“I insist upon its being removed!” cried the fat woman. “The comfort of
every lady in the cabin is not to be sacrificed for the sake of that
squalling brat. If women choose to travel with such young infants, they
should take a private conveyance. I will complain to the Captain, if the
stewardess does not remove it instantly.”

What a difference there is in women! Some, like ministering angels,
strew flowers and scatter blessings along the rugged paths of life;
while others, by their malevolence and pride, increase its sorrows an
hundred fold.

The next day continued stormy, and the rain fell in torrents. The
unsteady motion of the ship did not tend to improve the health of the
occupants of the ladies’ cabin. Those who had been well the day before,
were now as helpless and miserable as their companions. Miss Leigh alone
seemed to retain her usual composure. Mrs. Dalton could scarcely be
named in this catalogue, as she only slept and dressed in the cabin, the
rest of her time being devoted to her friends upon deck, but, in spite
of the boisterous winds and heavy sea, she was as gay and as airy as
ever.

Her noisy children were confined to the cabin, where they amused
themselves by running races round the table, and shouting at the top of
their shrill voices. In all their pranks, they were encouraged and
abetted by Hector, who, regardless of the entreaties of the invalids,
and the maledictions of the exasperated stewardess, did his very best to
increase the uproar and confusion. Hector did not care for the commands
of any one but his mistress, and she was in the saloon, playing at
billiards with Major F.

Little Willie Dalton had discovered the baby, and Flora was terrified
whenever he approached her berth, which was on a level with the floor of
the cabin, as that young gentleman, who was at the unmanageable age of
three years, seemed decidedly bent on mischief. Twice he had crept into
her bed on his hands and knees, and aimed a blow at the head of the
sleeping babe with the leg of a broken chair, which he had found beneath
the sofa.

While the ladies slept, Hector stole from berth to berth, and possessed
himself of all their stores of oranges, lemons, and cayenne lozenges;
sharing the spoils with the troublesome, spoilt monkeys, left by their
careful mamma in his keeping.

Towards evening Mrs. Lyndsay felt greatly recovered from her grievous
attack of sea-sickness; and, with the assistance of Miss Leigh, she
contrived to dress herself, and get upon the deck.

The rain was still falling in large, heavy drops; but the sun was
bravely struggling through the dense masses of black clouds, which had
obscured his rays during the long stormy day, and now cast a watery and
uncertain gleam upon the wild scenery, over which Bamborough Castle
frowns in savage sublimity.

This was the last glance Flora gave to the shores of dear old England.
The angry, turbulent ocean, the lowering sky, and falling rain, seemed
emblems of her own sad destiny. Her head sunk upon her husband’s
shoulder, as he silently clasped her to his breast; and she could only
answer his anxious inquiries respecting herself and the child with heavy
sobs. For his sake—for the sake of the little one, who was nestled
closely to her throbbing heart—she had consented to leave those shores
for ever. Then why did she repine? Why did that last glance of her
native land fill her heart with such unutterable grief? Visions of the
dim future floated before her, prophetic of all the trials and sorrows
which awaited her in those unknown regions to which they were
journeying. She had obeyed the call of duty, but had not yet tasted the
reward. The sacrifice had not been as yet purified and sublimed, by
long-suffering and self-denial, so as to render it an acceptable
offering on so holy a shrine. She looked up to heaven, and tried to
breathe a prayer; but all was still and dark in her bewildered mind.

The kind voice of her husband at last roused her from the indulgence of
vain regrets. The night was raw and cold; the decks wet and slippery
from the increasing rain; and, with an affectionate pressure of the
hand that went far to reconcile her to her lot, Lyndsay whispered, “This
is no place for you, Flora, and my child. Return, dearest, to the
cabin.”

With reluctance Flora obeyed. Beside him she felt neither the cold nor
wet; and, with the greatest repugnance, she re-entered the ladies’
cabin, and, retiring to her berth, enjoyed for several hours a tranquil
and refreshing sleep.

CHAPTER XIX.

MRS. DALTON.

It was midnight when Mrs. Lyndsay awoke. A profound stillness reigned in
the cabin; the invalids had forgotten their sufferings in sleep,—all but
one female figure, who was seated upon the carpeted floor, just in front
of Flora’s berth, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and engaged in
reading a letter. Flora instantly recognised in the watcher the tall,
graceful figure of Mrs. Dalton.

Her mind seemed agitated by some painful recollections; and she sighed
frequently, and several tears stole slowly over her cheeks, as she
replaced the paper carefully in her bosom, and for many minutes appeared
lost in deep and earnest thought. All her accustomed gaiety was gone;
and her fine features wore a sad and regretful expression, far more
touching and interesting than the heartless levity by which they were
generally distinguished.

“Is it possible, that that frivolous mind can be touched by grief?”
thought Flora. “That that woman can feel?”

Mrs. Dalton, as if she had heard the unuttered query, raised her head,
and caught the intense glance with which Mrs. Lyndsay was unconsciously
regarding her.

“I thought no one was awake but myself,” she said; “I am a bad sleeper.
If you are the same, we will have a little chat together; I am naturally
a sociable animal. Of all company, I find my own the worst, and above
all things hate to be alone.”

Surprised at this frank invitation, from a woman who had pronounced her
_nobody_, Flora replied, rather coldly, “I fear, Mrs. Dalton, that our
conversation would not suit each other.”

“That is as much as to say, that you don’t like me; and that you
conclude from that circumstance, that I don’t like you?”

“To be candid then,—you are right.”

“I fancy that you overheard my observations to Major F.?”

“I did.”

“Well if you did, I can forgive you for disliking me. When I first saw
you, I thought you a very plain person, and judged by your dress, that
you held a very inferior rank in society. After listening a few minutes
to your conversation with Miss Leigh, who is a highly educated woman, I
felt convinced that I was wrong; and that you were far superior to most
of the women round me. Of course you thought me a very malicious, vain
woman.”

Flora smiled, in spite of herself.

“Oh, you may speak it out. I shan’t like you a bit the less for speaking
the truth. I am a strange, wayward creature, subject at times to the
most dreadful depression of spirits; and it is only by affecting
excessive gaiety that I hinder myself from falling into the most
hopeless despondency.”

“Such a state of mind is not natural to one of your age, and who
possesses so many personal attractions. There must be some cause for
these fits of gloom.”

“Of course there is. I am not quite the heartless coquet I seem. My
father was an officer in the army, and commanded a regiment in the West
Indies, where I was born. I was an only child, and very much indulged by
both my parents. I lost them while I was a mere child, and was sent to
Scotland to be educated by my grandmother. I was an irritable, volatile,
spoilt child, and expected that everybody would yield to me, as readily
as my slave attendants had done in Jamaica. In this I was disappointed.
My grandmother was a proud, ambitious woman, and a strict
disciplinarian; and it was a constant battle between us who should be
master. I was no match, however, for the old lady, and I fretted
constantly under her control, longing for any chance that might free me
from her rule. It was a joyful day for me, when I was sent to finish my
education at one of the first schools in Edinburgh, which I did not
leave until I was sixteen years of age. I found grandmamma several years
older, and many degrees more exacting than she was before. She was so
much alarmed lest I should make an unsuitable alliance, that she never
suffered me to go out without I was accompanied by herself, or an old
maiden aunt, who was more rigid and stiff than even grandmamma herself.

“At this period of my girlhood, and before I had seen anything of the
world, or could in the least judge for myself, a very wealthy clergyman,
who had been a great friend of poor papa’s, called to see me, before he
returned to Jamaica; where he had a fine living, and possessed a noble
property. Unfortunately for me, he fell desperately in love with the
orphan daughter of his friend, and his suit was vehemently backed by
grandmamma and aunt. He was a handsome, worthy kind man, but old enough
to have been my father. I was so unhappy and restless at home, that I
was easily persuaded to become his wife; and I, who had never been in
love, thought it was a fine thing to be married, and my own mistress at
sixteen. Our union has not been a happy one. I much question if such
unions ever are. He is now an aged man, while I am in the very bloom of
life, and consequently exposed to much temptation. Thank God! I have
never acted criminally, though often severely tried. My home is one of
many luxuries, but it has no domestic joys. My children are the only tie
that binds me to a man I cannot love; and I have been so long used to
drown my disappointment and regret in a whirl of dissipation, that it is
only in scenes of gaiety that I forget my grief.

“My own sex speak slightly of me; but I do not deserve their severe
censures. My fellow-passengers, I heard from Hector, made a thousand
malicious remarks about me yesterday, and that you and Miss Leigh were
the only ladies who took my part.”

“My conduct,” replied Flora, “was perfectly negative. I said nothing
either in praise or blame. I may have injured you by thinking hardly of
you.”

“I thank you for your forbearance, in keeping your thoughts to yourself,
for I did not deserve that from you. If I did flirt a little with Major
F., it was done more to provoke the spleen of that ill-natured old maid,
who acts the part of Cerberus for his proud, pompous wife, than for any
wish to attract his attention.”

“It is better,” said Flora, her heart softening towards her companion,
“to avoid all appearance of evil. Superficial observers only judge by
outward appearance, and your conduct must have appeared strange to a
jealous woman.”

“She was jealous of me then?” cried the volatile Mrs. Dalton, clapping
her hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Oh, I am so glad that it annoyed
her.”

Flora could not help laughing at the vivacity with which she turned her
words to make them subservient to her own vanity. But when she described
the consternation felt by Miss Mann, on discovering Hector under the
table, her eccentric companion laughed until the tears ran down her
cheeks.

The introduction of Hector insensibly turned the conversation upon the
state of the slaves in the West Indies. The excitement of the slave
question was just then at its height; but the bill for their
emancipation had not yet passed the Houses of Parliament. Upon Flora
expressing her abhorrence of the whole system, Mrs. Dalton proceeded to
defend it with no little warmth.

“Ah, I perceive that you know nothing about it. You are infected with
the bigotry and prejudices of the Anti-slavery advocates. Negroes are an
inferior race; they were made to work for civilized men, in climates
where labour would be death to those of a different complexion.”

“This is reducing the African to a mere beast of burthen—a machine in
the form of man. The just God never made a race of beings purposely to
drag out a painful existence in perpetual toil and degradation.”

“They are better off than your peasants at home,” continued Mrs. Dalton,
indignantly;—“better fed, and taken care of. As to the idle tales they
tell you about flogging, starvation, and killing slaves, they are
fearful exaggerations, not worthy of credit. Do you think a farmer would
kill a horse, that he knew was worth a hundred pounds, out of revenge
for his having done some trifling injury to his harness? A planter would
not disable a valuable slave, if by so doing he injured himself. But
your slave adorers will not listen to reason and common sense. I have
been the owner of many slaves; but I never ill-used one of them in my
life.”

“Hector is an example of over-indulgence,” said Flora. “But still he is
only a pet animal in your estimation. Tell me truly, Mrs. Dalton, do you
believe that a negro has a soul to be saved?”

“I think it doubtful!”

“And you the wife of a Christian minister?” said Flora, reproachfully.

“If they had immortal souls and reasoning minds, we should not be
permitted to hold them as slaves. Their degradation proves their
inferiority.”

“It only proves the brutalizing effects of your immoral system,” said
Flora, waxing warm. “I taught a black man from the island of St. Vincent
to read the Bible fluently in ten weeks. Was that a proof of mental
incapacity? I never met with an uneducated white man who learned to read
so rapidly, or who pursued his studies with the ardour of this
despised, soulless black. His motive for this exertion was a noble one,
which I believe cost him his life—the hope of carrying the glad tidings
of salvation to his benighted countrymen, which he considered the best
means of improving their condition, and rendering less burdensome their
oppressive yoke.”

“This was all very well in theory; but it will never do in practice. If
the British Government, urged on by a set of fanatics, who, in reality
are more anxious to bring themselves into notice, than to emancipate the
slaves, madly persist in adopting their ridiculous project, it will
involve the West Indies in ruin.”

“It were better that the whole group of islands were sunk in the depths
of the sea,” said Flora, vehemently, “than continue to present to the
world a system of injustice and cruelty, which is a disgrace to a
Christian community—a spectacle of infamy to the civilized world. And do
not think that the wise and good men who are engaged heart and hand in
this holy cause, will cease their exertions until their great object is
accomplished, and slavery is banished from the earth.”

Mrs. Dalton stared at Flora in amazement. She could not in the least
comprehend her enthusiasm. “Who cares for a slave?” she said,
contemptuously. “You must live among them, and be conversant with their
habits before you can understand their inferiority. One would think
that you belonged to the Anti-Slavery Society to hear the warmth with
which you argue the case. Do you belong to that odious society? for I
understand that many pious women make themselves vastly busy in publicly
discussing the _black_ question.”

“I have many dear friends who are among its staunch supporters, both men
and women; whose motives are purely benevolent; who have nothing to gain
by the freedom of the slaves, beyond the satisfaction of endeavouring to
forward a good work, which if it succeeds, (and we pray God that it
may,) will restore a large portion of the human family to their rights
as immortal and rational creatures.”

“Mere cant—the vanity of making a noise in the world. One of the refined
hypocrisies of the present age. By-the-bye, my dear Madam, have you read
a tract published lately by this disinterested society, called the
History of Mary P.? It is set forth to be an authentic narrative, while
I know enough of the West Indies, to pronounce it a tissue of falsehoods
from beginning to end.”

“Did you know Mary P.?”

“I wonder who does. It is an imaginary tale got up for party purposes.”

“You are mistaken,” said Flora quietly. “That narrative is strictly
true. I was staying the winter before last, with her mistress in London,
and I wrote it myself from the woman’s own lips.”

“You!” and Mrs. Dalton started from the ground as though she had been
bitten by a serpent—“and I have been talking all this time to the author
of Mary P. From this moment, Madam, we must regard ourselves as
strangers. No West Indian could for a moment tolerate the writer of that
odious pamphlet.”

Mrs. Dalton retired to her berth, which was in the state cabin; and
Flora lay awake for several hours, pondering over their conversation,
until the morning broke, and the steamer cast anchor off Newhaven.

CHAPTER XX.

EDINBURGH.

The storm had passed away during the night; and at day-break, Flora
hurried upon deck, to catch the first glance of—

    “The glorious land of flood and fell,
     The noble north countrie.”

The sun was still below the horizon, and a thick mist hung over the
waters, and hid the city from her view. Oh, for the rising of that white
curtain! how Flora tried to peer through its vapoury folds, to

    “Hail old Scotia’s darling seat,”

the beautiful abode of brave, intelligent, true-hearted men, and fair
good women. Glorious Edinburgh! who ever beheld you for the first time
with indifference, and felt not his eyes brighten, and his heart thrill
with a proud ecstasy, the mingling of his spirit with a scene, which in
romantic sublimity, has not its equal in the wide world—

    “Who would not dare
     To fight for such a land!”

exclaims the patriotic wizard of the North. Ay, and to die for it, if
need be, as every true-hearted Scot would die, rather than see one stain
cast upon the national glory of his noble country. The character of a
people is greatly influenced by the local features of the land to which
it belongs; and the inhabitants of mountainous districts have ever
evaded most effectually the encroachments of foreign invaders. The Scot
may, perhaps, derive from his romantic country, much of that poetic
temperament, that stern, uncompromising love of independence, which has
placed him in the first rank as a man.

The sun at length rose; the fog rolled its grey masses upwards, and the
glorious old castle emerged from between the parting clouds, like some
fabled palace of the gods, its antique towers glittering like gold in
the sun.

“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Flora, her eye kindling, and her cheek
flushing with delight.

“The situation of Quebec is almost as fine,” said Captain Forbes, who
had been watching with pleasure the effect which the first sight of his
native city produced upon her countenance. “It will lose little by
comparison.”

“Indeed,” cried Flora, eagerly turning to the speaker, “I had formed no
idea of anything in Canada being at all equal to this.”

“You have been there, Captain?” said Lyndsay.

“Yes, many times; and always with increased pleasure. Quebec combines
every object which is requisite to make a scene truly magnificent—woods,
mountains, rivers, cataracts; and all on the most stupendous scale. A
lover of nature cannot fail to be delighted with the rock-defended
fortress of British North America.”

“You have made me quite happy, Captain Forbes,” said Flora; “I have
contemplated a residence in Canada with feelings of such antipathy, that
your description of Quebec almost reconciles me to my lot. I can never
hate a country which abounds in natural beauty.”

Boats were now constantly plying to and from the shore, conveying
passengers and their luggage from the ship to the pier. The Captain, who
had recognised a countryman in Lyndsay, insisted on the voyagers taking
breakfast with him before they left the vessel. Mrs. Lyndsay accepted
the offer with such hearty good-will, that the Captain laughed and
rubbed his hands in the excess of hospitable satisfaction, as he called
to his steward to place a small table under an awning upon the deck, and
serve the breakfast there.

“You will enjoy it much more in the fresh air, Mrs. Lyndsay,” he said,
“after your severe illness, than in the close air.”

Flora was delighted with the arrangement, and set the Captain down as a
man of taste, as by this means he had provided for her a double
feast—the beautiful scenery which on every side met her gaze, and an
excellent breakfast, served in the balmy morning air.

The rugged grace with which the gallant tar presided at what might be
termed his own private table, infused a cheerful spirit into those
around him, and never was a meal more heartily enjoyed by our emigrants.
James Hawke, who had been confined during the whole voyage to his berth,
now rejoined his friends, and ate of the savoury things before him in
such downright earnest, that the Captain declared that it was a pleasure
to watch the lad handle his knife and fork.

“When a fellow has been starving for eight and forty hours, it is not a
trifle that can satisfy his hunger,” said Jim, making a vigorous
onslaught upon a leg of Scotch mutton. “Oh! I never was so hungry in my
life!”

“Not even during those two disastrous days last week, which we spent
starving at sea,” said Flora.

“Ah, don’t name them,” said the boy, with an air of intense disgust.
“Those days were attended with such _qualms_ of conscience that I have
banished them from the log of life altogether. Oh, those dreadful days!”

“Why, Jim, you make a worse sailor than I expected,” said Flora; “how
shall we get you alive to Canada?”

“Oh, never fear,” said the lad, gaily; “I have cast all those horrible
reminiscences into the sea. I was very ill, but ’tis all over now, and
I feel as light as a feather; you will see that I shall be quite myself
again, directly we lose sight of the British shores.”

On returning to the ladies’ cabin, to point out her luggage to the
steward of the boat, Flora found that important functionary, pacing to
and fro the now empty scene of all her trouble in high disdain. She had
paid very little attention to Mrs. Lyndsay during the voyage. She had
waited with the most obsequious politeness on Mrs. Major F. and Mrs.
Dalton, because she fancied they were rich people, who would amply
reward her for her services. They had given her all the trouble they
possibly could, while she had received few commands from Flora, and
those few she had neglected to perform. Still, as Flora well knew that
the paid salary of these people is small, and that they mainly depend
upon the trifles bestowed upon them by passengers, she slipped
half-a-crown into her hand, and begged her to see that the trunks she
had pointed out were carried upon deck.

The woman stared at her, and dropped a low curtsey.

“La, Mem, you are one of the very few of our passengers who has been
kind enough to remember the stewardess. It’s too bad—indeed it is. And
all the trouble that that Mrs. Dalton gave with her spoilt children, and
nasty black vagabond. And would you believe me, she went off without
bestowing on me a single penny! And worse than that, I heard her tell
the big fat woman, that never rose up in her berth, but to drink
brandy-and-water, ‘That it was a bad fashion the Hinglish had of paying
servants, and the sooner it was got rid of the better.’

“‘I perfectly hagrees with you,’ said the fat woman; and so she gave
nothing;—no—not even thanks. Mrs. Major F—— pretended not to see me,
though I am sure I’m no midge; and I stood in the doorway on purpose to
give her a hint; but the hideous little old maid told me to get out of
the way, as she wanted to go upon deck to speak to the Major. Oh, the
meanness of these would-be fine ladies! But if ever they come to
Scotland in this boat again—won’t I pay them off!”

Flora enjoyed these unsolicited confessions of a disappointed
stewardess; and she was forced to turn away her head for fear of
betraying a wicked inclination to laugh, which if indulged in at that
moment would, I have no doubt, have afforded her great satisfaction and
delight. As it was, she made no comment upon the meanness of her
fellow-passengers, nor consoled the excited stewardess by complaining of
their unlady-like conduct to herself.—What they were in their rank of
life, the stewardess was in hers. They were congenial souls—all
belonging to the same great family, and Flora was not a little amused by
the striking points of resemblance.

Bidding adieu to the Captain of the steamer, the Lyndsays and their
luggage were safely landed on the chain-pier at Newhaven; from thence
they proceeded to Leith, to the house of a respectable woman, the widow
of a surgeon, who resided near the Leith bank, and only a few minutes’
walk from the wharf.

CHAPTER XXI.

MRS. WADDEL.

Great was the surprise of Flora, when, instead of entering the house by
a front door, they walked up an interminable flight of stone stairs,
every landing comprising a distinct dwelling, or flat (as it is
technically termed), with the names of the proprietors marked on the
doors. At last they reached the flat occupied by good Mistress Waddel,
situated at the very top of this stony region. Mrs. Waddel was at the
door ready to receive them. She showed them into a comfortable
sitting-room with windows fronting the street, where a bright fire was
blazing in a very old-fashioned grate. She welcomed her new lodgers with
a torrent of kindly words, pronounced in the broadest Scotch dialect,
only half understood by the English portion of her audience.

A large portly personage was Mrs. Waddel,—ugly, amiable, and by no means
particular in her dress; which consisted of a woollen plaid, very much
faded, and both ragged and dirty. Her large mutch with its broad frills
formed a sort of glory round her head, setting off to no advantage her
pock-marked, flabby face, wide mouth and yellow projecting teeth. She
had a comical, good-natured obliquity of vision in her prominent
light-grey eyes, which were very red about the rims; and Flora thought,
as she read with an inquiring eye the countenance of their landlady,
that without being positively disgusting, she was the most ordinary,
uncouth woman she ever beheld.

Mrs. Waddel was eloquent in the praise of her apartments, which she said
had been occupied by my Leddy W. when his Majesty George the Fourth, God
bless his saucy face, landed at Leith, on his visit to Scotland. Her
lodgings, it seemed, had acquired quite an aristocratic character since
the above-named circumstance; and not a day passed, but the good woman
enumerated all the particulars of that memorable visit. But her own
autobiography was the stock theme with the good landlady. The most
minute particulars of her private history she daily divulged, to the
unspeakable delight of the mischievous laughter-loving James Hawke, who,
because he saw that it annoyed Mrs. Lyndsay, was sure to lead the
conversation slily to some circumstance which never failed to place the
honest-hearted Scotchwoman on her high-horse: and then she would
talk,—ye gods!—how she would talk—and splutter away in her broad
provincial dialect, until the wicked boy was convulsed with laughter.

“Ay, Mister Jeames,” she would say, “ye will a’ be maken’ yer fun o’ a’
puir auld bodie, but ’tis na’ cannie o’ ye.”

“Making fun of _you_, Mrs. Waddel,” said he, with a sly glance at Flora,
“how can you take such an odd notion into your head! It is so good of
you to tell me all about your courtship: it’s giving me a hint of how
I’m to go about it when I’m a man. I am sure you were a very pretty,
smart girl in your young days”—with another quizzical glance at Flora.

The old lady drew herself up, and smiled approvingly upon her black-eyed
tormentor.

“Na, na, Mister Jeames, my gude man that’s dead an’ gane said to me, the
verra day that he made me his ain—‘Katie, ye are nae bonnie, but ye a’
gude, which is a’ hantle better.’”

“No doubt he was right, Mrs. Waddel; but I really think he was very
ungallant to say so on his wedding-day, and did not do you half
justice.”

“Weel, weel,” said the good dame, “every ain to his taste. He was not
ow’r gifted that way himsel; but we are nane sensible o’ our ain
defects.”

The great attraction in the small, windowless closet in which James
slept, was an enormous calabash, which her son, the idol of Mrs.
Waddel’s heart, had brought home with him from the South Seas. Over this
calabash, the simple-hearted mother daily rehearsed all the wonderful
adventures she had gathered from that individual, during his short
visits home; and as she possessed a surprisingly retentive memory, her
maternal reminiscences would have filled volumes,—to all of which James
listened with the most earnest attention, not on account of the
adventures, for they were commonplace enough, but for the mere pleasure
of hearing Mrs. Waddel talk broad Scotch, from which he seemed to derive
the most ludicrous enjoyment. Mrs. Waddel had two daughters, to whom
nature had been less bountiful than even to herself. Tall, awkward,
shapeless dawdles, whose unlovely youth was more repulsive than the
mother’s full-blown, homely age,—with them the old lady’s innocent
obliquity of vision had degenerated into a downright squint, and the
redness round the rims of their large, fishy-looking, light eyes, gave
the idea of perpetual weeping,—a pair of Niobes, versus the beauty,
whose swollen orbs were always dissolved in tears. They crept slip-shod
about the house, their morning wrappers fitting so easily their slovenly
figures, that you expected to see them suddenly fall to the ground, and
the young ladies walk on in native simplicity.

“My daughters are like mysel—na’ bonnie,” said Mrs. Waddel. “They dinna’
tak’ wi’ the men folk, wha look mair to comeliness than gudeness
now-a-days in a wife. A’ weel, every dog maun ha’ his day, an’ they may
get husbands yet.

“I weel remember, when Noncy was a bairn, she was the maist ugsome wee
thing I ever clappit an e’e upon. My Leddy W. lodged in this verra room,
in the which we are no’ sittin’. She had a daughter nearly a woman
grown, an’ I was in my sma’ back parlour washin’ an’ dressin’ the bairn.
In runs my Leddy Grace, an’ she stood an’ lookit an’ lookit a lang time
at the naked bairn in my lap: at last she clappit her hands an’ she
called oot to her mither—‘Mamma! Mamma! for gudeness sake, come here,
an’ look at this ugly, blear-eyed, bandy-legget child!—I never saw sic
an object in a’ my life!’

“It made my heart sair to hear her despise a creture made in God’s image
in that way, an’ I bursted into tears, an’ said—’My leddy, yer a bad
Christian to spier in that way o’ my puir bairn, an’ that in the hearin’
of its ain mither. May God forgive you! but you ha’ a hard heart.’ She
was verra angry at my reproof, but my Leddy W. just then came in, an’
she said, with one of her ain gracious smiles—‘For shame! Grace; the
bairn’s weel enough. Let us hope she maun prove a’ blessin’ to her
parents. The straightest tree does na always bear the finest fruit.’

“I ha’ met wi’ mony crosses and sair trials in my day; but few o’ them
made me shed bitterer tears than that proud, handsom’ young leddy’s
speech on the deformity o’ my puir bairn.”

Flora stood reproved in her own eyes, for she knew she had regarded the
poor ugly girls with feelings of repugnance, on account of their
personal defects. Even Jim, careless and reckless though he was,
possessed an excellent heart, and he looked grave, and turned to the
window, and tried to hum a tune, to get rid of an unpleasant sensation
about his throat, which Mrs. Waddel’s artless words had suddenly
produced.

“Hang me!” he muttered half aloud, “if I ever laugh at the poor girls
again!”

Mrs. Waddel had in common with most of her sex, a great predilection for
going to auctions; and scarcely a day passed without her making some
wonderful bargains. For a mere trifle she had bought a ’gude pot, only
upon inspection it turned out to be miserably leaky. A nice palliasse,
which on more intimate acquaintance proved alive with gentry with whom
the most republican body would not wish to be on intimate terms. Jim was
always joking the old lady upon her bargains, greatly to the edification
of Betty Fraser, a black-eyed Highland girl, who was Mistress Waddel’s
prime minister in the culinary department.

“Weel, Mister Jeames, jist ha’ yer laugh oot, but when ye get a glint o’
the bonnie table I bought this mornin’ for three an’ saxpence, ye’ll be
noo’ makin’ game o’ me ony mair, I’m thinkin’. Betty, ye maun jist step
ow’r the curb-stane to the broker’s, an’ bring hame the table.”

Away sped the nimble-footed Betty, and we soon heard the clattering of
the table, as the leaves flapped to and fro as she lugged it up the
public stairs.

“Now for the great bargain!” exclaimed the saucy Jim; “I think, Mrs.
Waddel, I’ll buy it of you, as my venture to Canada.”

“Did ye ever!” exclaimed the old lady, her eyes brightening as Betty
dragged in the last bargain, and placed it triumphantly before her
mistress. Like the Marquis of Anglesea, it had been in the wars, and
with a terrible clatter, the incomparable table fell prostrate to the
floor. Betty opened her great black eyes with a glance of blank
astonishment, and raising her hands with a tragic air which was
perfectly irresistible, exclaimed, “Mercy me, but it wants a fut!”

“A what?” screamed Jim, as he sank beside the fallen table and rolled
upon the ground in a fit of irrepressible merriment; “Do, for Heaven’s
sake, tell me the English for a fut. Oh dear, I shall die! Why do you
make such funny purchases, Mrs. Waddel, and suffer Betty to show them
off in such a funny way? You will be the death of me, indeed you will;
and then, what will my Mammy say?”

To add to this ridiculous scene, Mrs. Waddel’s grey parrot, who was not
the least important personage in her establishment, having been
presented to her by her sailor son, fraternised with the prostrate lad,
and echoed his laughter in the most outrageous manner.

“Whist, Poll! Hould yer clatter. It’s no laughing matter to lose three
an’ saxpence in buying the like o’ that.”

Mrs. Waddel did not attend another auction during the month the Lyndsays
occupied her lodgings. With regard to Betty Fraser, Jim picked up a page
out of her history, which greatly amused Flora Lyndsay, who delighted in
the study of human character. We will give it here.

Betty Fraser’s first mistress was a Highland lady, who had married and
settled in Edinburgh. On her first confinement, she could fancy no one
but a Highland girl to take care of the babe, when the regular nurse was
employed about her own person. She therefore wrote to her mother to send
her by the first vessel which sailed for Edinburgh, a good,
simple-hearted girl, whom she could occasionally trust with the baby.
Betty, who was a tenant’s daughter, and a humble scion of the great
family tree, duly arrived by the next ship.

She was a hearty, healthy, rosy girl of fourteen, as rough as her native
wilds, with a mind so free from guile that she gave a literal
interpretation to everything she saw and heard.

In Canada Betty would have been considered very green. In Scotland she
was regarded as a truthful, simple-hearted girl. A few weeks after the
baby was born, some ladies called to see Mrs. ——. The weather was very
warm, and one of them requested the neat black-eyed girl in waiting to
fetch her a glass of water. Betty obeyed with a smiling face; but oh,
horror of horrors, she brought the clear crystal to the lady guest in
her red fist.

The lady smiled, drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the
black-eyed Hebe, who received it with a profound curtsy.

When the visitors were gone, Mrs. ——, who was very fond of her young
clanswoman, called her to her side, and said, “Betty, let me never see
you bring anything into my room in your bare hands. Always put what you
are asked for on to a waiter or an ashat.”

The girl promised obedience.

The very next day some strange ladies called; and after congratulating
Mrs. —— on her speedy recovery, they expressed an earnest wish to see
the “_dear little baby_.”

Mrs. —— rang the bell. Betty appeared. “Is the baby awake?”

“Yes, my leddy.”

“Just bring him in to show these ladies.”

Betty darted into the nursery, only too proud of the mission, and
telling nurse to “mak’ the young laird brau,” she rushed to the kitchen,
and demanded of the cook a “muckle big ashat.”

“What do you want with the dish?” said the English cook.

“That’s my ain business,” quoth Betty, taking the enormous china platter
from the cook’s hand, and running back to the nursery. “Here, Mistress
Norman, here is ain big enough to hand him in, at ony rate. Pray lay his
wee duds smooth, an’ I’ll tak’ him in, for I hear the bell.”

“Are ye duff, lass? Wud ye put the bairn on the ashat?”

“Ay, mistress tauld me to bring what she asked me for on an ashat. Sure
ye wud no ha’ me disobey her?”

“Na, na,” said the nurse, laughing, and suspecting some odd mistake. “Ye
sal ha’ it yer ain way.”

And she carefully laid the noble babe upon the dish, and went before to
open the door that led to Mrs. ——’s chamber.

Betty entered as briskly as her unwieldy burden would permit, and with
glowing cheeks, and eyes glistening with honest delight, presented her
human offering in the huge dish to the oldest female visitor in the
room.

With a scream of surprise, followed by a perfect hurricane of laughter,
the venerable dame received the precious gift from Betty’s hand, and
holding it towards the astonished mother, exclaimed, “Truly, my dear
friend, this is a dish fit to set before a king. Our beloved sovereign
would have no objection of seeing a dish so filled with royal fruit,
placed at the head of his own table.”

The laugh became general; and poor Betty comprehending the blunder she
had committed, not only fled from the scene, but dreading the jokes of
her fellow-servants, fled from the house.

CHAPTER XXII.

CLIMBING THE MOUNTAINS.

The Lyndsays, to their infinite mortification and disappointment, found
upon their arrival at Leith, that the _Chieftain_, in which vessel their
places had been taken for Canada, had sailed only two days before. To
make bad worse, Mrs. Waddel confidently affirmed, that it was the very
last vessel which would sail that season.

Lyndsay, who never yielded to despondency, took these contrary events
very philosophically, and lost no time in making inquiries among the
ship-owners, to ascertain whether Mrs. Waddel was right.

After several days of anxious and almost hopeless search, he was at last
informed that the _Flora_, Captain Ayre, was to leave for Canada in a
fortnight. The name seemed propitious, and that very afternoon he walked
down with his wife to inspect the vessel.

The _Flora_ was a small brig, very old, very dirty, and with wretched
accommodations. The captain was a brutal-looking person, blind of one
eye, and very lame. Every third word he uttered was an oath; and instead
of answering Mr. Lyndsay’s inquiries, he was engaged in a blasphemous
dialogue with his two sons, who were his first and second mates. The
young men seemed worthy of their parentage; their whole conversation
being interloaded with frightful imprecations on their own limbs and
souls, and the limbs and souls of others.

They had a very large number of steerage passengers engaged, for the
very small size of the vessel, and these emigrants were of the very
lowest description.

“Don’t let us go in this horrible vessel,” whispered Flora to her
husband. “What a captain! what a crew! we shall be miserable, if we form
any part of her live cargo!”

“I fear, my dear girl, there is no alternative. We may, perhaps, hear of
another before she sails. I won’t engage places in her until the last
moment.”

The dread of going in the _Flora_ took a hold of the mind of her
namesake; and she begged Jim to be on the constant look-out for another
vessel.

During their stay at Leith, Lyndsay was busily employed in writing a
concluding chapter to his work on the Cape; and Flora amused herself by
taking long walks, accompanied by James, the maid, and the baby, in
order to explore all the beauties of Edinburgh. The lad, who was very
clever, and possessed a wonderful faculty of remembering places and of
finding his way among difficulties, always acted as guide on these
occasions. Before he had been a week at Leith, he knew every street in
Edinburgh; had twice or thrice climbed the heights of Arthur’s Seat, and
visited every nook in the old castle. There was not a ship in the
harbour of Leith, but he not only knew her name and the name of her
captain, but he had made himself acquainted with some of her crew, and
could tell her freight and tonnage, her age and capabilities, the port
from which she last sailed and the port to which she was then bound, as
well as any sailor on the wharf. It was really extraordinary to listen
of an evening to the lad’s adventures, and all the mass of information
he had acquired during his long rambles through the day.

Flora was always in an agony lest James should be lost, or meet with
some mishap during his exploring expeditions; but Mistress Waddel
comforted her with the assurance, “That a cat, throw her which way you
wu’d, lighted a’ upon her feet. That nought was never tent—an’ they that
war’ born to be hanget wu’d never be drowned.”

So, one fine afternoon in June, Flora took it into her head, that she
would climb to the top of the mountain, the sight of which from her
chamber window she was never tired of contemplating. She asked her
husband to go with her. She begged, she entreated, she coaxed; but he
was just writing the last pages of his long task, and he told her, that
if she would only wait until the next day, he would go with pleasure.

But with Flora, it was this day or none. She had set her whole heart and
soul upon going up to the top of the mountain, and to the top of the
mountain she determined to go. This resolution was formed, in direct
opposition to her husband’s wishes; and with a perfect knowledge of the
tale of the dog Ball, which had been one of her father’s stock stories,
the catastrophe of which she had known from a child. Lyndsay did not
tell her positively she should not go without him; and unable to control
her impatience, she gave him the slip, and set off with Jim, who was
only too eager for the frolic, on her mountain climbing expedition.

Flora was a native of a rich pastoral country; very beautiful in running
brooks, smooth meadows, and majestic parks; where the fat sleek cattle
so celebrated in the London markets, graze knee-deep in luxuriant
pastures, and the fallow deer browse and gambol beneath the shadow of
majestic oaks through the long bright summer days. She had never seen a
mountain before her visit to the North, in her life; had never risen
higher in the world than to the top of Shooter’s Hill; and when they
arrived at the foot of this grand upheaving of nature, she began to
think the task more formidable than she had imagined at a distance. Her
young conductor, agile as a kid, bounded up the steep acclivity with as
much ease as if he was running over a bowling-green.

“Not so fast, Jim!” cried Flora, pausing to draw breath. “I cannot climb
like you.”

Jim was already beyond hearing, and was lying on the ground peering over
a projecting crag at least two hundred feet above her head, and impishly
laughing at the slow progress she made.

“Now Jim! that’s cruel of you, to desert me in my hour of need,” said
Flora, shaking her hand at the young mad-cap. “Lyndsay was right after
all. I had better have waited till to-morrow.”

Meanwhile, the path that wound round the mountain towards the summit
became narrower and narrower, and the ascent more steep and difficult.
Flora sat down upon a stone amid the ruins of the chapel to rest, and to
enjoy the magnificent prospect. The contemplation of this sublime
panorama for a while absorbed every other feeling. She was only alive to
a keen sense of the beautiful; and while her eye rested on the lofty
ranges of mountains to the north and south, or upon the broad bosom of
the silver Forth, she no longer wondered at the enthusiastic admiration
expressed by the bards of Scotland for their romantic land.

While absorbed in thought, and contrasting the present with the past, a
lovely boy of four years of age, in kilt and hose, his golden curls
flying in the wind, ran at full speed up the steep side of the hill; a
panting woman, without bonnet or shawl, following hard upon his track,
shaking her fist at him, and vociferating her commands (doubtless for
him to return) in Gaelic, fled by.

On ran the laughing child, the mother after him; but as well might a
giant pursue a fairy.

Flora followed the path they had taken, and was beginning to enjoy the
keen bracing air of the hills, when she happened to cast her eyes to the
far-off meadows beneath. Her head grew suddenly giddy, and she could not
divest herself of the idea, that one false step would send her to the
plains below. Here was a most ridiculous and unromantic position: she
neither dared to advance nor retreat; and she stood grasping a ledge of
the rocky wall in an agony of cowardice and irresolution. At this
critical moment, the mother of the run-away child returned panting from
the higher ledge of the mountain, and, perceiving Flora pale and
trembling, very kindly stopped and asked what ailed her.

Flora could not help laughing while she confessed her fears, lest she
should fall from the narrow footpath on which she stood. The woman,
though evidently highly amused at her distress, had too much native
kindliness of heart, which is the mother of genuine politeness, to yield
to the merriment which hovered about her lips.

“Ye are na accustomed to the hills,” she said, in her northern dialect,
“or ye wa’d na dread a hillock like this. Ye suld ha’ been born whar I
wa’ born, to ken a mountain fra’ a mole-hill. There is my bairn, noo, I
canna’ keep him fra’ the mountain. He will gang awa’ to the tap, an’
only laughs at me when I spier to him to come doon. It’s a’ because he
is sae weel begotten—an’ all his forbears war reared amang the hills.”

The good woman sat down upon a piece of the loose rock, and commenced a
long history of herself, of her husband, and of the great clan of
Macdonald (to which they belonged), which at last ended in the
discovery, that her aristocratic spouse was a Corporal in the Highland
regiment then stationed in Edinburgh, and that Flora, his wife, washed
for the officers in the said regiment—that the little Donald, with his
wild-goat propensities, was their only child, and so attached to the
hills, that she could not keep him confined to the meadows below! The
moment her eye was off him, his great delight was to lead her a dance up
the mountain, which, as she never succeeded in catching him, was quite
labour in vain.

All this, and more, the good-natured woman communicated in her frank,
desultory manner, as she led Flora down the steep, narrow path which led
to the meadows below. Her kindness did not end here, for she walked some
way up the road to put Mrs. Lyndsay in the right track to regain her
lodgings, for Flora, trusting to the pilotage of Jim, was perfectly
ignorant of the location.

This Highland Samaritan indignantly refused the piece of silver Flora
proffered in return for her services. “Hout, leddy! keep the siller! I
wudna’ tak’ aught fra’ ye o’ the Sabbath-day for a trifling act o’
courtesy—na, na, I come of too gude bluid for that!”

There was a noble simplicity about the honest-hearted woman, which was
not lost upon Flora.

“If I were not English,” thought Flora, “I should like to be Scotch.”

She looked rather crest-fallen, as she presented herself before her
Scotch husband, who laughed heartily over her misadventure, and did not
cease to tease her about her expedition to the mountain, as long as they
remained in its vicinity.

This did not deter her from taking a long stroll on the sands “o’
Leith,” the next afternoon, with James, who delighted in these Quixotish
rambles; and was always on the alert, to join in any scheme which
promised an adventure. It was a lovely afternoon. The sun glittered on
the distant waters, which girdled the golden sands with a zone of blue
and silver. The air was fresh and elastic, and diffused a spirit of life
and joyousness around. Flora, as she followed the footsteps of her young
agile conductor, felt like a child again; and began to collect shells
and sea-weeds, with as much zest as she had done along her native coast,
in those far-off happy days, which at times returned to her memory like
some distinct, but distant dream.

For hours they wandered hither and thither, lulled by the sound of the
waters, and amused by their child-like employment; until Flora remarked,
that her footprints filled with water at each step, and the full deep
roaring of the sea gave notice of the return of the tide. Fortunately
they were not very far from the land; and oh, what a race they had to
gain the “Peir o’ Leith,” before they were overtaken by the waves. How
thankful they felt that they were safe, as the billows chased madly
past, over the very ground, which a few minutes before, they had so
fearlessly trod.

“This is rather worse than the mountain, mamma Flora,” (a favourite name
with James for his friend Mrs. Lyndsay,) “and might have been fatal to
us both. I think Mr. Lyndsay would scold this time, if he knew our
danger.”

“We won’t quarrel on the score of prudence. But what is this?” said
Flora; and she stepped up to a blank wall, on their homeward path, and
read aloud the following advertisement:—

    “To sail on the first of July, viâ Quebec and Montreal; the fast
    sailing brig _Anne_, Captain Williams. For particulars, inquire
    at the office of P. Gregg, Bank Street, Leith.

    “N.B. The _Anne_ is the last ship which leaves this port, for
    Canada, during the season.”

“Hurra!” cried the volatile Jim, flinging his cap into the air; “a fig
for Captain Ayre and the _Flora_. I’d lay sixpence if I had it, that we
shall sail in the _Anne_.”

“Let us go, James, and look at the vessel,” cried Flora, clapping her
hands with delight. “Oh, if it had not been for our fright on the sands,
we should not have seen this.”

Flora hastened home to inform her husband of the important discovery
they had made; and before half an hour had elapsed, she found herself in
company with him and Jim, holding a conference with Captain Williams, in
the little cabin of the _Anne_.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BRIG ANNE

Was a small, old-fashioned, black-hulled vessel, marvellously resembling
a collier in her outward appearance. She was a one-masted ship, of 180
tons burthen, and promised everything but aristocratic accommodations
for women and children.

The cabin was a low, square room, meant to contain only the captain and
his mate; whose berths, curtained with coarse red stuff, occupied the
opposite walls. The table in the centre was a fixture, and the bench
which ran round three sides of this crib, was a fixture also; and though
backed by the wall, was quite near enough to the table to serve the
double purpose of chair or sofa. A small fireplace occupied the front of
the cabin, at the side of which, a door opened into a tiny closet, which
the Captain dignified with the name of his state-cabin. The compass was
suspended in a brass box from the ceiling,—articles of comfort or luxury
there were none.

The Captain, a stout, broad-shouldered, red-faced man, like Captain
Ayre of the _Flora_, was minus an eye; but the one which fortune had
left him was a piercer. He was a rough, blunt-looking tar, some
forty-five or fifty years of age; and looked about as sentimental and
polite as a tame bear. His coarse, weather-beaten face had an honest,
frank expression, and he bade his guests to be seated with an air of
such hearty hospitality, that they felt quite at home in his narrow low
den.

He had no cabin-passengers, though a great many in the steerage; and he
assured Flora that she could have the very best accommodations, as he
would resign the state-cabin to her and the child. Mr. Lyndsay could
occupy the mate’s berth in the cabin, and they could not fail of being
quite snug and comfortable.

The state-cabin was just big enough to hold the captain’s chest of
drawers, the top of which, boarded, and draped with the same faded red
stuff which decorated the outer room, formed the berth that Flora was to
occupy. Small as the place was, it was scrupulously neat and clean, and
possessed for Flora one great charm—that of privacy. She could, by
shutting the door and drawing the bolt, at any time enjoy the luxury of
finding herself, though in a crowded vessel, alone.

“Mamma Flora, are you not charmed with the splendid accommodations of
your fancy ship?” whispered the mischievous Jim. “There is not room for
a flea to hop, without giving him the cramp in his legs.”

“It is better than the _Flora_; so hold your tongue, you wicked imp.”

But Lyndsay thought otherwise. The _Flora_ was larger, and was to sail a
fortnight earlier. He demurred—his wife coaxed and entreated; but he
only went so far as to tell the captain to keep the berths unoccupied
until the following day, and he would inform him of his final
determination.

Just as they were rising to take leave, a tall, lanky man, stuck his
long scraggy neck in at the cabin-door, and, in the broadest Scotch
vernacular, exclaimed,—

“To what port are ye bound, man?”

“Quebec and Montreal.”

“Wull you tak’ a cabin-passenger on reasonable terms?”

“The fare is fixed by the owner of the vessel, P. Gregg, Bank-street,
Leith. You had better apply to him.”

“Weel, I dinna’ think I’ll jest go noo. I want to see the Canada lochs.
Ane o’ these days I’ll tak’ passage wi’ you onyhow.”

“Perhaps a glass of brandy and water would serve your purpose at this
time,” said the captain, with a knowing smile.

“I’ve noo objections, captain,” said the long-visaged traveller to the
lochs o’ Canada.

“That’s one way of getting a glass of brandy for nothing,” said the
captain, as he accompanied the Lyndsays to the deck. “That fellow has as
much notion of going to Canada, as I have of taking a voyage to the
moon. But he knows that I will give him the brandy to get rid of him.”

“What do you think of the _Anne_ and her captain, John?” said Flora, as
she took the proffered arm of her husband. “He is a rough sailor, but
looks like an honest man. And the ship, though small, is clean, and
offers better accommodations than the _Flora_, where we should have to
share a small cabin with fourteen passengers.”

“My dear wife, it may all be true what you say; but I have made up my
mind to go in the _Flora_. She sails so much earlier, that it will be a
great saving of time and expense.”

Flora’s countenance fell; but she only muttered to herself,—

“Oh, I have such a horror of going in that ship!”

At the turning of the street they met Mr. Peterson, the owner of the
_Flora_, to whom Lyndsay had spoken about taking a passage in her the
day before.

“Well, Mr. Lyndsay,” said he, shaking hands in a friendly manner with
him; “have you concluded to take passage in my vessel?”

“Not quite,” returned Lyndsay, laughing. “My wife has such an
unconquerable aversion to going with your captain and his sons, on
account of the reprobate language they used the other day in her
hearing, that she has actually found up another vessel in which she
wishes me to sail.”

“Oh, the _Anne_, Captain Williams,” said Peterson, with a contemptuous
smile,—“the last and the most insignificant vessel which leaves our
port. The owner, P. Gregg, is not a liberal person to deal with; the
captain is a good seaman, but a stubborn brute,—quite as unfit for the
society of ladies as Captain Ayre. To tell you the truth, we have little
choice in these matters. It is not the manners of the men we employ we
generally look to, but to their nautical skill. There is, however, one
great objection to your taking passage in the _Anne_, which I think it
right you should know. She has a most objectionable freight.”

“In what respect?”

“She is loaded with brandy and gunpowder.”

“By no means a pleasant cargo,” said Lyndsay. “What do you say to that,
Flora?” turning to his wife.

“I will tell you to-morrow: do wait until then.”

In order to pacify her evident uneasiness, Lyndsay promised to postpone
his decision.

When they reached their lodgings, they found a short, round-faced, rosy,
good-natured looking individual, waiting to receive them, who introduced
himself as Mr. Gregg, the owner of the _Anne_. He had learned from
Captain Williams, that they had been inspecting the capabilities of his
vessel.

“She is a small ship,” said he, “but safe; the captain, a steady,
experienced seaman; and if Mr. Lyndsay engaged a passage for himself and
family, he would grant the most liberal terms.”

Lyndsay mentioned his objections to the freight.

“Who told you that?” asked the little owner, somewhat excited.

“Mr. Peterson. We parted from him only a few minutes ago.”

“The scoundrel! the mean, dirty scoundrel!” said Gregg, stamping on the
floor. “Why, Sir, Mr. Lyndsay, his own ship carries the same freight.
What did he say about that?”

“He told me yesterday, she took out a general cargo——”

“Of brandy and gunpowder. Both vessels are employed by the same house,
and take out the same freight. You must, however, please yourself, Mr.
Lyndsay. The _Flora_ has a great number of passengers of the lowest
cast,—is old and crank; with the most vicious, morose captain that sails
from this port. I know him only too well. He made two voyages for me;
and the letters I received, complaining of his brutal conduct to some of
his passengers, I can show you at my office.”

“You have said enough, Mr. Gregg, to deter me from taking my wife and
child in the _Flora_. The deceitful conduct of Mr. Peterson alone would
have determined me not to contract with him. And now, what will you take
us for? Our party consists of my wife and infant, a lad of thirteen
years who accompanies us, a servant-girl, and myself.”

Mr. Gregg considered for some minutes. “Well,” he said, “there is a
large party of you; but I will give your wife, child, and self, a cabin
passage, finding you in the same fare as the captain, and the lad and
servant a second cabin passage, but the privilege of the cabin-table,
for thirty pounds. Is that too much?”

“It is very liberal indeed. Peterson asked fifty.”

“It is reasonable; but as you have to wait a fortnight longer in order
to sail with me, I have taken that into account. Is it a bargain?”

They struck hands; and Mr. Gregg, after drawing up an agreement, which
Lyndsay signed, turned to Mrs. Lyndsay, and pressingly invited the whole
party to spend the following afternoon with them in a friendly way.

“My wife is a homely little body,” he said; “but she will do her best to
make you comfortable, and will give you, at any rate, a hearty Scotch
welcome.”

“Now, Flora, are you not delighted in having it your own way?” said
Lyndsay, after Mr. Gregg left them. “But let me assure you, my dear
wife, you owe it entirely to the mean conduct of Mr. Peterson. I tell
you frankly, that I would not have yielded my better judgment to a mere
prejudice, even to please you.”

“You are determined, John, that I shall never fulfil the gipsy’s
prophecy.”

“What was that?”

“Did I never tell you that story, nor the girls either? for it was a
standing joke against me at home for years. Oh, you must have it then.
But be generous, and don’t turn it as a weapon against me:—

“Some years ago, a gipsy woman came to our kitchen-door, and asked to
see the young ladies of the house. Of course, we all ran out to look at
the sybil, and hear her errand, which was nothing more nor less than to
tell our fortunes. Partly out of curiosity, partly out of fun, we
determined to have a peep into futurity, and see what the coming years
had in store for us. We did not believe in gipsy craft. We well knew
that, like our own, the woman’s powers were limited; that it was all
guess-work; that her cunning rested in a shrewd knowledge of
character,—of certain likings springing out of contrasts, which led her
to match the tall with the short, the fair with the dark, the mild with
the impetuous, the sensitive and timid with the bold and adventurous. On
these seeming contrarieties the whole art of fortune-telling, as far as
my experience goes, appears based.

“Well, she gave husbands to us all—dark, fair, middle-complexioned,
short and tall, amiable, passionate, or reserved—just the opposite of
our own complexions or temperament, such as she judged them to be; and
she showed a great deal of talent and keen perception of character in
the choice of our mates.

“In my case, however, she proved herself to be no prophet. I was to
marry a sea-faring gentleman—a tall, black-eyed, passionate man—with
whom I was to travel to foreign parts, and die in a foreign land. I was
to have no children; and he was to be very jealous of me. ‘And yet, for
all that,’ quoth the gipsy, drawing close up to me, and whispering in my
ear, but not so low, but that all the rest heard her concluding speech,
‘you shall wear the breeches.’”

“She did not bargain that you were to marry a Scotchman,” said Lyndsay,
laughing.

“Nor did she know, with all her pretended art, that my husband was to be
a soldier, fair-haired, and blue-eyed, and that this little lass would
give a direct contradiction to her prophecy,” and Flora kissed fondly
Josey’s soft cheek. “Well, I was so tormented about that last clause in
my fortune, that I determined it should never come to pass; that
whatever portion of my husband’s dress I coveted, I would scrupulously
avoid even the insertion of a toe into his nether garments.”

“You forget, Flora, your trip to the mountain, without my consent?”
whispered Lyndsay, mischievously.

Flora coloured, stammered, and at last broke into a hearty laugh,—“I was
too great a coward, John, to wear them with becoming dignity. If that
was wearing the breeches, I am sure I disgraced them with my worse than
womanish fears. I will never put them on again.”

“My dear wife, I’ll take good care you shan’t. When a Scotchman has any
breeks to wear, he likes to keep them all to himself.”

“Ah! we well know what a jealous, monopolising set you are. Let any one
attempt to interfere with your rights, and, like your sturdy national
emblem, you are armed to the teeth,” said Flora, as she ran off to order
tea.

CHAPTER XXIV.

A VISIT TO THE SHIP OWNERS.

Early in the afternoon of the following day our family party set off to
pay their promised visit. The weather was delightful, and Flora was in
an ecstasy of high spirits, as they turned from the narrow streets of
Leith into a beautiful lane, bounded on each side by hawthorn hedges,
redolent with the perfume of the sweetbrier and honeysuckle. The breath
of new-mown hay floated on the air, and the lilac and laburnum, in full
blossom, waved their graceful boughs above the white palings which
surrounded many a pleasant country retreat, in which the tired citizen,
after the toils of the day in the busy marts of commerce, returned to
enjoy a comfortable dish of tea with his family.

A walk of half-a-mile brought them to the suburban retreat of the worthy
Mr. Gregg, and he was at the green garden-gate to receive his guests,
his honest, saucy face, radiant with an honest welcome.

“I was fearful ye wud not keep your promise,” said he: “my youngsters
ha’ been on the look-out for you for this hour.”

Here he pushed the giggling youngsters forward, in the shape of two
bouncing, rosy-faced school-girls, who were playing at bo-peep behind
papa’s broad blue back, and whose red cheeks grew crimson with blushes
as he presented them to his guests.

James Hawke seemed to think the merry girls, who were of his own age,
well worth looking at, if you might judge by the roguish sparkling of
his fine black eyes, as he bounded off with them to be introduced to the
strawberry-beds, and all the other attractions of the worthy citizen’s
garden.

It was a large, old-fashioned house, which had seen better days, and
stood on a steep sloping hill, commanding a beautiful view of Edinburgh.
The grand old mountain loomed in the distance, and the bright Forth,
with all its wealth of white sails, glittered in the rays of the
declining sun.

“What a delightful situation!” exclaimed Flora, as her eye ranged over
the beautiful scene.

“Ay, ’tis a bonnie place,” said Mr. Gregg, greatly exalted in his own
eyes, as master of the premises;—“an’ very healthy for the bairns. I
often walked past this old house when I was but a ’prentice lad in the
High-street, o’ Sunday afternoons, and used to peep through the pales,
and admire the old trees, an’ fruits, an’ flowers; an’ I thought if I
had sic a braw place of my ain, I should think mysel richer than a
crow’ed king. I was a puir callant in those days. It was only a dream, a
fairy dream; yet here I am, master of the auld house, and the pretty
gardens. Industry and prudence, my dear madam—industry and prudence, has
done it all, and converted my air-built castle into substantial brick
and stane.”

Flora admired the old man’s honest pride. She had thought him coarse and
vulgar, while in reality he was only what the Canadians term _homely_;
for his heart was brimful of kindly affections and good feeling. There
was not a particle of pretence about him,—of forced growth or refined
cultivation; a genuine product of the soil, a respectable man in every
sense of the word. Proud of his country, and doubly proud of the wealth
he had acquired by honest industry. A little vain and pompous, perhaps,
but most self-made men are so: they are apt to overrate the talents
which have lifted them out of obscurity, and to fancy that the world
estimates their worth and importance by the same standard as they do
themselves.

In the house, they were introduced to Mrs. Gregg, who was just such a
person as her husband had described: a cheerful, middle-aged woman, very
short, very stout, and very hospitable. Early as it was, the tea-table
was loaded with good cheer. Large strawberries preserved whole, and that
pet sweetmeat of the Scotch, orange marmalade, looked tempting enough,
in handsome dishes of cut glass, flanked by delicious home-made bread
and butter, cream, cheese, and sweet curds.

A tall, fine-looking woman, very gaily dressed, was presented to the
Lyndsays as Mrs. M’Nish, a married daughter. Her husband was a
loud-voiced, large-whiskered consequential-looking young man, whose good
humour and admiration of himself, his wife, his father and
mother-in-law, and the big house, appeared inexhaustible. His young wife
seemed to look upon him as something super-human; and to every remark
she made, she appealed to Wullie, as she called him, for his verdict of
approval.

Little Josey, who made one of the party, was soon on the most intimate
terms with the family group. The young married woman, after bestowing
upon her many kisses, passed her over to her husband, telling him, with
a little laugh, “that she wondered if he would make a good nurse: it was
time for him to commence practising.” Then she blushed and giggled, and
the old man chuckled and rubbed his knees, and the mother looked up with
a quiet smile as the jolly bridegroom burst into a loud laugh. “Ay, Jean
my woman, it’s time enough to think o’ troubles when they come.” And
then he tossed Miss Josey up to the ceiling with such vigorous jerks,
that Flora watched his gymnastics in nervous fear lest the child should
fall out of his huge grasp and break her neck.

Not so Josey; she never was better pleased in her life; she crowed and
screamed with delight, and rewarded her Scotch nurse, by tangling her
tiny white fingers in his bushy red whiskers, and pulling his long nose.

“Haut! you’re a speretted lass. Is that the way you mean to lead the
men?” he said, as he bounced her down into his wife’s lap, and told her,
“that it was her turn to mak’ a trial o’ that kind o’ wark, an’ see how
it wud fit: he was verra’ sure he sud sune be tired o’t.” And this
speech was received with another giggle, followed by a loud laugh.

The old gentleman was impatient to discuss the important business of
tea-drinking; after which he proposed to have the pleasure of showing
his visitors the garden, and some other grand sight of which he would
not speak now, but which he was certain must be appreciated by every
person, who possessed a half-pennyworth of taste.

Flora sat down to the table, wondering what they could be.

Big Wullie stepped to the hall-door, and summoned the children to the
evening meal with a loud hallo! which was answered from among the trees
by a jovial shout, and in a few minutes the young folks poured into the
room, some of them looking rather dull, from their protracted visit to
the strawberry-beds.

The fresh air and exercise had given Mrs. Lyndsay an unusual appetite.
She enjoyed her meal, but this did not satisfy the overflowing
hospitality of her entertainers, who pressed her in every possible
manner to take more, till she felt very much inclined to answer with the
poor country girl, “Dear knows, I can’t eat another bit.”

There was no way of satisfying the entreaties of the Greggs, but by
making a retreat from the table, and even then they persisted in
declaring their guests had been starved, and would not do the least
justice to their good cheer.

This mistaken kindness brought to Flora’s mind a story she had heard
Lyndsay tell of a merchant of Edinburgh who went to the north of
Scotland to visit some country folk who were his near relations. The
good people were outrageously glad to see him, and literally killed the
fatted calf, and concocted all sorts of country dainties in order to
celebrate the advent of their distinguished guest, who it seems, in this
case, was in less danger of starving than of being stuffed to death.

Having partaken at dinner of all, and perhaps of rather more than he
required, he did his best to resist their further importunities for him
to eat _more_, but finding his refusal to do so increased their anxiety
to force upon him the good things they had to bestow, he spread a large
silk pocket-handkerchief upon his knees, under cover of the table-cloth,
into which he contrived dexterously to empty the contents of his plate,
whenever the eye of his watchful hostess was off him. At last, even her
importunities for him to continue the feast grew fainter, and she wound
up by exclaiming, “You ha’ made a verra puir dinner, Sir; ye ha’ just
eaten nothing ava’.”

At this speech, hardly able to keep his gravity, he placed his
handkerchief upon the table, and displayed its contents of fish, flesh,
fowl, and confectionaries, to his astonished entertainers, exclaiming,
as he did so, “My dear Madam, think what would have become of me, had I
eaten all this!”

It was no feast of reason, at the honest Greggs; the entertainment was
of the most animal kind, and Flora felt relieved when it was over, and
the whole party issued once more into the pure air.

She was just hastening to a parterre, gay with roses, to rifle some of
its sweets, when the old gentleman came panting hard upon her track. “Ye
must come an’ see my raree-show, before the sun gangs doun,” he cried;
and Flora turned and followed him back into the house. In the hall the
whole family party were collected.

“I’ll gang first, father, and open the door,” cried a merry boy of
fourteen, and beckoning to Jim, they both clattered after each other up
the old-fashioned stairs.

Old houses in Edinburgh and its vicinity are so high, one would think
the people in those days wished to build among the stars; at least to
emulate the far-famed wonders of that language-confounding tower, which
caused the first emigration, by scattering the people over the face of
the earth.

They went up, and up, and up, until there seemed no end to the broad,
short steps. On the last flight, which led to the roof, the staircase
had so greatly contracted its proportions, that fat Mr. Gregg could
scarcely force himself up it, and he so completely obscured the light
which peered down upon them from a small trap-door, opening upon the
leads, that Flora, who followed him, found herself in a dim twilight,
and expected every moment the panting mountain, which had come between
her and the sky, would lose the centre of gravity, and suffocate her in
its fall.

No such tragic misfortune, however, occurred. The old gentleman forced
himself, after much squeezing and puffing off steam, through the narrow
aperture, and very gallantly lent a hand to assist Flora on to the
leads.

“This is a strait gate, on a narrow way,” he cried. “But tell me, if it
does na’ gie ye a glimpse o’ heaven?”

The old man was right. Flora stood entranced, as it were, with the
glorious spectacle which burst upon her sight, the moment she stepped
upon the roof of that old house. Edinburgh, and the world of beauty that
lies around it, lay at her feet, bathed in the golden light of a
gorgeous June sunset. To those who have beheld that astonishing
panorama, all description must prove abortive. It is a sight to be
daguerreotyped upon the heart.

“Weel, was it not worth toiling up yon weary stair, to get sic a glimpse
as that, of the brave auld town?” said honest P. Gregg. “I’m jest
thinkin’ I must enlarge the stair, or diminish mysel, before I can
venture through that narrow pass again. An’, my dear leddy, I can do
neither the one nor the other. So this mayhap may be my last glint o’
the bonnie auld place.”

Then he went on, after his quaint fashion, to point out to Mistress
Lyndsay all the celebrated spots in the neighbourhood, which every Scot
knows by heart, and Flora was so much amused and interested by his
narration, that she was sorry when the deepening shades of approaching
night warned the old man that it required daylight to enable him to
descend the narrow stair, and they reluctantly left the scene.

CHAPTER XXV.

FLORA’S DINNER.

Lyndsay had some literary friends in Edinburgh, whose kindly intercourse
greatly enhanced the pleasure of a month’s residence near the metropolis
of Scotland. The foremost among these was M——, the poet, who, like
Lyndsay, was a native of the Orkney Islands. Having been entertained at
the house of this gentleman, he naturally wished to return his courtesy.

“Flora,” said he, addressing his wife, the day after their visit to the
Greggs, “do you think you could manage a dinner for a few friends?”

Flora dropped her work, and opened her eyes in blank dismay at the very
idea of such a thing.

“What, in these poor lodgings? and Mrs. Waddel such an impracticable,
helpless old body? My dear John, it is impossible!”

Now, Lyndsay had set his heart upon the dinner, which he thought not
only very possible, but could see no difficulty at all about it. Men
never look behind the scenes, or consider the minor details of such
things; and on these trifling items, in their eyes, the real success or
failure of most domestic arrangements depend. But Flora had been behind
the scenes, and knew all about it, to her cost, for it was with the
greatest difficulty she could prevail upon Mrs. Waddel to cook the
plainest food. Mrs. Waddel declared she could “na fash hersel about;
that dainties were a’ verra weel, but the meat ate jest as sweet without
them.” The idea of such a tardy mistress of the kitchen cooking a dinner
for company, appeared perfectly ridiculous to Flora, who knew that any
attempt of the kind must end in mortification and disappointment.

“Flora,” said Lyndsay, quite seriously, “I am certain that you could
manage it quite well, if you would only make the trial.”

“It is from no unwillingness on my part that I object to your
entertaining your friends. But there is but one cooking range in the
house, and that one small and inconvenient, and I fear the cooking
utensils are limited to the dimensions of the fire.”

“There is a large fireplace in our bed-chamber, Flora,” said Lyndsay,
unwilling to beat a retreat.

“True,” replied Flora, musingly; “I did not think of that. It would do
that damp, cold room good to get a fire lighted in it.”

Seeing her husband determined upon the dinner, she began to question him
as to the items of the entertainment.

“Oh, nothing particular, dear. M—— knows that we are in lodgings, and
can’t manage as well as if we were in a house of our own. A nice cut of
fresh salmon, which is always to be had in the fish-market, a small
roast of beef, or leg of mutton, with vegetables and a pudding, will do;
and, above all things, Flora, don’t look annoyed, if every thing does
not exactly please you, or it will only make matters worse. I am going
to call upon M—— this morning, and I will ask him and his friend P——to
step over and dine with us at six o’clock.”

“What shall we do for wine and spirits?”

“I will order these as I go along. So mind, dear, and have everything as
snug and comfortable as you can.”

In spite of the anxiety she felt as to the success of the dinner, Flora
could not help pausing to admire the spacious fish-market, with its cool
stone pavement and slabs of white marble, on which lay piled in
magnificent profusion, the most beautiful specimens of the finny rangers
of the deep. Filled with marine curiosities, she could have spent hours
in contemplating the picturesque groups it presented. There lay the
salmon in its delicate coat of blue and silver; the mullet, in pink and
gold; the mackerel, with its blending of all hues,—gorgeous as the tail
of the peacock, and defying the art of the painter to transfer them to
his canvas; the plaice, with its olive green coat, spotted with vivid
orange, which must flash like sparks of flame glittering in the depths
of the dark waters; the cod, and the siller haddies, all freckled with
brown, and silver, and gold; the snake-like eel, stretching its slimy
length along the cool stone pavement, among moving heaps of tawny
crabs—those spiders of the deep—which seemed to emulate the
scorpion-like lobsters near them in repulsive ugliness.

But what most enchanted Flora, was the antique costume of the Newhaven
fish-women, as, seated upon their upturned baskets, they called the
attention of the visitor to their various stores of fish.

Flora was never tired of looking at these sea-maids and matrons. Their
primitive appearance, and quaint, old-fashioned dress, took her fancy
greatly—with their short petticoats, their blue stockings and buckled
shoes, their neat, striped linen-jackets, and queer little caps, just
covering the top of their head, and coming down in long, straight mobs,
over their ears; their honest, broad features, and pleasant faces, which
had been fair before the sun and the sea air tanned them to that warm,
deep brown; their round, red arms, and handsome feet and legs, displayed
with a freedom and ease which custom had robbed of all indecorum, and
rendered natural and proper.

Flora wished that she had been an artist, to copy some of the fine forms
she saw among these fish-girls—forms which had been left as the great
God of nature made them, uncrippled by torturing stays and tight
vestments. How easy their carriage! with what rude grace they poised
upon their heads their ponderous baskets, and walked erect and firm,
filling the air with their mournfully-musical cry! The great resemblance
between these people and the Bavarian broom-girls, both in features and
costume, impressed her with the idea, that they had originally belonged
to the same race. The Newhaven sea-nymph, however, is taller, and has a
more imposing presence, than the short, snub-nosed Bavarian.

But time, that waits on no one’s fancy or caprice, warned her that she
must not linger over a scene which she afterwards visited with renewed
pleasure, but gave her a gentle hint, that there was work to be done at
home—that she had better make her purchases and proceed to business.

She returned, therefore, to her lodgings in high spirits, despatching
Jim to the greengrocer’s in the next street, and then followed Hannah
and her basket into Mrs. Waddel’s kitchen.

“Marcy me! what ha’ ye got, the noo?” said Mistress Waddel, lifting the
napkin from the basket: “meat enough, I declare, to last the hale week.
The weather’s owr hot, I’m thinkin’, for a’ they to keep sweet sae
lang.”

“Mrs. Waddel, I expect two gentlemen to dinner, particular friends of
Mr. Lyndsay; and I want you to cook these things for me as well as you
can,” said Flora coaxingly.

“Twa’ gentlemen, did ye say?—There’s ten times mair in yon basket than
twa gentlemen can eat!”

“Of course there is; but we cannot stint our guests.”

“Whist, woman!” cried Mrs. Waddel, “it makes my heid ache only to think
about a’ that roast an’ boil, an’ boil an’ roast!”

“Pray, how did you contrive to cook for Lady Weyms?” asked Flora, rather
indignantly.

“Gudeness gracious! Do ye think, that my Leddy Weyms cared for the
cooking o’ the like o’ me? When his late majestie, God bless him,
honoured our auld toon wi’ his preesence, folk were glad to get a
deecent place to cover their heids, an’ war in no wise owr particlar,
sae they could get lodged ava.”

“So I should think, when a titled lady put up with such as these; where
the mistress engages to cook for her lodgers, and has not a whole pot in
her culinary establishment.”

“My Leddy brought her ain cook, an’ she had my twa best rooms jest aff
the passage, whar’ Captain Macpherson bides the noo.”

“And how do you manage to cook for him?” asked Flora, very sullenly.

“He keeps a man. An auld soger, whar’ does the cooking himsel.”

However, the dinner went off better than could have been expected,
though little praise could be conscientiously given to the cooking. The
fish was done _too much_, the ham _too little_, and the baked fowls
looked hard and dry. The pastry was the only thing at table about which
no fault could be found.

After the cloth was removed, Flora gave the poet and his friend the
history of the dinner, which so amused Mr. M., that he declared it was
worth twenty dinners hearing her relate the misadventures of the
morning. Flora forgot the disasters of the day while enjoying the
conversation of Mr. M. and his friend,—men who had won by their genius
no common literary reputation in the world; and the short hour “ayont
the twal” had been tolled some time from all the steeples in Edinburgh
before the little party separated, mutually pleased with each other,
never to meet in this world of change again.

CHAPTER XXVI.

FEARS OF THE CHOLERA—DEPARTURE FROM SCOTLAND.

The cholera, which had hitherto only claimed a few victims in the city,
now began to make fearful progress; and every day enlarged the catalogue
of the dead, and those who were labouring under this awful disease.
People seemed unwilling to name the ravages of the plague to each other;
or spoke of it in low, mysterious tones, as a subject too dreadful for
ordinary conversation.

Just at this time Flora fell ill, and was forced to keep her bed for
several days. During the time she was confined to her chamber, Mrs.
Waddel kept up a constant lamentation, declaring that the reputation of
her lodgings would be lost for ever, if Mrs. Lyndsay should die of the
cholera. Yet, to do the good creature justice, she waited upon her, and
nursed her with most unselfish kindness; making gallons of gruel, which
the invalid scarcely tasted, and recommending remedies which, if
adopted, would have been certain to kill the patient, for whose life she
most earnestly and devoutly prayed.

The very morning that Mrs. Lyndsay was able to leave her bed, her
husband got a note from Mr. Gregg, informing him that the _Anne_ was to
sail at four o’clock the next day.

“My dear Flora,” said Lyndsay, tenderly, “I fear you are not able to go
in your present weak state.”

“Oh yes, I shall be better for the change. This frightful cholera is
spreading on all sides. The sooner, dear John, we can leave this place
the better. Two persons, Mrs. Waddel told me, died last night of it,
only a few doors off. I know that it is foolish to be afraid of an evil
which we cannot avoid; but I find it impossible to divest myself of this
fear. I look worse than I feel just now,” she continued, walking across
the room, and surveying her face in the glass. “My colour is returning—I
shall pass muster with the doctors yet.”

The great business of packing up for the voyage went steadily forward
all day; and before six in the evening, trunks, bedding, and little ship
stores, were on board, ready for a start.

Flora was surprised in the afternoon by a visit from Mr. and Mrs. Gregg,
and the two rosy girls, who expressed the greatest regret at their
departure. They had made a plum-cake for Mrs. Lyndsay to eat during the
voyage; and truly it looked big enough to have lasted out a trip to the
South Seas, while Mrs. Gregg had brought various small tin canisters
filled with all sorts of farinaceous food for the baby.

Abundant as their kindness was, the blessings and good wishes they
heaped upon the emigrants were more abundant still; the kind-hearted
mother and her bonnie girls, kissing them at parting, with tears
coursing down their rosy cheeks. Mr. Gregg, who was terribly afraid of
the cholera, tried to raise his own spirits, by describing all the fatal
symptoms of the disease, and gave them a faithful catalogue of those who
had died of it that morning in the city. He had great faith in a new
remedy, which was just then making a noise in the town, which had been
tried the day before, on a relation of his own—the injection of salt
into veins of the sufferer.

“Did it cure him?” asked Flora, rather eagerly.

“Why no, I canna jest say that it did. But it enabled him to mak’ his
will an’ settle a’ his worldly affairs, which was a great point gained.”

“For the living,” sighed Flora. “Small satisfaction to the dying, to be
disturbed in their last agonies, by attending to matters of business,
while a greater reckoning is left unpaid.”

“You look ill yoursel, Mistress Lyndsay,” continued the gude man. “Let’s
hope that it’s not the commencement of the awfu’ disease.”

“I thought so myself two days ago,” said Flora. “I am grateful to God
that it was not the cholera. Does it ever break out on board ship?”

“It is an affliction sae lately sent upon the nations by the Lord, that
we have had sma’ experience o’ the matter,” quoth Mr. Gregg. “Your best
chance is to trust in Him. For let us be ever so cautious, an He wills
it, we canna’ escape out o’ His hand.”

“Perhaps it is the best way to confide ourselves entirely to His care,
and to think as little about it as we possibly can. All our precautions
remind me of the boy who hid up in the cellar during a terrible
thunderstorm, in the hope that the lightning would never find him there,
little dreaming, that his place of safety exposed him to as much danger
as a stand on the house-top. A man may run away from a battle, and
escape from a fire, but it seems to me of little use attempting to fly
from a pestilence which lurks in the very air we breathe, the water we
drink, and the food we take to nourish us. Faith in the mercy of God,
and submission to His will appear to me the only remedies at all likely
to avert the danger we shrink from with so much fear.”

“It comes like a thief in the night,” said Mr. Gregg; “and it behoves us
all to mind the warning o’ the Saviour, to watch an’ pray, for we know
not at what hour the Master of the house cometh.”

After the good Greggs had made their adieus, Flora felt so much
recovered that she accompanied her husband in a coach, to bid the rest
of their kind friends in Edinburgh farewell.

They drove first to the house of Mr. W., where Flora had spent many
happy days during her sojourn in Leith. Mr. W. had an only son, who held
an official situation at the Cape of Good Hope. Lyndsay had been on
intimate terms with this gentleman during his residence in the colony;
and on his return to Scotland, he was always a welcome visitor at the
house of his parents. They loved to talk of Willie to Lyndsay, and
treasured up as household words any little anecdotes they could collect
of his colonial life. Mrs. W. and her two daughters were highly
accomplished, elegant women. They took a deep interest in the fate of
the emigrants, and were always devising plans for their future comfort.

As to the father of the family, he was a perfect original—shrewd,
sarcastic, clever, and _very ugly_. The world called him morose and
ill-natured; but the world only judged from his face, and most certainly
he should have indicted it for bringing false witness against him. It
was a libellous face, which turned the worst aspect to the world; its
harsh lines and exaggerated features magnifying mental defects, while
they concealed the good qualities of the warm, generous heart that shone
like some precious gem within that hard rough case.

Mr. W. loved opposition, and courted it. He roused himself up to an
argument, as a terrier dog rouses himself to kill rats; and, like the
said terrier, when he got the advantage of his opponent, he loved to
worry and tease, to hold on till the last, till the vanquished was fain
to cry aloud for mercy; and then his main object in quitting the dispute
was to lie in wait for a fresh tussel. Flora laughed at all his blunt
speeches, and enjoyed his rude wit, and opposed him, and argued with him
to his heart’s content, until they became the best friends in the world.
Their first meeting was so characteristic, that we must give it here.

Flora had accepted an invitation to dine, with her husband, at Mr. W.’s
house. It was only a family party, and they were to come early. On their
arrival, they found that Mr. W. had been called away on business, but
was expected back to dinner. After chatting awhile to Mrs. W. and her
daughters, Flora’s attention was strongly directed to an oil-painting
which hung above the drawing-room mantelpiece. It was the portrait of an
old man, as large as life. The figure was represented in a sitting
posture, his head leaning upon his hand, or rather the chin supported in
the open palm. The eyes glanced upward with a sarcastic, humorous
expression, as if the original were in the act of asking some question
which a listener might find it no easy matter to answer; and a smile of
mischievous triumph hovered about the mouth. It was an extraordinary
countenance. No common every-day face, to which you could point and say,
“Does not that put you in mind of Mr. So-and-So?” Memory could supply no
duplicate to this picture. It was like but one other face in the world,
the one from which it had been faithfully copied. It was originally
meant for a handsome face, but the features were exaggerated until they
became grotesque and coarse in the extreme, and the thick, bushy,
iron-grey hair and whiskers, and clay-coloured complexion, put the
finishing strokes to a portrait, which might be considered the very
_ideal of ugliness_.

While Flora sat looking at the picture, and secretly wondering how any
person with such a face could bear to see it transferred to canvas, she
was suddenly roused from her reverie by the pressure of a heavy hand
upon her shoulder, and a gentleman in a very gruff, but by no means an
ill-natured or morose voice, thus addressed her.

“Did you ever see such a d——d ugly old fellow in your life before?”

“Never,” returned Flora, very innocently. Then, looking up in his face,
she cried out with a sudden start, and without the least mental
reservation, “It is the picture of yourself!”

“Yes, it is my picture. An excellent likeness—half bulldog, half
terrier. Judging from that ugly, crabbed old dog over the mantelpiece,
what sort of a fellow ought I to be?”

He said this with a malicious twinkle in his clear, grey eyes, which
glanced like sparks of fire from under his thick bushy eyebrows.

“Better than you look,” said Flora, laughing. “But your question is not
a fair one, Mr. W.; I was taken by surprise, and you must not press me
too hard.”

“A clear admission, young lady, that you would rather avoid telling the
truth.”

“It is the portrait of a plain man.”

“Pshaw! You did not qualify it as such in your own mind. Plain—is only
one degree worse than good-looking. You thought it—”

“Ugly—if you insist upon it.”

“Nothing worse?”

“Eccentric—pugnacious—satirical.”

“God’s truth! But that was not all?”

“Good heavens! what am I to say?”

“Don’t swear; ’tis not fashionable for ladies. I do it myself; but ’tis
a bad habit. Now shall I tell you what you _did think_ of the picture?”

“I would rather have your opinion than mine.”

“To relieve you from the horns of the dilemma? Well then; you thought it
the ugliest, most repulsive, and withal the oddest phiz you ever saw;
and you wondered how any one with such a hideous, morose countenance,
could ever sit for the picture?”

“Indeed I did.”

“Good!” cried her tormentor, clapping his hands. “You and I must be
friends. You wonder how I came to guess your thoughts; I know them by my
own. Had any one asked my opinion of the picture of another man as ugly
as that, I should have spoken out plainly enough. Fortunately the
qualities of the mind do not depend upon the beauty of the face; though
personal beauty is greatly increased by the noble qualities of the mind;
and I know my inner man to be as vastly superior to its outer case, as
the moon is to the cloud she pierces with her rays. To mind, I am
indebted for the greatest happiness I enjoy,—the confidence and
affection of my wife and children.

“Mrs. W. was reckoned pretty in her youth; I think her so still. She was
of a good family too; with a comfortable independence, and had lovers by
the score. Yet, she fell in love with the ugly fellow, and married him,
though he had neither fame nor fortune to offer her in exchange. Nothing
but the mental treasures he had hid away from the world in this rough
casket. My daughters are elegant, accomplished girls; not beauties, to
be sure, but pleasing enough to be courted and sought after. Yet, they
are proud of being thought like their ugly old father. That picture must
be a likeness; it is pourtrayed by the hand of love. My dear girl there
drew it with her own pencil, and rejoiced that she had caught the very
expression of my face. To her, my dear lady, it is beautiful—for love is
blind. She does not heed the ugly features; she only sees the mind she
honours and obeys, looking through them.”

“Ah, dear papa, who that knows you, as we know you, could ever think you
ugly?” said Mary W., laying her hand on the old man’s shoulder, and
looking fondly and proudly in his face. “But I have forgotten all this
time to introduce you to Mrs. Lyndsay.”

“My old friend Lyndsay’s wife? I ought not to be pleased with you,
madam, for you disappointed a favourite scheme of mine.”

“How could that possibly be?” said Flora.

“I loved that man of yours; I wanted him for a son-in-law. Of course,
neither I nor the girls hinted such a wish to him. But had he asked, he
would not have been refused.”

“Mrs. Lyndsay!” broke in Mary W., “you must not mind papa’s nonsense. He
will say just what he likes. Mr. Lyndsay was always a great favourite
with us all; and papa would have his joke at our expense.”

“Well, my young friend has thought fit to please himself, and I am so
well pleased with his wife, that she shall sit by the ugly old man; ‘an’
I will ha’ a spate o’ clatter wi’ her to mine ain sel.’”

The more Flora saw of the eccentric old man, the more she admired and
respected him. In a little time, she ceased to think him ugly—he was
only plain and odd-looking; till at length, like all the rest of Mr.
W.’s friends, she almost believed him handsome. When did genius ever
fail to leave upon the rudest clay, an impress of its divine origin?

It was with feelings of mutual regret that our emigrants took leave, and
for ever, of this talented family. Before the expiration of one short
year, that happy group of kind faces had passed out of the world! The
sudden death of the younger Mr. W., who was the idol of the family,
brought his mother in sorrow to the grave. The girls, by some strange
fatality, only survived her a few weeks; and the good old man, bereft of
every kindred tie, pined away and died of a broken heart!

Some years after Flora had been settled in Canada, a gentleman from
Scotland, who had been acquainted with the W. family, told her that he
called upon the old gentleman on a matter of business, a few days after
the funeral of his youngest daughter. The old man opened the door: he
was shrunk to a skeleton, and a perfect image of woe. When he saw who
his visitor was, he shook his thin, wasted hand at him, with a
melancholy, impatient gesture, exclaiming, “What brings you here, P——?
Leave this death-doomed house! I am too miserable to attend to anything
but my own burden of incurable grief.” He called again the following
morning. The poor old man was dead!

The next day the emigrants bade farewell to the beautiful capital of
Scotland. How gladly would Flora have terminated her earthly pilgrimage
in that land of poetry and romance, and spent the rest of her days among
its truthful, high-minded, hospitable people! But vain are regrets. The
inexorable spirit of progress points onward; and the beings she chooses
to be the parents of a new people, in a new land, must fulfil their
destiny.

On the 1st of July, 1832, the Lyndsays embarked on board the brig
_Anne_, to seek a new home beyond the Atlantic, and friends in a land of
strangers.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A NEW SCENE AND STRANGE FACES.

Four o’clock P.M. had been tolled from all the steeples in Edinburgh,
when Flora stood upon the pier “o’ Leith,” watching the approach of the
small boat which was to convey her on board the ugly black vessel which
lay at anchor at the Berwick Law. It was a warm, close, hazy afternoon;
distant thunder muttered among the hills, and dense clouds floated
around the mountain from base to summit, shrouding its rugged outline in
a mysterious robe of mist. Ever and anon, as the electrical breeze
sprang up and stirred these grey masses of vapour, they rolled up in
black shadowy folds which took all sorts of Ossianic and phantom-like
forms—spirits of bards and warriors, looking from their grey clouds upon
the land their songs had immortalised, or their valour saved.

Parties of emigrants and their friends were gathered together in small
picturesque groups on the pier. The cheeks of the women were pale and
wet with tears. The words of blessing and farewell, spoken to those
near and dear to them, were often interrupted by low wailing and
heart-breaking sobs.

Flora stood apart waiting for her husband, who had been to the ship, and
was in the returning boat now making its way through the water to take
her off. Sad she was, and pale and anxious, for the wide world was all
before her, a world of new scenes and strange faces. A future as
inscrutable and mysterious almost as that from which humanity
instinctively shrinks, which leads so many to cling with expiring energy
to evils with which they have grown familiar, rather than launch alone
into that unknown sea which never bears upon its bosom a returning sail.
Ah! well is it for the poor trembling denizens of earth that—

    “Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,”

or how could they bear up from day to day against the accumulated ills
which beset them at every turn along the crooked paths of life?

Flora had already experienced that bitterness of grief, far worse than
death, which separates the emigrant from the home of his love, the
friends of his early youth, the land of his birth; and she shed no tear
over the mournful recollection, though the deep sigh which shook her
heart to its inmost depths, told that it was still felt and painfully
present to her memory. She stood alone among that weeping crowd; no
kindred hand was there to press hers for the last, last time, or bid God
speed her on her perilous voyage. What a blessing it would have been at
that moment, to have bent a parting glance on some dear familiar face,
and gathered strength and consolation from eyes full of affection and
sympathy!

The beautiful landscape which had so often cheered and gladdened her
heart, during her brief sojourn, no longer smiled upon her, but was
obscured in storm and gloom. The thunder which had only muttered at a
distance, now roared among the cloud-capped hills, and heavy drops of
rain began to patter slowly upon the earth and sea. These bright
globules in advance of the heavy shower whose approach they announced,
made small dimples in the waters, spreading anon into large circles,
until the surface of the salt brine seemed to boil and dance, which a
few minutes before had lain so glassy and still, beneath the hot breath
of the coming storm. Flora thought how soon those billows would chafe
and roar for ever between her and her native land.

Then the lines of Nature’s own bard, the unhappy but immortal Burns,
whose fame had become as eternal as those ancient hills, rose to her
mind, and she could fancy him standing upon that very spot, breathing
out from the depths of his great inspired heart, the painful separation
he anticipated, when called by adverse circumstances to leave old
Scotia’s shores, and the woman he adored—

    “The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,
     The ship rides at the Berwick Law,
     And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.”

The words still hovered on her lips when the boat touched the pier, and
her husband threw his arms around her, and lifted her and the dear
offspring of their mutual love, into the small bark which was to bear
them away from the glorious land of Bruce and Burns. The men bent to
their oars, and in a few minutes she found herself one among the many
strangers that crowded the narrow deck of the emigrant ship.

The downpouring of the thunder-shower compelled her to take instant
refuge in the cabin, followed by Hannah and the child. The little dingy
place dignified by that name, was crowded with trunks and packages,
piled upon each other in endless confusion. And the close atmosphere was
rendered more hot and suffocating from the mingled odours of brandy,
onions, red-herrings, and tobacco. The smoke from several pipes floated
in lazy wreaths through the confined space, and effectually concealed,
for the first few minutes, the parties indulging in the dreamy luxury of
the fragrant weed.

The gloom occasioned by the passing thunder-clouds produced a dim
twilight in the little room, which looked more like the den in a
travelling menagerie, appropriated to the use of some imprisoned lord of
the desert, than a fitting habitation for civilized men and women.

Flora groped her way to the bench which surrounded the walls, and, for a
few minutes, covered her face with her hands, to conceal her agitation
and keep down the swelling of her heart, before she gained sufficient
courage to reconnoitre the aspect of her temporary home. At length, she
succeeded in calming her feelings, and was able to look about her.

The Captain was sitting upon a large trunk in his shirt-sleeves, with a
short pipe stuck between his teeth, holding in one hand a tumbler of
brandy punch, and in the other a bundle of papers containing a list of
his passengers, which he was in the act of proffering for the inspection
of the excise officers, who were settling with him sundry matters of
business, connected with the cargo of the ship.

Two sinister, ill-looking men they were, who spoke with loud,
authoritative voices, and, for the time being, appeared masters of the
vessel and all that it contained, examining with provoking exactness,
cupboards, bedding, boxes, and binns of biscuit, till there seemed no
end to their prying and vexatious system of cross-questioning.

The Captain notified his consciousness of the presence of the new-comers
with a short nod of recognition; but he was too much occupied to welcome
them with words. He seemed in a desperate ill-humour with his official
visitors, and replied to all their queries with a significant elevation
of his broad shoulders, and a brief “No” or “Yes,” which greatly
resembled a growl.

During his absence on deck, whither he accompanied the senior officer,
his companion, who was seated on the bench opposite to that occupied by
Mrs. Lyndsay and her maid, with his back to an open binn, full of
biscuits and other sea-stores, took the opportunity afforded by the
Captain’s departure, to fill the huge pockets in his large jacket with
the said stores, until his tall, lank person, was swelled out into very
portly dimensions. He then made a sudden dash at the brandy-bottle
(which the Captain had left on the table), and, casting a thievish
glance at Mrs. Lyndsay, who was highly amused by watching his movements,
he refilled his glass, and tossed it off with the air of a child who is
afraid of being detected, while on a foraging expedition into Mamma’s
cupboard. This matter settled, he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his
jacket, and assumed a look of vulgar consequence and superiority, which
must have forced a smile to Flora’s lips had she been at all in a humour
for mirth.

“Strange!” she thought, as she sat muffled up in her cloak, a silent
spectatress of his manœuvres, “that such a mean, dishonest wretch as
this, should be empowered to act the petty tyrant, and pass judgment on
the integrity of others, who is so destitute of the principles of common
honesty himself!”

She certainly forgot, during her mental colloquy, the wisdom concealed
beneath the homely adage, “Set a thief to catch a thief!” and the
profound knowledge of the world hidden in that brief, pithy sentence.

The provoking business of inspection (for so it seemed to the Captain—to
judge by his flushed cheek and frowning brow,) was at length over; the
officers withdrew, and were succeeded by the doctor, who was appointed
to inspect the health of the crew and passengers, before the ship
sailed.

Doctor MacAdie was a lively, little, red haired man, with high
cheek-bones, and a large Roman nose out of all proportion to the size of
his diminutive body, but perfectly harmonising with his wide,
sensible-looking mouth. His sharp, clear blue eyes, seemed to have crept
as close to his nose as they possibly could, in the vain hope of
glancing over the high, ridgy barrier it formed between them, which gave
to their owner a peculiarly acute, penetrating expression,—a glance
which appeared to look you through and through; yet, though extremely
grotesque, it was a benevolent, pleasing face, full of blunt kindness
and ready wit.

The Doctor’s snuff-box seemed part and parcel of himself; for the
quaint, old-fashioned horn repository, which contained the pungent
powder, _real Scotch_, never left his hand during his professional
dialogue with Mrs. Lyndsay.

He shook his head, as his keen eyes read sickness of mind and body in
her weary and care-worn face. “Ye are ill, my gude leddy,” said he in
broad Scotch; “in nae condition to undertak’ sic a lang voyage.”

Mrs. Lyndsay answered frankly and truly, that she had been indisposed
during the past week, and her recovery was so recent, that she felt much
better in health than her looks warranted.

The Doctor examined her tongue, felt her pulse, and still shook his head
doubtingly. “Feverish—rapid pulse—bad tongue—just out o’ yer bed, from
attack near akin to cholera. I tell ye that ye are mair fit to go to bed
again, under the dochtor’s care, than to attempt crossing the Atlantic
in a close crib like this.”

“The fresh sea air will soon restore me to health,” said Flora. “You
know, Doctor, that we cannot command circumstances, and have things
exactly as we could wish;” and she checked the sigh which rose to her
lips, as she recalled to mind her dear, comfortable cottage at ——, and
glanced round the narrow cabin, and its miserable accommodations.

The Doctor regarded her with eyes full of compassion. He certainly
guessed her thoughts, and seemed as well acquainted with complaints of
the mind as with bodily ailments.

“Weel, weel, I ha’e my ain doubts as to your fitness for sic a voyage in
your weak state; but I’ll e’en jist let ye pass. Are you married or
single?”

“Married.”

“An’ the gudeman?——”

“Is on deck with the captain. He will be here presently.”

“Ha’e ye ony bairns?”

Flora pointed, with a feeling of maternal pride, to the little Josey,
who was sleeping upon Hannah’s knees,—a lovely picture of healthy, happy
infancy.

“Ay, she’s bonnie,” cried the kind Doctor, taking one of the tiny
alabaster fingers of the babe in his red, rough hand. “Sma’ need o’ a
dochter in her case. An’ wha’s this woman?” touching Hannah’s shoulder
with his forefinger.

“My nurse-girl.”

“A married woman?”

“No, Sir.”

“She shu’d be, I’m jist thinkin’; it will not be lang before she’s a
mither,” muttered the little man. Then, turning quickly to Flora, he
said, “I wull speak to the medical man on board, an’ tell him to tak’
partic’lar care o’ you during the voyage. What’s his name?”

“There is no such person. The vessel is too small to incur such an
expensive addition to the comfort of her passengers. The captain told me
that he was his own doctor.”

“How many passengers does he tak’ out?”

“Seventy-two in the steerage, five in the cabin, besides his crew, eight
in number.”

“Eighty-five human beings, an’ no medical man on board! ’Tis jest a’
disgrace to the owners, and shu’d be reported. In case o’ cholera, or
ony other epeedemic brakin’ out amang ye, wha wu’d become o’ ye a’?”

“We must trust in God. The great Physician of souls will not be
forgetful of our bodily infirmities.”

“True, true, young leddy; cling close to Him. Ye ha’ muckle need o’ His
care. An’ dinna trust your life to the dochtering o’ a sullen ignoramus
like the captain,—an obstinate, self-willed brute, that, right or wrang,
will ha’ his ain way. Dinna tak’ ony medicine frae him.”

Flora was amused at the idea of calling in a one-eyed Esculapius like
the jolly captain. The absurdity of the thing made her laugh heartily.

“It’s nae laughing matter,” said the little doctor, whose professional
dignity was evidently wounded by her mistimed mirth.

“Hout! dinna’ I ken the man for the last ten years or mair. Thae
medicine kist he prizes mair than his sole remaining e’e, an’ fancies
himsel a dochtor fitting a king. Ye canna’ please him mair than by
gie’n’ him a job. The last voyage he made in this verra brig, he
administered in his ignorance, a hale pint o’ castor oil in ain dose to
a lad on board, which took the puir fallow aff his legs completely.
Anither specimen o’ his medical skill was gie’n are o’ his crew, a
heapen spun-fu’ o’ calomel, which he mistook for magnesia. I varilie
believe that he canna’ spell weel eneugh to read the directions in the
buik. An’ is it to sic a dunderheid that the lives of eighty-five human
beings are to be entrusted?”

Flora was highly entertained by this account of the Captain’s skill;
while the doctor, who loved to hear himself talk, continued in a more
impressive and confidential tone—

“Now, dinna be sae ill-advised as to be takin’ pheesic a’ the time,
young leddy. If ye wu’d keep yersel in health, persuade the Captain to
gie ye the charge o’ yon kist o’ poisons, an’ tak’ the first opportunity
to drap the key by accident overboord. By sae doin’ ye may be the savin’
o’ your ain life, an’ the lives of a’ the humanities on boord the brig
_Anne_.”

Flora was fond of a little amateur doctoring. To part with the
medicine-chest, she considered, would be a great sin, and she was
already secretly longing to overhaul its contents.

A few well-established remedies, promptly administered in simple cases
of illness, and followed by the recovery of the patients, had made her
imagine herself quite a genius in the healing art; and she rejected the
homely little Doctor’s last piece of advice as an eccentric whim,
arising either from ignorance of his profession, or from disappointment
in not having been appointed surgeon to the brig.

Dr. MacAdie was neither deficient in skill nor talent. He was a poor
man, of poor parentage, who had worked hard to obtain his present
position, and provide a comfortable home for his father and mother in
their old age. His practice was entirely confined to the humble walks of
life, and he was glad to obtain a few additional meals for a large
family by inspecting the health of emigrants preparatory to their
voyage.

In this case, his certificate of health was very satisfactory; and he
told the Captain that he had seldom seen a heartier, healthier set o’
_decent_ bodies in sic a sma’ vessel, and hepathetically entreated him
not to tamper with their constitutions, by giving them dangerous drugs
whose chemical properties he did not understand, declaring emphatically,
“That nature was the best _phesician_ after all.” The Captain considered
this gratuitous piece of advice as an insult, for he very gruffly bade
Doctor MacAdie “Take care of his own patients; he wanted none of his
impertinent interference.”

The little Doctor drew up his shoulders with an air of profound
contempt; then taking a monstrous pinch of snuff, in the most sneezable
manner, from his old-fashioned box, he shook Mrs. Lyndsay kindly by the
hand, and wishing her and her _gudeman_ a prosperous voyage, vanished up
the companion-ladder.

Old Boreas shook his fist after his retreating figure. “You d——d,
insignificant, snuffy little coxcomb! I’m a d——d sight better doctor
than you are. If the Government sends you again, poking your long nose
among my people, I’ll make a surgical case for you to examine at home at
your leisure, I will.”

In order to divert his ill-humour, Flora inquired at what hour the ship
sailed?

“She must wait for that which never yet waited for mortal man—wind and
tide. It will be midnight before we get under weigh.”

Boreas always spoke in short sentences. He was a man of few words,
rough, ready, and eccentrically blunt. Had his talents been proportioned
to his obstinacy of will, he might have ruled over large communities,
instead of acting the petty tyrant on the deck of his small craft. Right
or wrong, he never gave up his opinion to any one. He certainly did not
belong to the “_Ay, Sir—very true, Sir_”—school of individuals, who
would resign their own souls to agree with their superiors in rank or
power. If there was a being on earth that he despised more than
another, it was a sneak. On one occasion, when a steerage passenger, in
order to curry favour, was prostrating himself before him after this
fashion, assuring the Captain, “That _his_ thoughts coincided _exactly_
with his own,” he burst out in a towering passion, “D—— you Sir! haven’t
you got an opinion of your own? I don’t want such a sneaking puppy as
you to think my thoughts, and echo my words. I should despise myself, if
I thought it possible that we could agree on any subject.”

If really convinced that he was wrong, he would show it by a slight
diminution of his ferocious stubbornness; but would never acknowledge it
in words. If he gained even a doubtful advantage over an adversary, he
rubbed his hands, clapped his knees, and chuckled and growled out his
satisfaction, in a manner peculiarly his own. He was only tolerable as a
companion after taking his third glass of brandy-and-water; and as he
commenced these humanizing doses by daybreak in the morning, repeating
them at stated intervals during the four-and-twenty hours, by noon he
became sociable and entertaining; and would descend from his
anti-meridian dignity, and condescend to laugh and chat in a dry
humorous style, which, if it lacked refinement, was highly amusing.

Though an inveterate imbiber of alcohol, he was never positively drunk
during the whole voyage. The evil spirits seemed to make no impression
upon the iron fibres of his stubborn brain and heart. He judged his
morality by the toughness of his constitution, and congratulated himself
on being a sober man, while he complained of his second mate, and
stigmatised him as a drunken, worthless fellow, because one glass of
punch made him intoxicated. This is by no means an uncommon thing both
at home and abroad; and men condemn others more for want of strength of
head, than strength of heart.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.

Transcriber’s Note:

Variations in spelling, use of hyphenated words, and in dialect have
been retained as they appear in the original book. Changes have been
made as follows:

    Page  16 ropes fr you changed to ropes for you

    Page  17 grey esey sparkled changed to grey eyes sparkled

    Page  65 added double closing quotation mark to Busy at work, too?”

    Page  92 real Havanna changed to real Havana

    Page  95 one of these days.' changed to one of these days.”

    Page  96 and getting none, changed to and getting none.

    Page 104 and by some mismagement changed to by some mismanagement

    Page 140 very plausibly changed to very plausible

    Page 146 added double closing quotation mark to heart-breaking
         regret.”

    Page 148 stumblingblocks changed to stumbling blocks

    Page 150 Then sideling changed to Then sidling

    Page 153 deep vexation changed to deep vexation.

    Page 156 Bad beginings changed to Bad beginnings

    Page 169 handsome young quaker changed to handsome young Quaker

    Page 177 carolled high in air changed to carolled high in the air

    Page 193 rest of his journey, changed to rest of his journey.

    Page 214 it annoyed her “ changed to it annoyed her.”

    Page 232 my Mammy say?’ changed to my Mammy say?”

    Page 240 browze and gambol changed to browse and gambol

    Page 240 and when the arrived changed to and when they arrived

    Page 246 added double closing quotation mark after not have seen
             this.”

    Page 261 removed double closing quotation mark after half-pennyworth
             of taste.

    Page 267 added double closing quotation mark after dimensions of the
             fire.”

    Page 271 said Flora coaxingly., changed to said Flora coaxingly.

    Page 271 added double closing quotation mark after an’ boil an’
             roast!”

    Page 288 and in a few miuutes changed to and in a few minutes

    Page 291 Doctor Mac Adie changed to Doctor MacAdie