and as if they were to him a mere mechanical and tiresome duty. Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever; but she was now, though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a coldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still reigned but too powerfully in his breast. He was reserved, because he felt a kind of painful pleasure in brooding in silence over his sorrows. In thinking of his poor parents, and of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife but for another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the cold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery. He would fain have left a place which, much as he loved it, only kept awake so many painful recollections, had he not been withheld from doing so by a strong feeling of gratitude to old Grey, who was now unable to work for his own subsistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his daily support. Ellen herself, who was much liked in the neighbourhood, and whose story had excited much interest among the neighbouring gentry, obtained a good deal of employment as a dressmaker, which enabled her not only to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure many luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have obtained. At length, after lingering for some months in a state of gradual decay, the old man died, and Goldie, after having seen Ellen comfortably settled in a neighbouring family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went to Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been heard of Cummin, although nearly two years had elapsed since his disappearance; and Goldie, who could not forget his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a state of most unpleasant uncertainty.

Richard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was walking one day on the Clarence Dock, as some carts were being unloaded. The horse in one of them took fright at some passing object, and dashed off at full speed. A sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and attempted to stop it; but was instantly knocked down with great violence, and the wheel of the cart passed over his head. Richard, who was close to the spot, hastened to his assistance; and was horrified at the sight that met his eyes. The poor fellow was senseless; his arm appeared to be broken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered with gore and dust. Richard raised his head on a log of wood lying near, loosened his collar, and, a crowd instantly collecting, requested some of them to run for the nearest doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the bystanders, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses near, where he lay for some time panting and groaning; but apparently quite insensible.

After they had all gone, the wounded man turned to Richard, and, looking in his face, gave a heavy sigh.

"Are ye in much pain?" said Goldie.

"Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie," replied the man, in feeble and imperfect accents. "Do you not know me?"

"Mercifu powers!" exclaimed Richie; "sure it canna be Ned Cummin?"

"It is Edward Cummin, Richie, your false friend, your once bitter enemy, that lies bruised, and crushed, and broken-spirited before you. Can you forgive me?—can you forgive a dying and a penitent man?"

"Ned Cummin," said Richard, "ye hae dune me grievous wrang; but I forgie ye wi' a' my heart."

"Thanks, dear Richie!—this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die happy."

"Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said."

"But I must speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years were allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not to be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different light now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and confiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because I always felt myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck me to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of Ellen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for you; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and then deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with me, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred. Richard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still forgive me?"

"I do, I do, from my heart," sobbed Richard.

"Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may make my peace with Heaven."

Next morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last moments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy frame of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he gave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward. Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news. His love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union having been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded—a union very different from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed.