Part 10

"'But come, Rodney, let's have the ghost. I don't mean to turn in till eight-bells.'

"The old man leaned back upon the hencoop on which I was sitting, crossed his arms over the breast of his pea-jacket, and began:--

"'Well, yer honour, Jack Rodney never was the man to lay at his anchors when the signal was made to get under weigh. I've been at sea, yer honour, man and boy, five-and-thirty years come next quarter-day; and there's ne'er a blue-jacket afloat as can say Jack Rodney ever sailed under false colours, or stretched a yarn beyond its bearings. When once old Jack gets his jawing-tacks aboard, his yarn runs off clear and quick, like the line off a log-reel in a breeze. I hates them stuttering beggars, axing yer honour's pardon, as boxes all the points of the compass, and never steers no strait coorse after all. Their words come creeping out as if they were afeerd the master-at-arms was a-going to put them in limbo; but a steady helm and a straight coorse for old Rodney, says I.'

"After the old man had talked himself into a proper opinion of his merits, he began at once to steer a straight course, as he called it.

"'Ye've never been in Chainey, yer honour? Ah you long-togged gentry has a vast to see! Why, you sits at home half your lives, and never knows nothing. Why, now I'll make bould to say yer honour doesn't know how to make a sea-pie or a dish of lobskous?'

"'Not I, Rodney.'

"'My eyes!' muttered the old man to himself, 'to think of a man coming to his years, and not knowing how to make lobskous! Why, sir, axing yer pardon, yer edication must have been sadly neglected.'

"'Oh, I shall improve under your tuition, Rodney; but now for the ghost.'

"'Well, sir, you sees when I was aboard the old Bruisewater, East Injeeman, we wor lying at our moorings in Wampoa Reach--that's in Chainey, yer honour. There was a large fleet of us, all lying waiting for a cargo, with nothing in the varsal world to do but to keep the ships clean, and to play at race-horses with the boats. A grand sight it was, yer honour, to see so many fine large craft lying at anchor, all clean painted, and looking as gay as so many women rigged out for a dance ashore, with their red and striped ensigns all fluttering in the sunshine; and the lads all as neat and clean as shore-going gemmen. Why, Lord love you, this here craft would look like a cockleshell alongside o' them! 'Twas a sight to do an old sailor's heart good, to see sich a show of merchantmen as no other country but Ould England could produce. And then, for such an outlandish, out-o'-the-way place as Chainey, the country wasn't so ill-looking neither. On each side of the river were the level green paddy fields, with here and there a little hill, with a joss-house peeping out from the bamboos; the green hills of Dane's Island further up, and its valleys rich with orange-trees and patches of sugar-cane. Further up still was the village of Wampoa, all sticks and straw like, with a great thing like a lighthouse--what them neggurs calls a pugodour--standing as stiff as a marine at attention, on the opposite bank of the river. And then to see the outlandish-looking mat sails--for devil a boat could you see belonging to them--cutting across in all directions, as if they wor taking a walk in the paddy fields! and the junks cocking up ahead and astern like nothing else in the world, with eyes painted on their bows, because the natural fools think they won't be able to see without them! Then, sir, there's the men with tails like cows, and the women with feet like dolls, and the children in the boats tied to calabashes, to prevent their drowning. Why, bless ye, sir, if ye couldn't swally what I told you before, all this 'll choke ye outright. Well, but to come to my story agen. I hates all this here traverse sailing; I must take a fresh departure. The chief mate of the Prince Royal, Mr Pattison, was a riglar out-an-outer, a man as was well knowed in the fleet, and was a favoryte with high and low; for he was a sailor every inch of him, and knowed right well how to keep persons and things in their places. He was a taut hand, too; but none the worse for that, for your true sailor, sir, loves an officer as is a real officer, and gives every man his due, good or bad, without favour or affection--one knows what one has to trust to with such a man. He was quite a pet with the crew, though he made them fly whenever he spoke to them; they were proud of old Charley, as they called him, and of their ship--and high kelter[3] she was in. Well, sir, old Charley was taken ill--then he got worse--then we heard he wasn't expected to live. There wasn't a man or officer in the fleet but wor sorry for him; for them as hadn't been shipmates with him knowed him by karacter. Of coorse, sir, when the chief mate was in the doctor's hands, and hove down to repair, the second did duty for him. One day, when Charley was very ill, the second mate came on deck, and seed the carpenter a-standing in the sun without his hat on; so says he--

[Footnote 3: Kelter--order.]

"'Mr Chips,' says he (the carpenters aboard them ships were all warrant-officers, and so always had a handle put to their names)--'Mr Chips, why are you standing in the sun without your hat? You'll be getting a stroke of the sun.'

"'Oh, sir,' said the carpenter, with a face as long as the maintop-bowline, 'it's of little consequence; my time's almost up; I haven't much longer to live.'

"'What do you mean?' said the officer; 'what foolish notion have you taken into yer head?'

"'Oh, sir, it's no foolish notion; _he_ told me so, and I never knowed him deceive any one yet!'

"'Who told you so, Chips?' said the mate, kind and soothing like; for he was afeerd that the sun really had got in at some little crack in his upper works; '_who_ told you so?'

"'Mr Pattison himself told me so, sir, last night.'

"'Mr Pattison? Why, Chips, you're dreaming; he's regularly hove down, can't stir hand or foot, poor fellow.'

"'No matter, sir, _he_ told me so; and if it wasn't him, it was his ghost.'

"'But how was this, and when?'

"'Why, sir, as I was lying awake last night in my cot, I saw Mr Pattison come into my cabin port. The cot shook under me, I trembled so with fear, for I knew how ill he was; but I thought that, while the fever was at its height, he might have got up and wandered to my cabin without knowing what he was about; so I mustered courage to say to him, 'I am glad to see you on your legs again, sir.' He shook his head mournfully, and said, 'I shall never rise from my bed again; in two days' time my eyes will be closed in death, and in three more you will follow me.' He then disappeared, and left me with a weight upon my heart that will sink me to the grave.'

"'Oh, nonsense, Chips,' said the officer; 'don't let your mind dwell upon it. You must have been asleep--it was nothing but a dream.'

"'Dream or not, sir, I feel that I am a doomed man.'

"'Two days after this confab, yer honour, I saw the colours of the Prince Royal slowly rise from the tafferel, as if they didn't like the duty they were on; and then they hung mournfully half-way between deck and the gaff-end: in three minutes, every ship in the fleet had her colours hoisted half-mast, that well-known signal that some officer has struck his flag to death. Poor Charley was no more! A circular was sent from the commodore, to order two boats from every ship in the fleet to attend the funeral--and a grand funeral it was. It was a beautiful sight to see the procession, yer honour. There was the boat, with the coffin in the starn-sheets, covered with a union-jack; and the mourners sitting on each side of it, towed by one of the Prince's cutters; all her crew in mourning, with black crape round their arms, and pulling minute-strokes. Then came the Prince's launch, towed by another boat, full of the ship's company, who had all asked leave to see the last of their officer. Poor fellows! sincere mourners I believe they were. Then, sir, there was a long line of boats from each quarter of the long-boat, all following in each other's wake, and stretching from one end of the reach to the other. As soon as the boat with the coffin in it shoved off from the Prince, her bell began to toll slowly, and, as it passed the gangway of the next ship, her bell took up the knell, and so on all up the fleet. It was a beautiful sight, yer honour, to see the long lines of boats, with their neat jacks fluttering half-mast from the staffs; the men of each boat dressed alike; some crews in blue jackets; others in white, but all with the crape round their arms: then the flags of all the fleet--English, French, American, and Dutch--waving, mournful-like, half-mast high; not a sound to be heard, yer honour, but the dull sound of the minute-strokes, and the fluttering of the colours, and the long clear tones of the bells, as they died away further and further up the fleet:--oh, sir, it was a sad and a beautiful sight! He was buried, where all the other English officers are buried, on French Island. Well, yer honour, now comes the end of the business. Three days afterwards I was quartermaster of the deck, and was standing on the foksle, when I see'd three boats a-passing, with their jacks half-mast, and a coffin in the starn-sheets of the foremost on 'em; so says I to Tom Rattlin, the captain of the foksle--"Tom," says I, "what boats is them?"--"The Prince's," says he; "I believe her carpenter is dead." And sure enough it was the carpenter, sir; the ghost didn't tell him no lie; his signal for sailing was made at the very time he named. Now, sir, after that yarn, will you tell me that there are no such things as ghosts? It was my old shipmate, Bill Buntling, that told me; and, if all tales are true, that's no lie.'

"There was no answering such a truism; so I thanked the old man for his yarn, and giving him a stiff'ner,[4] when the watch was over, turned into my snug cot, little dreaming that I would ever repeat the story on the banks of the Tay."

[Footnote 4: Strong glass of grog.]

"Thank ye, Mr Douglas, for your 'yarn,'" said Alice, "I really think you would make as good a 'spinner of yarns,' as you call it, as old Rodney himself."

"What became of old Rodney, did you ever hear?" said Sandford.

"Yes. He was lost from the Dundas Indiaman, poor fellow! some years ago. I used often to be talking of him on board the Dolphin, and Captain Driver told me that he knew the man, and that he had heard his fate. He went out to put additional lashings on the sheet-anchor in a heavy gale of wind, a sea struck the bow, and tore him away while clasping the anchor in his arms. He was swept twenty yards from the ship, poor fellow! at once, and all hopes of saving him were at an end. He was an excellent swimmer, and was seen to take off his pea-jacket with the greatest coolness, and, whenever he rose on the top of a sea, he was seen waving his hat for assistance; at last he was seen on the crest of a sea, but when it rose again Rodney was gone----"

"Where many a true heart has gone before him!" said Sandford, as the ladies were rising to bid us good-night.

"How happy ought you and I to be, Douglas, enjoying all the comforts of a cheerful home, while so many brave fellows are exposed to all the storms and dangers of the deep!"

I _was_ happy; I had felt like a new man ever since my visit to Perthshire; a gleam of sunshine had brightened the dark and gloomy path of my life. I was no longer an isolated being--I had met with congenial hearts--I contrasted with gratitude the present with the past, and looked forward with hope to a calm and happy future. I have before spoken of my first impressions of Alice Sandford: I soon learned to look upon her with feelings of warmer interest than I had thought I would ever experience again towards mortal being. I will not waste more words in endeavouring to describe the beauty of a face which, lovely as it was, owed its principal charm to its sweet and amiable expression. That her countenance was a true index to her heart, I have had well-tried experience; for Alice Sandford has been the wife of my bosom for many years, and never, in joy or in sorrow, has she given me a moment's cause to repent of my choice. My friend Sandford (Grant, I should call him) persuaded me to fix my quarters in a handsome villa on his property; and I have ever since had reason to be thankful to Providence for the happiness I have enjoyed, and for the blessed chance that led to my meeting with my friend in the barn at ST BOSWELL'S.

THE STORY OF MAY DARLING.

"Lay her i' the earth; And from her pure and unpolluted flesh May violets spring!"--HAMLET.

It is a lovely spot, Grassyvale--"beautiful exceedingly." But its beauty is of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic feature of the landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from the highest neighbouring eminence, is simply--repose. There are no mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles--none of those natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of adamant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are situated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might readily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like stillness, and the everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to the thunder of their fall since the birth of time. There is no far-spreading forest--no yawning ravine, with "ebon shades and low-browed rocks"--no beetling cliff or precipice, "shagged" with brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent--there is only quiet; or, if the terms do not sound affected to "ears polite," modest, unassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in the zenith, might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is so attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we may be as much stultified with this question as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem, "We are Seven" (which the reader may turn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen), and may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic obstinacy, it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to exclude a description of the landscape which we had prepared.

The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small stream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering shrub--wild-briar, honeysuckle, or the like--whilst a "kail-yard" in the rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere. It is literally covered with a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous "the bright profusion of its scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of roses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance, and scatter their "perfumed sweets" around the apartment. Near the cottage, there is also a holly planted--that evergreen-tree which seems providentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter, and, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual promise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little dwelling than merely to describe its exterior.

Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat--faith's triumph, and mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate the cemetery where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Amongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue for a few generations--and which, with their appropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart, and realise to the letter Shakspere's memorable words, "sermons in stones"--there is one which always attracts attention. It is not a "storied urn, an animated bust"--one of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnificence, over departed pride. No; it is only a small, unadorned slab of rather dingy-coloured freestone; and the inscription is simply--"To the memory of May Darling, who was removed from this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian.

"Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er; She is not lost, but only gone before."

Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass that humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her who sleeps beneath--her who was so beloved, so admired by every one, as well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and untimely fate (cut off "i' the morn and liquid dew of youth") was the village talk for many a day.

John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious, honest man. In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent farmer, whose marriage-portion enabled him to commence life under very favourable auspices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously and judiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which it would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field-labourer. Death had likewise been busy singling out victims from amongst those who surrounded his humble but cheerful fireside; and of a large family there only remained three, and he was a widower besides. May was the eldest; and, accordingly, the superintendence of the household devolved upon her. The deceased parent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the recollection of former affluence never forsook her; and this circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and sophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict family disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely upon the affairs of her own household; and her children were accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with more scrupulous care, than was usual with those around her. It was her pride, and "let it be her praise," to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than those worn by their associates; and, to accomplish this darling object, what serious transmutation did her finery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove! The dress of May, in particular--her first-born bud of bliss, the doated on of her bosom--was always attended to with special care; nor was the cultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early inspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the development of her faculties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had been awakened.

In person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black contrasted admirably with a countenance which may be designated as transparent--it was nearly colourless; and only on occasions of unusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the cheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate over her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, however--it had nothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the presence of disease.

"Oh, call it _fair_, not pale!"

The expression was at once amiable and intellectual--mellowed or blended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually, but most erroneously, called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a "mind at peace with all below--a heart whose love was innocent." The countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental character--it takes its "form and pressure," as it were, from the predominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling, those subtle essences, are made visible to the eye--it is there that mind may be seen. The most casual observer could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke eloquently in the eye, "and sweetly lightened o'er the face," of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of virtue; for they are often combined--they have a natural relation to one another; and, when they exist simultaneously in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very high degree; and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of "untold wealth" to her.

"Many are poets who have never penn'd Their inspirations."

And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble village maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In both her mental character and in the style of her personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of the village. Need it be told, that often, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping, laughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and wrapped in a vision of "_sweet_ coming fancies," follow the course of the stream which intersected her native vale, flowing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own existence?

The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was a beautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there (but then all these fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in nature's own hallowed Pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by science--why should this be?)--there, if anywhere, the genius of solitude might be supposed to have fixed her abode. It was a broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale, however), and there clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. The earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were numerous wild flowers--the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enamelled blue looks so charmingly in the light of the setting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the like--throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle creature like May Darling to gather up and lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated with the perfume which they breathed out--the everlasting incense of the flowers rising from the altars of nature to her God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion with her own; and well was it adapted for nursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender feeling.