THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS.

OR

Conjugal Fidelity Rewarded.

Exemplified in the

NARRATIVE OF HELEN AND EDMUND.

Founded on Fact.

BY AN OFFICERS WIDOW.

LONDON

PUBLISHED BY JOHN BENNETT, THREE-TUN PASSAGE, IVY-LANE

PATERNOSTER ROW.

1829

THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS,

OR

Conjugal Fidelity Rewarded:

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE

NARRATIVE OF HELEN AND EDMUND.

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY AN OFFICER’S WIDOW.

’Tis the day

On which my father gave my hand to Altamont;

As such, I will remember it for ever.

Rowe.

London:

PUBLISHED BY JOHN BENNETT,

THREE-TUN PASSAGE, IVY-LANE, PATERNOSTER-ROW;

AND W. BENNETT, RUSSELL-STREET,

PLYMOUTH.

1829.

ADDRESS.

READING is confessedly one of the great pleasures in life, and that of the light and entertaining description, such as the present Work is, if it does not possess the claim of being useful, it at least possesses that of affording pleasure, which is, in fact, being useful in its way; for surely that deserves the appellation, which beguiles us of our cares, and tends to alleviate the troubles and chagrins to which as mortals we are but too much subject.

            The reader will, we hope, peruse the work here presented throughout, and will not only find interest in the incidents related, but frequently be entertained with the spirited delineations of scenes and characters which are appositely introduced, in order to illustrate as well as amuse; for which, indeed, it would be an injustice not to acknowledge ourselves indebted to some valuable Periodicals, as well as to a recent and excellent work, entitled the Night Watch.

            Although some ambition might certainly exist within the breast of the writer to obtain literary reputation, yet knowing, that at setting out to detail the incidents which befel the heroine and many of the characters in the work, she did not then conceive the narration would so much interest indifferent readers, as the facts had interested herself; therefore, the stimulus to exertion was mere personal gratification; and as she occasionally laboured under an ill state of health, it was a cheerful resource against ennui; hence that which at first consisted but of idle Scraps, became at length a Book, and if the reader should derive a portion of that solace and amusement in perusing, which the Author felt in writing, she will have obtained as much gratification as she could presume to hope for.

            How far the pages thus dedicated by the Author exclusively to her own pleasure, shall hit the mark of pleasing others, which, at the commencement, had not for its design so palpable an object, remains to be tried: too frequently the best intentions are failures, and it would be no wonder, therefore, if the present work should fall short of the Author’s wishes, who deems herself inadequate to the great task, of succeeding in pleasing the rather fastidious taste of the present day. Certainly, there would be much satisfaction in obtaining this desire; but, however, she must abide the general issue, and if a juror only be withdrawn, perhaps she may consider it a trial gained.

CONTENTS.

Chap. I. p. 3

            Captain Kemp taken ill at an obscure inn, at Poole, in Dorsetshire—Helen (his daughter) attends him, and become acquainted with Lieutenant Rosse, who offers her marriage—her reluctance and refusal—remonstrance of her Aunts—her father prevails—betrothment—death of Captain Kemp—funeral—Helen’s illness—Rosse’s attention—Mrs. Gennings reconciles her to her condition.

Chap. II. p. 18.

            Helen’s recovery and marriage—takes leave of her Aunts—departure for Portsmouth.

Chap. III. p. 27.

            Introductory acquaintance with certain characters incidental to the narrative—Mrs. Gennings the fat landlady of Poole, Aunt Deborah and Mrs. Lander—pedigree of Lieut. Rosse—brief sketch of his early life—becomes an officer in his majesty’s navy—Captain Kemp, an army officer, marries the mother of Helen, opposition, family feuds, vicissitudes, and accidental rencontre with Rosse.

Chap. IV. p. 58.

            Rosse and Helen arrive at Portsmouth—introduction to Rosse’s family—their speculative opinions on his wife, and agreeable disappointment—Rosse joins his ship, acquaints his brother officers of his marriage—their gibes on the occasion—sketch of their characters.

Chap. V. p. 76.

            Visit to the dock-yard Chapel at Portsmouth—introduction to the officers—their surprise and admiration—Rosse’s family’s growing partiality for Helen—the first lieutenant enamoured of Helen—description of the Hon. Edmund Daly—family anecdotes of Rosse’s connections—Hart, an Israelite.

Chap. VI. p. 102.

            Rosse’s brother officers express their admiration of Helen, and raillery on the first lieutenant—his distraction depicted—they prepare to pay the wedding visit—considerable discussion on the merits of certain parties.

Chap. VII. p. 116.

            Helen’s reflections on her unhappy lot—prepares to receive Rosse’s brother officers—their visit—Daly’s embarrassment—Helen’s invitation to a ball—reluctance to accept—her chagrin at the disrespect shown to Rosse—Rosse’s jealousy excited—confesses his suspicions—Helen’s unhappiness—Daly’s passion increases—makes a second visit to Helen—Rosse returns from a convivial party—his indecorous behaviour—Helen’s reproof—he manifests his displeasure—accidental rencontre with Daly—Helen attends a country ball—Rosse brings Daly to it—Daly offends Helen—his agitation—reconciliation—Rosse intoxicated.

Chap. VIII. p. 162.

            Helen’s alarm and illness—Rosse’s anger and ill-behaviour—reconciled—visit to Gosport—Daly accompanies them—mutual passion of Helen and Daly—animating description of the sailor, and the officer on shore.

Chap. IX. p. 195.

Return from Gosport—Miss Thistel’s story related.

Chap. X. p. 206.

            Naval and military ball—Rosse’s pride of his wife—his family attempt to dissuade him from taking Helen on board ship—his obstinacy.

Chap. XI. p. 212.

            Helen goes on board ship—novelty of the scene—sails from the Downs—becomes acquainted with the inmates of the floating castle—Rosse respected for the sake of his wife.

Chap. XII. p. 229.

            Visitor on board—accident at table—Daly to blame—his chagrin—pastimes of the ward-room—a Tale of the Passions—Helen annoyed by Mrs. Smith, the marine officer’s wife—much raillery and joke carried on.

Chap. XIII. p. 391.

            Rosse’s relations much alarmed for Helen—Hart’s visit to Dorsetshire—interview with Helen’s Aunt—prevails on her to accompany him to Deal—Helen goes on shore, is insulted, accidentally meets Hart—sees her Aunt—Aunt Deborah’s disappointment—Rosse and Daly’s concern at their visit.

Chap. XIV. p. 330.

            Gala-day on board—man-of-war between decks—Aunt Deborah visits the ship—her wonder and surprise—amusements commence: the games of Launching a Cutter, and the British and Bold Buccaneer described—Aunt Deborah reconciled—takes leave—Rosse hoaxed—Daly proposes to get himself and Rosse removed from the ship—uproar in the ward-room.

Chap. XV. p. 376.

            Orders for sailing—captain and pilot come on board—going down Channel—magnificent scene of merchant fleet under sail—Helen’s early history made known to Daly—his anguish.

Chap. XVI. p. 395.

            Helen’s emotions at quitting England—Rosse and Daly condole with her—ludicrous narrative of the boatswain—spins a long yarn.

Chap. XVII. p. 426.

            Tables turned, Mrs. Smith banishes herself from the ward-room—captain and officers on bad terms—doctor put under arrest—storm at sea—great alarm for the safety of the ship—command resigned to Rosse—his intrepidity and skill—temporary preservation—hurricane—Rosse takes leave of Helen, their mutual anguish—storm increases—masts cut away—Rosse knocked overboard.

Chap. XVIII. p. 449.

            The ship a wreck—Daly protects Helen—Ocean, Newfoundland dog—ship’s boat overcrowded, and every soul perish—the ship breaks into pieces—Helen, Daly and Ocean in the water —their miraculous preservation—Helen revived after her exhausted and suspended animation—their forlorn condition—Daly declares his love—he examines the place on which they are cast away—discovers the dead body of the boatswain and a sailor—buries them—their desperate enterprise to reach the main land—success thereof.

Chap. XIX. p. 479.

            Country described—meets with a Hottentot party—character of the people—protection afforded them—dog demanded as a compensation—guides appointed—disaster, fatigue and sufferings on their journey—anecdotes related—hospitality of the inhabitants—arrival at Cape-Town

Chap. XX. p. 536.

            Their distressed state and appearance—Governor’s humane assistance and hospitality—Helen’s illness and recovery—recognized by the Governor as the daughter of his old friend—Daly and Helen’s marriage—history and description of the Cape.

Chap. XXI. p. 565.

            Their happiness—respect shown to them by the gentry of Cape Town—ship arrives from India—departure from the Cape—embark for England—Daly recognizes an old schoolfellow in one of the mates, who relates his adventures and a marvellous tradition.

Chap. XXII. p. 615.

            Make England—arrival at Plymouth—set out for Poole—Helen introduced to Edmund’s friends, reconciliation—Aunt Deborah and Mrs. Gennings’s ludicrous sympathy for Helen.

Chap. XXIII. p. 635.

            Honourable Edmund Daly promoted to the rank of Captain—Bates reinstated in the navy as Lieutenant—their appointment to the Resolute sloop of war, lying in Hamoaze—fitting for sea—Isabella arrives at Plymouth, marriage with Bates—separation, ship sails—Aunt Deborah taken ill—Mrs. Gennings’s correspondence—Death of Deborah—bequeaths her property to Helen—Mrs. Lampton’s correspondence—Resolute captures a prize—Daly posted—Bates made master and commander—happiness of all parties—conclusion.

THREE WEEKS IN THE DOWNS.

CHAPTER I.

——————————Yea ’tis the hand

Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals,

Slow sapping the warm current of existence.

My moments now are few—the sand of life

Ebbs fastly to its finish.

Kirke White.

            “IT is impossible that I can comply with your wishes, sir,” replied Helen Kemp, to the importunities of an admirer in every respect unsuited to her inclinations. “I would rather not marry; indeed, you must excuse my refusing what I have no doubt you conceive, and which I believe to be meant as, a kind offer to me in my present distressing situation.”

            “Why, miss, I will make you a good husband. You shall want for nothing in my power to give, and——

            “I thank you, sir; but I cannot accede—I am extremely miserable—Oh! my dear Father!”

            “Indeed, my dear miss,” said a stout coarse, though apparently good-natured, woman, “I think you act wrong in refusing the gentleman’s offer; consider that your father has but a short time to live, and you know that it is his wish that you should marry him. You will be destitute if you do not; and I am sure that he will do all in his power to make your future life happy.”

            “That’s what I will,” interrupted the man; “I have solemnly promised her father to protect her, and may my next voyage be unprosperous, if I do not. I shall never forget the affecting manner in which the poor gentleman thanked me; therefore, my dear little darling, pray consider—place confidence in me, and all will be right.”
            Helen sat suffused in tears. The assertion that her father’s dissolution was near, had overpowered her feelings. A bell rung—the female was about to quit the room, when Helen rushed before her, and escaped from the apartment, dreading to remain alone with her would-be bridegroom.

            “Ah! ah! I see how it is,” said he, “she has some younker in tow.”

            “A fig for that,” replied the woman; “I tell you she has nothing but her squeamishness to get over—try again—her aunts no doubt will assist you.”

            “Her aunts! are those ladies her aunts I saw just now enter the sick chamber?”

            “Yes; and, I assure you, that to get rid of a poor relation, no efforts on their parts will be spared in your favour.”

            During this colloquy, the sick room was a scene of the most heartless contention. When Helen entered, an old maiden aunt, and a married sister, Mrs. Launder, were sitting by the bed-side; Mr. Kemp was sitting up, supported by pillows, wasted by the ravages of disease and anxiety, and suffering the most intense anguish, as he watched the wretched and disconsolate appearance of his beloved and only child.

            Mrs. Launder vociferated, “Are you mad, Helen? What! refuse so good a match—in your situation too—a beggar—without a farthing—to be such a fool—I’ve no patience.”

            A sigh escaped the unhappy father, and Helen wept and sobbed aloud, when Miss Deborah interfered. “Don’t be so harsh with the poor child, sister : marriage is an extremely delicate point—such a child too as Helen is—I do not wonder she weeps.”

            “My dear sister,” replied Mrs. Launder, “God knows it is a delicate point! I myself was five-and-thirty before I gave consent; nay, I even wept the first time my dear Mr. Launder saluted me—I hope, child, the man hasn’t kissed you yet?”

            “Oh! shocking, sister,” cried Miss Deborah; ‘what! after the lessons of prudence I have given her, as well as those she received from her dear mother.”

            “Her mother was not half particular enough; both father and mother have spoilt her; no wonder she is so very headstrong and obstinate.”

            Helen took little or no notice of such improper conversation. She stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing with the keenness of despair the changes which were taking place in the countenance of her father, whom she now believed to be dying: she had hitherto flattered herself with hopes of his recovery, but they were fled. He beckoned for Helen to approach him, which she immediately did. He opened his arms to receive her, pressed her to his bosom, kissed her cheek, and whispered with difficulty to her thus: “My dearest child, I feel that you will soon lose me; save yourself from the dependance of these women; accept the offer of a worthy man; obey me, and smooth the dying pillow of your father.”

            “Oh! my dearest father! how can I comply—I must see you well first—you must recover; indeed you will.”

            “That will never be, Helen,” interrupted Mrs. Launder, “you must comply. Which is the gentleman?” asked she, of the stout woman before mentioned, who now entered the chamber, and who was the landlady of the Crown-Inn, at Poole, in Dorset.

            The attention of Helen was still directed to her father, who, with the very little strength he had left, was urging her compliance to a union so repugnant to her nature; yet less disposed to resist it, as considering her acquiescence more a point of filial obedience than an act tending in the least to her own individual happiness.

            The officer now entered, for such he really was, a Lieutenant Rosse, now belonging to his majesty’s navy, but brought up in the merchant service, whose history and character will be further developed in the course of our narrative.

            “My niece, sir, has thought better of her scruples; and I conceive that you would have no objection to be betrothed immediately,” said Mrs. Launder.

            “I thank you, madam,” he replied, “take the word of a sailor, that every thing I have said shall be done; and extremely grateful am I to the young lady for so happy a change in her resolution.”

            Miss Deborah had not yet spoken: she was pondering how it was possible for a man, old enough to know better, could think of such a chit as her niece for a wife, when so amiable and interesting a person as herself was still in the state of single blessedness: she had a fortune too to bestow, and the reflection caused the wonder to increase.

            The flame of discontent at last broke forth:—“I am a little surprised, sir, at your choice; why Helen is a mere child! a full grown woman would be better calculated to make you happy, I should think.”

            Rosse looked at the speaker with an elevated brow, and casting a sidelong glance towards the landlady, showed that he perfectly understood the spinster’s meaning. As, however, he was not disposed to affront this rosy damsel of fifty, at least, he merely said—“Why as to that, madam, you see, it is the very cause why I like her—so young, and so beautiful. She is a nice little girl, and I have no doubt she will like me in time, seeing how kind I shall behave to her.”

            Mrs. Launder asked when the ceremony should take place.

            Helen started, as if awakened from a trance. Her father took her passive hand, and placed it in the officer’s, who pressed and kissed it; and thus was the young and lovely Helen Kemp affianced to Lieutenant Rosse, a boisterous son of Neptune. Mrs. Launder assayed to blush; Miss Deborah hung her head and sighed. All power of opposition to this heartless and extraordinary proceeding had ceased on the part of Helen, whose weak frame, exhausted with a long continued attendance on the wants of her father, as well as the repeated persecutions of her aunts relative to this ill-assorted match, was unable to bear up against so many troubles. Her passiveness was therefore readily construed into a willing acquiescence to a proceeding, perhaps but too frequently recurring, for the most sordid and selfish purposes.

            “The ceremony had better be performed this evening,” said the father, and turning to the officer, I wish to see her yours; for I fear my time is but short here.”

            “As soon as you please, sir,” replied the lover, “and I hope, miss, you will make no more objection.”

            Helen faintly said “No!” Her hand had been in his from the time her father had placed it there, totally unconscious of it. Having answered in the negative to his question, he ardently pressed her hand, which she hastily withdrew, and burst into a flood of tears.

            Thus betrothed to a man, with whose sentiments, feelings and habits she was totally at variance, she submitted to the ceremony rather as an automaton than as a being endowed with rationality to distinguish right from wrong. She had, however, obeyed a father’s dying wish, and partially satisfied with the fulfilment of so pious a duty, she resolved to submit with dignity to her unfortunate fate, and support with virtue the character of a wife, though unblessed with a wife’s best prerogative—the man of her heart.

            The father of Helen, as if wishing nothing more than to see his daughter provided for, rapidly sunk under his disorder, and the next day, from the occurrence we have just related, he expired.

            Helen had never quitted him from the time he was evidently dying; and, exhausted with fatigue and anxiety, and miserable from the continued reflection on her unhappy destiny, the shock was too much for her gentle nature to encounter; she fainted; fits succeeded, and a raging fever attacked her; she became delirious, and for three days her life was despaired of by the physician who attended her.

            Rosse, whose attentions were unremitted, was inconsolable, now reflecting, that perhaps he was the cause, and upbraiding himself for his precipitancy in marrying at so critical and awful a conjuncture, a being so young and so amiable.

            The aunts, those cold calculating beings, had quitted the house immediately on the decease of Mr. Kemp, leaving Helen to the care of her husband and the landlady, Mrs. Gennings, whose well-meant kindness was of essential assistance to her in so forlorn a condition. Indeed, the conduct of this woman, though wanting that refinement which renders a service doubly valuable, had really acted towards her during her father’s illness more as a mother than a stranger; and she now more than ever felt an interest in the welfare of Helen, and was determined to use every effort to accelerate her recovery.

            In the meantime the funeral of Helen’s father took place, Rosse attending as chief mourner: Mrs. Launder and Miss Deborah had too high notion of their dignity to be so vulgar, and accordingly remained in state in the parlour during the sad solemnity.

            This, which happened on the third day after the decease of her father, Helen was totally unconscious of; but the next day, some glimpses of returning reason were visible. She observed the landlady and Rosse, whom, however, she did not recognize. “Where am I?” were the first words she uttered. “How came I here? and who is that man?”

            Rosse addressed her by the endearing title of—“My dear,” and enquired how she was: she appeared partly to comprehend; but the landlady, whom experience had taught to be extremely cautious in such cases, replied, that he was a gentleman and a friend, who came to see her. “Oh, the doctor, I suppose? I am thirsty!” Some liquid was given to her, and she sunk into a quiet slumber.

            Rosse, whose blunt sympathies were not easily awakened, arising more perhaps from the dangers he had escaped, and the perils he had encountered, than from any inherent want of feeling, felt extremely vexed and annoyed at the circumstance of Helen’s mistaking him for a stranger, and now began seriously to reflect on the situation in which he had placed himself, through his headstrong eagerness to marry a woman with whom he had been acquainted but a few days.

            “Poor thing!” said he to himself; and poor devil that I am, to have spliced myself in so —— a hurry to a wench of whom I know so little; I shall be blessed with a mad woman for a wife, and shall become a laughing-stock to my shipmates:” then checking himself at the thought of the miserable situation the poor girl was in, he walked up and down the room in great agitation; that he ardently loved Helen there could be no doubt; and, by degrees, the reflection that he was now her natural and only protector, he became calm and willing to submit to the directions of the landlady, who desired him not to be impatient, but strictly to attend to the suggestions of the physician, whose advice was, that Rosse should not be seen by Helen, and that Mrs. Gennings should gradually make her acquainted with what had taken place.

            On the seventh day she became sensible of her deplorable situation, and the dreadful past burst on her view; she wept bitterly for hours, which had the effect of giving relief to her aching heart.

            Rosse was impatient to see her, conceiving the scrupulousness of the physician to be, over-nicety; having no doubt, that the kindness he had shown her, and the delicacy which he had observed since their union, had overcome her dislike to him.

            Alas! hearts are not so soon taught; neither are their possessors able to make them bend to duties imperatively imposed: it is a great conquest when principle is sufficient to guide the conduct in the right path, in opposition to the softer sensations; for the heart to feel one thing, and duty to direct us to act contrary to it, then is the hour of severest trial—then has a victory to be achieved almost too much for human nature entirely to overcome.

            Such now was the case with the orphan Helen: she had, as the circumstances rapidly passed before her, at the time of her betrothment, been by the dying injunctions of a parent whom she tenderly revered and loved, determined on the line of conduct she intended to pursue: she was now to act on it, and her repugnance was strengthened accordingly; besides, her broken spirits and weak state of body, added to the difficulty of the task, had rendered her fortitude unequal to so powerful an effort; she, therefore, avoided mentioning Rosse, and dreaded that every footstep was his.

            Mrs. Gennings observed her eyes continually attracted towards the door, if the least noise occurred, and conceiving she had better at last broach the subject, as two days had elapsed since her evident convalescence.

            “My dear Miss Kemp,” began the good woman, “I observe that you continue to fix your eye towards the door; now there is one without who is very anxious to enter; he is waiting for you to ask him, and I would put it you, whether it would not be proper to do so? He has been, and will prove to be, your best friend; and, I assure you, he has suffered much for you during your illness.”

            Helen sighed, and said, “Ah! Mrs. Gennings, would to heaven my father had allowed me to remain single; I could have endured any thing rather than be in my present condition; I could have taken in work, and have maintained myself; but I am now made for ever miserable. I have known this man but a few days; he is old, and otherwise unfit to contribute to my happiness; his manners are repulsive, and I am certain that his birth is mean, and to good society a perfect stranger—so coarse are his expressions, and so unlike the company to which I (perhaps it is my misfortune) have been used.”

            “My dear young lady, I have listened to what you have said with patience, in order that you may give vent to your feelings; but really now, you are silly, very silly—why, did I not know your dear mother? aye, and lived, when a girl, with your grandmother? I know the ladies, your aunts, and their tempers; the losses and troubles your dear father has lately experienced, and which I feel persuaded broke his heart at last—the death of your excellent mother was the severest stroke;—now, my dear miss, knowing these things, I say, and as the Captain (as I still call him) sometimes told me he had but forty pounds to take you and himself to London; and even then it would be uncertain whether he would be employed; and then the dangers of a hot climate;—but there, it is no use to talk about it, poor gentleman! he is gone; but it was the considering of these things that made me urge you to accept the gentleman’s proposals: believe me, my dear child, that you would have been horribly situated under the command of such women as your aunts are, for with them poverty is a crying sin; and as to work, Lord love ye! I am sure it would ill agree with your tender frame and delicate constitution; why the wind even is too rough to blow upon you, and so thought your poor dear unfortunate parents, who are now dead and gone, heaven rest their souls!”

            Here the poor creature’s sympathy for the forlorn Helen overcame her, and she sobbed aloud in the fullness of her heart.

            “No, my dear orphan, you would not, could not stand such drudgery; for the mere earning a bit of bread you must work both morning soon and evening late, and then the contempt with which your acquaintance would look down on you; for, believe me, not one of them did you so small a kindness as to call and enquire for you while your father lay ill; but since your marriage (as I may call it) with the officer Mr. Rosse, the Keppels, the Tomkinses, the Hawkinses, and others have repeatedly addressed me with ‘Well, Mrs. Gennings, how is the dear child?—so, we hear she is recovered—aye, and married too—pray do you know what the gentleman is worth?’ besides a number of others which I do not recollect; but all showing, that now you are respectably settled, they have altered their opinion as to your respectability, which also shows what you might have expected, if you had continued poor and dependent.”

            Mrs. Genning’s garrulity manifested so much disinterested zeal in behalf of the orphan Helen, blended with a powerful appeal to female pride, of which Helen was by no means destitute, and to which she was subsequently much indebted, that Helen listened with attention to this harangue, and smiled, but not replying, Mrs. Gennings construed it into a sign of approbation, and thus continued:—

            “You object that you are not sufficiently acquainted with the man; but this is easily remedied; for I am satisfied in my mind, that the more you see him, the less you will dislike him; you will see in him the rough sailor, but a plain honest mind; to my thinking, he is like a chestnut, a sweet kernel in a rough covering; it is true, he is not so genteel as your father was, but he is of the family of the Rosses that used to visit the mayor, as well as your own grandfather, and though they are now dead, yet they were neither mean nor poor. He has been to sea all his life-time, and hence his manners are rude, and otherwise than what you wish him; therefore, my dear child, use your good sense, and make him your friend while you may—send for him, and treat him kindly.”

            Helen could not, seeing how irrevocably her fate was fixed, but partially agree in the truth of what Mrs. Gennings had said, and replied, that she fully appreciated her good intention, and would endeavour to comply with her advice as well as she was able; requested her to dress her, and then present her respects to Rosse, and that he might wait on her.

CHAPTER II.

Cal. I tell thee, Altamont,

Such hearts as ours were never pair’d above:

Ill suited to each other: join’d, not match’d;

Some sullen influence, a foe to both,

Has wrought this fatal marriage to undo us.

Mark but the frame and temper of our minds,

How very much we differ. Ev’n this day,

That fills thee with such ecstacy and transport,

To me brings nothing that should make me bless it,

Or think it better than the day before,

Or any other in the course of time,

That duly took its turn, and was forgotten.

Alt. If to behold thee as my pledge of happiness,

To know none fair, none excellent, but thee;

If still to love thee with unweary’d constancy,

Through ev’ry season, ev’ry change of life,

Be worth the least return of graceful love,

Then let my Calista bless this day,

And set it down for happy.

Rowe.

            MRS. GENNINGS congratulated herself on her persuasive powers, and made as much haste as possible in doing as she was requested.

            Helen was seated in a great arm-chair, and Mrs. Gennings left the room on the welcome errand, not however without having repeated sundry argumentations, &c. (so cogent did she now particularly deem her loquacity), as to the proper behaviour of Helen at the intended interview.

            When she was gone, Helen sighed repeatedly, and recollecting the words Mrs. Gennings had said to her, viz. ‘That love would come in time,’ said to herself, ‘Never—never for him; yet have I not vowed to love and honor him?’ The reflection was sufficient to upset her little acquired composure; she was about to recal Mrs. Gennings, when that personage, and Mr. Rosse entered the apartment.

            He was struck with astonishment at her altered appearance. How different from the blooming girl he had previously known her. He had come into her presence with much light-heartedness, pleased that Helen had sent for him, saying to Mrs. Gennings,

‘better late than never!’ but he was extremely shocked at beholding so pale and delicate a creature as now appeared before him: he hastened towards her and said, “My dear Miss Kemp, I am grieved to see you so ill—I had hoped, my dear little girl, to have been at Portsmouth with you ere this.”

            Helen blushed, gave him her hand and said, “I hope I shall soon be well, sir, now I am able to sit up again.”

            She endeavoured to be composed, but in spite of her most strenuous efforts, she trembled, and could not look steadfastly at him.

            He observed it, and said, “My dear Helen, you appear to be afraid of me, why should you? Do you doubt that I will behave kind to you?”

            “No, sir,” stammered Helen; “but—you are so much a stranger to me, and—

            Rosse laughed and said, “true, my dear; but all things must have a beginning, you know; every day will make us better acquainted, and therefore do try and think me to be an old acquaintance—bring yourself to think so, and we shall be so in reality, and the like of like.”

            Helen could not but smile; the last sentence was generally the closing one of all Rosse’s speeches, although totally unconnected in meaning with the previous ones. Helen had, during their short acquaintance, observed this; and now instead of answering his question, she appeared to be in a deep study.

            Rosse imagined he had given her offence, and asked her in what respect.

            “Oh! I beg your pardon, sir,” said Helen; “I was reflecting on your last words; I do not understand them.”

            “What words?” said Rosse.

            Helen repeated them; but he did not recollect having said them. Helen said no more on the subject, imagining, as she afterwards found, that he had acquired this habit of expression, and considering that it was too soon to tell him to avoid the peculiarity.

            He continued with her part of the day, and towards the latter part of the week his attendance was unremitting: he endeavoured to entertain her by recounting his adventures, and telling such stories as were current in the sea-service, which to Helen possessed at least the charm of novelty; he would read to her, and though not the best of readers in the world, was not deficient in sense; he had a little taste too for the standard authors; and his conduct both in word and action was modest, except, indeed, that he was too ardent in his profession of admiration towards her.

            She and her father had been detained at the inn, he having been taken ill there; she had so arranged it, that as soon as she was able to leave her bedroom, she joined the landlord and landlady as usual. Rosse also attended her; and, to her great mortification, her aunts called, attended by the clergyman, intending to breakfast with them.

            The best room in the house was put into requisition. The antique dames appeared to be delighted with the apparent change for the better which had taken place in Helen, and congratulated the bridegroom on it, who expressed himself much obliged to them, and amused them with his delineation of nautical affairs, manners, technicalities, &c. to which he was quite au fait of course, and consequently in his element.

            There not having been a license to the former ceremony, it was of course not legal, and hitherto Rosse had been content to be without the privileges of a husband. He had, therefore, been instrumental in bringing the clergyman to the party, and had procured the license. Willing, however, not to appear too precipitate in any thing in the eyes of Helen: he had acted with extreme caution; for having previously ventured to hint it to her, her agitation had been so terrible, that he was alarmed lest she should relapse into her former illness. Her aunts, therefore, had been consulted, and they had readily entered into the scheme; for, however unwilling they might be to have had her as a poor dependant on their bounty, yet their notions were high as to the honor of their family; they, therefore, hoped to see their sister’s child legally wedded, and also that Rosse should throw off his suit of black, which, as a compliment to Helen he had put on, and appear in his full uniform.

            Things being thus prepared, Rosse had availed himself of the assistance of that indefatigable adviser and general go-between, Mrs. Gennings, who had acquired great influence over the mind of Helen, having known her from her infancy.

            Whilst, therefore, the aunts, the clergyman, and Rosse were engaged in conversation, previously to tea being brought in, Mrs. Gennings desired to have a little talk with her.

            Helen was terror-struck at the information, and began to upbraid Mrs. Gennings as an accessary to the trick, as she termed it, which had been put on her; but the landlady, who expected nothing less, so well expostulated with her, that she consented, though with a heavy heart, to go through the repetition of the ceremony, observing—

            “Ah! Mrs. Gennings, I ought to have been consulted. I remember but too well what happened at the close of the first ceremony, and I am fearful that it will be too much for me—it should have been deferred for several days yet.”

            “Why, my dear madam, (for I must now learn to call you madam and Mrs. Rosse), I have hitherto always looked upon you as my own little pet—I have known you ever since you were no higher than my knee—I think when I saw you first—

            “Oh! my dear Mrs. Gennings,” cried Helen, and throwing her arms around her neck, “pray call me what you have hitherto. You have, indeed, been a kind friend to me; I shall always love, esteem, and hope to reward you for your goodness.”

            “Well, as I was going to say,” continued Mrs. Gennings, “I really must accuse you of a little affectation in this matter. Have you not kept your room for the last three days, and there has been no occasion for it?

            “Is Mr. Rosse offended at my conduct?” enquired Helen.

            “Why, no, my dear; but he does think it strange in you, and said to me, ‘I see, Mrs. Gennings, this dear girl is not so ill as she wishes us to believe: now, I should not wish to frighten her, or do any thing that would annoy her, but I really do wish to rejoin my ship, and therefore I must make an end of this courtship, or rather half-married state:’ this is what he said, and I for my part, think him right; nay, I have wondered at his patience with your little quibbles, and to me, unmeaning ways.”

            “Nay, Mrs. Gennings,” replied Helen, “this is too bad; I really suspect you to be at the bottom of this plot to hurry me into a proceeding so unseemly at the present juncture—consider how recent the decease of my dear father has been, and I am sure you will not blame me for at least wishing not to be accused of an unnatural haste to become, what will be imagined independent, but in reality, at least mentally, a slave to policy, in obedience to the wishes of those I have always considered my natural protectors.”

            “Indeed, you wrong me,” said Mrs. Gennings, “I have done all in my power to prevent Lieutenant Rosse from using haste in the matter, but you see how it is—they wish the thing to be over; and as it must be done some time or other, why I advise you no longer to hesitate.”

            Helen sighing, looked in the glass; she observed how pale and languid she really was, and remarked that no one ought to accuse her of affectation, and that even then she was really ill.

            The landlady told her, that it was merely her present agitation of mind which caused her paleness; but at dinner she appeared charming, and that, to tell the truth, she did not imagine that her dislike to Rosse was so much as she really wished her to believe.

            “Why,” replied Helen, “as a companion to a person partial to a calm domestic life as I am, I will own, that he is not absolutely disagreeable—he is bearable, and that is all I can say. My fate is linked to his, and gratitude may bend me to him, as if he were a brother; and, indeed, I am glad that I can do that; for I must confess to you, that at first sight I really looked on him with abhorrence, and fancied him truly hideous.”

            “Well, well!” quoth the landlady, “I am glad to hear you confess so much: I am sure you will respect him more than a brother, when better acquainted; but come, come, we have staid too long. I hear some one coming; as sure as I am alive, Mr. Rosse; so do pray make haste.”

            Rosse entered, and spoke in the kindest manner to her, entreated her to have courage, and introduced her to the company; tea was served, after which, the ceremony was again performed: thus the affianced Helen became irrevocably the partner in the fortunes of Rosse, to whose uncouth and ungracious manners it had for ever become her duty to succumb.

            Rosse, at its conclusion, was in raptures; he clasped her in his arms, exultingly rejoiced, that he could now really call her his own.

            Miss Deborah and Mrs. Launder congratulated them both, and earnestly requested a visit before their departure, which Rosse declined, observing, that on the morrow he must prepare for their journey, which would take place on the ensuing morning, hoping that nothing would prevent Helen from accompanying him to Portsmouth; they then departed, leaving the clergyman, who had some business to transact with Helen relative to a small cottage, which was the property of Captain Kemp. who had let it furnished previously to his setting out on his intended journey, and had appointed the clergyman (an old friend) to receive the rent of it during his absence. He was now empowered by Helen and her husband, to continue to do so, Helen not wishing to part with it; Rosse observing, that they might like to occupy it, should he ever retire on half-pay: this, and about forty pounds, was the whole of the property left by Helen’s father. Mrs. Gennings had possession of the latter, which she offered, at the desire of Helen, to Rosse, who, however, refused it, saying that it belonged to Helen, and that he desired her to retain it, adding, that all expences incurred at the inn should be defrayed by himself.

            The minister remained to supper with them, and then took his leave; observing, that he should be happy to see them well on their return into Dorsetshire.

            This worthy man had been known to Helen from her childhood: she had always respected him, and when the door closed on him, she could not but be affected, separated from kindred and friends, her person and fate fettered to a stranger, the world and its cares suddenly imposed on her at so early an age—called on to sustain the character of wife, perhaps of mother too at no distant period—the tide of thoughts flowed rapidly in upon her conscious imagination, flung as she was into the uncertain stream of life, and now actually left alone with a man with whose character even she was but as yet imperfectly acquainted; and whose conduct might not, as she imagined, be always the same as his present professions would lead her to anticipate and hope.

            On the following day the preparations for the journey were duly made.

            Mrs. Gennings, however, was outrageous in her clamours against the selfishness of Helen’s relations, who had improperly, as she thought, allowed Mr. Rosse to be at the whole expence of their remaining at her house, which, with the physician’s bill, funeral and other expences, amounted to nearly a hundred pounds.

            Helen offered the money left by her father as part payment, which Rosse, however, would not allow, saying—“No! my dear; whatever has been done for your father or his memory, I take as having been done for me; and I am sorry, Mrs. Gennings, you should have said any thing about it.”

            “I could not help it, sir,” replied the landlady; “because I do not think you ought to pay it. We are not in any hurry for the money—pray let the rent of the cottage run up for it.”

            “No!” said Rosse; here is a draft for the amount on my agent. I have given the minister orders that the rent of the cottage shall be placed in the bank, that it may accumulate; it will be of service for my dear Helen should she ever want it for any purpose in my absence.”

            Helen smiled, and took him by the hand, saying, “You are too generous to me: though I have not been an extravagant daughter, may I not prove an extravagant wife?”

            Rosse was delighted with her freedom, and answered, that a smile from her was worth to him a hundred pounds at any time.

            On the second day after the marriage Mr. and Mrs. Rosse took leave of the landlady, whose tears were many, at parting with one whom she had always loved, and to whom she believed she had, in the late transactions, done the most essential service.

CHAPTER III..

Quin. Is all our company here?

Bot. You were best to call them generally,

man by man, according to the scrip.

Quin. Here is the scroll of every one’s name.

Shakspeare.

            HAVING to make a digression from the regular narrative of the interesting events which hereafter befel Helen, arising out of the important debût she had just made—the more important from the consequences which resulted to Helen ultimately, as well as those which attended her under the most critical circumstances to which she became accidently exposed.

            This chapter is therefore designed to introduce the reader to the several personages connected with the tale.

            Mrs. Gennings was the orphan daughter of the mate of a Newfoundland merchant-ship; he perished at sea, leaving a wife and children to deplore his untimely fate: he was at the time of his death in the employ of Helen’s grandfather, whose wife kindly admitted her an inmate of her house as one of the female children thus destitute of their providing parent; she placed her at school, where, remaining a sufficient time to become qualified to fill the situation of domestic milliner, or upper servant, better known in higher circles as a lady’s maid, to Helen’s grandmother, she became duly instated into that office, and there continued until she was denominated Mrs. Gennings; consequently, being ingrafted, as it were, on the same stem, she was able to appreciate justly the family dispositions, feelings and characters, as far as her limited capacity of making a true estimate of any such thing would allow.

            Mr. Brown, the grandfather of Helen, was a Newfoundland merchant, residing at Poole, in Dorsetshire: both he and Mrs. Brown were of very respectable families; they were visited by the gentry of the neighbourhood; he was a man of honor and integrity—had filled the office of mayor twice, and merited and received the approbation of his fellow-townsmen. He had three daughters, two of whom have already been seen acting their parts in our story, viz. Miss Deborah, who was the eldest, Mrs. Launder, and Mrs. Kemp, the mother of our heroine.

            They each, at the death of Mr. Brown, received ten thousand pounds. The landed property had devolved on a brother’s son, who, however, did not long survive his good fortune, but left two sons to enjoy it.

            Miss Deborah in person was never what could be called handsome, neither was she so plain as to merit the epithet of ugly. Previously to her twentieth year she was in shape tolerable; after it she increased extremely in size—a fixed blowsiness of colour, as it is termed, was visible in her cheeks, and, in fact, her outward appearance was altogether the very reverse of any quality denoting neatness or delicacy—yet these words were continually in her mouth: she affected extreme niceness in all things, but which was of no avail; her manners being as repulsive to good sense and real propriety, as her external appearance was forbidding to any pretension of the kind. She never had an offer of marriage; her ten thousand pounds were insufficient to balance her personal and mental defects, and weighed but as a feather against her corpulency.

            The present Mrs. Launder was, in the matrimonial sense, more fortunate; she was also in her person the exact counterpart of her eldest sister—she was a gaunt lean and lank figure; her head appeared to be screwed to her shoulders, so primly was it situated there; her face was pale and deficient of all fulness; her eyes gray, looked spitefully at all things, and was apparently predestined to a life of single blessedness by all who fancied themselves skilled in the least in physiognomical knowledge: she remained a spinster till thirty-five, unasked and unheeded, when necessity, that dire disturber of the natural current of our feelings, bestirred a neighbour’s son (per advice of his sinister parent) one Mister Launder, to look on the ten thousand pounds with something very like covetousness. He had speculated too far in business—had lost several vessels, and must have become a comparative beggar, unless something was done to retrieve his ill-luck: he hesitated a long time, reflected on the desperate remedy, but there being no alternative, paid Miss Margery Brown a single visit, was accepted of course, and to the surprise and disgust of Miss Deborah’s ideas of decorum, and the amazement and envy of a half-a-score other tabbies, she went privately to church, and returned home a bride.

            Launder was a lively and gay young fellow, good-natured and honest, and hence was capable of not taking advantage of any want of love on his part, but behaved with kindness to his new companion. He sold out part of her fortune, retrieved his credit, and at the time of Helen’s marriage was in affluent circumstances, kept his carriage, and allowed Miss Deborah to abide with her sister, to form one of their domestic coterie, in the absence of children, of which there was no great expectancy.

            Helen’s mother was the youngest of Mr. Brown’s daughters, and far surpassed them in beauty and accomplishments: her modesty, natural timidity, and excellent disposition, rendered her a favourite with all who were capable of appreciating such qualities; but we shall have to speak of her more at large at a further period of our narrative.

            Richard Rosse, the grandfather of Lieutenant Rosse, was in rank and station equal to Mr. Brown. He also had been twice honoured with the civic chair: he had three sons, the eldest of whom, Dick, as his father called him, was a spendthrift, idle, and rather profligate; he was, however, at last caught by the God of Love, in the character of a laughter-loving bar-maid of an inn in London, and he, who had often set at defiance the power of the fickle disturber of hearts, acknowledged himself conquered by the fine dark eye of the said damsel—this was not all the accomplishments of this lass; for if young Brown desisted from looking at her face, a pair of well-turned ancles, and a pretty small foot, with an elastic springiness in her heel, met his retiring half-averted half-rivetted eye—he struggled to abandon a passion which he knew would bring worldly discredit on him—it was of no avail—his sighs and looks quickly revealed to pretty Bess the state of his heart, and the malady under which he was labouring. The tongue that had hitherto rattled so glibly in making love, was now mute, though for what the tongue had lost, the eloquence of the eye made ample amends: this sort of courtship lasted the enormous duration of twenty-four hours, and the next found him asking, and she refusing; he grew bolder—she slapped his face, and with a coquettish toss of the head, wondered at his assurance.

            Dick was now at a non-plus! he knew that his father would never give his consent to a match destitute alike of rank and fortune. Betsy was firm—nothing but to be his lawfully wedded wife would do, she determinedly declared; and he finding or fancying it impossible to live without her, took her one morning early to Mayfair church, and the bonds of matrimony made them one for ever.

            This was truly wonderful to the astonished landlady of the inn, who was the aunt to the new-married lady, and was a thunder-bolt to Dick’s captain (for he was then acting as mate of one of his father’s vessels, which was at the time lying in the Thames, waiting the delivery of a cargo of timber from Norway): he instantly wrote to the father of the culprit, and shortly came the answer, enclosing a draft for a hundred pounds, his dismissal from the ship, and positively forbidding him ever to enter his father’s house more, and, in fact, casting him off entirely.

            Poor Dick, thus thrown on the world, went to Liverpool, was appointed mate in a vessel engaged in the African slave-trade, made one voyage, and was appointed captain the next. On his return, however, from the fourth, he died, leaving his widow with a son and daughter, the former of whom was Richard, the present husband of Helen.

            The young widow sent the boy to Mr. Rosse, his grandfather, and in a letter to him made her circumstances appear as deplorably as possible.

            She had saved a few hundred pounds, and set out part of her house as a lodging-house for the captains of vessels; thus securing a respectable living both for herself and daughter.

            At the expiration of three years, one of these lodgers offered her his hand; she accepted it, and became truly miserable. He was a worthless fellow—spent the little money she had saved, behaved brutally towards her and the child, and the little peace she at all enjoyed was only when the wretch was at sea.

            The daughter grew up and became attached to an individual connected with the Liverpool docks; was married to him contrary to her mother’s wishes, and was in consequence treated harshly.

            Mr. Whippel, the husband, returned to the dock-yard at Portsmouth, where his brother held a lucrative post. He received them very kindly, and through his interest with some one in power, he procured Whippel a situation at a salary of eighty pounds per annum, which, however, in the course of a few years, became two hundred: he lived by economy and prudence on this rising salary in decency and reputation, and became the father of six children.

            Rosse’s mother outlived her second husband, and although repeatedly wooed to make a third trial was obstinate in her refusal ever to re-marry: she, as will hereafter be seen, lived to see her son, to whom we will now pay some little attention.

            When he arrived at his grandfather’s house with the letter of introduction, as before mentioned, he was about seven years of age; was extremely like his deceased father, and appeared to be an interesting lad: he was dressed in a suit of black, and his appearance was in every respect very creditable, having been duly prepared for the visit by the captain of the vessel to whose care his mother had intrusted him.

            The old gentleman was not at home, being engaged in his official capacity as mayor of the town; but Mrs. Rosse, who had tenderly loved her son Richard, and would have interceded for him, had he condescended to have written to her; but his haughty temper could not bend to conciliate a parent for even a parent’s forgiveness, nor had the family heard any thing of him until the child now appeared before them whom she received.

            She wept bitterly at the untimely fate of her beloved son, and clasped the boy in her arms, and embraced him with the utmost tenderness.

            When the mayor returned to dinner, the little fellow was introduced to him, without informing him who he was: he gazed, sighed, and asked his wife with trepidation whether his countenance did not resemble some one whom she knew? “Yes!” she replied, “of that rebellious boy whom we have both wished to forget;” but when she continued, and informed him, that the child’s mother had sent him as the living image of his dead father, for indeed he was no more, the old gentleman sunk into his chair, overcome with grief that he had unblessed and unforgiven died; and with increasing tenderness embraced his grandson, and adopted him in his family immediately.

            He then enquired of the boy for his parent, and from him received the letter of introduction, in which his daughter-in-law depicted the prospects of her children as totally ruined by the loss of their father, but trusted his forgiveness and protection would at least be extended to her orphan boy; for the girl and herself she was content to struggle with every difficulty in expiation of the offence she unwittingly was the cause of.

            His uncles, however, the two remaining sons, were not so favorably disposed towards him. One was still unmarried, and lived at home; the other had become the husband of a lady older than himself, but rich; he had several sons and daughters, and avarice, that baneful vice, was the cause of the little Richard’s being looked on by these parties as an unexpected and unwelcome intruder.

            The boy resembled his father in temper as he did in person, and he was easily governed by kindness, but obstinate and sulky if harshly dealt with; he was grateful for favours and willing to oblige; but his other drawbacks, situated as he was, made him, in proportion as he grew older, more enemies than friends.

            But a short time had elapsed after his arrival, when it was observed by several lads that he was a new-comer, and consequently fair game for persecution. Some boys, older than himself, induced a party of young ones to bully him, browbeat, tease and follow him.

            One day, as he was returning from school, he was attacked by four or five of these little urchins, two of whom were taller and older than himself; they followed—hooted—called him nick-names, and pelted him with missiles of various kinds: being alone, and at some distance from the town, he hesitated what to do, but observing a tolerably large tree, he halted, set his back against the trunk, and defied the whole posse—“I will fight you all,” cried he, “only act fairly, and come on one at a time.” This proposal was accepted with a shout: the biggest boy declined from real shame, and undertook to form a ring for the fray; Dick objected to the ring, seeing they were all on one side; he said it was not fair, and was afraid of treachery; he, therefore, proposed, that all but he with whom he was to fight should stand back at a given distance; this was agreed to, the boys all roaring out that he was afraid.

            The second biggest boy then set-to, his courage being aided by insult and desperation, Dick soon became the conqueror, laid his antagonist sprawling, and eagerly called out for another foeman.

            The specimen he had already given was sufficient; the boys declared him no flincher—that he was not a coward, and that he had, therefore, gained his freedom.

            “What do you mean by that?” said Dick.

            “Why every stranger must prove himself no flincher before we admit him among us,” was the reply—“now you are free.”

            Dick grunted some expression not understood by the others, and surlily walked off, refusing the proffered friendship of some of the boys.

            “If he has courage,” said one, “he is a sulky dog.”

            “He will be revenged on us,” said a little timid fellow.

            “Never mind,” said the eldest boy; “never mind his revenge—I would have served him out, but I did not like to beat him, being taller—let him dare to touch one of you.”

            In the meantime, Dick marched home, inwardly triumphing in his victory: he had received what is called a smart facer, and his upper lip was much swollen.

            His grandmother cried out that he was hurt as soon as she saw him, whilst his uncle John began to reprove him; but the old Mr. Rosse interfered, and said kindly, “come hither, Dick, tell me how it was? You have been fighting, I presume—a stranger in the place, and—

            “It is because I am a stranger,” interrupted the boy, rather sulkily, “that it has happened,” and as well as his disfigured mouth would allow him related all the circumstances.

            The good old man gave him a shilling, whilst his uncle harshly rebuked him, and said he wished his story might be true.

            The boy’s inclination, as he grew up, was the same as his father’s—he would go to sea; and at the age of fourteen, he was placed with a captain to qualify him for the service, who was desired to treat him kindly, and as the grandson of an old merchant.

            He went a few voyages to Newfoundland, and also to Norway. His ship was changed at the request of old Mr. Rosse, in order that he might choose what voyages he should prefer: he then sailed to the Mediterranean, and returned laden with the produce of that luxuriant climate. In one of those voyages he became possessed of a young parrot, and took much pains to teach it to talk; but the constant use of sea terms applied by the captain to the men, rendered any other instruction needless. Poll readily caught these, and would scream an oath—call the men land-lubbers, &c. &c. to the amusement of the crew, and all who heard her.

            This prattling facility, however, was like to have been the cause of a fatal accident: whilst the ship lay at one of the ports of Norway, the merchant from whom they had purchased the timber was invited on board with his two daughters to dine with the captain; both he and the two ladies had treated the captain with the utmost hospitality, and Dick, who had always attended him, was a partaker in it: the ladies, indeed, were too fond of him, and did  all but ask him to have one of them.

            When the captain perceived them coming, he bantered Dick, and told him the Misses —— were ready to make another dead-set at him; the lad took this in sport, and attended him on deck, to welcome them on board, who were then alongside. They bowed politely to them, and Richard endeavoured, with all his ability, to return their complaisance. After spending an agreeable afternoon, they begged to take their leave; and in order to accommodate the ladies, a large tub was put into requisition, to lower them from the ship into their boat; ropes were fastened to them, and things were almost ready, when the parrot, observing the men prepared to obey the orders for lowering, vociferated—“lower away! d—— you, lower away! lower away, you lubbers!” lower away, indeed, the men did. In vain did the captain and Dick call to them that the ropes were not tight; Poll kept to her text, and the sailors deeming it to be the captain’s orders, the tub was unfortunately upset, and into the sea tumbled the hapless lasses; they were speedily rescued, though much exposed in being taken into the boat.

            The father swore it was a trick—refused to receive any apology, though Dick went on shore himself to offer every excuse.

            This incident was the cause of much mirth on board; and though the parrot was the real culprit, yet for the stupid obstinacy of the old merchant in refusing to be pacified, he was rather more caressed than otherwise for his ill-timed interference with the duties of his superiors.

            The story was retailed at a premium on the return of the ship to England; and a gentleman, whose love of fun and frolic exceeded his love of money, purchased it of Richard, whose propensity to avarice was proverbial, for twenty guineas.

            Old Mr. Rosse died in his absence, and Richard having given a loose to some youthful follies, which was made the most of to his disadvantage by his uncles, so that a series of fierce contentions commenced between him and his grandfather; among other disputes, the lad deemed himself competent to take the command of a ship, which the old gentleman had objected to until he had made another voyage; he was forced to obey; but before his return, the decease of his grandfather had taken place, and his will, which had been made immediately after the filial disobedience of Dick’s father, had never been altered, and the sum of five hundred pounds, which was left him, combined all Richard’s future prospects and present possessions.

            His anger was uncontrollable on his return, to find himself thus deceived in his expectations. He charged his uncles with having destroyed a will of subsequent date; but the lawyer being deceased, he could prove nothing. They offered him the command of a ship, but he —— them, and declared he would sink her, unless he received her as his own property: this widened the breach, and Rosse left them, and went to Liverpool, where he arrived just in time to see his mother, who shortly after died.

            He received a hundred pounds on this event, and immediately procured employment similar to that of his father—was mate for two voyages, and then became master of a fine ship, the Fame, in which he continued many years: the destructive climate, however, of the West Indies, had injured his health—he was in fact, from these causes, in a declining state when introduced to our heroine, the latent effects of hard and dangerous service, as well as insalubrity.

            Having done some slight service to Sir John C—— (afterwards port-admiral at Pl——) through whose interest a commission in his majesty’s navy was obtained, Rosse gladly embraced the opportunity; for having become possessed of property, the ambition of wearing an epaulette, and the desire and vanity to display his skill in nautical affairs, and by his enterprise shine in naval history, wholly engrossed his mind.

            The admiral was his only friend; for, in fact, he made none: his temper was bad—he was ever at variance with his brother officers—was extremely fond of money, yet would throw it away in trifles, as it might suit his whims—was sulky and morose—could not bear a joke, and hence was considered fair game for raillery, and was the butt of the mess table.

            At the time of his marriage with Helen he was forty-eight years of age; his hair sprinkled with grey, his countenance sallow (indicative of the climate he had been in), his eyes small with bushy and projecting eyebrows, features tolerably regular, and his smile extremely agreeable, his voice thick and coarse, his form manly, and though rather short, his general appearance was genteel. Such is a brief sketch of the man to whom our heroine was married, at the early age of seventeen years. She was extremely beautiful, and altogether in appearance a very elegant woman.

            The father of Helen was superior in rank to either of the personages we have hitherto introduced. His father was a gentleman of fortune, residing at an elegant country seat, a few miles from Poole. James Kemp was the second son, and his early predilections were for the army: these were opposed by his father with whom he was a great favourite, and who was loth to part with him at an early age.

            The elder brother, whose mind was tainted with envy and selfishness, persuaded him to acquiesce in his younger brother’s desires, inwardly hoping that a friendly bullet might assist him to become the sole possessor of his fortune.

            A commission was accordingly purchased, and the young officer set off in high spirits to join his regiment, being then nearly twenty-one years of age.

            He served with distinction in America—was frequently wounded, and returned to England with his health much impaired from the fatigues and hardships of an active military life. Having procured leave, he rejoined his friends, after an absence of five years: he had been promoted to a company; and the young Captain Kemp became the theme of praise and admiration among the belles of the neighbourhood.

            His brother had in the meantime married; his mother was dead, and his beloved father, though bowed down with infirmities, was cheered with the sight of his darling son, whom he had often deplored as lost to him for ever.

            In attending one of the assemblies he became acquainted with our heroine’s mother; she was then a young and beautiful girl, and had just come out into fashionable life; he had no recollection that he had ever seen her before; he requested her to honor him with her hand as a partner, which she, with a sweet though timid voice, consented to. He gazed his heart away, and Helen Brown became its possessor: when the dance was concluded, he was surprised to see Miss Deborah Brown come and rudely take her away, scowling fiercely at the young officer, who, however, paid no attention, his eyes being rivetted on the sweet girl of whom he was now so suddenly deprived, whilst she looked at him at parting in a manner that showed she dared not disobey.

            He enquired of the master of the ceremonies the name of the lady, and to his astonishment and vexation, found that she was the daughter of the man with whom his father was engaged in a law-suit, and between whose families there had been a kind of hereditary hatred for a series of years. He watched both her and her partner in the next dance; her eyes often met his, and it was evident to him, that she paid but little attention to any thing but himself.

            At the commencing of another set, he again solicited her to dance with him in spite of the awful frown on the prim phiz of Miss Deborah, who had heard who he was.—The timid Helen stood irresolute, fearing either to assent or deny; another gentleman came to ask her, and her sister readily undertook to answer for her in the affirmative, when the Captain immediately informed him that he had a prior claim, on which the gentleman bowed and retired, and he at once took her hand and led the blushing, though secretly delighted girl, again into the set. At the conclusion of the dance he contrived to converse with her—that he was not at first aware who she was, having grown out of his recollection during his absence—lamented the difference between their respective families, and conjured her not to let that circumstance be a bar to their further acquaintance, to which Helen frankly assented; though she reflected with sad emotion on the impossibility of reconciling their parents to such a proceeding.

            The original contention between the parties arose from a dispute relative to a piece of land which Mr. Kemp claimed, but which the corporation opposed, and he in particular looked on the Browns and the Rosses as his greatest enemies.—The cause was, and had been of course, a long time in chancery, and pending the settlement of the question, the most bitter acrimony of feeling was from time to time showing itself.

            The young Captain, however, would not despair. He, on his return, informed his father and brother that he was enamoured of Helen Brown; who had danced with him at the ball without his recollecting who she was, and hoped, that as he felt his future happiness depended on an alliance with her, that no objection would be made to it; he painted in vivid colours the folly of so obstinately and acrimoniously continuing a hatred which could never tend to any good; but which, without any adequate cause, was the means of embittering the lives, not only of the parties interested, but of a number of individuals who really were even unacquainted with the real cause in dispute.

            It was useless; the old gentleman became absolutely furious, which was aided by the intervention of the elder brother, whose animosity against the Browns, &c. was as bitter as the father could wish. He charged his younger son to avoid the young imp, as he called the young lady, assuring him of his irrevocable displeasure if the connection was not immediately dropped.

            James sighed, and felt it to be impossible. He was narrowly watched by his elder brother, and for a week he was unable to see or hear any thing of his beloved Helen.

            She, on her part, had been the round of a severe lecturing at home; was threatened to be locked up unless she faithfully promised not only never to see the Captain again, but to give her consent to be married to a gentleman whom her father had selected for her, belonging to the neighbourhood, in consequence of the discovery of the intimacy which had arisen between her and the Captain.

            This news, on its reaching the Captain, put him to the severest mental tortures, and he even began to despair of being able to counteract the machinations of so heartless a set of persons; when passing through one of the streets of Poole, he met Helen alone; she had been walking with her sister Deborah, who had just stepped in to confabulate with a crony of her own stamp, desiring Helen to pass on to the next place they intended to call. The poor girl was ready to drop with trepidation at this unexpected rencounter.

            “Oh! I must not speak nor see you again,” stammered she; “my sister is coming, and if I am seen with you, God knows the consequences.”

            He eagerly assured her of his unalterable attachment, and his determination not to leave her, unless she promised to meet him at her own time and place alone: she hesitated; but recollecting that on the next evening her mother and sisters were engaged at a card club, consisting principally of old tabbies, to which delectable coterie Helen was denounced as ineligible, she tremblingly pledged herself to meet him at the end of the next street, which was an unfrequented one; on which they separated; just soon enough to escape the lynx-eyed watchfulness of her spiteful sister, who, intent on a bit of precious scandal which she had just heard, failed (for a wonder!) to notice the alteration which the unexpected interview had occasioned in the appearance and manner of her timid and frightened charge.

            After a sleepless night passed in reflecting on her fancied imprudence, at one time determining to evade her promise, at another recalling to mind the dreadful misery which, on the other hand, she had to expect. She at last resolved to brave every danger to avoid the latter alternative.

            The Captain was more determined; he plainly saw all the consequences, and his passion increasing with the difficulties with which he had to contend, he resolved to hazard all to rescue the woman of his heart from a degrading thraldom which would render both him and her miserable for ever.

            He accordingly provided a post-chaise and other necessary accompaniments for carrying her off, and privately wedding her, trusting to overcome by his ersuasions any repugnance she might feel to so decided a step.

            The next evening came, and on his part all was ready.

            The night was dark, and it was in the depth of winter: the hour struck when she promised to come, but no Helen! he began to be impatient—after waiting in an agony of wretchedness for more than an hour, he was about to return, when the lady stood before him, trembling with fear, and begging him to desist from his importunities.

            He caught her in his arms, vowing that she should never leave him. She wept, called him cruel, &c. but to no purpose. He apologized for any seeming rudeness, and declared that he would insist on accompanying her to her own house, if she refused to elope with him—expostulated with her, and depicted with the warmth of a true lover the wretched fate which awaited her.

            Half dead with terror and apprehension, she submitted to be led to the carriage. He assisted her into it; then bidding the postillion use the utmost speed, he jumped into the vehicle, and observed with sincere emotion that his lovely charge had fainted with affright.

            The carriage drove rapidly on towards its destination; the lover used every endeavour to restore the sinking spirits of his mistress, which he soon succeeded in doing. He soothed her agonized feelings, and tried to assuage the bitter misgivings she could not but have on perceiving the situation she was now in: he pretending that their parents would readily forgive them, whilst she, looking on the dark side of the picture, felt assured that the contrary would be the result.

            Within a few hours from their departure, the fugitives were missed; both parties were so much incensed against them as to decline a pursuit; they were, therefore, left to their fate, with a mutual determination to cast them off for ever.

            Old Kemp executed his last will and testament immediately, and disinherited his younger son.

            In the meantime the lovers reached the temple of Hymen—the indissoluble knot was tied—their minds were made up for the worst, which too soon unhappily reached them.

            The clothes of Helen (now Mrs. Kemp) were sent to her, as also a letter from Deborah, expatiating with much acrimony on the indelicacy, as she termed it, of running away with a man.

            In vain they endeavoured, by repentant epistles, to alter the cruel determination of their parents, which were totally disregarded, and to poverty they were obliged to submit; though in the union of two such hearts, it was far from being unhappiness.

            The Captain joined his regiment, which was ordered to India; his wife determined to accompany him—his tenderness, she felt assured, would recompense her for any worldly inconvenience she might suffer; and fortunately, another lady, whose circumstances were similar, was also going with the regiment; she was the wife of one of the officers—a plain but kind-hearted creature; and thus the four, by mutually assisting each other, contrived to keep up a respectable and becoming appearance.

            Two other ladies, the colonel and major’s wives, also accompanied the regiment; they were in affluent circumstances, and associated together; though the elegant manners and amiable conduct of Mrs. Kemp commanded their esteem, whilst the beauty of her person made her the admiration of the officers generally, whose conduct notwithstanding was most respectful towards her—the unremitting kindness of her husband leaving no room for the attention of others.

            They were of course compelled to endure many deprivations during their stay in India. Three children were born there, all of whom died.

            Shortly after, letters arrived from England, informing Mrs. Kemp of the death of her father, who had died without a will, and announcing, therefore, the happy tidings of her becoming entitled to a fortune of ten thousand pounds.

            The same account also informed them of the death of old Mr. Kemp, and of the elder brother’s having become possessed of all the property, although the old man, when too late, had shewn regret at his unkind treatment of his younger son.

            Thus suddenly raised to affluence, the Captain resolved to return to England the first opportunity. He had been wounded in a recent engagement, which had much distressed his gentle partner; and the colonel, finding it to be his wish to sell out, obtained leave of absence for him on account of his health; they shortly set sail with joyful hearts for their native land, where they happily arrived after a tedious voyage.

            Soon after their arrival our heroine was born, to the great joy of both her parents, and when Mrs. Kemp was able to travel they set off for Poole.

            At first the sisters fought shy of their ill-used relation; but observing, that the Captain had purchased the neat little cottage we have before mentioned, and that he was received into the best society, principally owing to his refusal to mix himself in the party feuds of the place, they gradually found means to insinuate themselves on terms of intimacy, and having succeeded in effacing, by a few pretended kindnesses, their former unnatural conduct from the minds of the Captain and his lady, they endeavoured to atone for the same by becoming obsequious and obliging in their future conduct towards them.

            Thus quietly and comfortably settled, Captain Kemp inwardly promised himself many happy years: his darling little Helen, healthy in the extreme, was an interesting and beautiful child. He was her principal instructor, and made it his aim rather to instil into her mind firmness of purpose, and a truly virtuous principle, than the usual accomplishments, as they are termed, of a female’s education; not that these were neglected, but they always formed a subordinate part; the mother’s disposition being extremely passive and ill-calculated for the active duties of domestic life.

            In this secluded and comparatively happy state they lived, respected and honoured by all who knew them; alloyed only by the declining state of health of Helen’s mother, who had shown symptoms of weakness from the time of her daughter’s birth, and which had been caused by her residence in India, as well from the effects of that climate, as the fatigues and hardships she had been compelled to undergo.

            When Helen was fourteen years of age the disease put on a more decided form, and in spite of the most active remedies she continued to grow worse; and though she lingered for two years, she finally sunk under her affliction.

            This severe and irretrievable loss was severely felt by Helen and her father, but it was rendered bitterly poignant by a further, and in a worldly point of view, more distressing misfortune.

            The agent who managed his business, and in whose hands was the bulk of his fortune, absconded, and ultimately became insolvent. Thus suddenly deprived of all future hopes of happiness or independence—the almost broken-hearted gentleman was, therefore, (as before stated) compelled to let the cottage, and having liquidated all claims on him, had determined, with forty pounds, all the money left, to go to some gentlemen with whom he was acquainted connected with the India-house, procure a situation, and go with his daughter again to India.

            He had requested her to remain at home, but she had refused to leave her dear father, urging, that as her mother had stood the climate, and that as she was stronger, she should feel no inconveniences from attending him; besides, her conviction that his health was evidently not good, she wished to accompany him, as the most proper person to nurse him, and otherwise administer to his comforts—these, and similar arguments prevailed. Her languid parent smiled—pressed her to his bosom, and acquiesced with reluctance in her resolution.

            Having quitted his cottage, he put up for a few days at the inn, kept by Mr. and Mrs. Gennings, previous to his departure; but the double shock of the loss of his beloved partner, and that of his fortune, preyed so deeply on his mind, that nature was totally overcome by it. The third night he was seized violently—he rang the bell, and on Mr. Gennings’s answering it, he found him speechless, and to all appearance dying: he hastily called his wife, and immediately sent for the physician, who declared his case hopeless. The anguish of Helen was indescribable—she fell into violent hysterics, and remained in them for a considerable time.

            This happened about five weeks previously to the arrival of Lieutenant Rosse in Dorsetshire—who had obtained leave, as his ship was laid up in one of the Portsmouth docks for repair; and having business to settle in town, thither he went, arranged the same; and, on his return, took Poole in his way, wishing to see how things went in the place of his youthful days and follies.

            He put up at the same inn, in which were Helen and her father—he recollected perfectly the names of both their families—though Helen Brown and James Kemp were perfect strangers to him; there could, therefore, though each belonged to the opposing families, and the elder brother of the Captain was the boy whom Rosse had fought with, be no animosity between them; “but there,” said he, on recounting his victory to Mrs. Gennings: “the poor Captain is ill, and has been cheated not only by his agent, but by his rascally brother, whom I so well drubbed; let it therefore die away.”

            He had heard from his own agent the loss of Helen’s property; he himself was now in possession of about three thousand pounds, which he had invested in government securities.

            He had never seriously thought of matrimony, till he saw Helen—when struck with her beauty and other excellent qualities, he proposed himself to her father, who, enfeebled by disease, and catching at the offer, as a last hope of rescuing his beloved daughter from penury and wretchedness, urged her with a strange pertinacity to accept the hand of a man, perhaps the least suitable for so interesting a girl, that could be found.

            The death of the poor Captain soon occurred, as related in our first chapter.

CHAPTER IV.

Sure, some ill fate's upon me:

Distrust and heaviness sit round my heart,

And apprehension shocks my tim’rous soul.

Why was I not laid in my peaceful grave

With my poor parents, and at rest as they are?

Instead of that, I’m wand’ring into cares.

Otway.

            HELEN and Rosse having arrived at Portsmouth, immediately went to the house of the sister of Rosse, Mrs. Whippel, where he usually lodged when not at sea.

            He had hesitated whilst on the journey respecting the propriety of introducing Helen to the family, which now consisted of several children; some of whom were grown up and married; two only were at home: viz, a son and daughter, the former of whom had a clerk’s situation in the dock-yard.

            Rosse imagined that his marriage would be disagreeable to them, as they considered, should he remain single, they would become entitled, in case of his death, to the property he possessed.

            He determined, however, to make the trial, resolving to resent keenly the least affront that should be offered to his wife, for whom his attachment grew daily more strong and ardent.

            Her gentle manners, and interesting conversation (for she had now become more reconciled to her fate, and hence more communicative) were delightful to the rough Lieutenant’s feelings; and even Helen, on her part, the unpleasant sensations attendant on her having in so unexpected a manner been committed to the care of an absolute stranger, began to feel something like respect for Rosse, and to treat him with a delicacy she had never expected to be able to do.

            It is true that the passion of love was a stranger to her breast, and though his fondness towards her was at all times troublesome, yet she had penetration enough to see, that as her fate was linked to his for ever, it would be prudent, if not absolutely compulsory, to endeavour as much as possible to contribute to his happiness; as, were she to act otherwise, and treat him with indifference, his conduct might change from kindness to cruelty—blunt, coarse, and really of a sulky temper, he would either love or hate; and to rouse the bad passions of such a man, would have been worse than madness, in the case of a young, artless, and unprotected female.

            She, therefore, carefully watched his conduct to others, and observed those traits in his character, the opposing of which might render her truly wretched for the remainder of her life.

            In one of his conversations, he observed, that he could not brook opposition, and hence, because he was subordinate to his superiors in rank, he disliked the navy.

            His previous profession, the captain of a Guineaman, was sufficient to stamp him as one ill-calculated for a display of the softer amenities of our nature, and he had acquired, in consequence, a dictatorial and imperious manner towards his inferiors; his love of money was sufficient, however, to keep him in the profession, and to avail himself of the influence of Sir J—— C——, though his high notions of his own skill as a sailor, impressed him with the idea that, without it he ought to have been long ago promoted; indeed he had a tolerable stock of self-sufficiency in all things; every thing that belonged to him was of a superior quality—even his wife’s beauty had increased since she became Mrs. Rosse, and vanity claimed him as her most devoted admirer.

            Observing these things, Helen had squared her conduct accordingly, silently acquiescing in whatever she could not approve, and avoiding any remarks that might tend to disturb the happy elevation of mind, which her husband seemed at present to enjoy.

            Rosse’s suspicions were but too true relative to the effect which his marriage with Helen would have on his sister’s family.

            He had written a letter to his sister, apprizing her of that event, the receipt of which was like a spark applied to a barrel of gunpowder; she called her husband and the whole family about her, raved at the folly of her brother, called him a stupid old fool, and applied such other epithets to him as would effectually, had he heard them, have prevented him from re-entering their abode.

            Mr. Whippel, however, and two of the children, viz. Fanny and Thomas, acted with more rationality, and after the first exacerbation of Mrs. Whippel’s anger, her husband began to endeavour to soften the wrath of his rather untameable spouse.

            “My dear,” said he, “do not let passion disfigure you so, such conduct is unbecoming; had not your brother a right to marry if he pleased? I do not see that he was obliged to remain single for the benefit of our children.”

            “Indeed,” replied Frances, “I did not wish him to remain single—I hope I shall like his wife; but I suppose she is old enough to be our grandmother, and therefore will be no companion for us.

            “No, no! my lass,” said the father, “I know Dick’s taste better; take my word for it, his wife is both young and handsome—though he is a rough blade, he has not been wanting in making a good bargain where a petticoat is concerned—what will you bet, girls,” continued he, laughing, “that I am not right, hey?”

            “Why, I think you are right, father,” said the son, “and I would as soon take his opinion on a similar subject as any man’s.”

            “Oh!” said the youngest daughter, “I know Uncle values himself on his penetration, and I dare say he has been taken in at last, by some one we shall be ashamed of.”

            “Oh!” screamed the mother, “I shall not be surprised if he bring with him one of his old lasses; and thus, with all his penetration, bring disgrace on us all.”

            “Pho! pho!” said Mr. Whippel, “however fond Dick may have been of taking other men's wives, I’ll be bound for him he has not been so foolish as to marry one that would aid another in a similar way.”

            “Lord have mercy on both her body and soul,” said Thomas, “if she should, for I believe he would treat her with the same humanity he did the slaves, his former cargoes.”

            “Ah! well!” cried Mrs. Whippel, “I hope she will plague his life out, or that he may lead the life of a dog with her—he had no business to marry at all—he has lived to be nearly fifty without a wife, and I had hoped he would have continued so—the old fool that he is—I could tear out his eyes with vexation.”

            “Folly, mother, folly,” said the son, “I shall receive my aunt with good will, should she prove amiable.”

            “And so shall I,” said Frances, “besides we shall have a little gaiety on the occasion; and, for my part, I shall do my best to keep in favour with both.”

            “Right, girl,” said Mr. Whippel, “and I hope your mother will do the same, otherwise, we shall not only lose your uncle as a friend, but likewise aid our neighbours with two good lodgers instead of ourselves.”

            This hint had its proper effect on Mrs. Whippel, which was slyly noticed by the father to his son.

            “When are they expected?” said she.

            “In about a week from the date of his letter, and two days of that are past.”

            “Bless me,” ejaculated Mrs. Whippel, “I shall not have time to get the carpets up, and the curtains clean; we must begin immediately, though I detest the thought for what it should be done.”

            Mrs. Whippel, however, had plenty of time, for the illness of Helen detained the Lieutenant longer than he expected, and they travelled slowly to their destination in consequence.

            The family were sitting in conversation one evening, when a carriage was driving through the street; Thomas Whippel, to plague his mother and sisters, jumped up at the sound, and bawled, “they’re come, by Jove!” and to his own amazement, he saw his uncle pop his head from the window, and order the driver to stop.

            Tom and his father hurried to the door to receive them; they caught a sight of the bride, as Rosse was stepping out of the carriage.

            “Just as I thought, Tom,” whispered the father, “young and handsome.”

            “I am amazed,” cried Tom, “how did his donship get such a lovely creature?”

            There was no time for saying more, for Rosse shook hands with Whippel, saying, “I have brought my little girl at last,” and turning round, assisted Helen to step from the carriage.

            “I am glad to see you, madam,” said Whippel, and taking her by the hand led her into the house, Thomas showing the way, and enjoying the mistake his mother and sisters would confess they had made, in their estimation of the bride.

            Mrs. Whippel, and the girls, had been peeping through the window curtains, to endeavour to catch a glimpse of the face of Helen, but her veil falling on that side, they were disappointed, until she entered the room.

            Time had assuaged the ire of Mrs. Whippel, and she had determined to receive, and to treat with respect, the wife of her brother, whom she in reality regarded with affection.

            Her surprise, therefore, on seeing so beautiful and blooming a girl before her, so unlike every thing she had imagined, was stupefying to her senses, and she was unable to utter a compliment on her entry.

            Frances had more presence of mind; she went forward, and saluted her respectfully—welcomed her to the house, and introduced her to the other branches of the family, who appeared to be as equally struck with dumb astonishment as the mother.

            Rosse thought his sister appeared rather cool, and said, “Betsy, you seem stunned? Why did I not write to you, and request that you might be prepared to receive my wife?”

            “Faith, brother,” said she, “why so you did; but I expected to see you bring a lady more suitable in age to yourself, and this lady is surely younger than our——

            “Ha! ha! ha!” shouted Rosse, “I dare say you thought I was going to bring one as old as yourself, and you are many years older than me;” and perceiving Helen to be uneasy, he turned the conversation, by asking her what refreshment she would prefer, who answered, that tea would be the most agreeable. This set the whole family in motion: it was quickly prepared, and Helen at once entered into familiar chat with the relations of Rosse, with whom she became as great a favourite, as they had mistakingly anticipated she would be a nuisance.

            Frances Whippel, however, attracted the most attention and regard of Helen, and a congeniality of feeling was manifested between them; she was a handsome woman, kind, and amiable; she sympathised with Helen, when she informed her how happy she was to meet at last with one whose age and tastes so agreed with her own, having hitherto been used to the companionship only of an old maiden aunt; that Rosse had given her on the journey an account of the family, in which he spoke of her as his favourite, and she hoped on her part to merit her love and assistance when required.

            When Helen retired, Mrs. Hart, the married sister of Frances Whippel, was extremely inquisitive to know why her new aunt wore black?

            Frances answered her, that she did not know the reason: “I was fearful to ask, in order not to wound her feelings;” then told her that Rosse had informed them, in her absence, of her loss of fortune and her father’s death, and other things relative to her family.

            This was true; and though we have said that he was deficient in delicacy of sentiment, &c., yet in this case he had been both delicate and generous; for on being asked whether any thing at all had been left to Helen, he said yes—some land at Poole, &c., carefully avoiding the circumstance, that in marrying her, he had rescued her from dependence on her aunts.

            In having done so, however, it must be confessed, that it was because Helen was young and beautiful; and hence it proceeded from a partly selfish principle—he felt a passion for her, and having determined to marry, he drove nine knots an hour in his career; he was at present a happy man; the altered conduct of Helen on the journey had flattered him with the delusive hope that she loved him as well as he did her, mistaking her merely polite and passive acquiescence in his wishes as an equal return for his ardent professions of the most unbounded attachment.

            Helen, on her part, found herself still more at ease in meeting with so agreeable a companion as Frances Whippel, and retired from the party with more pleasurable feelings than her fondest wishes had anticipated.

            Helen having recovered the fatigue of her journey, was told by Rosse the next morning, that he should feel proud to introduce her to his brother officers.

            “Do not talk of it yet,” said Helen, “neither my health nor my spirits will bear it.”

            “I will not hurry you, my dear,” replied Rosse; “but being in the place, it is necessary that I should wait on the captain at his lodgings; the ship, as my brother officers inform me, being still in dock.”

            “Suppose,” said Frances, who now interfered, “that Mrs. Rosse makes her first appearance at the dock-yard chapel, on Sunday next, and then it will not be expected she should see any one: this is Thursday, and perhaps the intermediate time will be considered as sufficient rest for my dear aunt.”

            “So let it be,” said Rosse, “if Helen is agreeable.” She assented, and Rosse started to visit his captain. He expected to be jeered for his matrimonial speculation; and, therefore, determined to inform them of it, and prepared himself at once for their remarks, which he knew would be far off the wind, as regarded the age and personal qualifications of his bride.

            He found the first lieutenant, (Rosse being the second), the purser, and the doctor, with his commander.

            They welcomed him heartily on his return; he with an air of the greatest consequence informed them of what had happened in his absence.

            They all roared with laughter at this intelligence—“avast there, Rosse,” said the doctor! “tell that to the marines, for the sailors won’t have it, you may lash it alongside, but we cannot take it aboard.”

            “If it is true,” said the captain, “you have caught an odd fish like thyself, man; and by G— one was enough for the ship.”

            “Why, yes, sir,” said Rosse; “she is very different from the generality of her sex:” enjoying in his mind the surprise which would be occasioned when they found where that difference was.

            “Well!” retorted the doctor, “I always thought that if ever thou didst splice thyself, it would be to a most uncommon creature. Come, now, confess, has she a head or a tail? Is she gregarious or omnivorous? Is she within an ace of an Hottentot? What colour is she, black, blue or grey?”

            “Is she fair or brown?” said the purser.

            “Is she fat or lean?” bawled the doctor.

            “In a word,” asked the captain, “is she handsome or ugly?”

            “Hurrah!” cried Rosse; “I can stand your jibes on this occasion—I will answer you all in one way—Wait and judge for yourselves, gentlemen. Though I do not grudge being so communicative as to confess, that she is fairish for the wife of Dick Rosse, your most obedient servant, gentlemen. She goes to church on Sunday; after which she will be glad to see you, captain, and those impatient fellows who envy a man because he gets a wife he likes.”
            “Why, by G—!” said the doctor, “that is as much as to say, you fell in love with the wench; and surely that was impossible. Where did you pick her up? Whose daughter is she?”

            “Come, tell us that, Rosse,” said the captain, “as we ought to know whom we visit, before we do visit her.”

            This demand made Rosse draw himself proudly up, and say, “Sir, I am of no mean family myself, and let Mrs. Rosse have been whom she might, she is now my wife; but I will not be angry, as I do not suppose you mean to insult me—I will, therefore, tell you who and what she was; and he then recounted to them his adventure, steering clear of every thing like opposition to his marriage, and adding (to give something like importance to the worldly pretension of his wife), that though she had lost so much, yet she was not an absolute beggar: he then took his leave, rather annoyed than otherwise at the reception he had met with.

            When he was gone, they all continued to roar and joke on the unfortunate Rosse, and blow up the conceited savage, as they called him.

            “Did you not observe,” said the captain, “the air of pomposity with which he answered my question? By G—! what, if she had been his wife, I would not have paid her a formal visit, had he not satisfied me of her family and connexions. Did he not tell her age?”

            “A d—— old tabby, no doubt,” said the purser.

            “D— it, man,” said the doctor, laughing, “how could she have been an old maid—your old maids are generally able to protect themselves; neither are their feelings so acute as to fall ill at the death of a father, just at the moment of making sight of a husband. No, no, no old maid, depend upon that from me.”

            “Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “I really am surprised at the fact; Rosse seems so self-satisfied, I am inclined to think he has a fine girl in tow; and if it be so, how the devil came she to have that black savage?—there’s the wonder.

            “The wonder, indeed,” echoed the doctor; “and if it be so, as we’ve some fine fellows on board, I shall not grudge the poor devil his happiness; but really we will say our prayers on Sunday, and have a squint at the prodigy.”

            “I doubt, doctor, that thou ever sayest thy prayers!” observed the purser.

            “I follow thy example,” replied the doctor.

            “But hast not the grace to mend it,” said the other.

            “Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “Rosse is certainly a disagreeable fellow, and a conceited old puppy; but he is a good sailor, and knows and does his duty—

                        “Of long experience in the naval art,

Blunt is his speech and naked is his heart:

            Alike to him each climate and each blast,

                        The first in danger and retreat the last.”

            His new companion, I fear, will need the patience of Job; and should she prove to be of the breed of Zantippe, what the devil shall we do in a calm?”

            “Exercise the great guns, to be sure,” said the doctor.

            “Well said, scammony and gamboge,” retorted the purser; and they all fell again to laughing at the expence of their unfortunate brother officer.

            The captain and first lieutenant were single, and the doctor, purser, and marine officer were married. As the ladies of those gentlemen attended with their husbands at the wedding visit, and all are interwoven with our narrative, we shall have occasion hereafter to introduce them to our readers.

            On the Saturday afternoon preceding the Sunday when Helen was to appear at the chapel, Rosse, Helen and Frances were discussing matters relative to their manner of proceeding thither.

            “I have no doubt, Helen,” said Rosse, “but you will see several of our officers at church to-morrow. Does Frances go with you?”

            “Surely she does; and she attends me every where; and it has been agreed, that she shall act as my bride-maid on all occasions.”

            Rosse, smiling, said, “I was sure that you and Fanny would love each other; your tempers are both good, and your dispositions similar.”

            They both laughed, and Helen said, “I do not mean, however, to treat Amelia with neglect, but her mother informs me that she has a lover, and of course he prefers her company.”

            “Right!” said Rosse, “and a good fellow he is too; though I wonder he did not attack you, Fanny; those pretty eyes of yours are preferable surely to Amelia’s odd ones.”

            “Hush! hush!” said Frances, laughing, “if she should overhear you, we will never be forgiven; but to tell the truth, she has carried it triumphantly over me, that she should have got a lover before me, and I will confess, that I have at times been vexed at her fancied superiority.”

            “Never mind, Fan,” said her uncle, “you shall, with my wife, be introduced to good company. Hitherto I have refrained from introducing you to our officers, not being a married man, and consequently there would have been no one to watch over you: it is true, they are not all agreeable fellows, but there is one, the third lieutenant, a quiet well-behaved boy, for he is not above two or three-and-twenty. I wish Mitchell would take a fancy to you, my lass, for he is the only one I think well of on board.”

            “I wish, uncle, you had preferred the first lieutenant, as he will sooner be a captain.”

            “A pretty set I am to be introduced to then,” said Helen; “do pray give me an account of some of your brother officers, for they must, according to your account, be odd beings, I fancy.”

            “Odd, indeed,” replied Rosse; “I dare say that, as my wife, you will be treated with politeness and civility, even were you not so genteel and ladylike as you are; therefore, I am not uneasy on that score; but, I assure you, the fellows, in my eye, are a set of fools, and I should not care whether you ever noticed them or not.”

            “To begin, however, with the captain: he is a pale-faced fellow, and his courage is at a low ebb; he takes care to avoid all danger, and detests the smell of gunpowder; yet he is a bully, can growl and show his teeth, but never dare to draw the tompions.”

            “A genteel fellow, indeed,” said Helen; “but go on.”

            “The first lieutenant is an honourable, his father being a lord, and his mother a countess in her own right, I think they say, (for I am not up to these matters); he is as proud as Lucifer—the deck is not good enough for the puppy to walk on, and even the haughty captain bows down before him, in hopes of preferment through his interest; and, for that matter, so do the rest of the officers, except myself, who will not stoop to such a degradation.”

            “Well, but what is he in person?” asked Frances.

            “Oh, he’s a likely fellow enough, some think. The girls all say he is handsome, though I cannot see it; he is too effeminate—in fact, a dandy; he goes over the ship like a dancing dog, with his fripperies, and so on. They say he is a sailor, but I do not believe it; he is, however, new to the ship, and we shall soon sound him on that tack.”

            “Well, uncle,” said Frances, “the next is your honourable self, quite a sailor of course, you have mentioned Mr. Mitchell, and now go on with the rest.”

            “Oh, bother them! I can’t go through all—but the doctor is an Irishman, he thinks himself a witty fellow, he talks away like a parrot, and worse; for I can’t understand him, and you know I am a good judge of parrots.”

            Then there is the purser, who is always playing at chess with the doctor, and ever quarrelling with him: they are both married men.”

            “Then you need say no more about them,” said Frances.

            “But their wives,” said Helen, “you may d