Chapter II: Part 2

William Morrison, after discharging his duty so manfully, was permitted to go on shore the same evening, to visit his friends; and, indeed, the captain could not have known before that he belonged to the place, as he surely would not have confided to the lad so unpopular a task as that of kidnapping his own relations and acquaintances. He was landed at the point of Scarlough, to prevent the necessity of going through the streets, which might have been dangerous in the excited state of the people's minds; and, stretching across the fields, and along the side of the hill, he steered steadily on in the direction of his paternal home, which was about a mile and a half from the Point, but only one mile from the town. The moon had now risen, but was only visible in short glimpses through the clouds that were hurrying across the sky; and the tall, strange shadows of the willows and yews that skirted the churchyard, appearing and disappearing as he passed, probably by recalling the associations of his earlier years, made William shrink, and almost tremble. His own shadow, however, was a more pleasing thing to look at. The dress, which, grown familiar by usage, he would not have noticed elsewhere, was here brilliantly contrasted in his recollection with the more clownish and common garb of his boyhood--for he already reckoned himself a man; and the dagger, projecting smartly from his belted side, gave, in his opinion, a finish quite melodramatic to his air. He drew out the tiny blade from its sheath, and its sparkle in the moonlight seemed to be reflected in his eyes as he gazed on it from hilt to point; but the expression of those eyes was changed as they discovered that its polish in one place was dimmed by blood. This could easily be accounted for by the affray on the beach--and at any other time and place it would have been thought nothing of;--but at this moment, and on this spot, he was as much startled by the sight, as if his conscience had accused him of a deliberate murder. The impressions his mind had received while passing the churchyard, now returned upon him with added gloom; a kind of misgiving came over him; and a thousand boding thoughts haunted him like spirits, and hanging, as it were, on his heart, dragged it down farther and farther at every step. He bitterly regretted that he had not remained in the boat, as he had at first resolved, a neutral spectator of the strife. How did he know that his hand had not been raised against the life of his own brother? As far as he could see or learn, indeed, no fatal accident had occurred; but there have been instances of people walking cheerily off the field of battle, and dying of their wounds after all. And yet it was not likely--it was hardly possible--that John could have been in the affray, his indentures protecting him from the impress. These cogitations were speedily followed by others of as gloomy a character; for the thoughts breed faster than we can perceive them, and each multiplies after his kind. It was a year since he had heard from his friends, and five years since he had seen them. Who could tell what changes had taken place in that time? Who could tell whether poor John had even lived to be killed by the pressgang? His father, his mother, and his sisters--were they dead, were they living, were they sick, or in health? His sister had been always a delicate girl, one of those gentle and fragile flowers of mortality that are sure not to live till the summer; perhaps consumption, with the deceitful beauty of his smile, had already led his fair partner down the short dance of life.

Tormenting himself with such speculations, he arrived at his father's house. Here he was surprised, bewildered, almost shocked, to observe a new and handsome farm-house in place of the old one. On looking farther on, however, he did detect the ancient habitation of his family, in its original site; but it seemed, from the distance where he stood, to be falling into ruins. His whole race must either be dead or banished, and a new tribe of successors settled in their place; or else uncle William must be deceased, and have left his father money enough to build a new house. He walked up to the door, where he stood trembling for some minutes, without courage to put his hand to the latch, and at last went round to the window, and, with a desperate effort, looked in. How his heart bounded! His father was there, still a stout healthy man of middle life, his hair hardly beginning to be grizzled, by the meddling finger of the old painter Time; and his mother, as handsome as ever, and her face relieved by the smile either of habitual happiness, or of some momentary cause of joyful excitation, from the Madonna cast which had distinguished it in less prosperous days; and his sister, with only enough left of her former delicacy of complexion to chasten the luxuriant freshness of health on the ripe cheeks of nineteen. John, indeed, was not there; but a vacant chair stood by the table ready to receive him, and another--a second chair, beside it, only nearer the fire--for whom?--for himself. His heart told him that it was. Some one must have brought the tidings of his arrival; the family circle were at that moment waiting to receive him; he could see his old letters lying on the table before them, and recognised the identical red splash he had dropped, as if accidentally, on the corner of one--the dispatch he had written after his first action--although he had taken the trouble to go to the cock-pit to procure, for the occasion, this valorous token of danger and glory. But John--it was so late for him to be from home!--and, as a new idea passed across his mind, he turned his eyes upon the old house, which was distant about a hundred yards. It was probable, he thought, nay, more than probable, that his father, when circumstances enabled him to build a new house for himself, had given the old one to his eldest son; and John, doubtless, was established there as the master of the family, and perhaps at this moment was waiting anxiously for a message to require his presence on the joyful occasion of his brother's arrival. He did not calculate very curiously time or ages, for his brother was only his senior by two years; he felt that he was himself a man long ago, and thought that John by this time must be almost an old man.

While these reflections were passing through his mind, he observed a light in the window of the old house; but he could not well tell whether it was merely the reflection of a moonbeam on the glass, or a candle in the interior. He walked forward out of curiosity; but the scene, as he approached the building, was so gloomy, and the air so chill, that he wished to turn back; however, he walked on till he reached the door, and there, sure enough, his brother was waiting on the threshold to receive him. They shook hands in silence, for William's heart was too full to speak, and he followed John into the house; and an ill-cared-for house it was. He stumbled among heaps of rubbish in the dark passage; and, as he groped along the wall, his hand brought down patches of old lime, and was caught in spiders' webs almost as strong as if the spinner had meant to go a-fowling. When they had got into the parlour, he saw that the building was indeed a ruin; there was not a whole pane of glass in the window, nor a plank of wood in the damp floor; and the fireplace, without fire, or grate to hold it, looked like the entrance to a burying-vault. John, however, walked quietly in, and sat down on a heap of rubbish by the ingleside; and William, following his example, sat down over-against him. His heart now began to quake, and he was afraid, without knowing what he had to fear. He ran over in his mind the transactions of the evening--his walk, his reflections, his anxieties--embracing the whole, as if in one rapid and yet detailed glance of the soul, and then turned his eyes upon his brother both in fear and curiosity. What fearful secret could John have to communicate in a place like this? Could he not have spoken as well in the open air, where it was so much warmer, and in the blessed light of the moon? No one was dead, or likely to die, that he cared for; his dearest and almost only friends were at this moment talking and laughing round their social table, and near a bright fire, expecting his arrival, and John and he were--here! At length, repressing by a strong effort the undefined and undefinable feelings that were crowding upon him, he broke the silence, which was now beginning to seem strange and embarrassing.

"And how have you been, John?" said he, in the usual form of friendly inquiries; "and how have you got on in the world since we parted?"

"I have been well." replied John; "and I have got on as well as mortal man could desire."

"Yet you cannot be happy; you must have something to say--something I am almost afraid to hear. Out with it, in God's name! and let us go home."

"Yes," said John, "I have something to say; but it will not take long to hear, and then we shall both go home. I was apprenticed to the boat-building four years ago." "I know it," replied William; "you wrote to me about it yourself, John."

"I was made foreman before my time was out."

"I know that, too," said William; "Fanny gave me the whole particulars in a letter I received at Smyrna;--surely that cannot be all."

"I have more to tell," said John, solemnly: "my apprenticeship is out."

"What, in four years!--you are mad, John! What do you mean?"

"The indenture was cancelled this evening."

"How?" cried William, with a gasp, and beginning to tremble all over, without knowing why.

"I was wounded on the beach," said John, rising up, and walking backwards towards the window; while the moon, entering into a dense cloud, had scarcely sufficient power to exhibit the outlines of his figure. "It was by the point of a dagger," continued he, his voice sounding distant and indistinct, "_and I died of the wound!_"

William was alone in the apartment, and he felt the hair rising upon his head, and cold drops of sweat trickling down his brow. His ghastly and bewildered look was hardly noticed by his parents and sister during the first moments of salutation; and, when it was, the excuse was illness and fatigue. He could neither eat nor drink, (it seemed as if he had lost altogether the faculty of swallowing,) but sat silent and stupified, turning his head ever and anon to the door, till it struck one o'clock. About this time a knocking was heard, and the sister, jumping up, cried it was John come home, and ran to open the door. But it was not John; it was the minister of the parish; and he had scarcely time to break the blow to the parents with the shield of religion, when the dead body of their eldest son was brought into the house.--_Orient. Herald_.

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SPIRIT OF DISCOVERY.

_Zoological Gardens._

It is stated that upwards of one hundred and eighty pounds have been received for the admission of the public to these gardens during one week.

We omitted to mention last week, that one of the lamas was presented by Robert Barclay, Esq. of Bury Hill; a leopard by Lord Auckland; several animals from the Arctic regions by the Hudson's Bay Company, &c. The pair of emus were bred at Windsor, by Lord Mountcharles. The emu is hunted in New South Wales for its oil; it frequently weighs 100 lbs., and its taste, when cooked, more resembles beef than fowl.--See _Notes_, p. 378, vol. xi. MIRROR.

_Venerable Orange Tree._

There is an orange tree, still living and vigorous, in the orangery at Versailles, which is well ascertained to be above 400 years old. It is designated the Bourbon, having belonged to the celebrated constable of that name in the beginning of the 16th century, and been confiscated to the crown in 1522, at which time it was 100 years old. A crown is placed on the box in which it is planted, with this inscription, "Sown in 1421."

Thirty-four orange-trees have lately been received at Windsor, as a present from the king of France to George IV.

_Potato Mortar._

M. Cadet-de-Vaux found mortar of lime and sand, and also that made from clay, greatly improved in durability by mixing boiled potatoes with it.

_An Experimental Farm,_

As a school of practical husbandry for a part of central France, has been formed by the celebrated Abbé de Pradt. It is situated about a league from Avranches, on the great road from that city to Bort, in the department of Corrèze.--_Foreign Q. Rev._

_A Tunnel under the Vistula, at Warsaw,_

Has been projected. This mode of communication will be of the utmost utility, especially at the times of the breaking up of the frost, when all intercourse is interrupted. The architect is a foreigner, and has engaged to complete the work in the space of three years.--_Paris Paper._

_Small White Slugs,_

In gardens, are more injurious than the larger variety, because their diminutive size escapes the gardener's eye. A good way to keep them under is to make small holes, about an inch deep, and about the diameter of the little finger, round the plants which they infest. Into these holes the slugs will retreat during the day, and they may be killed there by dropping in a little salt, quicklime in powder, or by strong lime and water.--_Gardener's Mag._

_Turkish Method of Preserving Filberts._

When perfectly ripe, remove the husks, and dry the nuts, by rubbing with a coarse cloth; sprinkle the bottom of a stone jar with a very little salt; then place a layer of filberts, adding a small quantity of salt between each layer. The jar must be perfectly dry and clean. Secure the top from air, and keep them in a dry place; and, at the end of six months, they will peel.--_Ibid._

_Extinction of Fires._

When a chimney or flue is on fire, throw into the fire-place one handful after another of flower of sulphur. This, by its combustion, effects the decomposition of the atmospheric air, which is, in consequence, paralysed, or, in effect, annihilated.

_Oysters._

After the month of May, it is felony to carry away the caltch (the spawn adhering to stones, old oyster-shells, &c.) and punishable to take any oysters, except those of the size of a half-crown piece, or such as, when the two shells are shut, will admit of a shilling rattling between them.

The liquor of the oyster contains incredible multitudes of small embryo oysters, covered with little shells, perfectly transparent, swimming nimbly about. One hundred and twenty of these in a row would extend one inch. Besides these young oysters, the liquor contains a great variety of animalcules, five hundred times less in size, which emit a phosphoric light. The list of inhabitants, however, does not conclude here, for besides these last mentioned, there are three distinct species of worms (called the oyster-worm,) half an inch long, found in oysters, which shine in the dark like glow-worms. The sea-star, cockles, and muscles, are the great enemies of the oyster. The first gets within the shell when they gape, and sucks them out.

While the tide is flowing, oysters lie with the hollow side downwards, but when it ebbs they turn on the other side.[6]

[6] See Bishop Spratt on Oysters.

_Swarming of Bees._

An interesting communication was read, at a recent sitting of the Royal Society, from T.A. Knight, Esq. describing the precaution taken by a swarm of bees, in reconnoitering the situation where they intend to establish their new colony, or swarm from the parent hive. The bees do not go out in a considerable body, but they succeed each other in going and returning, until the whole of the swarm have apparently made good the survey, after which the whole body take their departure in a mass. If by any chance a large portion of a swarm take their departure without the queen bee, they never proceed to take up the ulterior quarters without her majesty's presence. The result of Mr. Knight's observations tends to prove, that all the operations of a swarm of bees are dictated by previous concert, and the most systematic arrangement.

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS

LADDER OF LOVE.

Men and women,--more or less,--
Have minds o' the self-same metal, mould, and form!--
Doth not the infant love to sport and laugh,
And tie a kettle to a puppy's tail?--
Doth not the dimpled girl her 'kerchief don
(Mocking her elder) mantilla wise--then speed
To mass and noontide visits; where are bandied
Smooth gossip-words of sugared compliment?
But when at budding womanhood arrived,
She casts aside all childish games, nor thinks
Of aught save some gay paranymph--who, caught
In love's stout meshes, flutters round the door,
And fondly beckons her away from home,--
The whilst, her lady mother fain would cage
The foolish bird within its narrow cell!--
And then, the grandame idly wastes her breath,
In venting saws 'bout maiden modesty--
And strict decorum,--from some musty volume:
But the clipp'd wings will quickly sprout again;
And whilst the doating father thinks his child
A paragon of worth and bashfulness,--
_Her_ thoughts are hovering round the precious form
Of her sweet furnace-breathing Don Diego!--
And he, all proof 'gainst dews and nightly blasts,
In breathless expectation waits to see
His panting Rosa at the postern door;--
While she sighs forth "My gentle cavalier!"--
And then they straightway fall to kissing hands,
And antic-gestures--such as lovers use,--
Expressive of their wish quickly to tie
The gordian knot of marriage;--Pretty creatures!--
But why not earlier to have thought of this?--
When he, the innocent youth, was wont to play
At coscogilla; and the prattling girl,
Amid her nursery companions, toiled
In sempstress labours for her wooden dolls.--
Ah! wherefore, did I ask?--Because forsooth,
Their ways are changed with their increasing years!--
For when for gallantry the time be come--
And when the stagnant blood begins to boil
Within the veins, my master--then the lads
Cast longing looks on damosels--for nature
Defies restraint--and kin-birds flock together!--
And think not, Master, _Chance_ disposes thus;
Or were it so, then chance directs us all--
Whene'er we have attain'd the important age!
I, ------, am a living instance!--
Was I not once a lively laughing boy?
And, in my stripling age, did I not love
The pastimes suited to those madcap days?--
Oh! would to heaven those times were present still!
But wherefore fret myself with hopes so vain?--
The silly thought doth find no shelter here,--
That any beauty, with dark roguish eyes,
With sparkling blood, and rising warmth of youth,
Would e'er affect this wrinkled face of mine:--
The very thought doth smack of foolishness!--
And, though the truth may be a bitter pill,
Yet,--
It is most fitting that we know ourselves.

_Spanish Comedy--Foreign Review._

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A HINT TO RETIRING CITIZENS.

Ye Cits who at White Conduit House,
Hampstead or Holloway carouse,
Let no vain wish disturb ye;
For rural pleasures unexplored,
Take those your Sabbath strolls afford,
And prize your _Rus in urbe_.

For many who from active trades
Have plung'd into sequester'd shades,
Will dismally assure ye,
That it's a harder task to bear
Th' ennui produced by country air,
And sigh for _Urbs in rure_.

The cub in prison born and fed,
The bird that in a cage was bred,
The hutch-engender'd rabbit,
Are like the long-imprison'd Cit,
For sudden liberty unfit,
Degenerate by habit.

Sir William Curtis, were he mew'd
In some romantic solitude,
A bower of rose and myrtle,
Would find the loving turtle dove
No succedaneum for his love
Of London Tavern turtle.

Sir Astley Cooper, cloy'd with wealth,
Sick of luxurious ease and health,
And rural meditation,
Sighs for his useful London life,
The restless night--the saw and knife
Of daily amputation.

Habit is second nature--when
It supersedes the first, wise men
Receive it as a warning,
That total change comes then too late,
And they must e'en assimilate
Life's evening to its morning.

Thrice happy he whose mind has sprung
From Mammon's yoke while yet unwrung
Or spoilt for nobler duty:--
Who still can gaze on Nature's face
With all a lover's zeal, and trace
In every change a beauty.

No tedium vitae round him lowers,
The charms of contrast wing his hours,
And every scene embellish:--
From prison, City, care set free,
He tastes his present liberty
With keener zest and relish.

_New Monthly Mag_.

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THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.

SHAKSPEARE.

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ACCOMMODATION FOR THREE HALFPENCE.

A gentleman on a wet evening entered the bar of an inn, and while standing before the fire, called to a servant girl who had come to receive his orders, "Margaret, bring me a glass of ale, a clean pipe, a spitoon, a pair of snuffers, and the newspaper. And Margaret, take away my great coat, carry it into the kitchen, and hang it before the fire to dry, and dry my umbrella, and tell me what o'clock it is; and if Mr. Huggins should come in, request him to come this way, for I think 'tis near seven, and he promised to meet me at that hour. And Margaret, get me change for a sovereign, and see that all the change is good, take for the glass of ale out of it, and put the coppers in a piece of paper. And Margaret, tell Jemima to bring some more coals, take away the ashes, and wipe the table. And Margaret, pull down the blinds, shut the door, and put-to the window-shutters."--N.B. The gentleman had his own tobacco.

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TWO EVILS, (EXTEMPORE.)

Can man sustain a greater curse
Than to possess an empty purse?
Yes, with abundance to be blest,
And not enjoy the pow'r to taste.

G.K.

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EPIGRAM, FROM THE GERMAN.

If one has served thee, tell the deed to many?
Hast thou served many?--tell it not to any.

J.L.S.

* * * * *

A GENTLEMAN.

To tell the reader exactly what class of persons was meant to be designated by the word _gentleman_, is a difficult task. The last time we heard it, was on visiting a stable to look at a horse, when, inquiring for the coachman, his stable-keeper replied, "He has just stepped to the public-house along with another gentleman."

The following is the negro's definition of a _gentleman_:--"_Massa make de black man workee--make de horse workee--make de ox workee--make every ting workee, only de hog: he, de hog, no workee; he eat, he drink, he walk about, he go to sleep when he please, he liff like a GENTLEMAN_."

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"VERY BAD."

Why are washer-women, busily engaged, like Adam and Eve in Paradise? Because they are _so-apy_ (so happy).

Why is a widower, going to be married, like Eau de Cologne? Because he is _re-wiving_.

Why is a vine like a soldier? Because it is listed and trained, has _ten-drills_, and shoots.

Why is a sailor, when at sea, not a sailor? Because he's _a-board_.

Why is a city gentleman, taken poorly in Grosvenor-square, like a recluse? Because he is _sick-westward_ (sequestered.)

Why is it better for a man to have two losses than one? Because the first is a loss, and the second is _a-gain_.

"If Britannia rules the waves," said a qualmish writing-master, going to Margate last week in a storm, "I wish she'd rule 'em _straighter_."-- _Lit. Gaz._

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_Printed and Published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers._