Every Saturday, Jan. 6, 1866.] WHO WAS FREDERICK ROBERTSON? gelical school, with a decided leaning to moderate | night of sorrow passed, and the light of life came Calvinism." He had come under the influence of back again. Dr. Arnold, and it was a day of mark when the great, broad-souled man ascended the rostrum of the Oxford Theatre to deliver his first lecture on Modern History. There, undoubtedly, in true sense, stood his leader; for him and his wide principles he could lose Newman and Pusey. He was an admirer of Plato and Aristotle, of Coleridge, Shelley, and Wordsworth; Tennyson, whom he half-adored, was not yet in the ascendant. He joined the "Union" debating-club, and there opened a discussion upon the moral tendency of the theatre, and was answered by the present high-priest of art, John Ruskin. "Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out; "He fought his doubts and gathered strength; And Power was with him in the night, It had been well for many if they had remembered On Sunday, July 12, 1840, he was ordained by that growth is often attended by pain, but that the the Bishop of Winchester, and worked as a curate life of fuller growth is not essentially another, but a in that old city under the Rev. Mr. Nicholson, rec-higher. Under the pressure of much mental and tor of the united parishes of St. Maurice, St. Mary physical affliction, he was induced to abandon his curacy, and seek rest and strength on the Continent At Heidelberg he performed the duties Kalendur, and St. Peter Colebrook. once more. of English chaplain for a few weeks, and won the hearts of all classes to such a degree that they entreated him with tears to become their minister; but after an absence of nearly three months he returned to Cheltenham. He wrote to the Bishop of This led to Oxford, whose acquaintance he had made prior to his elevation to the episcopate, asking for some employment as the Bishop might direct. his appointment to St. Ebbe's, Oxford. But after he had been two months at work, the incumbency of Trinity Chapel, Brighton, was offered to him by the trustees, Rev. James Anderson, Lord Teignmouth, and Mr. Thornton. He at first distinctly refused it; but they wrote to the Bishop and obtained permission of him to release Mr. Robertson from his Oxford engagement if he were willing to leave. Ultimately he accepted the post at which he was to fight the good fight so manfully till the great Captain should say to his brave but wearied spirit, "It is enough; come up higher." That ministry was to have a world-wide influence and fame. It began on the 15th August, 1847. On that day, "The Jews require a sign, and the Greeks six years afterwards, it would terminate. The text As his peculiar life made was, seek after wisdom," &c. its impression, old faces were missed, but new ones speedily appeared. Into that wonderful ministry of six years,-years in the midst of which all Europe was heaving with revolutionary influences, an amount of work was crowded which could only have been done by a man who felt that life would be short, and that it might be useful and sublime. His heart had often yearned for the poor; to do them good, if possible; to raise them from their low and sad condition, and pour into their too weary lot the gentle and warm charities of Christian hearts and hands. But good men trembled at the thought of elevating the working classes in those days, and rather looked round for power to keep them down. At heart, Robertson was more of a Tory, it sometimes seemed, than a Radical. He was really a true Liberal; and would in these times have been found on the side of those who are opposed to the domination of any class, however large its numbers and urgent its claims, but desire the development and employment of the Like all thinkers and workers who held capabilities and means of all for the common weal. such a creed, he was found to be of no service to any faction, and sometimes felt to be a hindrance to them all. But by a character which was as transparent as a sunbeam, and ability which In the spring of 1841 he came under the influence of a morbid distrust and dissatisfaction, and in the summer his health failed so much that he was induced to make a tour on the Continent. Writing home from Geneva on August 3, 1841, and speaking of a discussion in which he had taken part at the house of a gentleman there, he says, "My chief point was to prove the death of Christ not merely a demonstration of God's willingness to pardon on repentance and obedience, but an actual substitution of suffering; and that salvation is a thing finished for those who believe, -not a commencement of a state in which salvation may be gained; insisting especially on Heb. x. 14." He enjoyed at Geneva the society of old Mr. Malan. At this city he met his future wife, to whom he was shortly married, Helen, third daughter of Sir George William Denys, Bart., of Easton Neston, Northamptonshire. Almost immediately after his marriage he returned to Cheltenham, and when his health was re-established in the summer of 1842, he entered upon the curacy of a district church, having for its incumbent the Rev. Archibald Boyd, now rector of St. James, Paddington, and continued there for nearly five years. He always preached in the afternoon, and seems to have exhibited in those days much of the fascination which charmed many of his hearers in later years. Mr. Dobson, a former Principal of Cheltenham College, speaks of his first sermon, and says: "Even at this moment I can see him, then in almost youthful beauty, raising his hand above his head as he closed his sermon with the words, The banner of the Cross of Christ, without taking up which,' he said, 'no man could be a Christian.' This generation will not look upon his like again." He was still a prey to the fine, yet terrible, sensitiveness which had come on from the dawn of life, and would finally master the noble spirit which it was to test and purify. The unintelligibility of his sermons troubled him. He was aspiring to a high ideal with a restless fevered mind, and found some quiet enjoyment in efforts to raise and comfort the suffering poor. Later still it was to be his confession that he was not a preacher to the rich, but to the poor. While he was at Cheltenham his mind underwent a severe trial, which resulted at the close of his stay there in completely changing his position as to the party with which he had previously been identified. He had read and thought much, and seems to have suffered from the misconstructions and variations of friends until his spirit fell into so dread a gloom, that of all his early faiths but one remained: "It must be right to do right." The a love would have made any party strong, he succeeded opposition by his candor and firmness, and prefinally, by pulpit and platform efforts, and more vented misunderstanding by his clear and simple private influence, in convincing the workingmen of utterances. The following words which he used Brighton that he was their true friend, and in show-on this occasion are very significant: "I refuse to ing to their superiors in station that he was no mere permit discussion this evening respecting the love demagogue. It was his habit to review all national a Christian man bears to his Redeemer,events, and to seek to pour light upon all great more delicate far than the love which was ever public questions in his preaching, as well as by other borne to sister or the adoration with which he reincans that offered themselves. He preached to his gards his God, -a reverence more sacred than own age, but always uttered truths and principles man ever bore to mother." The effect of this adwhich lay at the deep hearts of all ages. As he dress was to produce conviction in the minds of said himself, the great deeps of humanity remain the some, while the rest retired, and left the majority of same from age to age. He pandered neither to the the members free to carry out their new plans and flippant folly of the upper classes, over whom he purposes. He took a warm interest in the discusmight have swayed a mighty spell, nor played with sions which arose upon the opening of the Crystal the foibles of his humbler brethren, by whom he Palace on Sunday, the events which gave rise to the would have been wellnigh adored. It was a terri- Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, and the subject of capital ble work which he had before him at Brighton, but punishment, upon all of which our readers may be he did it with a zeal and fidelity which mark him assured that so earnest and original a thinker exout as a noble champion for the truth. pressed many important and memorable reflections. Although he was the most popular preacher of his The opinions which he expressed excited warm day in Brighton, it is interesting and suggestive to ob- criticism, and, as it is manifest, no inconsiderable serve that he feared and hated more than anything misrepresentation. He said in 1851, "Of course being the idol or the victim of popularity. He seems people speak bitterly against my teaching, and, of to have had a kind of horror of it haunting his sensi- course, I feel it keenly." It was this effect upon tive imagination. He said he had sternly kept his himself which was now rapidly eating away his tongue from saying a syllable or a sentence, in pul- vitals, and would erelong crush his pure and noble pit or on platform, because it would be popular. heart beyond relief and remedy. His mind was His sufferings, however, in the doing of his work, occasionally relieved in those times by the passionwere very acute, owing to the misconceptions and ate study of ornithology and other scientific pursuits jealousies of those who might have rejoiced within the intervals of the busiest lives, and encouraged him. No heart could well have bled more freely also by a hearty and loving address presented to than his, and none was destined to be smitten with him in the Town Hall on April 21, 1852, on the keener blows. He hid his sufferings from most of part of the young men of his congregation. But his friends, but at times the piercing cry or the the now quickly destroying sorrow was doing its fell sharp, bitter pang of his heart could not be con- work upon him, for he wrote afterwards in a letter cealed, and to one he likened himself to the Spartan to a friend, "In the midst of the homage of a crowd, boy who held his cloak around him while the fox I felt alone, and as if friendless." was gnawing at his entrails. The revelation of his In the early part of 1853, he seems to have fresufferings, so far as they are given, are enough to quently visited Lady Byron at Esher, whose warm rouse the most apathetic nature, and lead the ear-friendship he had enjoyed since he had lived in nest heart to ask the meaning of the mystery. His biographer remarks, and the words do but express the agony of poor Robertson's breaking heart, while they console all who have felt the inspiration of his sanctified genius,-"Pain_ made him creative; it was when his heart's blood was being drawn that the heart of his genius was revealed." There is a meaning and suggestiveness in some words which occur in a letter which he wrote in 1849: "Our best blessedness can only be shaken by ourselves. Life is what we make it. And there are delicately organized minds in which a mental error- -a fault in the tone of thinking-can produce more misery than crime can in coarser minds." This wise and delicate reflection gives the cue to much that we perceive in his spirit as it is displayed in his writings. In the year 1850 Mr. Robertson was brought into a difficult and painful position with relation to some of the workingmen of Brighton, owing to a proposition to admit infidel publications into the institute. This circumstance called for the exercise of all the forbearance, manliness, and tact which he could bring to bear upon the difficulty. He was widely known as the leader of the workingmen, and as one who favored their education and advancement. He was, however, no socialist, neither could he be called a Radical. A speech which he gave at the Town Hall to a crowded audience, composed of all classes, and comprising all the workingmen of the institute, seems to have been marked by unusual skill and power. He disarmed Brighton, and of whom he said that she was one of the noblest and purest women he had ever met. Disease of the brain was making way, although he now lectured so finely upon Wordsworth, and preached some of his best sermons. Many of his friends had combined to furnish him with the assistance he could no longer do without. He secured the services of the Rev. Ernest Tower as a curate, but the opposition of the Rev. H. M. Wagner prevented the appointment being made, and the circumstances of this opposition had evidently much to do in breaking the last link that bound the rare and beautiful spirit to this sad and weary world for him. On the 5th of June, 1853, he preached for the last time in Trinity Chapel, in the morning from the barren fig-tree, and in the afternoon the closing lecture of a course on the Corinthians, the text of which contained the words, "Finally, brethren, farewell!" During the last two or three months which intervened between this and his death he bore intolerable agony and mental distress, traceable to the disease of the brain, and the fact that he had been misunderstood and rejected by men. Medical men strove to relieve him, and hoped on, but all in vain. In August he was evidently living his last term of weary days and nights beneath the sky whose glories he had loved so much. "A night or two before he died, he dreamt that his two sisters, long since dead, came to crown him." On the 12th he wrote his last words: "I have grown worse and worse every day for the last fortnight. From in He too is dead, born, we had hoped DICK. tensity of suffering in the brain, and utter powerless-over his loss, and all the possibilities that lie buried ness and prostration too dreadful to describe, and in his grave, in the Park, beneath a young chestthe acknowledged anxiety of the medical men, I nut-tree where the ruddy-cheeked, fat, and cordial think now that I shall not get over this. His will coachman, who of old, in the grand old Reform be done! I write in torture." On Sunday, the days, used to drive his master, Mr. Speaker Aber15th, he died, at thirty-seven years of age. We cromby, down to "the House" with much stateligive Mr. Brooke's words: "He had passed through ness and bouquet, and I dug it for him, that park the day with intenser suffering than usual. He was in which Peter had often disported himself, fluttermoved from his bed to the sofa, near the open win- ing the cocks and hens, and putting to flight the dow, where he lay until the evening. But towards squadron of Gleneagles wedders. ten o'clock a change took place. The pain returned with bitter violence. Feebly crying at intervals, 'My God, my Father, -my God, my Father!' he lived for two hours in a mortal agony, during which he never lost clear consciousness. His mother, wife, and one friend, with his physician, watched over him with devoted care. At last they sought to relieve him by changing his position; but he could not endure a touch. I cannot bear it,' he said. 'Let me rest. I must die. Let God do his work.' These were his last words. Immediately afterwards, at a few minutes past midnight, all was over." He was buried amid the deepest expressions of sympathy and sorrow, and a monument marks his resting-place, while a memorial window in Brasenose College Chapel and busts in the Bodleian and the Pavilion at Brighton testify to the respect and love of his friends. A more thoughtful, suggestive, and beautiful preacher never entered a pulpit; a simpler and braver man never lived; a truer Christian never adorned any religious community. His life and death were vicarious, as he himself might have put it. He lived and died for others, for us all. The sorrows and agonies of his heart pressed rare music out of it, and the experience of a terribly bitter life leaves a wealth of thought and reflection never more than equalled in the history of men. MORE OF "OUR DOGS." PETER died young, dained to live under such conditions. did like Rab- 66 he who, never having been never would die; not that he He was fourteen, and getting deaf and blind, and a exactly" die; he was slain. big bully of a retriever fell on him one Sunday morning when the bells were ringing. Dick, who always fought at any odds, gave battle; a Sabbatarian cab turned the corner, the big dog fled, and Dick was run over, there in his own street, as all his many friends were going to church. His back all about him; dear for his own sake, dearer for was broken, and he died on Monday night with us another's, whose name - Sine Quâ Non-is now more than ever true, now that she is gone. bury came in yesterday and introduced himself to I was greatly pleased when Dr. Cotting of Roxme by asking, "Where is Dick?" To think of our Dick being known in Massachusetts! BOB. not If Peter was the incarnation of vivacity, Bob was that of energy. He should have been called Thalaba the Destroyer. He rejoiced in demolition, from ill-temper, but from the sheer delight of energizing. When I first knew him he was at Blinkbonny toll. The tollman and his wife were old and the house lonely, and Bob was too terrific for any burglar. He was as tall and heavy as a foxhound, but in every other respect a pure old-fashioned, wiry, shorthaired Scotch terrier,-red as Rob Roy's beard, having indeed other qualities of Rob's than his hair, not in the least magnanimous, as ready to worry choleric, unscrupulous, affectionate, stanch, end," and he omitted no opportunity of accomplisha little dog as a big one. Fighting was his "chief ing his end. Rab liked fighting for its own sake, too, but scorned to fight anything under his own weight; indeed, was long-suffering to public meanness with quarrelsome lesser dogs. Bob had no such weakness. One day he came in howling with pain. There was no injury, no visible cause, but he was wildly ill, and in his eyes the end of all things had come. bought him, I am ashamed to say, for five pounds, After much difficulty and change of masters, I He put so many questions to us at each pangand brought him home. He had been chained for what is this? - what the can it be?-did you months, was in high health and spirits, and the surever? as each paroxysm doubled him up, he gave plus power and activity of this great creature, as he a sharp cry, more of rage and utter exasperation dragged me and my son along the road, giving batthan of suffering; he got up to run away from ittle to every dog he met, was something appalling. why should he die? Why should he be shut up in darkness and obstruction at that hour of his opening worried the pet dogs all around, and got me into I very soon found I could not keep him. He morn, his sweet hour of prime? And so raging, much trouble. So I gave him as night-watchman and utterly put out, the honest dear little fellow to a goldsmith in Princess Street. This work he did went off in an ecstasy of fury at death, at its absurd-famously. I once in passing at midnight stopped at ity in his case. We never could explain his death; it was not poison or injury; he actually expired when careering round the green at full speed, as if to outrun his enemy, or shake him off. We have not yet got * This paper was written by Dr. John Brown of Edinburgh for A second series of "Spare Hours," to be published during the spring. It is here printed for the first time. by the gas-light I saw where he lay. I made a the shop and peered in at the little slip of glass, and noise, and out came he with a roar and a bang as of a sledge-hammer. I then called his name, and in an instant all was still except a quick tapping within that intimated the wagging of the tail. He is still there, has settled down into a reputable, pacific citizen,—a good deal owing, perhaps, - to the disappearance in battle of sundry of his best | our notice underwent a very severe scrutiny indeed. teeth. As he lies in the sun before the shop door One or two of the ships would have done, but then he looks somehow like the old Fighting Teméraire. the skippers were not up to my brother Edmund's I never saw a dog of the same breed; he is a sort standard; and in cases where he passed the captain of rough cob of a dog, a huge quantity of terrier I got fanciful about the ship. We rejected them all in one skin; for he has all the fun and briskness and save one we had yet to see, and I was constrained to failings and ways of a small dog, begging and hop- say, after an afternoon spent among the shipping, ping as only it does. Once his master took him to North Berwick. His first day he spent in careering about the sands and rocks and in the sea, for he is a noble swimmer. His next he devoted to worrying all the dogs of the town, beginning, for convenience, with the biggest. This aroused the citizens, and their fury was brought to a focus on the third day by its being reported alternatively that he had torn a child's ear off, or torn and actually eaten it. Up rose the town as one man, and the women each as two, and, headed by Matthew Cathic, the one-eyed and excellent shoemaker, with a tall, raw divinity student, knockkneed and six feet two, who was his lodger, and was of course called young Dominie Sampson. They bore down upon Bob and his master, who were walking calmly on the shore. Bob was for making a stand, after the manner of Coriolanus, and banishing by instant assault the common cry of curs"; but his master saw sundry guns and pistols, not to speak of an old harpoon, and took to his heels as the only way of getting Bob to take to his. Aurifex, with much nous, made for the police station, and, with the assistance of the constables and half a crown, got Thalaba locked up for the night, safe and sulky. Next morning, Sunday, when Cathie and his huge student lay uneasily asleep, dreaming of vengeance, and the early dawn was beautiful upon the Bass, with its snowy cloud of sea-birds "brooding on the charmed wave," Bob was hurried up to the station, locked into a horse-box,-him never shall that ancient Burgh forget or see. I have a notion that dogs have humor, and are perceptive of a joke. In the North, a shepherd, having sold his sheep at a market, was asked by the buyer to lend him his dog to take them home. 'By a' manner o' means tak Birkie, and when ye 'r dune wi' him just play so" (making a movement with his arm), "and he'll be hame in a jiffy." Birkie was so clever and useful and gay that the borrower coveted him; and on getting to his farm shut him up, intending to keep him. Birkie escaped during the night, and took the entire hirsel (flock) back to his own master! Fancy him trotting across the moor with them, they as willing as he. OUR BROWN PASSENGER. DURING the many wanderings and voyages which my brother Edmund and myself have made up and down the earth in search of wealth, we have become tolerably average judges of many things. Furs, slop clothing, tallow, drosky horses, inns, wine, bad money, are but a tithe of the things on which we should be competent to give some sort of opinion; but there are two things of which it is absolutely necessary that one should have a good judgment, ships and ships' captains, and we consider that there are very few landsmen in a position to give us advice on either of these two subjects. Therefore when it became necessary to choose a ship to make what we determined to be our last voyage, the different ships which were honored with | "My dear Ned, at this rate we shall not get to England at all. We really must try to be less particular with the Typhoon. When I come to think of the awfully queer craft we have sailed in, I think we are carrying criticism a little too far." - "Not a bit, Thomas, not a bit "; and he wagged his great yellow beard. "I mean to be more particular with her than any other. I have no idea of gaining experience and not using it. To the Typhoon," he said, as he tumbled into a boat; "where is she?" "Off the battery"; and away we scudded down the harbor, past the lighthouse, and past the berths of the men-of-war, just in time to see a stream of fire shoot suddenly from the side of H.M.S. Styx, and hear the dull heavy boom of the sunset gun go rattling away among the quarries. I sat looking at the infinitely peaceful sunlight dying out upon the lonely, happy hills, whose summits I could see above the dark quarries; and at the black quarries close on the shore in the foreground, which were beginning to send forth in strings, lines, groups, or solitary figures, swarm after swarm of gray convicts, dim, unearthly-looking under the growing gloom, crowding down to their boats like souls to Charon's bark. It struck me that it was like looking across hell to heaven, and the sight held me so long that I was only aroused by Edmund's saying, "Here she is," and my turning round and after a minute's contemplation saying, "By Jove!" We were under the bows of a large ship, which lay the last of all seaward, beyond the battery, quite alone. The sun had set upon the water, but her vast tall masts penetrated into the lighter air above, till her truck almost seemed to pierce the fading sunlight, and showed us that her spars were very nearly as large and as heavy as those of that tremendous engine of war, the Styx frigate, which was her nearest neighbor. Her bows were like those of a yacht, and ran up, not into a figure-head, but into a delicate golden scroll. Such bows I had seldom seen on any ship, and I noticed them closely. The rest of the long black hull was equally satisfactory, and we were both aware that we were looking on one of the noblest clipper ships we had ever set eyes on. "Now for the captain," I thought. "I wonder if he will do?" Though the vast mass of the ship lay perfectly dead and motionless on the water, our little boat was leaping in so lively a manner that it required a jump to get on the ladder; but we were soon on deck and looked around us. It was one of the finest decks we had ever been on, flush, save one house aft, which took the place of a poop, but which had a broad gangway round, and a large elliptical monkey-poop astern. So that, do you see, reader, you could walk from the forecastle, past it, to the wheel, and so round it back again; might walk, in short, when at sea, twenty miles without turning. This struck us as being very charming, and we had every opportunity of seeing it at its best, for not a soul was in sight but one lanky, good-natured-looking midshipman, to whom we addressed ourselves. Jan. 6, 1806.) "Can you tell us where the first officer is, sir, if | hard-headed, hard-handed Scotch woman, showed you please?" I asked. "Île is ashore, drunk. At least he was half an hour ago." "Can you tell us where the steward is, sir, if you please ? “Well, I am afraid it won't be much good to tell you, for I am afraid Yorky is drunk too." This was very nice indeed. "Are the crew on board?" I asked. "No. They are in the hulk, doing their six weeks for running. The police barge will bring them on board the night before we sail." I looked at Edmund, and saw that, like an inconsistent fellow as he was, he had fallen so deeply in love with the ship's bows, that nothing would turn him, if the captain looked anything like business. I thought he was going to look for the captain, but he did not. He said, "Can you kindly inform me, sir, if the stewardess is drunk?" "No," said the midshipman, indignantly, "she is not. Polly drunk, indeed! She'd sue the man who dared say it. Perhaps you would like to ask if the skipper is drunk? Here he comes to answer for himself." So our midshipman hitched himself off the capstan and went away growling at Edmund's offensive inquiry about the stewardess. We turned and saw before us one of the finest, most sailor-like, most gentleman-like young fellows we had ever met in our wanderings. Scarcely thirty, we guessed, with a clear brown face, a bright eye, and as pleasant a smile, showing as fine a range of teeth as one would wish to see. A powerful upstanding fellow too, - -a man every inch of him, whose crisp curly hair seemed expressly made to keep on his head, without derangement in any cyclone or typhoon which ever blew. He would do, we said at once, in spite of a drunken first officer and steward, and a crew from the hulk. When he came to us and said pleasantly, "Are you going to sail with me, gentlemen," we answered, like a pair of Siamese twins, " Certainly." "You are a sailor, sir?" he said to my brother, which was so far not complimentary to me. Why, no," said Edmund; "but I know a sailor when I see one. I am not long married, and am going to intrust a delicate wife and a baby to your keeping for fourteen thousand miles. Can you conscientiously undertake the job?" us the vacant berths. There were now, she told But as we looked round at the cabins (opening "I am not going to sail in the same ship with that woman. She is intolerable enough on shore, but to sea with that woman I don't go. Nonsense, Ned," I said; "you need not speak to her." "She was the woman, as you know, that tried her hardest to prevent Maria from marrying me, and I hate the sight of her." "She probably only repeated what she had heard," I said. "You don't know anything against the woman except what we all know, that she is the most tiresome, back biting, meddlesome Matty in the three republics. Don't be a fool." "I'll not sail with that woman," he repeated, as we went over the side. But he did nevertheless. That evening, after having tea with his wife, we went away on a little expedition. Certain customhouse officers had become endeared to us in the way of business, and we went to wish them good by. The custom-house men used, in those pre-railway times, an inn on the shores of the bay, before you come to the lighthouse. We knew that we should catch some of them there that night, more particularly one; so we took the last steamboat from the pier, and went across, telling his wife that we should sleep there, and that she must get ready to go on board in three days. "Yes," said the skipper, "I think I can. I am not fortunate in my ship's company. I have come I suppose that that quaint little inn is levelled to round from San Francisco, and have picked the the ground now, or turned into a limited hotel. In main of them up there; a queer lot, with all the those times it was a queer little characteristic place. turbulence of American sailors, and not one of their It was close, closer than any other inn, to the place good qualities. They ran, and are in the hulk; where the shipping lies, and at that time thirteen they are as good as any I shall pick up just now. I millions was annually passing outwards and eleven have four good officers, a carpenter, steward, stew-millions inwards, it was a busy little inn, indeed. ardess, and one midshipman; and I have a noble lot of passengers, thank God. I'll pull you through." "The steward is drunk, is he not?" said I. "Well, yes," said the skipper, laughing, "but only on principle. It ain't habitual. We have been three weeks in the bay in ballast, trying to get cargo, and have got a little wool and gold; but he has not been ashore more than three hours. Last night he told his wife and me that it was unsailorlike and unlucky to go to sea without a burst, and so he has gone on shore to get drunk. He is an excellent fellow, I assure you, and so is the carpenter." We went into the saloon, and the stewardess, a One room was almost entirely used by the skippers It was evidently a tall man who was standing with ་ |