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Lost Lenore: The Adventures of a Rolling Stone

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #35443 · 802,166 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Lost Lenore: The Adventures of a Rolling Stone

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: March 1, 2011 [eBook #35443]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35443

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOST LENORE: THE ADVENTURES OF A ROLLING STONE ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Lost Lenore
The Adventures of a Rolling Stone
By Charles Beach, edited Mayne Reid
Published by Charles J. Skeet, 10 King William Street, London.
This edition dated 1864.

Volume One, Chapter I.

FAMILY AFFAIRS.

The first important event of my life transpired on the 22nd May, 1831.
On that day I was born.

Six weeks after, another event occurred which no doubt exerted an
influence over my destiny: I was christened Rowland Stone.

From what I have read of ancient history--principally as given by the
Jews--I have reason to think, that I am descended from an old and
illustrious family.  No one can refute the evidence I have for believing
that some of my ancestors were in existence many hundred years ago.

The simple fact that I am in existence now is sufficient proof that my
family is of a descent, ancient and noble, as that of any other on
earth.

Perhaps there is no family, in its wanderings and struggles towards
remotest posterity, that has not experienced every vicissitude of
fortune; sometimes standing in the ranks of the great; and in the lapse
of ages descending to the lower strata of the social scale, and there
becoming historically lost.

I have not yet found it recorded, that any individual of the family to
which I belong ever held a very high position--not, in fact, since one
of them named Noah constructed a peculiar kind of sailing craft, of
which he was full owner, and captain.

It was my misfortune to be brought into existence at a period of the
world's history, when my father would be thought by many to be a man in
"humble circumstances of life."  He used to earn an honest living by
hard work.

He was a saddle and harness-maker in an obscure street in the city of
Dublin, and his name was William Stone.

When memory dwells on my father, pride swells up in my soul: for he was
an honest, temperate, and industrious man, and was very kind to my
mother and his children.  I should be an unworthy son, not to feel pride
at the remembrance of such a father!

There was nothing very remarkable in the character of my mother.  I used
to think different once, but that was before I had arrived at the age of
reason.  I used to think that she delighted to thwart my childish
inclinations--more than was necessary for her own happiness or mine.
But this was probably a fault of my wayward fancy.  I am willing to
think so now.

I was a little wilful, and no doubt caused her much trouble.  I am
inclined to believe, now that she treated me kindly enough--perhaps
better than I deserved.

I remember, that, up to the time I was eight years of age, it was the
work of two women to put a clean shirt on my back, and the operation was
never performed by them without a long and violent struggle.  This
remembrance, along with several others of a like nature, produces upon
me the impression, that my parents must have humoured my whims--too
much, either for my good or their own.

When I was yet very young, they thought that I was distinguished from
other children by a _penchant_ for suddenly and secretly absenting
myself from those, whose duty it was to be acquainted with my
whereabouts.  I often ran away from home to find playmates; and ran away
from school to avoid the trouble of learning my lessons.  At this time
of life, so strong was my propensity for escaping from any scene I did
not like, and betaking myself to such as I deemed more congenial to my
tastes, that I obtained the soubriquet of _The Rolling Stone_.

Whenever I would be missing from home, the inquiry would be made, "Where
is that Rolling Stone?" and this inquiry being often put in the school I
attended, the phrase was also applied to me there.  In short it became
my "nickname."

Perhaps I was a little vain of the appellation: for I certainly did not
try to win another, but, on the contrary, did much to convince
everybody, that the title thus extended to me was perfectly appropriate.

My father's family consisted of my parents, a brother, one year and a
half younger than myself, and a sister, about two years younger still.

We were not an unhappy family.  The little domestic cares, such as all
must share, only strengthened the desire for existence--in order that
they might be overcome.

My father was a man without many friends, and with fewer enemies, for he
was a person who attended to his own business, and said but little to
any one.  He had a talent for silence; and had the good sense not to
neglect the exercise of it--as many do the best gifts Nature has
bestowed upon them.

He died when I was about thirteen years old; and, as soon as he was gone
from us, sorrow and misfortune began for the first time to show
themselves in our house.

There are many families to whom the loss of a parent may be no great
calamity; but ours was not one of them; and, young as I was at the time,
I had the sense to know that thenceforward I should have to war with the
world alone.  I had no confidence in my mother's ability to provide for
her children, and saw that, by the death of my father, I was at once
elevated from the condition of a child to that of a man.

After his decease, the work in the shop was carried on by a young man
named Leary--a journeyman saddler, who had worked with my father for
more than a year previous to his death.

I was taken from school, and put to work with Mr Leary who undertook to
instruct me in the trade of a harness-maker.  I may say that the man
displayed considerable patience in trying to teach me.

He also assisted my mother with his counsel--which seemed guided by a
genuine regard for our interests.  He managed the business in the shop,
in what appeared to be the best manner possible; and the profits of his
labour were punctually handed over to my mother.

For several weeks after my father's death, everything was conducted in a
manner much more pleasant than we had any reason to expect; and the loss
we had sustained seemed not so serious to our future existence, as I had
at first anticipated.

All of our acquaintances thought we were exceedingly fortunate in having
such a person as Mr Leary, to assist us in carrying on the business.
Most of the neighbours used to speak of him in the highest terms of
praise; and many times have I heard my mother affirm that she knew not
what would become of us, if deprived of his assistance.

Up to this time Mr Leary had uniformly treated me with kindness.  I
knew of no cause for disliking him; and yet I did!

My conscience often rebuked me with this unexplained antipathy, for I
believed it to be wrong; but for all that, I could not help it.  I did
not even like his appearance; but, on the contrary, thought him the most
hideous person I had ever beheld.  Other people had a different opinion;
and I tried to believe that I was guided by prejudice in forming my
judgment of him.  I knew he was not to blame for his personal
appearance, nor for any other of my fancies; but none of these
considerations could prevent me from hating Matthew Leary, and in truth
I _did_ hate him.

I could not conceal my dislike--even from him; and I will do him the
justice to state that he appeared to strive hard to overcome it with
kindness.  All his efforts to accomplish this were in vain; and only
resulted in increasing my antipathy.

Time passed.  Mr Leary daily acquired a greater control of the affairs
of our family; and in proportion as his influence over my mother
increased, so did my hostility towards him.

My mother strove to conquer it, by reminding me of his kindness to all
the family--the interest he took in our common welfare--the trouble he
underwent in teaching me the business my father had followed--and his
undoubted morality and good habits.

I could not deny that there was reason in her arguments; but my dislike
to Mr Leary was independent of reason: it had sprung from instinct.

It soon became evident to me that Mr Leary would, at no distant period,
become one of the family.  In the belief of my mother, younger brother,
and sister, he seemed necessary to our existence.

My mother was about thirty-three years of age; and did not appear old
for her years.  She was not a bad looking woman--besides, she was
mistress of a house and a business.  Mr Leary possessed neither.  He
was but a journeyman saddler; but it was soon very evident that he
intended to avail himself of the opportunity of marrying my mother and
her business, and becoming the master of both.

It was equally evident that no efforts of mine could prevent him from
doing so, for, in the opinion of my mother, he was every thing required
for supplying the loss of her first husband.

I tried to reason with her, but must admit, that the only arguments I
could adduce were my prejudices, and I was too young to use even them to
the best advantage.  But had they been ever so just, they would have
been thrown away on my father's widow.

The many seeming good traits in the character of Mr Leary, and his
ability for carrying on the work in the shop, were stronger arguments
than any I could urge in answer to them.

My opposition to their marriage--now openly talked about--only
engendered ill-will in the mind of my mother; and created a coldness, on
her part, towards myself.  When finally convinced of her intention to
become Mrs Leary, I strove hard to overcome my prejudices against the
man: for I was fully aware of the influence he would have over me as a
step-father.

It was all to no purpose.  I hated Mr Leary, and could not help it.

As soon as my mother had definitively made known to me her intention of
marrying him, I felt a strong inclination to strengthen my reputation as
a runaway, by running away from home.  But such an exploit was then a
little too grand for a boy of my age to undertake--with much hope of
succeeding in its accomplishment.  I did not like to leave home, and
afterwards be compelled to return to it--when I might be worse off than
ever.

I formed the resolution, therefore, to abide in my mother's--soon to be
Mr Leary's--house, until circumstances should force me to leave it; and
that such circumstances would ere long arise, I had a painful
presentiment.  As will be found in the sequel, my presentiment was too
faithfully fulfilled.

Volume One, Chapter II.

A SUDDEN CHANGE OF CHARACTER.

Never have I witnessed a change so great and sudden as came over Mr
Leary, after his marriage with my mother.

He was no longer the humble journeyman--with the deportment of a
respectable young fellow striving to retain a situation, and gain
friends by good conduct.  The very day after the wedding, his behaviour
was that of a vain selfish overbearing plebeian, suddenly raised from
poverty to wealth.  He no longer spoke to me in his former feigned tone
of kindness, but with threats, in a commanding voice, and in accents far
more authoritative, than my father had ever used to me.

Mr Leary had been hitherto industrious, but was so no longer.  He
commenced, by employing another man to work in the shop with me, and
plainly expressed by his actions that his share in the business was to
be the spending of the money we might earn.

Up to that time, he had passed among his acquaintances as a temperate
man; but in less than three weeks after his marriage, he came home drunk
on as many occasions; and each time spoke to my mother in an insulting
and cruel manner.

I took no trouble to conceal from Mr Leary my opinion of him and his
conduct; and it soon became evident to all, that he and I could not
remain long as members of the same family.

Our difficulties and misunderstandings increased, until Mr Leary
declared that I was an ungrateful wretch--unworthy of his care; that he
could do nothing with me; and that I should remain no longer in his
house!

He held a long consultation with my mother, about what was to be done
with me--the result of which was, that I was to be sent to sea.  I know
not what arguments he used; but they were effectual with my mother, for
she gave consent to his plans, and I was shortly after bound apprentice
to Captain John Brannon, of the ship "Hope," trading between Dublin and
New Orleans.

"The sea is the place for you, my lad," said Mr Leary, after the
indenture had been signed, binding me to Captain Brannon.  "Aboard of a
ship, you will learn to conduct yourself in a proper manner, and treat
your superiors with respect.  You are going to a school, where you will
be taught something--whether you are willing to learn it, or not."

Mr Leary thought, by sending me to sea, he was obtaining some revenge
for my ill-will towards him; but he was mistaken.  Had he known what
pleasure the arrangement gave me, he would, perhaps, have tried to
retain me a little longer working in the shop.  As I had already
resolved to leave home, I was only too glad at being thus sent away--
instead of having the responsibility of an indiscretion resting on
myself.  I had but one cause for regret, and that was leaving my mother,
brother, and sister, to the tender mercies of a man like Mr Leary.

But what was I to do?  I was not yet fourteen years of age, and could
not have protected them from him by staying at home.  The hatred between
us was mutual; and, perhaps, when his spite was no longer provoked by my
presence, he might treat the rest of the family better.  This was the
only thought that consoled me on parting with my relatives.

I could do nothing but yield to circumstances, leave them to their
destiny, whatever that was to be, and go forth upon the world in search
of my own.

My brother bore our father's name, William Stone.  He was a fair-haired,
blue-eyed boy, with a mild, gentle disposition, and was liked by
everyone who knew him.  He never did an action contrary to the expressed
wishes of those who had any authority over him; and, unlike myself, he
was always to be found when wanted.  He never tried to shirk his work,
or absent himself from school.

My little sister, Martha, was a beautiful child, with curly flaxen hair,
and I never gazed on anything more beautiful than her large deep blue
eyes, which seemed to express all the mental attributes of an angel.

It pained me much to leave little Martha--more than parting either with
my mother or brother.

My mother wished to furnish me with a good outfit, but was prevented
from doing so by Mr Leary--who said that he could not afford the
expense.  He declared, moreover, that I did not deserve it.

After my box was sent aboard the ship, and I was ready to follow it,
little Willie and Martha were loud in their grief, and I had to tear
myself away from their presence.

When it came to parting with my mother, she threw her arms around me,
and exclaimed, "My poor boy, you _shall_ not leave me!"

Mr Leary gave her a glance out of his sinister eyes, which had the
effect of suddenly subduing this expression of grief, and "we parted in
silence and tears."

Often, and for hours, have I thought of that parting scene, and wondered
why and how Mr Leary had obtained so great an influence over the mind
of my poor mother.

I once believed that she had a will of her own, with the courage to show
it--an opinion that had been formed from observations made during the
life of my father, but since her marriage with Mr Leary, she seemed
afraid of giving utterance to a word, that might express independence,
and allowed him, not only to speak but think for her.

I knew that she had much affection for all of us, her children--and her
regret at thus sending me, at so early an age to encounter the hardships
of a long voyage must have been deep and sincere.

I know that her heart was nearly breaking at that moment.  The
expression of her features, and the manner in which she wrung my hand,
told me so; and yet the passion of my grief was not equal in power to
that of her fear for the frowns of Mr Leary.

My amiable step-father accompanied me to the ship, which was lying in
Dublin Bay; and on our way thither, he became much excited with drink.
He was so elated with whiskey, and with the idea that I was going away,
that he did not speak to me in his usual unpleasant tone.  On the
contrary, he seemed all kindness, until we had got aboard the ship.

"Now my little `Rolling Stone,'" said he, when about to take leave of
me, "you are going to have plenty of rolling now, and may you roll so
far away, as never to roll across my path again."

He appeared to think this was very witty, for he was much amused at what
he had said, and laughed long and loudly.

I made no reply, until he was in the boat, which was about to shove off
from the ship, when, looking over the bulwarks, I called after him.

"Mr Leary! if you ill-use my mother, brother, or sister, in my absence,
_I will certainly kill you when I come back_."

Mr Leary made no reply, further than to answer me with a smile, that a
hyena might have envied.

Volume One, Chapter III.

STORMY JACK.

There have been so many stories told of the sufferings of boys, when
first sent to sea, that I shall not dwell long on those that befell
myself.

What a world to me was that ship!  I little knew, before it became my
home, how many great men there were in the world.  By great men, I mean
those high in authority over their fellows.

I went aboard of the ship, with the idea that my position in it would be
one which ordinary people might envy.  I was guided to this opinion by
something said by the captain, at the time the indentures of my
apprenticeship were being signed.  No sooner were we out to sea, than I
learnt that there were at least a dozen individuals on board, who
claimed the right of commanding my services, and that my situation on
board was so humble, as to place me far beneath the notice of the
captain in command.  I had been told that we were to be _friends_, but
before we were a week out, I saw that should it be my lot to be lost
overboard, the captain might only accidentally learn that I was gone.
The knowledge of this indifference to my fate was not pleasant to me.
On the contrary, I felt disappointed and unhappy.

Aboard of the ship were four mates, two boatswains, a carpenter and
_his_ mate, and a steward, besides some others who took a little trouble
to teach me my duty, by giving me orders which were frequently only
given, to save themselves the trouble of doing what they commanded me to
do.

Only one of these many masters ever spoke to me in a pleasant manner.
This was the boatswain of the watch, in which I was placed, who was
called by his companions, "Stormy Jack," probably for the reason that
there was generally a tempest in his mind, too often expressed in a
storm of words.

For all this, Stormy Jack was every inch a sailor, a true British tar,
and all know what that means.

Perhaps I should have said, that all know what it might have meant in
times past, for Stormy Jack was not a fair specimen of English sailors
of the present day.  The majority of the men aboard of British ships are
not now as they were thirty years ago.  English sailors, in general,
seem to have lost many of the peculiarities that once distinguished them
from other people, and a foreign language is too often spoken in the
forecastle of English ships.

To return to Stormy Jack.

One day the carpenter had ordered me to bring him a pannikin of water.
Leaving a job on which I had been set to work by Stormy Jack, I started
to obey.  In doing so, I caught the eye of the latter, who was standing
a little to one side, and had not been seen by the carpenter as he gave
me the order.

Stormy shook his head at me, and pointed to the work he had himself
ordered me to perform, in a manner that plainly said, "go at it again."

I obeyed this interpretation of his signal, and resumed my task.

"Did you hear what I said?" angrily shouted the carpenter.

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Then why do you not start, and do what I told you?"

I stole a sly glance at Stormy Jack, and seeing upon his face a smile,
approving of what I did, I made bold to answer, in a somewhat brusque
manner, that I had other work on hand, and, moreover, it was not my
business to wait upon him.

The carpenter dropped his adze, caught up his measuring rule, and
advanced towards me.

He was suddenly stopped by the strong hand of Stormy placed firmly on
his shoulder.

"Avast!" said the sailor, "don't you molest that boy at his work.  If
you do, I am the one to teach you manners."

The carpenter was a man who knew "how to choose an enemy," and with such
wisdom to guide him, he returned to his own work, without resenting in
any way the check he had thus met with.

The fact that I had refused to obey the carpenter, and that Stormy Jack
had interceded in my behalf, became known amongst the others who had
been hitherto bullying me, and I was afterwards permitted to go about
the ship, without being the slave of so many masters.

Some time after the incident above related, Stormy Jack chanced to be
standing near me, and commenced a conversation which was as follows:

"You are a boy of the right sort," said he, "and I'll not see you
mistreated.  I heard what you said to the lubber as brought you aboard,
and I always respects a boy as respects his mother.  I hope that man in
the boat was not your father."

"No," I answered, "he is my step-father."

"I thought as much," said Stormy, "by his appearing so pleased to get
rid of you.  It's my opinion no one ought to have more than one father;
but you must brace up your spirits, my lad.  Two or three voyages will
make a man of you, and you will then be able to go back home, and teach
the lubber manners, should he forget 'em.  Do the best you can aboard
here to larn your duty, and I'll keep an eye on you.  If any one goes to
boxing your compass, when you don't deserve it, I'll teach him manners."

I thanked Stormy for his kind advice, and promised to do all I could to
merit his protection.

After having made a friend of Stormy, and an enemy of the carpenter, I
began to be more at home on the ship, and took a stronger interest in
its mysteries and miseries.  Familiarity does not with all things breed
contempt.  That it should not is a wise provision of Nature, for the
accommodation of the majority of mankind--whose necessity it is to
become familiar with many cares, annoyances, and disagreeable
circumstances.

Second nature, or habit, is only acquired by familiarity, and seamen
become so familiar with all that is disagreeable in a life on the sea,
that they are never satisfied long with any home, but a floating one.
The mind of youth soon becomes reconciled to circumstances, however
unpleasant, much sooner than that of an older person, and this was
probably the reason why, although greatly dissatisfied at the beginning
of the voyage, I soon became so contented with a life on the sea, that I
preferred it to one on land--at least in a home with Mr Leary as my
master.

Upon occasions, Stormy Jack permitted the storm in his soul to rage a
little too wildly.  One of these occasions occurred about two weeks,
before we reached New Orleans.  He had got into a dispute with the
second mate about the setting of a sail, and both becoming intemperate
in the use of the Queen's English, words were used which had to be
resented with violence.

The first assault was made by the mate, who soon found that he was but a
child in the hands of Stormy Jack.

The first mate happened to be on deck smoking his pipe, as also the
carpenter, and, as in duty bound, both ran to the relief of their
brother officer.  Poor Stormy was knocked down with the carpenter's
mallet, his hands were tied behind him, and he was dragged below.

The next day I was allowed to take him his dinner, and found him well
pleased with his situation.  I was expecting to see him in great grief
over his misfortune--which to me appeared very serious--and was
agreeably surprised to find him in better spirits than I had ever seen
him before.

"It's all right, Rowley, my boy," said he.  "If they can afford to keep
me in idleness, and pay me wages for doing nothing, I'm not the one to
complain.  I'm glad this has happened, for I never liked the first
breezer, nor yet Chips, and now I've got an opportunity for letting them
know it.  I'm going to leave the ship, and when I've done so, I'll teach
them manners."

I expressed the opinion, that it could not be very pleasant to be kept
so long in a dark place and alone.

"That's no punishment," said Stormy.  "Can't I sleep?  I've been served
worse than this.  On a voyage to India I refused duty on the second week
out.  I was put in a pen along with some turkeys and geese, and was told
whenever I would go to my duty, I should be taken out.  I never gave in,
and finished the voyage in the turkey coop.  That was far worse than
this, for the noise on deck, with the conversation between my
companions, the turkeys and geese, often used to keep me from sleep.
That was a queer plan for teaching a fellow manners, but I did not let
it succeed.

"I was going to say one place was as good as another, but it a'nt.  This
ship is no place for me.  After we reach New Orleans I shall leave it,
and if ever I come across eyther the first breezer, or carpenter,
ashore, they'll both larn what they never knew afore, and that's
manners.  When two men are fighting, another has no right to interrupt
either of 'em with a blow of a mallet, and the man who does so has no
manners, and wants teachin'."

I was pleased to hear Stormy say that he intended to leave the ship, for
the idea of doing so myself had often entered my thoughts, and had been
favourably entertained.

I had no great hopes of finding a better home than I had on board the
ship, but I had been placed there by Leary, and that was sufficient
reason for my wishing to leave her.  He had driven me from my own home,
and I would not live in one of his choosing.

I resolved, therefore, to take leave of the ship if Stormy would allow
me to become his companion, and even if he should not, I had more than
half determined upon running away.

Volume One, Chapter IV.

A CHANGE OF CALLING.

Two days before we reached New Orleans, Stormy Jack expressed some sham
contrition for what he had done, with an inclination to return to his
duty.  He was liberated, and once more the deck was enlivened by the
sound of his rough manly voice giving the necessary orders for working
the ship.

I found a favourable opportunity of telling him, that I should like to
go along with him.  At first he objected to aid me, and urged me to
remain, as a reason for my doing so, urging the argument: that a boy
serving his apprenticeship was much better off than one wandering about
without a home.

To me this argument was worth nothing.  The idea of remaining for seven
years in a situation chosen for me by Mr Leary, was too absurd to be
seriously entertained for a moment.  I told Stormy so; and he finally
consented that I should go with him.

"My reason for objecting at first," said he, "was because I did not like
to be troubled with you; but that's not exactly the right sort o'
feeling for a Christian to steer by.  One should expect to have some
trouble with those as need a helping hand, and I don't know why I should
try to shirk from my share of it."

I promised Stormy that I would try not to cause him any trouble, or as
little as possible.

"Of course you will try," said he, "or if you don't, I'll teach you
manners."

Stormy's threat did not alarm me; and our conversation at the time
ended--leaving me well pleased with the prospect of getting clear of the
ship, by his assistance.

Stormy's return to duty was only a pretence.  It was done to deceive the
officers--so that he might the more easily find an opportunity of
escaping from the ship.

Two days after our arrival in the port of New Orleans, he was allowed
liberty to go ashore; and I was permitted to accompany him.  The Captain
probably supposed that the wages due to Stormy would bring him back; and
the suspicion, that a boy like myself should wish to leave the ship, had
never entered into his mind.

Several of our shipmates went ashore along with us; and the first thing
we all thought of was, what the reader will readily imagine, to find a
place where strong drink was sold.  This is usually a sailor's first
thought on going ashore after a voyage.

After having taken two or three glasses with our shipmates, Stormy gave
me a wink, and sidled towards the door.  I followed him; and slipping
unperceived into the street, we turned a corner, and kept on through
several streets--until we had arrived at another part of the city.  The
little that Stormy had drunk had by this time only sharpened his
appetite for more.

"Here I am," said he, "with clear twelve shillings in my pocket.  What a
spell of fun I could have, if 'twas not for you!  Seven weeks without a
spree, and now can't have it because I've you to take care of.  Thought
'twould be so.  Rowley, my boy! see what I'm suffering for you.  You are
teaching me manners, whether I'm willing to larn 'em or not."

I allowed the sailor to go on uninterrupted with his storm of
complaints, although there was a reflection in my mind, that if I was
keeping him from getting drunk, the obligation was not all on my side.

Stormy had but twelve shillings, and I half-a-crown, which the Captain
had given to me before coming ashore.

It was necessary that something should be done, before this money should
be all spent.

Under ordinary circumstances, the sailor need not have felt any
apprehension, about being out of money.  He could easily get employment
in another vessel; but as matters stood, Stormy was afraid of being
caught, should he attempt to join another ship--before that from which
he had deserted had taken her departure from the port.  If caught,
Stormy knew he would be punished; and this rendered him a trifle
serious.

The next day we passed in wandering about the city--taking care to avoid
all places where we would be likely to meet with any of the officers, or
men of the ship "Hope."

Stormy's thoughts were all day in a fearful storm, commingled with
anxiety as to what we should do to make a living.

"On your account, Rowley," said he, "I'm not misinclined for a spell on
shore, if I could find anything to do, but that's the trouble.  There's
not much work ashore, that be proper for an honest man to bear a hand
in.  What little of such work there is here, is done by darkies, while
white men do all the cheating and scheming.  Howsomever, lad, we must
try to get at something."

The next day Stormy did try; and obtained work at rigging a new ship,
that had just been launched.  The job would last for a month.  The wages
were good; and the storm in Stormy's mind had now subsided into an
agreeable calm.

We sought a cheap lodging-house, not far from where his work was to be
performed; and that evening the sailor indulged in a pipe and a glass,
from which he had prudently refrained during all the day.

I was unwilling that the burden of supporting me should be borne by my
generous protector; and being anxious to do something for myself, I
asked him what I should go about.

"I've just been thinking of that," said he, "and I believe I've hit upon
an idea.  Suppose you sell newspapers?  I see many lads about your age
in that business here; and they must make something at it.  It's not
hard work, besides it appears to be very respectable.  It is a lit'rary
business, as no boy should be 'shamed of."

I approved of the plan, and joyfully agreed to give it a trial.

It was arranged that the next morning I should go to the office of a
daily paper--buy a bundle of copies; and try to dispose of them at a
profit.

Early the next morning, Stormy started off to his work on the ship, and
I to a newspaper office.

I reached the place too early to get out the papers; but found several
boys waiting like myself.  I joined their company, listened to them, and
was much interested in their conversation, without very clearly
comprehending what they were talking about.

I could distinctly hear every word they said; but the meaning of the
words I knew not, for the most of them were slang phrases--such as I had
never heard before.

I could see that they were very fast boys--much faster than I was--
although the "Rolling Stone" had not been for several years rolling
through the streets of Dublin, without learning some city sharpness.

I entered into conversation with two of the boys, in order to find out
something of the business of news-vending; and could see from their
manner that they regarded me, as they would have said, "not all thar."

They pretended to give me such information as I required; but I
afterwards learnt that they had not told me one word of truth.

When the papers were published, I went in with the others, put down a
half dollar, and received in exchange the correct number of copies.  I
hurried out, walked some distance from the office, and commenced
offering my wares for sale.

On turning down a wide street, I met three gentlemen, each of whom took
a copy out of my hands and gave me a picayune in return.

I was doing business for myself--buying and selling; and in my soul
arose a feeling of independence and pride that has never been so
thoroughly awakened since.

I passed along the street, till I came to a large hotel, where I saw two
other gentlemen under the verandah.

I went up to them, offered my goods as before, and each took a
newspaper.  As one of them offered me payment for his copy, I had hardly
the strength to hand him the paper and take his money.  I nearly dropped
to the pavement.  The man was Captain Brannon, of the ship "Hope," to
whom I had been apprenticed!

I moved away from him as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me; and
the glance which I could not help throwing over my shoulder, told me
that I had not been recognised.

This was the man, who had promised to treat me as he would his own son;
and yet during a long voyage had taken so little notice of me, that I
could thus transact business with him, without being recognised!

By twelve o'clock my work for the day was finished; and I returned to
the lodging-house with a dollar in picayune pieces--having made a
hundred per cent on my capital.

I was at that hour the happiest boy in New Orleans.

I was happy, yet full of impatience, as I waited through the long
afternoon for the return of Stormy Jack.

There was pride and pleasure in the anticipation of his approval of my
exertions, when I should show him the money I had made.  It was the
first money I had ever earned--my only transactions with the circulating
medium before that time, having been to spend it, as fast as it could be
obtained from a fond father.

I entered into an elaborate calculation by an arithmetical rule I had
learned under the name of "reduction," and found that I had made in one
day, by my own exertions, over two shillings of English money.

I had pride--pride in my ability to make money at all, and pride in my
scholastic acquirements, which enabled one so young to tell how much had
been gained, for I was not able to comprehend fully the amount, until I
had brought it into shillings and pence.

With burning impatience I waited for the return of Stormy.  Being
fatigued, however, I fell asleep, and dreamt of having made a fortune,
and of having had a fight with Mr Leary, in which that gentleman--to
make use of Stormy's favourite expression--had been "taught some
manners."

When I awoke, I looked eagerly at a clock.  It was past seven in the
evening, and Stormy Jack had not returned!

He had been due more than an hour.  The happiness I had been all day
indulging in, suddenly forsook me; and a sickening sensation of
loneliness came over my soul.

I sat up waiting and watching for him until a very late hour--in fact
until I was driven to bed by the landlady; but Stormy did not return.

Volume One, Chapter V.

GOD HELP US!

No week of my life ever seemed so long, as that night spent in waiting
for the return of Stormy Jack.  It was not until the sun beams were
gushing through my window in the morning, that I was able to fall
asleep.

By nine o'clock I was up, and out upon the streets in search of my
companion and protector.  My search was continued all day without
success.

I did not know the name of the ship on which he had gone to work; and
therefore I had no clue to his whereabouts.  In fact I had such a slight
clue to guide me, that my search was but little less than the pursuit of
folly.

I did not like to believe that Stormy had wilfully deserted me.

In my lone and friendless condition, with the memory of the way in which
I had left my mother, to have thought so, would have made me desirous of
dying.  I had rather think that some serious accident had happened him,
than that he had abandoned me to my fate, to avoid any further trouble I
might give him.

Another idea occurred to me.  He might have been found by some of the
officers of the "Hope," and either taken aboard, or imprisoned for
deserting.  This was so probable, that for awhile I was tempted to go
back to the ship and resume my duties.

Reflection told me, that if he had fallen into the hands of the captain,
he would not leave me alone in a city like New Orleans.  He would tell
the captain where I was staying, and have me sent for and brought
aboard.

The only, or what seemed the best thing I could do, was to return to the
lodging-house, and there await the event.

After a long weary day spent in vain search for my lost companion, I
carried this idea into effect, and went back to the lodging-house.  As I
anticipated, Stormy had not returned to it.

The landlady was a woman of business; and fancied, or rather believed,
that my responsible protector had deserted me, leaving her with a boy to
keep, and a bill unpaid.

She asked me if I had any money.  In reply, I produced all I had.  All
but one "picayune" of it was required, for the payment of the score we
had already run up.

"Now, my lad," said she, "you had better try to find some employment,
where you will earn a living.  You are welcome to stay here to-night,
and have your breakfast in the morning.  You will then have all day
to-morrow to find another home."

The next morning, after I had swallowed my breakfast, she came to me and
bid me an affectionate "good bye."  It was a broad hint that she neither
expected, nor wished me to stay in her house any longer.

I took the hint, walked out into the street, and found myself in a
crowd, but alone, with the great new world before me.

"What shall I do?" was the question set before a full committee of my
mental faculties, assembled, or awakened, to deliberate on the emergency
of the moment.

I could be a newsvendor no longer: for the want of capital to invest in
the business.

I could return to the ship, and perhaps get flogged for having run away;
but I was so disappointed in the treatment I had received at the hands
of the captain, that nothing but extreme suffering could have induced me
to seek protection from him.

The restraint to which I had been subjected on board the ship, seemed
partly to have emanated from Mr Leary, and for that reason was to me
all the more disagreeable.

I wandered about the streets, reflecting on what I should do until both
my brain and legs became weary.

I sat down on some steps leading to the door of a restaurant.  My young
heart was still strong, but beating wildly.

Over the door of a grocer's shop in front of me, and on the opposite
side of the street, I read the name "John Sullivan."  At sight of this
familiar name, a glimmering of hope entered into my despairing mind.

Four years previous to that time, the grocer with whom my parents used
to deal had emigrated to America.  His name was John Sullivan.  Was it
possible that the shop and the name before me belonged to this man?

I arose, and crossed the street.  I entered the shop, and inquired of a
young man behind the counter, if Mr Sullivan was at home.

"He's up stairs," said the youth.  "Do you wish to see him in
particular?"

I answered in the affirmative; and Mr Sullivan was called down.

The man I hoped to meet was, when I saw him last, a little man with red
hair; but the individual who answered the summons of the shop boy, was a
man about six feet in his stockings, with dark hair and a long black
beard.

I saw at a glance, that the grocer who had emigrated from Dublin and the
man before me were not identical, but entirely different individuals.

"Well, my lad, what do you want?" asked the tall proprietor of the shop,
looking down on me with a glance of curious inquiry.

"Nothing," I stammered out, perhaps more confused than I had ever been
before.

"Then what have you had me called for?" he asked, in a tone that did
little to aid me in overcoming my embarrassment.

After much hesitation and stammering, I explained to him that from
seeing his name over the door, I had hoped to find a man of the same
name, with whom I had been acquainted in Ireland, and who had emigrated
to America.

"Ah!" said he, smiling ironically.  "My father's great-grandfather came
over to America about two hundred and fifty years ago.  His name was
John Sullivan.  Perhaps you mean him?"

I had nothing to say in answer to this last interrogation, and was
turning to leave the shop.

"Stop my lad!" cried the grocer.  "I don't want to be at the trouble of
having come downstairs for nothing.  Supposing I was the John Sullivan
you knew--what then?"

"Then you would tell me what I should do," I answered, "for I have
neither home, friends, nor money."

In reply to this, the tall shopkeeper commenced submitting me to a sharp
examination--putting his queries in a tone that seemed to infer the
right to know all I had to communicate.

After obtaining from me the particulars relative to my arrival in the
country, he gave me his advice in exchange.  It was, to return instanter
to the ship from which I had deserted.

I told him that this advice could not be favourably received, until I
had been about three days without food.

My rejoinder appeared to cause a change in his disposition towards me.

"William!" said he, calling out to his shop-assistant, "can't you find
something for this lad to do for a few days?"

William "reckoned" that he could.

Mr Sullivan then returned upstairs; and I, taking it for granted that
the thing was settled, hung up my hat.

The grocer had a family, living in rooms adjoining the shop.  It
consisted of his wife and two children--the eldest a girl about four
years of age.

I was allowed to eat at the same table with themselves; and soon became
well acquainted with, and I believe well liked by, them all.  The little
girl was an eccentric being, even for a child; and seldom said a word to
anyone.  Whenever she did speak, she was sure to make use of the phrase,
"God help us!"

This expression she had learnt from an Irish servant wench, who was in
the habit of making frequent use of it; and it was so often echoed by
the little girl, in a parrot-like manner, that Mr Sullivan and his
wife--at the time I joined the family were striving to break her from
the habit of using it.

The servant girl, when forbidden by her mistress ever to use the
expression in the child's presence, would cry out: "God help us, Mem!  I
can't help it."

Whenever the words were spoken by little Sarah--this was the child's
name--Mrs Sullivan would say, "Sarah, don't you ever say that again.
If you do, you shall be locked up in the cellar."

"God help us!" little Sarah would exclaim, in real alarm at the threat.

"There you go again.  Take that, and that," Mrs Sullivan would cry,
giving the child two or three slaps on the side of the head.

"Oh mother! mother!  God help us!" little Sarah would cry out,
altogether unconscious of the crime she was committing.

Every effort made, for inducing the child to refrain from the use of
this expression, only caused its more frequent repetition; and often in
a manner so ludicrous, as to conquer the anger of her parents, and turn
it into laughter.

When I had been about five weeks with Mr Sullivan, I was engaged one
morning in washing the shop windows, and accidentally broke a large and
costly pane of plate glass.  A sudden shock came over my spirits--one
more painful than I had ever experienced.  Mr Sullivan had been so kind
to me, that to do him an injury, accidentally or otherwise, seemed the
greatest misfortune that could happen to me.

He was upstairs at the time; and I had not the moral courage to face
him.  Had I waited for him to come down, and see what had been done, he
might have said something that would have pained me to hear; but
certainly nothing more serious would have happened, and all would have
been well again.

I must have a disposition constitutionally inclined to absconding.  To
run away, as my mother had often told me, must be my _nature_.  I would
rather believe this than otherwise, since I do not wish to be charged
with the voluntary indiscretion of deserting a good home.  It was only
an overwhelming sense of the kindness with which I had been treated, and
the injury I had inflicted on my benefactor, that caused me to dread an
encounter with Mr Sullivan.

Perhaps a boy with a smaller sense of gratitude and less sensitiveness
of soul, would have acted differently; and yet would have acted right:
for it is always better to meet a difficulty boldly, than to flee in a
cowardly manner from the responsibilities attending it.

Little Sarah Sullivan happened to be in the shop at the time I broke the
window.  I heard her exclaim, "God help us!"

I did not stay to hear any more: for in six seconds after, I had turned
the nearest corner; and was once more homeless in the streets of New
Orleans.

Volume One, Chapter VI.

ONCE MORE UPON THE OCEAN!

I did not dislike a sea life; and would not have been dissatisfied with
any situation on a ship, providing it had not been procured for me by
Mr Leary.

On running away from Mr Sullivan's shop, my inclination was to leave
New Orleans in some ship; but, unfortunately, I knew not the proper
manner of going to work to accomplish my desires.

I walked along the levee, till I reached a ship, that was just being
hauled from the wharf--evidently for the purpose of standing down the
river and out to sea.

I stepped aboard intending to apply for work; and after looking around
for a while, I observed a man who, to all appearance, was the captain.

When asked to give me some situation in the ship, he appeared too busy
to pay any attention to my request.

I was on a vessel proceeding to sea; and, knowing my ability to make
myself useful, I determined not to go ashore without a hearing.

I walked forward; and amidst the confusion of getting the ship under
way--where there was so much to be done--I found work enough to do; and
took much care, while doing it, to keep out of the way of others--which,
to a boy aboard of a ship, is a task of some difficulty.

No one seemed to take any notice of me that afternoon or evening; and
about nine o'clock at night I laid down under the long boat, fell
asleep, and slept till morning.

I turned out at the earliest hour, and lent a hand at washing the decks;
but still no one seemed to know, that I was not one of the ship's
company!

At eight o'clock the crew were mustered, and divided into watches.  My
name was not called: and the captain observing the circumstance,
requested me to walk aft.

"Who are you?" asked he, as I drew near.

Something whispered me not to undervalue myself, but to speak up with
confidence; and in answer to his demand, I told him that I was a
_Rolling Stone_.

"A Rolling Stone, are you?" said the captain.  "Well, what have you
rolled here for?"

"Because I wanted to go somewhere," I answered.

He then asked me if I had ever been at sea; and, on learning the name of
the ship I had deserted, he said that she had sailed the week before, or
he would have sent me back to her.

He concluded his examination, by giving the steward orders to look after
me--telling him that I could assist in the slop work to be done in the
cabin.

To this arrangement I decidedly objected, declaring that I was a
_sailor_, and would not be made a _cuddy servant_!

I have every reason to believe, that this declaration on my part
elevated me several degrees in the captain's good opinion.

He replied by expressing a hope, that I would not aspire to the command
of the ship; and if not, he would see what could be done for me.

The vessel was bound for Liverpool with cotton; and was owned by the
captain himself, whose name was Hyland.

I was never better treated in my life, than on board that ship.

I was not assigned to any particular occupation, or watch; but no
advantage was taken of this circumstance, on the captain's part, to make
me do too much, or by me to do too little.

I was generally on deck all the day; and whenever I saw anything useful
that I could do, it was done.

In this way, both watches had the aid of my valuable services--which,
however, were not always sufficiently appreciated to prevent a few sharp
words being applied to me.  But a boy aboard of a ship soon learns to
take no notice of such trifles.

I was ordered to mess with the sailmaker, who--as I afterwards learnt--
was directed by the captain to look well after me.

On our arrival in Liverpool, the ship was docked, and the crew went
ashore, with the exception of two men--both strangers to me--who with
myself were left on board.

One of the men had something to do with the Custom House; and tried hard
to induce me to go ashore, along with the rest of the crew.  But the
ship being my only home, I was not willing to leave her; and I resisted
all the inducements held out by the Custom House officer to that effect.
The captain had gone away from the ship, after seeing her safe into
port; but I would not leave the vessel lest I should never meet him
again: for something told me he was my truest friend.

The next day he came on board again; and seemed rather surprised at
finding me there.

"Ah! little Rolling Stone," said he, "I've been inquiring for you; and
am pleased to see you have not gone ashore.  What do you intend to do
with yourself?"

"Stay here," I answered, "until the ship sails again."

"No, you can't stop here," said the captain.  "You must come ashore, and
live somewhere--until the ship is made ready for sea."

He continued to talk with me for half-an-hour; and obtained from me a
full account of the circumstances under which I had left my home.

"If I thought that you would stay with me, and do something for
yourself," said Captain Hyland, after hearing my story, "I would
endeavour to make a man of you."

My reply to this was, that I preferred a life on the sea to any other,
and that I left Captain Brannon, for the simple reason that I did not
like either him, or the man who had placed me under his control.

"Very well," said the captain, "I'll keep you awhile on trial; and if
you prove ungrateful for what I shall do for you, you will injure
yourself, more than you can me."

After this conversation, he took me ashore, bought me a suit of clothes;
and then told me to accompany him to his own home.

I found that Captain Hyland had a wife and one child--a girl about ten
years of age.

I thought there could be nothing in the universe more beautiful than
that girl.  Perhaps there was not.  Why should not my opinion on such
subjects be as correct as that of others?  But no man living could have
looked upon Lenore Hyland, without being convinced that she was very
beautiful.

Six weeks passed before the ship was again ready for sea; and during
that time I resided at the captain's house, and was the constant
companion of his little daughter, Lenore.

In the interval, my kind protector asked me--whether I would not like to
go to Dublin for a few days, and see my mother.

I told him that the "Hope" would then be in Dublin; and that I would
certainly be handed over to Captain Brannon.

He reflected for a moment; and then allowed the subject to drop.

I did feel some anxiety concerning my relatives; but was too happy in
Liverpool, to change my condition by going to visit them.

In order to satisfy my conscience, I thought of several reasons why I
should not go home.  They were easily found: for very idiotic, indeed,
is that mind that cannot find arguments, in support of desires emanating
from itself--whether they be right or wrong.

I knew that in whatever state I might find my relatives--or whatever
might have been the conduct of Mr Leary towards them--I would be
powerless either to aid them or punish him.

I strove my best to make as little trouble as possible in my new home,
and to gain the good will of Mrs Hyland.  I had every reason to believe
that my efforts were successful.

In justice to her, I should state that my task was not so difficult, as
it would have been with most women: for she was a kind-hearted lady, who
had the discernment to perceive that I was anxious to deserve, as well
as obtain her esteem.

Before the ship was ready to sail, Lenore had learnt to call me
_brother_; and when parting with her to go on board, her sorrow was
expressed in a manner that gave me much gratification.

Perhaps it is wrong for any one to feel pleasure at the demonstrations
of another's grief; but there are circumstances when such will be the
case, whether wrong or not.  Unfortunate, indeed, is that lonely being,
who has not in the wide world one acquaintance from whom he can part,
with eyes dimmed by the bright drops of sorrow.

There are thousands of seamen, who have wandered long and far from every
early tie of kindred and friendship.  They form no others; but wander
over the earth unloving, unloved and unknown--as wretched, reckless and
lone, as the "last man," spoken of by the poet Campbell.

There is ever a bright spot in the soul of that man, who has reason to
believe that there is some one, who thinks of him with kindness when far
away; and that one bright spot will often point out the path of virtue--
which otherwise might have been passed, undiscovered, or unheeded.

Volume One, Chapter VII.

CHOOSING A HORSE.

The reader may justly say that I have dwelt too long on the incidents of
my early years.  As my excuse for having done so, I can only urge, that
the first parts we play on the stage of life appear of more importance
to us than what they really are; and are consequently remembered more
distinctly and with greater interest than those of later occurrence.

I will try not to offend in the same way again; and, as some
compensation for having been too tedious, I shall pass over nearly three
years of my existence--without occupying much space in describing the
incidents that transpired during this period.  Circumstances aid me in
doing so, for these three years were spent in a tranquil, happy manner.
They produced no change in my situation: for I remained in the same
employment--in the service of Captain Hyland.

The ship "Lenore," owned and commanded by him, was a regular trader
between Liverpool and New Orleans.

In our voyages, the captain took as much trouble in trying to teach me
navigation--and all other things connected with the profession of the
sea--as he could have done had I been his own son.

I appreciated his kindness; and had the gratification to know that my
efforts to deserve it met with his warmest approbation.

At every return to Liverpool, and during our sojourn there, his house
was my home.  At each visit, my friendship for Mrs Hyland, and her
beautiful daughter Lenore, became stronger.  It was mutual too; and I
came to be regarded almost as one of the family.

When in Liverpool, I had frequent opportunities of going to Dublin to
see my mother, and with shame I confess that I did not make use of them.
The attractions of my home in Liverpool proved too great for me to
leave it--even for a short interval.

I often thought of going to Dublin; and reflected with pride on the fact
that I was getting to be a man, and would be able to protect my
relatives from any ill-treatment they might have received at the hands
of Mr Leary.  With all this, I did not go.

Aboard of the ship, I had one enemy, who, for some reason not fully
understood, seemed to hate me as heartily, as one man could hate
another.  This was the first mate, who had been with Captain Hyland for
several years.

He had witnessed with much disfavour the interest the captain took in my
welfare, from the time of my first joining the ship; and jealousy of my
influence over the latter might have had much to do in causing the
mate's antipathy towards myself.

The steward, sailmaker, and one or two others, who were permanently
attached to the vessel, were all friends to the "Rolling Stone," the
name by which I was generally known; but the hostility of the first mate
could not be removed by any efforts I made towards that end.

After a time, I gradually lost the nickname of the "Rolling Stone," and
was called by my proper name, Rowland.  I suppose the reason was, that
my actions having proved me willing and able to remain for some time in
one situation, it was thought that I deserved to be called a "Rolling
Stone" no longer.

I had been nearly three years with Captain Hyland, and we were in New
Orleans--where the ship, lying at the wharf, was left under my charge.
The captain himself had gone to stay at a hotel in the city; and I had
not seen him for several days.

The first mate was at this time neglecting his duty, and frequently
remained over twenty-four hours absent from the ship.  On one occasion,
just as the latter came aboard to resume his duties, I received
intelligence, that the captain was very ill, and wished to see me
ashore.

Notwithstanding this message from the captain himself--the mate, whose
name was Edward Adkins--refused to allow me to leave the ship.

The season was summer; and I knew that many people were dying in the
city--which was scourged at the time with yellow fever.

The captain had undoubtedly been taken ill of that disease; and,
disregarding the commands of the mate, I went ashore with all haste to
see him.

I found him, as I had anticipated, suffering from yellow fever.  He had
just sufficient consciousness to recognise, and bid me an eternal
farewell, with a slight pressure of his hand.

He died a few minutes after; and a sensation came over me similar to
that I had experienced a few years before--when bending over the cold
inanimate form of my father.

Mr Adkins became the captain of the "Lenore," and at once gave me a
discharge.  My box was sent ashore; and I was not afterwards allowed to
set foot on board of the ship!

I appealed to the English Consul; but could obtain no satisfaction from
him.  I could not blame the official: for the mate was entitled to the
command, and consequently had the right of choosing his crew.

My wages were paid me--besides some trifling compensation, for being
discharged in a foreign port.

Again the new world was before me; and the question once more came up:
"What am I to do?"

I wished to return to Liverpool to see Mrs Hyland and Lenore.  They
were to me as a mother and sister.  Who should carry to them the sad
news of their great misfortune?  Who but myself?

The beautiful Lenore, I must see her again.  I had been fancying myself
in love with her for some time; but, now that her father was dead I
reflected more sensibly on the subject, and arrived at the conclusion
that I was a fool.  I was but seventeen, and she only thirteen years of
age!  Why should I return to Liverpool?  I had a fortune to make; and
why should I return to Liverpool?

I thought of my mother, brother, and sister.  They were under the
ill-treatment of a man I had every reason to hate.  They might need my
protection.  It was my duty to return to them.  Should I go?

This question troubled me for some time; but in the end it was settled.
I did not go.

Many will say that I neglected a sacred duty; but perhaps they have
never been placed in circumstances similar to mine.  They have never
been in a foreign country, at the age of seventeen, in a city like New
Orleans.

There was at this time a great commotion in the place.  The fife and
drum were continually heard in the streets; and flags were flying from
houses in different parts of the city--indicating the localities of
"recruiting stations."

The United States had declared war against Mexico; and volunteers were
invited to join the army.

Among other idlers, I enrolled myself.

It was probably a very unwise act; but many thousands have done the same
thing; and I claim an equal right with others to act foolishly, if so
inclined.  We are all guilty of wise and foolish actions, or more
properly speaking, of good and bad ones; and often, when desirous of
doing the one, it ends by our committing the other.

After being "mustered into the service," we were sent into the country
to a rendezvous, where the corps to which I belonged, which was to form
part of a cavalry regiment, received its allotted number of horses.

To have pointed out a particular horse to a particular man, and have
said "that is yours," would have given occasion for many to declare that
partiality had been shown.  For this reason, an arrangement was made by
which each man was allowed to choose his own horse.

The animals were ranged in a line, by being tied to a rail fence; and
then we were all mustered in rank, about two hundred and fifty yards to
the rear.  It was then made known, that on a signal being given, each
one of us might take the horse that suited him best.

The word of command was at length given; and a more interesting foot
race was perhaps never witnessed, than came off on that occasion.

I was good at running; but unfortunately but a poor judge of horse
flesh.

Only three or four of the company reached the fence before me; and I had
nearly all the horses from which to make my choice.

I selected one, with a short neck and long flowing tail.  He was of
coal-black colour; and, in my opinion, the best looking horse of the
lot.  It was an intellectual animal--a horse of character--if ever a
horse had any mental peculiarities entitling him to such distinction.

It was the first steed I ever had the chance of bestriding; and the
movement by which I established myself on his back must have been either
very cleverly, or very awkwardly executed: since it greatly excited the
mirth of my companions.

The horse had a knack of dispensing with any disagreeable encumbrance;
and having been so long a "Rolling Stone," I had not yet acquired the
skill of staying where I was not wanted.

When I placed the steed between my legs, he immediately gave me a hint
to leave.  I know not whether the hint was a strong one or not; but I do
know that it produced the result the horse desired: since he and I
instantly parted company.

I was informed that the animal came from Kentucky; and I have not the
least doubt about this having been the case, for after dealing me a
sommersault, it started off in the direction of the "dark and bloody
ground," and was only stopped on its journey by a six foot fence.

Those who were dissatisfied with the result of their choice, had
permission to exchange horses with any other with whom they could make
an arrangement.

In the corps to which I belonged was a young man from the State of Ohio,
named Dayton.  When the scamper towards the horses took place, instead
of running with the rest, Dayton walked leisurely along; and arrived
where the horses were tied, after every other individual in the company
had appropriated a steed.  The only horse left for Dayton had also a
character--one that can only be described by calling him a sedate and
serious animal.

This horse had a sublime contempt for either whip or spurs; and
generally exercised his own judgment, as to the pace at which he should
move.  That judgment equally forbade him to indulge in eccentric
actions.

Dayton proposed that we should exchange steeds--an offer that I gladly
accepted.  When my absconding horse was brought back to the camp, I made
him over to Dayton, by whom he was at once mounted.

The animal tried the same movements with Dayton that had proved so
successful with me; but they failed.  He was a good rider, and stuck to
his horse, as one of the men declared, "like death to a dead nigger."

The creature was conquered, and afterwards turned out one of the best
horses in the troop.

Volume One, Chapter VIII.

AN EPISODE OF SOLDIER-LIFE.

American authors have written so much about the Mexican war, that I
shall state nothing concerning it, except what is absolutely necessary
in giving a brief account of my own adventures--which, considering the
time and the place, were neither numerous nor in any way remarkable.

While in the service of the United States during that campaign, I was
the constant companion of Dayton.  On the march and in the field of
strife, we rode side by side with each other.

We shared many hardships and dangers, and such circumstances usually
produce firm friendships.  It was so in our case.

Dayton was a young man who won many friends, and made almost as many
enemies, for he took but little care to conceal his opinions of others,
whether they were favourable or not.  Although but a private, he had
more influence among his comrades than any other man in the company.
The respect of some, and the fear of others, gave him a power that no
officer could command.

I did not see much of the war: as I was only in two actions--those of
Buena Vista and Cerro Gordo.

I know that some of the people of Europe have but a very poor opinion of
the fighting qualities of the Mexicans, and may not dignify the actions
of Buena Vista and Cerro Gordo by the name of battles.  These people are
mistaken.  The Mexicans fought well at Buena Vista, notwithstanding that
they were defeated by men, said to be undisciplined.

It has been stated in a London paper that the Mexicans are more
contemptible, as an enemy, than the same number of Chinamen.  The author
of that statement probably knew nothing of either of the people he wrote
about; and he was thus undervaluing the Mexicans for no other reason,
than that of disparaging the small but brave army to which I belonged.

The Mexicans are not cowards.  An individual Mexican has as much moral
and physical courage as a man of any other country.  As a general thing
they have as little fear of losing life or limb as any other people.
"Why then," some may ask, "were they beaten by a few thousand American
volunteers?"

Without attempting to answer this question, I still claim that the
Mexicans are not cowards.

In the battle of Buena Vista I lost the horse obtained by exchange from
Dayton.  The animal had been my constant care and companion, ever since
I became possessed of him; and had exhibited so much character and
intellect, that I thought almost as much of him, as I did of Dayton, my
dearest friend.

In my opinion, it is not right to take horses on to the field of battle.
I never thought this, until I had my steed shot under me--when the
sight of the noble animal struggling in the agonies of death, caused me
to make a mental vow never again to go on horseback into a battle.

This resolve, however, I was soon compelled to break.  Another horse was
furnished me the next day--on which I had to take my place in the ranks
of my corps.

One day the company to which I belonged had a skirmish with a party of
guerilleros.

We were charging them--our animals urged to their greatest speed--when
Dayton's horse received a shot, and fell.  I could not stop to learn the
fate of the rider, as I was obliged to keep on with the others.

We pursued the Mexicans for about five miles; and killed over half of
their number.

On returning to camp, I traced back the trail over which we had pursued
the enemy--in order to find Dayton.  After much trouble I succeeded; and
I believe no person ever saw me with more pleasure than did Dayton on
that occasion.

The dead horse was lying on one of his legs, which had been broken.  He
had been in this situation for nearly three hours; and with all his
exertions had been unable to extricate himself.

After getting him from under the terrible incubus, and making him as
comfortable as possible, I sought the assistance of some of my
companions.  These I fortunately found without much trouble, and we
conveyed our wounded comrade to the camp.  Dayton was afterwards removed
to a hospital; and this was the last I saw of him during the Mexican
war.

I had but very little active service after this: for my company was left
behind the main army; and formed a part of the force required for
keeping open a communication between Vera Cruz, and the capital of
Mexico.

The rest of the time I remained in the army, was only remarkable for its
want of excitement and tediousness; and all in the company were much
dissatisfied at not being allowed to go on to the Halls of Montezuma.
The duty at which we were kept, was only exciting for its hardships; and
American soldiers very soon become weary of excitement of this kind.  We
were only too delighted, on receiving orders to embark for New Orleans.

On the Sunday before sailing out of the port of Vera Cruz, I went in
search of some amusement; and commenced strolling through town in hopes
of finding it.  In my walk, I came across a man seated under an awning,
which he had erected in the street, where he was dealing "Faro."  A
number of people were betting against his "bank," and I lingered awhile
to watch the game.

Amongst others who were betting, was a drunken mule-driver, who had been
so far unfortunate as to lose all his money--amounting to about one
hundred dollars.

The "MD"--as the mule-drivers were sometimes styled--either justly, or
not, accused the gambler of having cheated him.  He made so much
disturbance, that he was at length forced away from the table by others
standing around it--who, no doubt, were interested in the game.

The "MD" went into a public-house near by; and soon after came out
again, carrying a loaded rifle.

Advancing within about twenty paces of the table where the gambler was
engaged, he called out to the crowd to stand aside, and let him have a
shot at the "skunk," who had cheated him.

"Yes," said the gambler, placing his hand on a revolver, "stand aside,
gentlemen, if you please, and let him have a chance!"

Those between them, obeyed the injunction in double quick time; and, as
soon as the space was clear enough to give a line for his bullet, the
gambler fired--before the "MD" had raised the rifle to his shoulder.

The mule-driver was shot through the heart; and the game went on!

We had an interesting voyage from Vera Cruz to New Orleans.  The
hardships of the march and camp were over.  Some were returning to home
and friends; and all were noisy--some with high animal spirits, and some
with strong ardent spirits, known under the name of _rum_.

There was much gambling on the ship, and many rows to enliven the
passage; but I must not tarry to describe all the scenes I have met, or
the narrative of the Life of a Rolling Stone will be drawn out too long
for the patience of my readers.

We landed in New Orleans, were paid what money was due to us, and
disbanded--each receiving a bounty warrant for one hundred and sixty
acres of land.

In the company to which I belonged, were some of my countrymen, who had
been in the English army; and I often conversed with them, as to the
comparative treatment of the soldiers of the English and American
armies.  I shall give the conclusion we came to upon this subject.

A majority of English soldiers have relatives whom they visit and with
whom they correspond.  The reader will easily understand that when such
is the case, thousands of families in the United Kingdom have more than
a national interest in the welfare of the army, and the manner its
soldiers are treated.  The sympathies of the people are with them; and a
soldier, who may be ill-used, has the whole nation to advocate his
cause.

The majority of American regular soldiers are isolated beings--so far as
home and friends are concerned--and about the only interest the nation
at large takes in their welfare is, that they do their duty, and earn
their pay.

This difference is understood by the soldiers of both armies; and it has
its effect on their character.

In England, the army is regarded as an important part of the nation.

In the United States, it is not; but only as a certain assemblage of
men, employed by the people to do a certain work--for which they receive
good wages, and plenty of food: for in these respects, the American
soldier has an advantage over the English, almost in the ratio of two to
one!

Volume One, Chapter IX.

A FRUITLESS SEARCH.

There were speculators in New Orleans, engaged in buying land warrants
from the returning volunteers.  I sold mine to one of them, for one
hundred and ten dollars.  Besides this amount, I had about fifty dollars
saved from my pay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I shall now have the pleasure of recording the fact that I made one move
in the right direction.  I set sail for my childhood's home.

Conscience had long troubled me, for having neglected to look after the
welfare of my relatives; and I embarked for Dublin with a mind gratified
by the reflection that I was once more on the path of duty.

So much pleasure did this give me, that I resolved ever after to follow
the guiding of reason, as to my future course in life.  The right course
is seldom more difficult to pursue than the wrong one, while the wear
and tear of spirit in pursuing it is much easier.

How many strange thoughts rushed into my brain--how many interrogations
offered themselves to my mind, as we dropped anchor in Dublin Bay.
Should I find my mother living?  Should I know my brother William and my
sister Martha?  What had become of Mr Leary?  Should I have to kill
him?

Such questions, with many others of a similar nature, coursed through my
soul while proceeding towards the city.

I hurried through the streets, without allowing anything to distract my
thoughts from these themes.  I reached the house that had been the home
of my childhood.

At the door, I paused to recover from an unusual amount of excitement;
but did not succeed in quelling the tumultuous emotions that thrilled my
spirit with an intensity I had never experienced before.

I looked cautiously into the shop.  It was no longer a saddle and
harness-maker's, but a dingy depot for vending potatoes, cabbages, and
coals!

I thought a great change must suddenly have taken place in the whole
city of Dublin.

It did not occur to me, that six years was a sufficient period of time
for turning a saddler's shop into a greengrocer's--without any reason
for being surprised at the transformation.

I stepped inside; and inquired of a stout, red-haired woman the
whereabouts of a Mrs Stone, who formerly occupied the premises.  The
woman had never heard of such a person!

It suddenly occurred to me--and I heaved a sigh at the recollection--
that my mother's name was not _Stone_, but that she was _Mrs Leary_.

I renewed my inquiry, substituting the latter name.

"Mistress Leary?" said the vulgar-looking hag before me, "lift here five
year ago."

The vendor of cabbages did not know where Mrs Leary had gone.  Neither
did I; and this knowledge, or rather absence of knowledge, produced
within me a train of reflections that were new and peculiar.

I turned out of the house, and walked mechanically up the street.  A
familiar name met my half-vacant gaze.  It was painted on a sign, over
the door of a cheese-monger's shop--Michael Brady.

I remembered that Mrs Brady, the wife of the man whose name I saw, was
the intimate acquaintance and friend of my mother.  Perhaps, I might
learn something from her; but what, I almost feared to ascertain.

I went into the shop, and found Mrs Brady seated among her cheeses.
She did not look a day older than when I last saw her.  When asked, if
she remembered ever having seen me before, she gazed at me for some
time, and made answer in the negative.

I was not astonished at her reply.  I could easily understand her
stupidity; my appearance must have greatly altered since she had seen me
last.

"Do you remember the name of Rowland Stone?"  I asked.

"What! the little Rolling Stone?" she exclaimed, gazing at me again.  "I
do believe you are," said she, "Now when I look at you, I can see it is.
How you have changed!"

"What has become of my mother?"  I cried out, too impatient to listen
longer to her exclamatory reflections.

"Poor woman!" answered Mrs Brady, "that's what I have wished to know
for many years."

I was called upon to exercise the virtue of patience--while trying to
obtain from Mrs Brady what information she could give concerning my
family.  With much time spent and many questions put, I obtained from
her the following particulars:

After my departure, Mr Leary became very dissipated, and used to get
drunk every day.  Whenever he sold anything out of the shop, he would go
to a public-house, and stay there until the money obtained for the
article was spent.  He would then return, abuse my mother, beat the
children, take something else out of the shop; and pawn it for more
money to spend in drink or dissipation.  This game he had continued,
until there was nothing left in the establishment that Mr Leary could
sell for a shilling.

The neighbours remonstrated with my mother for allowing him to proceed
in this manner; but the deluded woman seemed to think that everything
done by her husband was right; and was even offended with her friends
for interfering.  No arguments could persuade her that Mr Leary was
conducting himself in an improper manner.  She appeared to think that
the drunken blackguard was one of the best men that ever lived; and that
she had been exceedingly fortunate in obtaining him for a husband!

When Mr Leary had disposed of everything in the shop, and had spent the
proceeds in drink, he absconded--leaving my mother, brother and sister
to suffer for the necessaries of life.

Instead of being gratified at getting clear of the scoundrel, my mother
was nearly heart-broken to think he had deserted her!

Her first thought was to find out where he had gone.  He had served his
apprenticeship in Liverpool; and my mother had reasons to believe that
he had betaken himself thither.  The house in which she resided, had
been leased by my father for a long term.  At the time Mr Leary
deserted her, the lease had several years to run.  Since the time when
it had been taken, rents in the neighbourhood had greatly risen in
value; and my mother was able to sell the lease for ninety pounds.
Obtaining this sum in cash, she left Dublin with her children; and
proceeded to Liverpool to find Mr Leary, as Mrs Brady said, that she
might give him the money to spend in drink!

My mother's friends had advised her to remain in Dublin; and told her
that she should be thankful her husband had deserted her; but their
advice was either unheeded, or scornfully rejected.  In spite of all
remonstrance, she took her departure for Liverpool; and Mrs Brady had
never heard of her again.

I was intensely interested in what was told me by Mrs Brady.  For
awhile, I believed that my poor beguiled parent deserved her fate,
however bad it may have been; and I was half inclined to search for her
no more.  But when I came to reflect that nearly five years had elapsed
since she left Dublin, I fancied that, if unfortunately successful in
finding Mr Leary, she might by this time have recovered from her
strange infatuation concerning him.  Though for her folly, she deserved
almost any fate Mr Leary might bring upon her, I believed it to be my
duty to see her once more.  Besides, I had a strong desire to renew the
rudely broken links of affection, that had existed between myself and my
sister and brother.

When a boy, I was very proud of having a sister like little Martha, she
was so kind, affectionate, and beautiful.  And William, too, I
remembered him with a brother's fondness.  Although my mother had acted
ever so foolishly, it was not the less my duty to look after her.
Perhaps, for her unaccountable delusion, she had been by this time
sufficiently punished.  It was my desire to find her, if possible, and
learn if such was the case.  She was my mother, and I had no other wish
than to act towards her as a son.  I determined, therefore, to proceed
to Liverpool.

I may confess that something more than duty summoned me thither--
something even stronger than filial affection.  It was the design of
visiting Mrs Hyland--or, rather her daughter.  I knew there would be
danger to my happiness in again seeing Lenore; and I strove to
strengthen my resolution by the belief that I was acting under a call of
duty.

I had been with Captain Hyland when he died.  I alone saw his eyes
closed in death, and alone followed him to the grave.  Why should I not
visit his wife and child?

I could fancy that that pressure of the hand given me by the Captain in
his dying struggle, was a silent command to me--to carry to them his
last blessing.

Besides, Mrs Hyland had been very kind to myself; and during my sojourn
in Liverpool, had made her home to me both welcome and pleasant.  Why
should I refrain from seeing her again--simply because her daughter was
beautiful?  I could think of no sufficient reason for denying myself the
pleasure.  The dread of its leading to pain was not enough to deter me;
and I resolved to renew my acquaintance with Lenore.

Before leaving Dublin, I tried to get some information that would aid me
in my search after Mr Leary and my relatives; but was unsuccessful.
None of Mr Leary's former acquaintances could give me any intelligence
as to what part of the city of Liverpool he might be found in.  I could
only learn that my mother, before leaving, had some knowledge to guide
her, which had probably been obtained, sometime or other, from Mr Leary
himself.

In my search, therefore, I should have no other traces than such as
chance might throw in my way.

Volume One, Chapter X.

A CHILLING RECEPTION.

I do not like Liverpool as a city; and less do I admire a majority of
its citizens.  Too many of them are striving to live on what they can
obtain from transient sojourners.  Being the greatest shipping port in
the United Kingdom--and that from which most emigrants take their
departure--it affords its inhabitants too easy opportunities for
exercising their skill--in obtaining the greatest amount of money for
the least amount of service--opportunities of which many of them are not
slow to avail themselves.

My dislike to the people of Liverpool may perhaps, arise from the fact
that I claim to be a sailor; and that thousands of people in that great
seaport--from beggars, thieves, and the like who crowd its crooked,
narrow, dirty streets in search of a living, up to merchants, agents,
and ship-owners--imagine that there is no harm in taking advantage of a
sailor, and, under this belief, seldom lose an opportunity of doing so.

The first thing I did after arriving in this precious seaport, was to
possess myself of a city directory, and make a list of all the saddle
and harness-makers in the place--putting down the address of each
opposite his name.

I then wrote a note to each of them--requesting, that if they knew
anything of a journeyman saddler named Matthew Leary, they would have
the goodness to communicate with me; if not, no answer to my note would
be required.

Having completed this interesting correspondence--which occupied me the
whole of a day--I repaired to the residence of Mrs Hyland.  There had
been no change there.  I found her still living in the same house, where
years before, I had parted with her and her daughter.

I was conducted into the drawing-room; and the next instant one of the
most beautiful creatures man ever beheld, stood before me.

Lenore was beautiful when a child; and time had only developed her young
charms into the perfection of feminine loveliness.  To me, her beauty
transcended everything I had ever seen; although I had been in Dublin,
New Orleans, and Mexico--three places which are not the least favoured
with the light of woman's loveliness.

Lenore was now sixteen years of age, and looked neither more nor less.
The only description I can give of her is that there was nothing
remarkable about her, but her beauty.  I can give no particulars of how
she appeared.  If asked the colour of her hair and eyes, I should have
been unable to tell; I only knew that she was beautiful.

I was painfully disappointed at the reception she gave me.  She did not
meet me with those manifestations of friendship I had anticipated.  It
was true that I had been a long time away; and her friendship towards me
might have become cooled by my protracted absence.  But this was a
painful consideration.  I endeavoured to dismiss it--at the same time I
strove to awaken within her the memories of our old companionship.

To my chagrin, I saw that I was unsuccessful.  She seemed to labour
under some exciting emotion; and I could not help fancying that it was
of a painful character.

Her whole behaviour was a mystery to me, because so different from what
it had formerly been, or what I had hoped to find it.

I had left Lenore when she was but little more than a child, and she was
now a young lady.

In the three years that had intervened, there was reason for me to
expect some change in her character.  With her mother, no change I
presumed could have taken place.  I left Mrs Hyland a woman; and such I
should find her, only three years older.  In her I expected to meet a
friend, as I had left her.  She entered the room.  I was again doomed to
disappointment!

She received me with even more coldness than had been exhibited by
Lenore.  She did not even offer me her hand; but took a seat, and with a
more unpleasant expression than I had ever before observed on her face,
she waited apparently with impatience for what I might have to say.

The sensitive feelings of my soul had never been so cruelly wounded.  I
was in an agony of anger and disappointment; and unable any longer to
endure the painful excitement of my emotions, I uttered a few
common-place speeches, and hastily withdrew from their presence.

What could their conduct mean?  In the excited state of my thoughts, I
was unable to form even a conjecture, that seemed in any way consistent
with my knowledge of their previous character.

It might be that when Lenore was a child, and I was a boy, they had seen
no harm in befriending and being kind to me; but now that Lenore was a
young lady, and I a man--a sailor, too--they might have reasons for not
having any further acquaintance with me.

Could it be that they were endued with that selfishness--in this world
possessed by so many?  That they had been my friends only because
Captain Hyland was my protector--to fall away from me now, that his
protection could be no longer extended to me?

I could hardly think this possible: for it would be so much out of
keeping with all that I had ever known of the character either of Mrs
Hyland or her daughter.

I had long anticipated great pleasure in revisiting them; and had
thought when again in their presence I should be with friends.  Never
had I been so cruelly disappointed; and for awhile I fancied that I
should never care to meet with old acquaintances again.

I am capable of forming strong attachments.  I had done so for Mrs
Hyland and her daughter, and their chill reception had the effect of
causing me to pass a sleepless night.

In the morning, I was able to reflect with a little more coolness, as
well as clearness.  A cause, perhaps _the_ cause, of their strange
conduct suddenly suggested itself to my mind.

Adkins, the first mate of the ship Lenore, had been, and, no doubt,
still was--my enemy.  He had turned me out of the ship in New Orleans;
and had, in all likelihood, on his arrival in Liverpool, poisoned the
mind of Mrs Hyland, by some falsehood, of which I was the victim.  I
knew the scoundrel to be capable of doing this, or any other base
action.

There was a consolation in the thought that this explanation might be
the real one, and for a while it restored the tranquillity of my spirit.

I would see them again, demand an explanation; and if my suspicions
proved true, I could refute any change made against me--so as once more
to make them my friends.

I did not desire their friendship from any personal motives.  It might
not now be worth the trouble of having it restored; but in memory of
their past kindness, and out of regard for my own character, I could not
leave them labouring under the impression that I had been ungrateful.

Alas! there was a deeper motive for my desiring an explanation.  Their
friendship was worth restoring.  It was of no use my endeavouring to
think otherwise.  The friendship of a beautiful creature like Lenore was
worth every thing.  The world to me would be worthless without it.  I
was already wretched at the thought of having lost her good opinion.  I
must again establish myself in it, or failing, become more wretched
still.

The next day, I returned to the residence of Mrs Hyland.  I saw her
seated near the window, as I approached the house.  I saw her arise, and
retire out of sight--evidently after recognising me!

I rang the bell.  The door was opened by a servant--who, without waiting
to be interrogated, informed me that neither Mrs nor Miss Hyland were
at home!

I pushed the door open, passed the astonished domestic, entered the
hall; and stepped unceremoniously into the apartment--in the window of
which I had seen Mrs Hyland.

No one was inside--excepting the servant, who had officially followed
me.  I turned to her, and said in a tone savouring of command:

"Tell Mrs Hyland that Mr Rowland Stone is here, and will not leave
until he has seen her."

The girl retired, and soon after Mrs Hyland entered the room.  She did
not speak; but waited to hear what I had to say.

"Mrs Hyland," I began, "I am too well acquainted with you, and respect
you too much, to believe that I am treated in the manner I have been,
without a good cause.  Conscious of having done nothing intentionally to
injure you, or yours, I have returned to demand the reason why your
conduct towards me has undergone such a change.  You once used to
receive me here as though I was your own son.  What have I done to
forfeit your friendship?"

"If your own conscience does not accuse you," she answered, "it is not
necessary for me to give you any explanation, for you might not
understand it.  But there is one thing that I hope you _will_
understand: and that is, that your visits here are no longer either
welcome or desirable."

"I learnt that much yesterday," said I, imitating in a slight degree the
air of sneering indifference, in which Mrs Hyland addressed me.
"To-day I have called for an explanation.  Your own words imply that I
was once welcome; and I wish to know why such is no longer the case."

"The explanation is then, that you have proved unworthy of our
friendship.  There is no explanation that _you_ can give, that will
remove the impression from my mind that you have been guilty of
ingratitude and dishonesty towards those who were your best friends; and
I do not wish to be pained by listening to any attempt you may make at
an apology."

I became excited.  Had the speaker been a man, my excitement would have
assumed the shape of anger.

"I only ask," I replied, endeavouring, as much as possible, to control
my feelings, "I only ask, what justice to you, as well as myself,
demands you to give.  All I require is an explanation; and I will not
leave the house, until I have had it.  I insist upon knowing of what I
am accused."

Mrs Hyland, apparently in high displeasure at the tone I had assumed,
turned suddenly away from me, and glided out of the room.

To calm my excitement, I took up a paper, and read, or attempted to
read.

For nearly half an hour I continued this half involuntary occupation.
At the end of that time, I stepped up to the fire-place, caught hold of
the bell pull, and rang the bell.

"Tell Miss Lenore," said I, when the servant made her appearance, "that
I wish to see her; and that all the policemen in Liverpool cannot put me
out of this house, until I have done so."

The girl flounced back through the door; and shortly after Lenore, with
half of a smile on her beautiful face, entered the room.

She appeared less reserved than on the interview of the day before; and,
if possible, more lovely.  I was too happy to interpret from her
deportment, that she had not yet entirely forgotten the past; and that
what I now wished to know, she would not hesitate to reveal.

"Lenore," said I, as she entered, "in you I hope still to find a
friend--notwithstanding the coldness with which you have treated me; and
from you I demand an explanation."

"The only explanation I can give," said she, "is, that mamma and I have
probably been deceived.  There is one who has accused you of
ingratitude, and other crimes as bad--perhaps worse."

"Adkins!"  I exclaimed.  "It is Adkins, the first mate of the `Lenore!'"

"Yes, it is he who has brought the accusation; and, unfortunately,
whether false or no, your conduct has been some evidence of the truth of
the story he has told us.  Oh!  Rowland, it was hard to believe you
guilty of ingratitude and crime; but your long absence, unexplained as
it was, gave colour to what has been alleged against you.  You have
never written to us: and it will be nearly impossible for you to be
again reinstated in the good opinion of my mother."

"In yours, Lenore?"

She blushingly held down her head, without making reply.

"Will you tell me of what I am accused?"  I asked.

"I will," she answered.  "And, Rowland, before I hear one word of
explanation from you learn this; I cannot believe you guilty of any
wrong.  I have been too well acquainted with you to believe that you
could possibly act, under any circumstances, as you have been accused of
doing.  It is not in your nature."

"Thank you, Lenore!" said I, with a fervour I could not restrain myself
from showing.  "You are now as you have ever been, more beautiful than
anything in the world, and wise as you are beautiful."

"Do not talk thus, Rowland!  Nothing but your own words can ever change
the opinion I had formed of your character--long ago, when we were both
children.  I will tell you why my mother is displeased with you.  There
are more reasons than one.  First, when my father died in New Orleans,
Mr Adkins brought back the ship; and you did not return in it.  We were
surprised at this; and called Mr Adkins to account for not bringing you
home.  He did not appear willing to give us any satisfaction concerning
you; but we would insist on having it; and then, with apparent
reluctance, he stated that he had not wished to say anything against
you--fearing that from our known friendship for you, it might be
unpleasant for us to hear it.  He then told us, that you had not only
neglected, and proved cruel to my father--when on his death-bed--but,
that, as soon as it became certain there was no hope of his recovery,
you behaved as though you thought it no longer worth while to trouble
yourself with a man, who could not live to repay you.  He said that you
had previously deserted from the ship, and left my father--
notwithstanding his earnest entreaties that you should remain with him.
It cannot be true.  I know it cannot be true; but so long as my mother
thinks there is a particle of truth in Mr Adkins' statement, she will
never forgive you.  Your accuser has also stated that when you left the
ship, you took with you what was not your own; but this he did not tell
us until several months had elapsed, and there appeared no probability
of your returning."

"What has become of Mr Adkins now?"  I asked.

"He is on a voyage to New Orleans in the `Lenore.'  He obtained my
mother's confidence, and is now in command of the ship.  Lately he has
been trying to make himself more disagreeable to myself--by professing
for me--what he, perhaps, believes to be an affection.  Oh! it is too
unpleasant to dwell upon.  My mother listens, I fear, too consentingly,
to all he has to say: for she is grateful to him for his kindness to my
father before he died--and for the interest he appears ever since to
have taken in our welfare.  His manner towards us has greatly changed of
late.  Indeed, he acts as if he were the head of our family, and the
owner of the vessel.  I believe he is expected to return to Liverpool at
any time: as the time for the voyage has expired, and the ship has been
due for some days."

"I wish he were in Liverpool _now_" said I.  "When he does arrive, I
will make him prove himself a liar.  Lenore!  I have ever been treated
with the greatest kindness by your father and mother.  It is not in my
nature to be either ungrateful or dishonest.  Your father's ship was my
home, I did not leave that home without good reason.  I was turned out
of it by the very villain who has accused me.  I shall stay in Liverpool
until he returns; and when I have exposed him, and proved myself still
worthy of your friendship, I shall again go forth upon the world with a
light heart, as I can with a clear conscience."

Requesting Lenore to tell her mother that she had been deceived--and
that I should stay in Liverpool till I proved that such was the case--I
arose to take my departure.  I lingered only to add: that I would not
again annoy them with my presence until the return of the ship--when I
should challenge Adkins to appear before them, and prove him guilty of
the very crimes he had charged against myself--ingratitude and
dishonesty.

With this promise did I close my interview with Lenore.

Volume One, Chapter XI.

ON THE TRACK OF MR LEARY.

After leaving Mrs Hyland's house, I had much to occupy my thoughts.
The principal subject that engaged their attention was the wonderful
beauty of Lenore.

She was beautiful; and she professed to be my friend.  But while I felt
a consoling pride in possessing the friendship of one so lovely, there
was much that was unpleasant in the thought that her mother could, even
for an instant, have believed me guilty of the grave charges brought
against me by Adkins.

To be thought ungrateful by one who had treated me with so much
kindness, and more especially one who was the mother of Lenore, was a
reflection full of bitterness.

Adkins had now done enough to make me his deadly enemy.  He had never
used me well aboard ship; and would have caused me still more trouble
there had he not been restrained by his fear of Captain Hyland.  He had
turned me out of the ship in New Orleans.  He had returned to Liverpool,
and accused me of the basest of crimes.

But what was still more unpleasant to dwell upon; he was endeavouring to
deprive me of what was of almost equal consequence with my character--of
her whom I had hoped might one day become my wife.  Yes, there could be
no doubt of the fact.  He was trying to win Lenore.

This last I could scarce look upon as a crime on his part.  To aspire to
win one so lovely was no crime; and one who should do so would only be
acting as Nature commanded.

But at that time, I did not view it in this light; and the idea of
Edward Adkins aspiring to the hand of Lenore Hyland was proof to me that
he was the vilest wretch that ever encumbered the earth.

For a while, I forgot my hatred for Mr Leary in my dislike to Mr
Adkins.

Hatred with me had never before reached a thirst for revenge; but to
this degree of hostility had it attained, within an hour after leaving
Lenore.

But what could I do?  When my enemy returned, I could confront him in
presence of Lenore and her mother.  I could make one statement, which he
would certainly contradict by making another.  I was in a country where
the laws do not allow a man any chance of obtaining redress for the
cruellest wrong, or insult, he may suffer.

I passed that night, as the preceding one, without sleep.

The day after that on which I had addressed my letters to the saddle and
harness-makers of Liverpool, I received answers from two of them--both
men who had been acquainted with Mr Leary.

I lost no time in calling upon these correspondents.

One of them frankly informed me that Mr Leary's time, as an apprentice,
had been served in his shop, that he did not think him exactly honest;
and had been only too glad to get rid of him.  He had not seen or heard
anything of Mr Leary for seven years; and hoped never to behold that
individual again.  He had taken Leary, when a boy, from the work-house;
and believed he had no relatives, who would know where he was to be
found.

I called on the other saddler, and learnt from him that Mr Leary, after
having served his time, had worked in his establishment as a journeyman,
though only for a very short while.  Leary had left him to go to Dublin;
but had returned three or four years afterwards, and had again been
employed by him for a few days.  On leaving the second time, Mr Leary
had engaged to go out to New South Wales, with a saddle and
harness-maker from that colony, who, as the Liverpool tradesman
laughingly stated, had been so foolish as to pay for Leary's passage, in
the hope of being repaid by his services after he got there.

With painful interest, I inquired, whether Mr Leary had taken along
with him to Australia a wife and family.

"No," said the saddler, "nothing of the kind.  He was not able to do
that: since he had to tell a thousand lies to induce the saddler to take
himself.  But I remember, there was a woman from Dublin inquiring for
him after he had sailed; and she, poor creature, appeared well nigh
heart-broken, when she learnt that he had gone without her.  I suppose
she must have been his wife."

The saddler had heard nothing since from either Leary or the woman.

A part of this intelligence was very satisfactory.  My mother had _not_
found Mr Leary in Liverpool, and that wretch was now far away.

But where was my mother?  Where had she and her youngest children been
for the last five years?  How should I learn their fate?

Surely I had plenty of work before me.  My relatives were to be found;
and this would be no easy task: since I had not the slightest clue to
guide me in the search.  I had to convince Mrs Hyland that I was still
worthy of her friendship.  I had to obtain revenge on my enemy Adkins;
and a greater task than all would still remain.  I had to win, or forget
Lenore.

My last interview with her, had revived within my mind the sweet
remembrances of the past, along with thoughts of the present, and dreams
of the future--thoughts and dreams that would not again sleep.  A mental
vision of her loveliness was constantly before me.

What was I to do first?  I had but little money in my pockets; and could
not leave Liverpool at present to obtain more.  I must stay until the
return of Adkins; and it would not do to spend my last shilling in idly
waiting.

Without friends I could only get such occupation, as required the
severest labour to perform; but, fortunately for that, I had the will,
health, and strength I feel a pride in stating, that I acted, as a man
should under the circumstances.  Instead of strolling about in hopeless
idleness, I went to the docks, and obtained labourer's work.

For two weeks I worked at handling cotton bales, and bags of sugar.  The
toil was humble, and the pay for it was proportionately small; but duty
commanded me, and I worked on, cheered by hope, and without repining at
my fate.

Sometimes in the evening, I would walk up and down the street in front
of the residence of Mrs Hyland--with the hope of seeing Lenore, or with
the knowledge of being near her, whether she might be seen or not.  I
found pleasure even in this.

I did not like to call on her again--until I had given her mother some
proof of my innocence.

Sometimes it occurred to me to ask myself the question, why should I see
her more, even after I had cleared myself?  She was beautiful,
dangerously beautiful; and I was friendless, homeless, and without
fortune.  Why should I endanger my future peace of mind, by becoming
more and more infatuated with one whose heart I could scarce hope ever
to possess?

Duty as well as reason told me to pursue the search for my relatives,
and see Lenore Hyland no more.  But where is the heart love-stricken
that will listen to the call, either of reason, or duty?

Mine did not, and could not.  It was deaf to such an appeal.  I could
think only of Lenore, yearn to see her again--to speak with her--to
listen to her--to love her!

Volume One, Chapter XII.

AN ENCOUNTER WITH A COWARD.

About a week after my interview with Mrs Hyland and her daughter, I saw
what I had been daily looking for--a notice in one of the Liverpool
papers, under the head of "Shipping Intelligence," announcing the
arrival of the ship "Lenore," Captain Adkins, from New Orleans.

After reading the notice, I hastily flung aside the paper; and proceeded
direct to the docks--where I found the vessel had already arrived.

As I might have expected, Adkins was not aboard.  He had landed several
hours before, while the ship was still in the river.  Having ascertained
the name of the hotel where he was in the habit of staying, while in
Liverpool, I lost no time loitering on board the ship, but went in
search of him.  On reaching the hotel, I found that he had slept there
the night before, but had gone out after breakfast in the morning.

My conjecture was, that he would be found at the house of Mrs Hyland;
and it now occurred to me that I had been wonderfully stupid in not
looking for him there in the first instance.

From the hotel, I proceeded direct to Mrs Hyland's residence, as I
walked along, anticipating much pleasure in the task of compelling
Adkins to refute his own falsehoods.  I feared, however, that shame
would hinder him telling the truth; and that even in my presence he
would stick to his infamous story.  I feared it, because I did not wish
to kill him.

As I had conjectured, he was visiting at Mrs Hyland's.  Just as I
reached the door, Adkins was coming out.

I controlled my temper as well as I could.  I did not wish to defeat my
purpose by an exhibition of idle anger.

"Good morning Mr Adkins!" said I.  "We meet again; and I assure you, on
my part, with profound pleasure."

He would have passed without speaking, had I not placed my body so as to
block the way.

"Who the devil are you; and what do you want?" he asked, with a bullying
tone and air that I had often known him assume before.

"I am Rowland Stone," I answered, "and I wish to see you on a matter of
considerable importance."

"You see me then! what the important business?"

"It can only be made known in the presence of Mrs Hyland and her
daughter."

"Mrs Hyland does not wish to see you," said Adkins, "and much less her
daughter, I should think.  As for myself, I want nothing to do with
you."

"I can believe the latter part of your assertions," I answered, "but it
is necessary that we should sometimes do what may not be exactly
agreeable to us.  If there is a spark of manhood in you, walk back into
the house, and repeat to Mrs Hyland in my presence, what you have said
behind my back."

"I shall not take the trouble to do any thing of the kind.  I tell you
again, I want nothing to say to you.  Give me the way!"

As Adkins said this, he made a gesture as if he intended to pass me.

"I'll give you the way to hell," said I, "unless you do as I bid you,"
and I caught him by the collar to drag him into the house.

He resisted this attempt by aiming a blow at me, which I returned with
such interest, that while I still kept my legs, the captain of the
"Lenore" missed his; and, staggering backward, he fell heavily on the
door-step.

I had now lost all command of myself; and, after ringing the bell, to
have the door re-opened, I seized him by the hair of the head--for the
purpose of hauling him inside.

My purpose would have been accomplished.  I would have broken down the
door, dragged him into the house, confronted him with Mrs Hyland, and
made him swallow his false words, but for the arrival of a trio of
policemen.

I was not overcome until after a long struggle, in which the exertions
of the three policemen, Adkins himself, and another man, who was passing
at the time, were united against me.  It ended in their putting me in
irons.

As I was led away from the house, I noticed that Mrs Hyland and Lenore
were both at the window--where, I had no doubt, they had been witnesses
of the affray.

I was at once taken to a police station, and locked up in one of its
cells.

Next morning I was brought before a magistrate.  Adkins was there to
prosecute.  The three policemen were present as witnesses, as also the
Liverpool citizen, who had aided in putting me in irons.

After evidence was heard against me, I was called upon for my defence.
I had nothing to say to the charge.

The magistrate emphatically declared that a case of a more unprovoked
assault had never been brought before him; and that he did not think the
ends of justice would be met by the infliction of a fine.  He therefore
sentenced me to fourteen days' imprisonment.

I thought none the less of myself for that; and, under other
circumstances, two weeks in a prison might not have been passed
unpleasantly.  But it was bitterness to reflect, that while I was
passing my time in the companionship of petty thieves, Edward Adkins was
daily visiting Lenore.

Fourteen days must I pass as a prisoner, while my vile enemy would be
enjoying the society of Mrs Hyland and her daughter--no doubt doing all
he could to blacken my character, and lower me still further in their
estimation!

The reflection was anything but pleasant, though I might have partly
consoled myself by another: that I was much better off inside the gaol,
than millions of my fellow countrymen outside of it.  Had I committed
some crime, that really deserved this confinement, then would I, indeed,
have felt really wretched; but conscience accused me of no wrong; and I
was not without those tranquillising emotions ever springing from a
sense of rectitude and innocence.

I was not afraid that Adkins would gain any great advantage over me in
winning the affections of Lenore--even though aided by the influence of
her mother.  It was not that which troubled me during my sojourn within
the walls of a prison.  If Lenore should prove capable of choosing such
a man for her husband, I need not regret her loss.  My spirit was more
harassed by the thought: that wrong should have thus triumphed--that
Adkins should be in the society of Lenore, when he should have been in
my place in the prison, and I in his.

After I had passed eight days of my confinement, I was surprised one
morning by the announcement that I was to receive visitors.

Two persons had called, and inquired for Rowland Stone.  They were
outside--waiting to be admitted to my cell.

Both proved to be old acquaintances.  One was a man named Wilton, who
had been the second mate of the ship "Lenore," under Captain Hyland.
The other was Mason, the steward of the same ship.

As both these men had been very kind to me when I was in the ship, I was
pleased to see them; but much more so, when I learnt to whom I was
indebted for their visit.  Mason told me that he was still steward of
the "Lenore," and that Miss Hyland had come to him on board: for the
purpose of obtaining a true account of the circumstances that stood
between me and Adkins.

"I was glad to learn, Rowley, that you had turned up again," said Mason,
"but at the same time, sorry to hear of your present trouble.  I at once
resolved to try and get you out of at least a part of it, although I may
lose my situation by doing so.  I told Miss Hyland, plainly enough, that
Adkins was a villain, and that I could prove it.  I promised her that I
would come and see you.  Wilton here, is now the skipper of a tug-boat
on the river, and I brought him along--knowing that he can lend a hand
to help us."

"Nothing can please me more than to see Adkins lose the command of the
`Lenore,'" interposed Wilton, "for I know that he is not an honest man;
and that he has been all along robbing the widow.  We must decide on
some plan to convince Mrs Hyland, that she is placing confidence in a
scoundrel."

Wilton and Mason remained with me nearly an hour; and it was decided
that nothing should be done openly, until my term of imprisonment should
expire.  We were then to ascertain when Adkins would be on a visit to
Mrs Hyland's house, when we should all three go together, meet him
there, and tell Mrs Hyland the whole story of his falsehood and
dishonesty.

"Should she not believe us, and still continue to trust him," said
Wilton, "then she deserves to be robbed, that's my way of thinking."

I thought the same, so far as robbing her of her worldly wealth; but it
was bitter to believe that the rascal might also rob her of a jewel more
priceless than all else--of Lenore.  But I could not believe that the
most insane folly on her part would deserve so extreme a punishment, as
that of having Adkins for a son-in-law!

Mason gave me his address, so did Wilton, and I promised to call on
them, as soon as I should be set at liberty.

They left me happy, and hopeful.  I was happy, not because I was young,
and in good health--not because I had found friends who would aid me in
subduing an enemy; but because the beautiful Lenore had interested
herself in my misfortunes, and was trying to remove them.

That was a theme for many long and pleasant reveries, which while they
rendered me impatient to be free, at the same time enabled me to pass
the remainder of my term of imprisonment, with but slight regard for the
many petty annoyances and discomforts of the situation.

I accepted my liberty when it was at length given me; and on the same
day went to visit Mason and Wilton.

What had been done already by Lenore, left me under the impression that
she would still further aid me in establishing the truth.  I felt
confident, that she would not object to letting us know on what day and
hour we might meet Adkins at her mother's house; and with this
confidence, I wrote a note to her, containing the request that she would
do so.  Then, in pleasant expectation of soon having an opportunity of
clearing my character, I awaited the answer.

Volume One, Chapter XIII.

A RECKONING UP.

Lenore did not disappoint me.  Two days after getting out of the prison,
I received her reply--informing me that Adkins would be at her mother's
house the next day, and advising me to call with my friends, about
half-past ten.  I had made known to her the object of my desire to meet
him.

After receiving her note, I went immediately to Mason and Wilton; and we
appointed a place of rendezvous for the next morning.

That evening, I was as uneasy as the commander-in-chief of an army on
the eve of a great battle.  I had an enemy to confront and conquer--a
reputation already sullied to restore to its former brightness.

I could not help some anxiety as to the result.

In the morning, I met my friends at the appointed place; and as the
clock struck ten, we started for the residence of Mrs Hyland.

As we came within sight of the house, I perceived Lenore at the window.
She recognised us, rose from her seat, and disappeared towards the back
of the room.  When I rang the bell, the door was opened by herself.

Without hesitating, she conducted us all three into the parlour, where
we found Adkins and Mrs Hyland.

The latter appeared to be no little astonished by our unexpected
entrance; but as for Adkins himself, he looked more like a frightened
maniac than a man.

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Mrs Hyland, in a voice that expressed
more alarm than indignation.

"These gentlemen have called to see you on business, mother," said her
daughter.  "There is nothing to fear from them.  They are our friends."

Having said this, Lenore requested us to be seated; and we complied.

Adkins did not speak; but I could read from the play of his features,
that he knew the game was up, and that he had lost.

"Mrs Hyland," said Wilton, after a short interval of silence, "I have
called here to do what I believe to be a duty, and which I ought to have
done long ago.  If I am doing any wrong, it is only through my ignorance
of what's right.  I was your husband's friend, and we sailed together,
for nine years or thereabouts.  I was on the ship `Lenore' when Captain
Hyland died, in New Orleans; and I have heard the stories that Mr
Adkins here has told about this young man.  Those stories are false.
When in New Orleans, at the time of your husband's death, Adkins was
most of the time drunk, and neglecting his duty.  Rowley did not desert
from the ship, neither did he neglect the captain, but was the only one
of the ship's company with him, or taking care of him, when he died.
Mr Adkins never liked Rowley; and the only reason I can think of for
his not doing so, is just because it is natural for a bad man to dislike
a good one.  When Mr Adkins obtained the command of the ship, he would
not let Rowley come aboard again--much less return in her to Liverpool.
I made one voyage with Adkins as first mate after Captain Hyland's
death, and learnt, while making it, that I could not continue with him
any longer--unless I should become nearly as bad as himself.  For that
reason I left the ship.

"Mrs Hyland!" continued Wilton, fixing his eye upon Adkins, and
speaking with determined emphasis, "I have no hesitation in pronouncing
Mr Adkins to be a wicked, deceitful man, who has been robbing you under
the cloak of friendship; and still continues to rob you."

"These men have formed a conspiracy to ruin me!" cried Adkins, springing
to his feet.  "I suppose they will succeed in doing it.  Three men and
one woman are more than I can contend against!"

Mrs Hyland paid no attention to this remark; but, turning to Mason,
said, "I believe that you are Mr Mason, the steward of the `Lenore.'
What have you to say?"

"I have to state that all Mr Wilton has told you, is true," said Mason.
"Rowley, to my knowledge, has never done anything to forfeit your
friendship.  I have long known that Captain Adkins was a scoundrel; and
my desire to expose him--overcome by the fact that I have a large family
to support, and was afraid of losing my situation--has caused me to pass
many a sleepless hour.  I had made up my mind not to go another voyage
along with him--before learning that my testimony was wanted in aid of
Rowley here.  On hearing that he had robbed the young man--not only of
his old friends, but of his liberty--I no longer hesitated about
exposing him.  He is a dishonest villain; and I can prove it by having
the ship's accounts overhauled."

"Go on! go on!" cried Adkins.  "You have it all your own way now.  Of
course, my word is nothing."

"He is telling the truth for once in his life," said Mason to Mrs
Hyland.  "For his word _is_ just worth nothing, to any one who knows
him."

"Now, Rowland," said Mrs Hyland, "what have you to say?"

"Very little," I answered.  "I did not wish you to think ill of me.
There is nothing that can wound the feelings more than ingratitude; and
the kindness with which you once treated me, was the reason why I have
been so desirous of proving to you that I have not been ungrateful.  You
have now evidence that will enable you to judge between Adkins and
myself; and after this interview, I will trouble you no more, for I do
not desire to insist upon a renewal of the friendship you have
suspected.  I only wished you to know that I had given you no cause for
discontinuing it."

"Now, gentlemen!" said Adkins, "having been amused by all each of you
has to say, I suppose I may be allowed to take my leave of you; and,"
said he, turning to Mrs Hyland, "I'll see you again, madam, when you
have not quite so much interesting company to engage your attention."

He arose, and was moving towards the door.

"Stop!" shouted Mason, stepping before him.  "Mrs Hyland," continued
the steward, "I know enough about this man, and his management of your
business, to justify you in giving him in charge to a policeman.  Shall
I call one?"

For a minute Mrs Hyland was silent.

I looked at Adkins, and saw that my triumph over him was complete.  His
own appearance condemned him; and anyone to have seen him at that
moment--humiliated, cowed, and guilty--would ever after have dreaded
doing wrong; through very fear of looking as he did.

In truth, he presented a melancholy spectacle: for he had not the
courage to assume even a show of manliness.

To complete my triumph, and his discomposure, Lenore, who had been all
the while listening with eager interest, and apparent pleasure to what
had been said, cried out, "Let him go, mother, if he will promise never
to come near us again!"

"Yes, let him go!" repeated Mrs Hyland.  "I must think before I can
act."

Mason opened the door; and Adkins sneaked out in a fashion that was
painful, even for me--his enemy--to behold.  After his departure, each
waited for the other to speak.

The silence was broken by Mrs Hyland, who said:

"Of you, Mr Wilton, and you, Mr Mason, I have often heard my late
husband speak in the highest terms; and I know of no reason, why I
should not believe what you have told me."

"With you, Rowland," she continued, turning her eyes upon me, with
something of the old friendly look, "with you, I have been acquainted
many years; and the principal reason I had for doubting your integrity
and truthfulness, was because I thought that, had you possessed the
regard for us, you should have had, you would certainly have come back
after the death of my husband.

"You did not; and the circumstance, as you will admit, was strong
against you.  I have now much reason to believe that I have been
deceived in Adkins; and I do not know whom to trust.  I must suppose
that all of you have come here without any ill feeling towards me: for I
know not why you should wish to do me an injury.

"I have a respect for those in whom Mr Hyland placed confidence.  I
have heard him speak well of all of you; and I do not remember now of
anything he ever said that should give me a favourable opinion of
Adkins.  Indeed, I never heard Mr Hyland speak much concerning him.  It
is my duty to think of the past as well as the present, before I can say
anything more."

Wilton and Mason both assured Mrs Hyland that they had only acted under
the influence of a sense of duty--inspired by the respect they had for
the memory of her husband.

We left the house; but not till Mrs Hyland had shaken hands with me,
and at the same time extended to me an invitation to call the next day;
and not till Mrs Hyland's daughter had given me reason to believe that
my visit would be welcome.

Volume One, Chapter XIV.

ONCE MORE FRIENDS.

I did call the next day, and had no particular reason to be dissatisfied
with my reception.

Mrs Hyland did not meet me in the same motherly manner, she once used
to exhibit; but I did not expect it; and I could not feel displeased at
being admitted on any terms, into the presence of a being so beautiful
as Lenore.

Neither did _she_ receive me in the same manner she used to do in the
past; but neither was I annoyed by that circumstance.  It was necessary
that the child-like innocence and familiarity, once existing between us,
should cease; and it was no chagrin to me to perceive that it had done
so.

I confessed to Mrs Hyland, that I had acted wrong in not returning to
Liverpool after her husband's death; but I also explained to her how, on
being discharged from the ship, I had felt myself sorely aggrieved; and,
having no longer a home, I had to wander about as circumstances
dictated.  I added, of course, that could I have had the least suspicion
that my absence would have been construed into any evidence of crime or
ingratitude, I would have returned long before to refute the calumny.

Lenore did not try to conceal her pleasure, at seeing her mother and
myself conversing once more as friends.

"You must not leave us again, Rowland," said she, "for we have not many
friends, and can ill-afford to lose one.  See how near we have been to
losing you--all through your being absent."

"Yes, Rowland," said Mrs Hyland.  "My house was once your home; and you
are welcome to make it so again.  I shall only be fulfilling the wishes
of my husband, by renewing the intimate friendship that once existed
between us."

Her invitation to make her house once more my home, I reluctantly
declined.  Lenore seemed no longer my sister; and with some sorrow the
conviction forced itself on my mind--that my fate was to love--to love,
yet wander far from the one I loved.

Lenore was now a young lady.  I thought myself a man.  As children, we
could no longer live together--no longer dwell under the same roof.
Lenore was too beautiful; and I was too much afflicted with poverty.
Any further acquaintance between us might not contribute to my future
happiness but the contrary.

I left the house with mingled feelings of pleasure and despair, pleased
to find myself once more restored to the good opinion of Mrs Hyland--
despairing of being able to resist the fascinations of her daughter's
beauty.

Every time I gazed upon her fair face, could only add to my misery.  I
was young; and as I had been told, good-looking.  Lenore and I had been
old friends and playmates.  It was possible for me to win her love; but
would it be honourable?

Would it be a proper return for the kindness of Captain Hyland and his
widow, for me, a penniless "rolling stone," to try to win the affections
of their only child, and subject her to the misery of my own unfortunate
lot?  No!  I could love Lenore; but I could not act in such an unworthy
manner.

Then followed the reflection, that Mrs Hyland had some property.  Her
home would be mine.  She needed a son-in-law to look after the ship; and
I was a seaman.

These thoughts only stirred within me a feeling of pride, that would not
allow me to receive any advantage of fortune from one I could choose for
a wife.  I knew that with all the exertions a man may make--and however
correct his habits may be--he cannot live happily with a wife who brings
into the firm of husband and wife more money than himself.

Another unpleasant consideration came before me.  Why should I be
seeking for reasons against marrying Lenore, when perhaps she might not
consent to marry _me_?  Because we were old friends, was no reason why
she should ever think of me as a husband.  By trying to make her love
me, I might, as she had said of Mr Adkins, cause her only to hate me.

The day after my visit to Mrs Hyland and Lenore, I went to see Mason,
the steward, in order that I might thank him for the good word he had
spoken for me--as well as for much kindness he had shown towards me,
when we were shipmates in the `Lenore.'  He received me in a cordial
manner, that caused me to think better of mankind, than I had lately
done.  In a long conversation I held with him, he told me of many acts
of dishonesty, in the committal of which he had detected Adkins, who, he
said, had been robbing Mrs Hyland in every way he could.

"Captain Hyland took much trouble in giving you some education," said
he; "why don't you marry the daughter, and take command of the ship?"

"I am a poor penniless adventurer," I replied, "and dare not aspire to
so much happiness as would be mine, were I to become the husband, as
well as captain, of `Lenore.'  I am neither so vain nor ambitious."

"That's a fact," said Mason.  "You have not enough of either.  No man
ever did any thing for himself, or any one else, without thinking
something of himself, and making such a trial as you decline to
undertake.  He is a lucky man who wins without trying."

There was truth in what the steward said; but the Hylands had been my
friends, and were so again; and I could not bring myself to abuse the
confidence they had placed in me.  I could not speak of love to Lenore,
and so I told the steward.

In this interview with Mason, I learnt from him that Adkins had
disappeared, and could no more be found!

"His flight," said Mason, "will be positive proof to Mrs Hyland that he
was unworthy of the confidence she had placed in him.  She cannot be too
thankful, that your return has been the means of her discovering his
true character.  I would have exposed him long ago, but I did not think
that I could succeed; and that I would only be doing myself an injury--
in short, ruining my poor family, without the consolation of knowing
that I had also ruined a scoundrel.  Thank the Lord for all his mercies!
The villain has been uncloaked at last."

With this pious thanksgiving ended the interview, between the honest
steward and myself.

Volume One, Chapter XV.

LOVE AND POVERTY.

From that time I called every day to see Lenore and her mother; and each
time came away more hopelessly infatuated.

My money was gradually growing easier to count--until I found that I had
but a few shillings left, and necessity must soon force me to seek
employment.  Of course I contemplated going to sea, and making my living
on board some ship; but I found it impossible to come to a
determination.

How was I to leave Liverpool, where I could gaze each day on the beauty
that adorned Lenore?

I could not take my departure until circumstances should compel me.  In
order to protract my stay as long as possible, I lived on but one meal
per diem; and as I had also to keep a little money for my lodgings, I
made that meal upon a penny roll.

Mrs Hyland had determined on giving up the ship--a resolution no doubt
due to the mismanagement, or rather dishonesty, of him who had lately
commanded her.  I assisted her in finding a purchaser; and she was very
fortunate in disposing of the vessel at a good price.

She had plenty of money, and was willing to aid me.  But pride prevented
me from accepting of anything but her friendship; and ofttimes did I
appear in the presence of Lenore while suffering the pangs of hunger!
Was that love?

I thought it was; and on this fancy, and a single roll of bread, I lived
from day to day.  Never had I been so happy, and, at the same time, so
wretched.  I could look upon her I loved, and converse with her for
hours at a time.  That was happiness.  But I loved Lenore, and must
leave her.  That was misery.

Lenore seemed to meet me with so much cheerfulness, that my resolution
to leave her--without being absolutely compelled to it--was often nearly
broken; and I believe there are but few who would have resisted the
temptation to stay.  But pride, a sense of justice, and a love of
independence, prompted me to go forth again upon the world, and seek
fortune afresh.  Perhaps, too, the fact that I was naturally a "rolling
stone," might have had much to do in my determination, at length arrived
at, of bidding adieu to Lenore.  There was yet another motive urging my
departure--one which had been too long allowed to lie dormant within my
bosom; my relatives were lost, and I knew not where to find them.  This
thought often arose, causing me much regret.  I had as yet no reason to
believe that they had left Liverpool; but if such should prove to be the
case, the sooner I started in search of them, the sooner would my
conscience be satisfied.

I waited till my last shilling was spent; and then sold a signet ring--
which I had taken from the finger of a dead Mexican, on the field of
battle--obtaining thirty shillings for it.  With this trifling sum I had
a great deal to accomplish.  It constituted the sole fund with which my
relatives were to be sought and found.  It was the capital I had to
invest, in the business of making a fortune worthy of Lenore!

I advertised for my mother in some of the Liverpool papers; but the only
result was the loss of the greater part of my cash.  She had probably
gone after Mr Leary to Australia.  Having followed him from Dublin to
Liverpool, was proof that she was foolish enough to follow him to the
Antipodes; and the money she had received for the lease of her house,
would enable her to go there.

Had I been certain that she had sailed to Australia, I should have gone
after her; but I could scarce believe that she had been guilty of an act
of folly; which even the absence of common sense would neither excuse
nor explain.  Because she had once acted foolishly, was not positive
proof that she still continued the victim of her unfortunate
infatuation.

The mere conjecture that my mother had emigrated to Australia, would not
have been a sufficient reason for my going so far in search of her--so
far away from Lenore.  Still it was certain I must go somewhere.  I had
a fortune to make; and, in my belief, Liverpool was the last place where
an _honest_ man would have stood any chance in making it.

My clothing had become threadbare, and my hat and boots were worn to
such a dilapidated condition, that I became every day more ashamed to
pay my visits to Lenore.  I at length resolved upon discontinuing them.

I arose one morning, with the determination of making a move of some
kind during the day: for the life that I had been leading for the past
six weeks could be endured no longer.

I made an excursion to the docks, where I soon succeeded in finding a
berth; and shipped for the "run" in a large vessel--a "liner"--bound to
New York.  This business being settled, I proceeded to the house of Mrs
Hyland--to bid her and her daughter "good-bye."

They showed every evidence of regret at my departure; and yet they did
not urge me very strenuously to remain: for they knew something of my
disposition.

I had a long conversation with Lenore alone.

"Miss Hyland," said I, "I am going in search of a fortune--a fortune
that must be obtained by hard toil; but that toil shall be sweetened by
hope--the hope of seeing _you_ again.  We are both young; and the
knowledge of that gives me encouragement to hope.  I shall not now speak
to you of love; but I shall do so on my return.  I believe that we are
friends; but I wish to make myself worthy of something more than your
friendship."

I fancied that Lenore understood me.  I cannot describe the exquisite
pleasure that thrilled me, as I noted the expression of her features
while she stood listening.  It did not forbid me to hope.

"I will not try to detain you, Rowland," she answered, "but if you are
unsuccessful abroad, do not remain long away.  Return to us; and you
will find those who can sympathise with your disappointments.  I shall
pray that no harm may befall you; and that we may soon meet again."

I could perceive her bosom trembling with some strong emotion, as she
uttered these parting words.

As I took her hand to bid the final "good bye," we were both unable to
speak; and we parted in silence.

The memory of that parting cheered me through many a dark and stormy
hour of my after life.

Volume One, Chapter XVI.

ATLANTIC LINERS.

Perhaps the most worthless characters, who follow the sea as a
profession, are to be found among the crews of Atlantic liners--
especially those trafficking between Liverpool and New York.

These men seldom make voyages to any other ports, than the two above
mentioned; and their custom is to "ship for the run" in one vessel, and
return in another.  They do not affect long voyages; and prefer that
between Liverpool and New York to any other.

There are several reasons for this preference on their part.

One is the facility with which--on an Atlantic liner--they can rob each
other, and steal from the passengers.

Another is, that being, even for seamen, a profligate, dissipated set,
these short voyages give them more frequent opportunities of being in
port--where they can indulge in the vices and habits so congenial to
their vulgar tastes.

A third reason is, the great number of emigrant-passengers carried
between those ports, along with the loose observance of the Passenger
Act--the rules of which are less strictly enforced upon Atlantic liners,
than aboard ships going on longer voyages.

It may be inferred from this, that the ruffians comprising the crews of
the Atlantic liners, have a better opportunity of plundering the
passengers than in any other ships.

When embarking on one of these vessels to recommence my duties as a
seaman, I was not encumbered with much luggage; and I was not very long
in her forecastle, before discovering that this was rather an advantage
than a misfortune!

I had spent so much of my money, that I should have been absolutely
unable to buy an outfit for any other "trip" than that between Liverpool
and New York.

The less a sailor takes aboard with him on such a voyage, the less will
he lose before it is terminated.

One of the crew of the ship in which I sailed, was a young seaman, who
had never made the voyage from Liverpool to New York; and therefore
lacked experience of the evil doings incidental to such a trip.  He had
been foolish enough to bring on board a large "kit" of good clothing.
The first night out of port, when this young man was keeping his watch
on deck, one of his comrades below took notice of his chest.

"It's locked," said the man, stretching out his hand to try the lid.

"Blast him!" cried another, "I suppose he thinks we are all thieves
here!"

"Sarve him right if he were to lose every-things that's in it,"
significantly remarked a third.

"So say I," chimed in a fourth speaker, drawing nearer to the kit, in
order to be at hand in case of a scramble--which the moment after was
commenced.

The chest was turned over, all hands taking share in the act; and
without further ado, its bottom was knocked in.  Most of the sailor's
effects were pulled out, and scattered about--each of the ruffians
appropriating to himself some article which he fancied.

Amongst other things, was a new pair of heavy horseskin boots, which
were obtained by a fellow, who chanced to stand in need of them; and who
pulled them on upon the spot.

The next day, the young sailor having missed his property, of course
created a disturbance about it.  For this, he was only laughed at by the
rest of the crew.

He complained to the officers.

"Had your clothes stole, have you?" carelessly inquired the first mate.
"Well, that's what you might have expected.  Some of the boys are queer
fellows, I dare say.  You should have taken better care of your togs--if
you cared anything about them."

The next day, the young sailor saw one of the men with the stolen boots
upon his feet, and at once accused the wearer of the theft.  But the
only satisfaction he obtained, was that of getting kicked with his own
boots!

We had on board between three and four hundred passengers--most of them
Irish and German emigrants.

Several deaths occurred amongst these poor people.  Whenever one of them
died, the fact would be reported to the officers; and then the first
mate would order the sailmaker to enclose the body in a sack--for the
purpose of its being thrown overboard.  This command to the sailmaker
was generally given as follows:

"Sails! there's a dead 'un below.  Go down, and sack 'im."

As these words were heard by the passengers--alas! too often repeated--
the sailmaker was known during the remainder of the voyage by the name
of Mr Sackem; and this unfortunate functionary became an object of
mysterious dread to many of the passengers--especially the women and
children.

Women generally have a great horror of seeing the dead body of any of
their relatives thrown into the sea; and Mr Sackem incurred the
ill-will of many of the female emigrants, who were simple enough to
think that he was someway or other to blame for the bodies being
disposed of in this off-hand, and apparently unfeeling fashion!

A young child--one of a large family of Irish people--had died one
night; and the next morning the sailmaker went into the steerage where
the body lay--to prepare it for interment in the usual way.

The first attempt made by Mr Sackem, towards the performance of his
duty, brought upon him an assault from the relatives of the deceased
child, backed by several others who had been similarly bereaved!

Poor Sails was fortunate in getting back upon deck with his life; and he
came up from the hatchway below with his clothing torn to rags!  He had
lost the greater part of a thick head of hair, while his countenance
looked like a map of North America, with the lakes and rivers indicated
in red ink.

It was not until the captain had gone down--and given the passengers a
fine specimen of the language and manners of the skipper of an Atlantic
liner in a rage--that the body was allowed to be brought up, and
consigned to its last resting place in the sea.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I landed in New York, with the determination of trying to do something
on shore, for I was by this time convinced, that a fortune was not to be
made by following the occupation of a common sailor.

I did not remain long in New York.  Too many emigrants from Europe were
constantly arriving there; and continuing that same struggle for
existence, which had forced them into exile.

I had every reason to believe, that a young man like myself was not
likely to command his full value, where there were so many competitors;
and I determined to go on to visit the West.

Is it true, a life on the sea might have been preferable to the
hardships, that were likely to be encountered beyond the borders of
civilisation; but Lenore was not to be won by my remaining a common
sailor, nor would such a profession be likely to afford me either time
or opportunity for prosecuting the search after my lost relations.  I
knew not whether I was acting prudently or not; but I directed my course
westward; and did not bring to, until I had reached Saint Louis, in the
State of Missouri.  There I stopped for a time to look about me.

On acquaintance with it I did not discover much in this western city to
admire.  A person of sanguine hopes, and anxious to accomplish great
things in a very little time, is, perhaps, not in a fit frame of mind to
form correct conclusions; and this may account for my being discontented
with Saint Louis.

I could not obtain a situation in a city where there was but little to
be done, and no great wages for doing it.  I was told that I might find
employment in the country--at splitting rails, cutting wood, and other
such laborious work; but in truth, I was not in the vein to submit
myself to this kind of toil.  I was disappointed at finding, that in the
great West I should have much more work to do than I had previously
imagined.

It chanced that at this time there was a grand commotion in Saint Louis.
Gold had been discovered in California--lying in great quantities in
"placers," or gold washings; and hundreds were departing--or preparing
to depart--for the land where fortunes were to be made in a single day.

This was precisely the sort of place I was looking for; but to reach it
required a sum of money, which I had not got.  I had only the poor
satisfaction of knowing that there were many others in a similar
situation--thousands of them, who wished to go to California, but were
prevented by the same unfortunate circumstances that obstructed me.

Many were going overland--across the prairies and mountains; but even
this manner of reaching the golden land required more cash than I could
command.  A horse, and an outfit were necessary, as well as provisions
for the journey, which had to be taken along, or purchased by the way.

I regretted that I had not shipped in New York, and worked my passage to
California round the Horn.  It was too late now.  To get back to any
seaport on the Atlantic, would have required fifteen or twenty dollars;
and I had only five left, of all that I had earned upon the liner.  I
spent these five dollars, before I had succeeded in discovering any plan
by which I might reach California.  I felt convinced that my only chance
of finding my relatives, and making myself worthy of Lenore, lay in my
getting across, to the Pacific side of America.

While thus cogitating, I was further tantalised by reading in a
newspaper some later accounts from the diggings.  These imparted the
information that each of the diggers was making a fortune in a week, and
spending it in a day.  One week in California, was worth ten years in
any other part of the world.  Any one could get an ounce of gold per
diem--merely for helping the giver to spend the money he had made!

Should I--the Rolling Stone--stay where I could find employment at
nothing better than splitting rails, while Earth contained a country
like California?

There was but one answer to the interrogation: No.

I resolved to reach this land of gold, or perish in the attempt.

Volume One, Chapter XVII.

ON HORSEBACK ONCE MORE.

The same newspaper that had imparted the pleasing intelligence, supplied
me with information of another kind--which also produced a cheering
effect upon my spirits.

The emigrants proceeding overland to California, required protection
from the Indians--many hostile tribes of whom lived along the route.
Military stations, or "forts" as they were called, had to be established
at different points upon the great prairie wilderness; and, just then,
the United States' Government was enlisting men to be forwarded to these
stations.

Most of the men enrolled for this service, were for its cavalry arm; and
after my last quarter of a dollar had been spent, I became one of their
number.  My former experience in a dragoon saddle--of which I could give
the proofs--made it no very difficult matter for me to get mounted once
more.

Enlisting in the army, was rather a strange proceeding for a man who was
anxious to make a fortune in the shortest possible time; but I saw that
something must be done, to enable me to live; and I could neither hold a
plough, nor wield an axe.

At first, I was not altogether satisfied with what I had done, for I
knew that my mother was not to be found in the wilds of America; and
that, after remaining five years in the ranks of the American army, I
would be as far as ever from Lenore.

There was one thought, however, that did much to reconcile me to my new
situation; and that was, that our line of march would be _towards
California_!

Three weeks after joining the cavalry corps, we started for a station
lying beyond Fort Leavenworth.

Our march was not an uninteresting one: for most of my comrades were
young men of a cheerful disposition; and around our camp-fires at night,
the statesman, philosopher, or divine, who could not have found either
amusement or instruction, would have been a wonderful man.

Our company was composed of men of several nations.  All, or nearly all,
of them were intelligent; and all unfortunate: as, of course, every man
must be, who enters the ranks as a common soldier.

Man is the creature of circumstances, over which he has no control.  The
circumstances that had brought together the regiment to which I
belonged, would probably make a volume much more instructive and
interesting than any "lady novel," and this, judging from the taste
displayed by the majority of readers of the present day, is saying more
than could be easily proved.

Many European officers would have thought there was but slight
discipline in the corps to which I was attached; but in this opinion,
they would be greatly in error.

The efficiency of our discipline consisted in the absence of that pretty
order, which some French and English martinets would have striven to
establish; and which would have been ill-suited for a march over the
sterile plains, and through the dense forests encountered in the line of
our route.  This absence of strict discipline did not prevent us from
doing a good day's march; and yet enabled us to have plenty of game to
cook over our camp-fires by night.

We had no duty to trouble ourselves with, but what the common sense of
each taught him to be necessary to our safety and welfare; and we were
more like a hunting party seeking amusement, than like soldiers on a
toilsome march.

For all this, we were proceeding towards our destination, with as much
speed as could reasonably be required.

We had one man in the company, known by the name of "Runaway Dick"--a
name given to him after he had one evening, by the camp-fire,
entertained us with a narration of some of the experiences of his life.

He had run away from home, and gone to sea.  He had run away from every
ship in which he had sailed.  He had started in business several times,
and had run away each time in debt.  He had married two wives, and had
run away from both; and, before joining our corps, he had run away from
the landlord of a tavern--leaving Boniface an empty trunk as payment for
a large bill.

"Runaway Dick" was one of the best marksman with a rifle we had in the
company; and it was the knowledge of this, that on one occasion caused
me perhaps the greatest fright I ever experienced.

I had risen at an early hour one morning, which being very cold, I had
lighted a fire.  I was squatted, and shivering over the half kindled
faggots, with a buffalo robe wrapped around my shoulders, when I saw
"Runaway Dick" steal out from his sleeping place under a waggon.  On
seeing me, he turned suddenly round, and laid hold of his rifle.

I had just time to throw off the hairy covering, and spring to my feet,
as the rifle was brought to his shoulder.  Three seconds more, and I
should have had a bullet through my body!

"Darn it!  I thought you was a bar," said Dick coolly, putting down his
rifle, as I fancied, with a show of some chagrin at having been
undeceived, and "choused" out of his shot.

I afterwards heard that he was only trying to frighten me.  If so, the
experiment proved entirely successful.

After reaching the post we were to occupy, I was not so well satisfied
with my situation, as when on the march.

The discipline became more strict, and we had a good deal of
fatigue-work to do--in building huts, stables, and fortifications.

Besides this unsoldierly duty by day, we had at night to take our turn
as sentinels around the station.

Emigrants on the way to California passed us daily.  How I envied them
their freedom of action, and the bright hopes that were luring them on!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

One morning, "Runaway Dick" was not to be found.  He had run away once
more.  It was not difficult to divine whither--to California.

In this, his latest flight, he appeared to give some proof that he had
still a little honesty left: for he did not take along with him either
his horse, or his rifle.

I overheard some of the officers speaking of him after he was gone, one
of them pronounced him "a damned fool" for not taking the horse--so
necessary to him upon the long journey he would have to perform, before
reaching his destination.

On hearing this remark, I registered a resolve, that, when my turn came
to desert, they should not have occasion to apply the epithet to me, at
all events, not for the same reason that Runaway Dick had deserved it.

Whether Dick's example had any influence on me, I do not now remember.
I only know that I soon after determined to desert, and take my horse
with me.

I had served the Government of the United States once before; and did
not think myself any too well rewarded for my services.  I might
probably have believed that "Uncle Sam" was indebted to me; and that by
dismissing myself from his employ, and taking with me some of his
property, it would be only squaring accounts with him; but I did not
then take the trouble to trifle with my conscience--as I do not now--to
justify my conduct by any such excuse.  To carry off the horse would be
stealing; but I required the animal for the journey; and I did not like
to leave my officers under the impression that I was a "damned fool."

"Every one who robs a government is not called a thief," thought I, "and
why should I win that appellation when only trying to win Lenore?"

I could not afford to squander the best part of my life in a
wilderness--standing sentry all the night, and working on fortifications
all the day.

It was absurd for any one to have enlisted an intelligent-looking young
fellow like myself, for any such occupation.  Was I not expected to take
French leave on the first favourable opportunity?  And would I not be
thought a "fool" for not doing so?

These considerations did not influence me much, I admit, for the true
cause of my desertion, was the knowledge that neither my relatives nor
Lenore would ever be encountered in the middle of the great American
prairie, and that to find either I must "move on."

One night I was dispatched on patrol duty, to a place some two miles
distant from the fort.  The sky was dark at the time; but I knew the
moon would be shining brightly in an hour.

A better opportunity would perhaps never occur again; and I resolved to
take advantage of it and desert.

By going through the wilderness alone, I knew that I should have many
dangers and hardships to encounter; but the curiosity, of learning how
these were to be overcome, only added to my desire for entering upon
them.

My patrol duty led me along the trail of the emigrants proceeding
westward; and even in the darkness, I was able to follow it without
difficulty, riding most of the way at a trot.  When the moon rose, I
increased my pace to a gallop, and scarce halted until daybreak, when,
perceiving a small stream that ran through the bottom of a narrow
valley, I rode toward it.  There dismounting, I gave my horse to the
grass--which was growing so luxuriantly as to reach up to his knees.

The horse was more fortunate than I: for the long night's ride had given
me an appetite, which I had no means of satisfying.  I was hungry and
happy--happy, because I was free; and hungry for the same reason!  A
paradox, though a truth.

There were birds warbling among the trees by the side of the stream.  I
could have shot some of them with my rifle, or revolver, and cooked them
over a fire--for I had the means of making one.  But I was not hungry
enough to risk the report of a shot being heard; and after tethering my
horse, to make secure against _his deserting me_, I lay down upon the
long grass and fell fast asleep.

I dreamt no end of dreams, though they might all have been reduced to
one; and that was: that the world was my inheritance, and I was on my
way to take possession of it.

When I awoke, the sun was in the centre of the sky.  My horse had
satisfied his hunger; and, following the example of his master, had laid
down to sleep.

I did not hesitate to disturb his repose; and, having saddled and
remounted him, I once more took to the emigrant trail, and continued on
towards fortune and Lenore!

Volume One, Chapter XVIII.

OLD JOHNSON.

I travelled along the trail all that afternoon and evening, until, just
as twilight was darkening into night, I came in sight of some
camp-fires.  On seeing them, I paused to consider what was best to be
done.

To halt at the camp--if, as I supposed, it was a party of emigrants--
might lead to my being taken, in case of being pursued from the fort,
for my dress, the U.S. brand on the horse, and the military saddle, all
proved them the property of "Uncle Sam."

This determined me to avoid showing myself--until I should have put a
greater distance between myself and the fort.

I dismounted on the spot where I had halted, tethered my horse, and
tried to take some rest.  I soon found that I could not sleep: hunger
would not admit of it.

Within sight of me were the camp-fires, surrounded by people, who would
probably have relieved my wants; and yet I feared to go near them.

Conscience, or common sense, told me, that emigrants in a wilderness
might not look very favourably upon one, employed to protect them,
deserting from his duty, and taking property along with him--of which
every citizen of the United States believes himself to be the owner of a
share.  They might not actually repel me.  In all probability they would
give me something to eat; but they might also give information
concerning me--should I be pursued--that would enable my pursuers to
make a prisoner of me.

Before daybreak I awoke, having enjoyed a brief slumber; and, silently
mounting my horse, I rode beyond the emigrants' camp--deviating widely
from the trail to get around them.

I soon recovered the track; and pursued it as fast as my steed was
willing to carry me.  When, looking out for a place where water could be
obtained--with the intention of stopping awhile and killing some bird or
animal for food--I came in sight of another party of emigrants, who were
just taking their departure from the spot where they had encamped for
the night.

I had put one train of these travellers between me and the fort; and now
fancied myself tolerably safe from pursuit.  Riding boldly up to the
waggons, I told the first man I encountered, and in very plain terms
that I must have something to eat.

"Now, I like that way of talking," said he.  "Had you asked for
something in the humble manner many would have done, perhaps you would
not have got it.  People don't like to carry victuals five hundred
miles, to give away for nothing; but when you say you _must_ have
something to eat, then, of course, I can do nothing but give it to you.
Sally!" he continued, calling out to a young woman who stood by one of
the waggons, "get this stranger something to eat."

Looking around me, I saw a number of people--men, women, and children of
every age.  There appeared to be three families forming the "caravan" no
doubt emigrating together, for the purpose of mutual protection and
assistance.  There were five or six young men--who appeared to be the
sons of the elder ones--and a like number of young women, who were
evidently the daughters of three others of middle age, while a large
flock of miscellaneous children, a small flock of sheep, a smaller
number of cattle, several horses, and half-a-dozen half-famished dogs
completed the live-stock of the train.

"I guess you're a deserter?" said the man, to whom I had first addressed
myself, after he had finished his survey of myself and horse.

"No," I answered.  "I'm on my route to Fort Wool.  I have lost my way,
and gone without eating for two days."

"Now, I like that way of talking," responded the emigrant, who appeared
to be the head man of the party.  "When a man tells me a story, I like
it to be a good one, and well told--whether I believe it, or not."

"What reason have you to disbelieve me?"  I asked, pretending to be
offended at having my word doubted.

"Because I think, from your looks, that you are not a damned fool,"
answered the man, "and no other but a fool would think of staying in a
military fort, in this part of the world, any longer than he had a
chance to get away from it."

I immediately formed the opinion, that the person speaking to me was the
most sensible man I had ever met--myself not excepted: for it was not
necessary for him to have seen Lenore, to know that I had done well in
deserting.

After my hunger had been appeased, I moved on with the emigrant train,
which I found to consist of three Missouri farmers and their families,
on their way to the "Land of Promise."  The man with whom I had
conversed, was named Johnson, or "old Johnson," as some of his juniors
called him.  He was a sharp, brisk sort of an old fellow; and I could
perceive, at a glance there was no chance of his being humbugged by any
made-up story.  I, therefore, changed my tactics; and frankly
acknowledged myself to be a deserter from the United States' troops,
occupying the last fort he had passed.  It was scarce necessary to add,
that my destination was California.  I finished by proposing: that he
would have my services in whatever capacity he might require them, in
consideration of furnishing me with food upon the journey.

"Now, I like that way of talking," said old Johnson, when I had
concluded, "we just chance to need your help, and that of your horse,
too; and we'll try to do the best we can for you.  You must expect to
see some hard times, before we get through--plenty of work and no great
feeding--but do your share of the work, and you shall fare like the rest
of us."

I could ask nothing fairer than this; and the next day, found me dressed
in a suit of "linsey wolsey," working my passage to California, by
taking my share with the others, in clearing the track of obstructions,
driving the cattle, and such other duties as fall to the lot of the
overland emigrant.

The journey proved long, fatiguing, and irksome--much more so than I had
expected; and many times a day did I swear, that, if I ever worked a
passage to California again, it should be by water.  I was impatient to
get on; and chafed at the slow pace at which we crawled forward.  Horses
and cattle would stray, or make a stampede; and then much time would be
lost in recovering them.

Sometimes we would reach a stream, where a bridge had to be built or
repaired; and two or three days would be spent at the work.  The draught
horses and oxen would die, or, becoming unable to proceed farther, would
have to be left behind.  The strength of our teams was being constantly
weakened--until they were unable to draw the heavily loaded waggons; and
it became necessary to abandon a portion of their contents--which were
thrown away upon the prairies.  The first articles thus abandoned, were
carpets and other useless things, not required on the journey, but which
to please the women, or at their instigation, had been put into the
waggons at starting, and dragged for six or seven hundred miles!

The dogs, that, at the commencement of the journey, had for each mile of
the road, travelled about three times that distance, having worn the
skin from the soles of their feet, now crawled along after the waggons
without taking one unnecessary step.  They seemed at length to have
reached the comprehension: that the journey was to be a protracted one;
and that while undertaking it, the idle amusement of chasing birds was
not true canine wisdom.

I shall not startle my leaders with a recital of any remarkable
adventures we had with the hostile Indians: for the simple reason that
we had none.  They gave us much trouble for all that: since our fear of
encountering them, kept us constantly on the alert--one of our party,
and some times more, standing sentry over the camp throughout the whole
of every night.

If my readers reason aright, they will give me credit for not drawing on
my imagination for any part of this narrative.  They may easily perceive
that, by thus eschewing the subject of an encounter with Indians, I lose
an excellent opportunity for embellishing my true tale with an
introduction of fiction.

As we approached the termination of our journey, the teams became
weaker--until it took all of them united in one yoke to draw a single
waggon, containing only the youngest of the children, and a few pounds
of necessary provisions!

The old ladies, along with their daughters, performed the last hundred
miles of the journey on foot; and when we at length reached the first
settlement--on the other side of the mountains--a band of more wretched
looking individuals could scarce have been seen elsewhere.  My own
appearance was no exception to that of my companions.  My hat was a
dirty rag wrapped around my head like a turbann while my boots were
nothing more than pieces of buffalo hide, tied around my feet with
strings.  For all this, I was as well dressed as any of the party.

My agreement with old Johnson was now fulfilled; and I was at liberty to
leave him.  I was anxious to be off to the diggings, where his eldest
son, James, a young man about twenty years old, proposed accompanying
me.  Old Johnson declined going to the diggings himself--his object in
coming to California being to "locate" a farm, while the country was
still "young."

He furnished us with money to buy clothing and tools, as well as to keep
us in food for awhile--until we should get fairly under weigh in the
profession we were about to adopt.

I promised to repay my share of this money to his son--as soon as I
should earn its equivalent out of the auriferous earth of California.

"Now, I like that way of talking," said old Johnson, "for I'm a poor
man; and as I have just come here to make a fortune, I can't afford to
lose a cent."

I parted with Mr Johnson and his party of emigrants with some regret,
for they all had been more kind to me than I had any reason to expect.

I have never found the people of this world quite so bad as they are
often represented; and it is my opinion, that any man who endeavours to
deserve true friendship, will always succeed in obtaining it.

I have never met a man whose habit was to rail against mankind in
general, and his own acquaintances in particular, whose friendship was
worth cultivation.  Such a man has either proved unworthy of friendship,
and has never obtained it; or he has obtained, and therefore possesses
that, for which he is ungrateful.

Volume One, Chapter XIX.

A "PROSPECTING EXPEDITION."

On parting with the Californian colonists, young Johnson and I proceeded
direct to the diggings on the Yuba, where, after looking about for a day
or so, we joined partnership with two others, and set to work on a
"claim" close by the banks of the river.

We had arrived at an opportune season--the summer of 1849--when every
miner was doing well.  There was a good deal of generosity among the
miners at this time; and those who could not discover a good claim by
their own exertions, would have one pointed out with directions how to
work it!

Our party toiled four weeks at the claim we had chosen, and was very
successful in obtaining gold.  Never did my hopes of the future appear
so bright.  Never did Lenore seem so near.

No gold washing could be done on the Yuba during the winter--the water
in the river being then too high--and, as we had not much longer to
work, it was proposed by three men, who held the claim adjoining ours,
that we should join them in prospecting for some new diggings--where we
might be able to continue at work all the winter, unembarrassed by too
much water and too many miners.

One of our neighbours who made this proposal, had visited a place about
forty miles farther up the country--where he believed we might find a
"placer" such as we required.  He had been upon a hunting expedition to
the place spoken of; and while there did not look for gold--having no
mining tools along with him; but from the general appearance of the
country, and the nature of the soil, he was convinced we might find in
it some rich dry diggings, that would be suitable for working in the
winter.

It was proposed that one of us should accompany the man on a prospecting
expedition, that we should take plenty of provisions with us, and search
until we should discover such diggings as we desired.

To this proposal, both parties agreed; and I was the one chosen, by
Johnson and my other two companions, to represent them in the
expedition--the expenses of which were to be equally shared by all.

Before starting, I left with young James Johnson my share of the gold we
had already obtained--which amounted to about sixty ounces.

The hunter and I started--taking with us three mules.  Each of us rode
one--having our roll of blankets lashed to the croup of the saddle.  A
sixty pound bag of flour, some other articles of food, a tent, and the
necessary "prospecting" tools formed "the cargo" of the third mule,
which, in the language of California, was what is called a "pack-mule."

My fellow prospecter was only known to me by the name of Hiram.  I soon
discovered that he was not an agreeable companion--at least, on such an
expedition as that we had undertaken.  He was not sociable; but, on the
contrary, would remain for hours without speaking a word; and then, when
called upon to say something, he would do so in a voice, the tones of
which were anything but musical.

The animal I bestrode had been christened "Monte," that of Hiram was
called "Poker," and the mule carrying "the cargo" was "Uker."  With such
a nomenclature for our beasts, we might easily have been mistaken for a
pair of card-sharpers.

Our progress over the hills was not very rapid.  We were unable to go in
a direct line; and were continually wandering around steep ridges, or
forced out of our way by tributaries of the main river--which last we
were frequently compelled to ascend for miles before we could find a
crossing place.

Although fortunate in having good mules, I do not think that our travel
averaged more than fifteen miles a day, in a direct line from where we
started, though the actual distance travelled would be over thirty!

Late in the evening of our third day out, our pack-mule, in fording a
stream, got entangled among the branches of a fallen tree; and, while
trying to extricate the animal out of its dilemma, Hiram was pulled into
the water, and jammed against a limb--so as to suffer a serious injury.

That night we encamped by the stream--near the place where the accident
had happened; and, about midnight, when I was changing my mule--Monte--
to a fresh feeding place, the animal became suddenly alarmed at
something, and broke away from me--pulling the lazo through my hands,
till not only was the skin peeled clean off my fingers, but one or two
of them were cut clean to the bone.  I reproached myself for not sooner
having had the sense to let go; but, as usual, the reproach came after
the damage had been done.

The mule, on getting free, started over the ridge as though she had been
fired from a cannon--while Poker and Uker, taking the hint from their
companion, broke their tethers at the same instant, and followed at a
like rate of speed.

I returned to Hiram, and communicated the unpleasant intelligence: that
the mules had stampeded.

"That's a very foolish remark," said he, "for you know I'm not deaf."

This answer did not fall very graciously on my ear; but having made up
my mind, to remain in good humour with my companion as long as possible,
I pretended not to notice it.  I simply said in reply, that I thought
there must either be a grizzly bear, or Indians, near us--to have
stampeded the mules.

"Of course thar is," said Hiram, in a tone more harsh than I had ever
before heard him use.

I fancied that he was foolish enough to blame me for the loss of the
mules; and was a little vexed with him, for the way in which he had
answered me.

I said nothing more; but, stepping aside I bandaged up my fingers, and
tried to obtain a little sleep.  At sunrise I got up; and, having first
dressed my wounded fingers, I kindled a fire, and made some coffee.

"Come, Hiram!" said I, in an encouraging tone, "turn out, mate!  We may
have a hard day's work in looking for the mules; but no doubt we'll find
them all right."

"Find them yourself," he answered.  "I shan't look for them."

I had much difficulty in controlling my temper, and restraining myself
from giving Hiram an uncourteous reply.

To avoid subjecting myself to any more of his ill-natured speeches, I
returned to the fire, and ate my breakfast alone.

While engaged in this operation, I pondered in my own mind what was best
to be done.  It ended by my coming to the determination to go in search
of my mule Monte; and, having found her, to return to my partners on the
Yuba.  I felt certain, that should I attempt farther to prosecute the
expedition along with Hiram, and he continue to make the disagreeable
observations of which he had already given me a sample, there would
certainly be a row between us.  In some parts of the world, where people
think themselves highly enlightened, two men getting angry with one
another, and using strong language, is not an unusual occurrence; and
very seldom results in anything, more than both proving themselves
snarling curs.  But it is not so in California, where men become
seriously in earnest--often over trifling affairs; and had a row taken
place between my comrade and myself, I knew that only one story would
have been told concerning it.

I finished my breakfast; and, leaving Hiram in his blankets, I started
off over the ridge to find Monte.  I searched for the mules about six
hours; and having been unsuccessful in my search, I returned to the camp
without them.

Hiram was still wrapped up in his blanket, just as I had left him; and
then the truth suddenly flashed into my dark mind, like lightning over a
starless sky.

Hiram was ill, and I had neglected him!

The bruise on his side, received against the fallen tree, was more
serious than I had supposed; and this had misled me.  He had made no
complaint.

The moment I became aware of my mistake, I hastened to his side.

"Hiram," said I, "you are ill?  Forgive me, if you can.  I fear that my
thoughtlessness, and passionate temper, have caused you much suffering."

He made no reply to my conciliatory speech.  He was in a very high
fever; and asked faintly for water.

I took the tin vessel, in which I had made the coffee; and having filled
it at the stream, gave him a pint cup full.

He drank the water eagerly; and then found voice to talk to me.  He said
that he was glad that I had returned, for he wished to tell me where he
had buried some gold, and where his wife and child were living, and
could be written to.

He spoke with great difficulty; and soon called for more water.

I again filled the cup nearly full, and handed it to him.  After
drinking every drop that was in it, he requested me to give him the
coffee-can; but, thinking that he had drunk enough water, I declined
acceding to his request; and tried to persuade him, that too much water
would do him a serious injury.  He only answered me by clamouring for
more water.

"Wait but a little while," said I.  "In a few minutes you shall have
some more."

"Give it me now!  Give it me now!  Will you not give me some now?"

Knowing that the quantity he had already drunk, could not fail to be
injurious to him, I refused to let him have any more.

"Give me some water!" he exclaimed, with more energy of voice and
manner, than I had ever known him to exhibit.

I replied by a negative shake of the head.

"Inhuman wretch!" he angrily cried out.  "Do you refuse?  Refuse to give
a dying man a drop of water!"

I once more endeavoured to convince him, that there would be danger in
his drinking any more water--that there was yet a chance for him to
live; but, while talking to him, I perceived a change suddenly stealing
over his features.  He partly raised himself into a sitting position;
and then commenced cursing me, in the most horrible language I had ever
heard from the lips of a dying man!

After continuing at this for several minutes he sank back upon the
grass, and lay silent and motionless.

Allowing a short interval to elapse, I approached the prostrate form,
and gently laid my hand upon his forehead.  I shall never forget the
sensation that thrilled through me, as I touched his skin.  It was
already cold and clammy--convincing me that my prospecting companion had
ceased to live!

I passed the whole of the following day in trying to recover the mules.
Had I succeeded, I would have taken the body to some camp of diggers,
and buried it in a Christian manner.

As this was not possible, with my lame hands, I scooped out a shallow
grave; and buried the body as I best could.

Having completed my melancholy task, I started afoot to rejoin my
partners on the Yuba--where I arrived--after several days spent in
toilsome wandering--footsore and dispirited.

The adventure had taught me two lessons.  Never to refuse any one a
drink of water when I could give it; and to be ever after careful in
interpreting the language of others--lest some wrong might be fancied,
where none was intended.

Volume One, Chapter XX.

RICHARD GUINANE.

On my return to the Yuba, with the sad tale of my comrade's death--and
the consequent unfortunate termination of our prospecting scheme--
Hiram's partners made search for his gold, in every place where it was
likely to have been buried.

Their search proved fruitless.  The precious treasure could not be
found.  Unfortunately, none of us knew where his family resided.  He had
been incidentally heard to say, that he came from the state of Delaware;
but this was not sufficient clue, to enable any of us to communicate
with his relatives.

His wife has probably watched long for his return; and may yet believe
him guilty of that faithlessness--too common to men who have left their
homes on a similar errand.

As our claim on the Yuba was well nigh exhausted, we dissolved
partnership--each intending to proceed somewhere else on his own
account.  Young Johnson--who had been my companion across the plains--
never before having been so long away from his parents, determined upon
going home to them, and there remaining all the winter.

I had heard good accounts of the southern "placers," which, being of the
sort known as "dry diggings," were best worked during the rainy season.
Three or four men, from the same "bar" where we had been engaged, were
about starting for the Mocolumne; and, after bidding James Johnson and
my other mates a friendly farewell, I set out along with this party.

After reaching our destination, I joined partnership with two of my
travelling companions; and, during the greater part of the winter, we
worked upon Red Gulch--all three of us doing well.

Having exhausted our claim, my two partners left me both to return home
to New York.  Being thus left once more alone, I determined upon
proceeding still farther south--to the Tuolumne river, there to try my
fortune during the summer.

On my way to the Tuolumne, I fell in with a man named Richard Guinane,
who had just come up from San Francisco City.  He was also _en route_
for the diggings at Tuolumne; and we arranged to travel together.

He was going to try his luck in gold seeking for the second time; and,
finding him an agreeable companion, I proposed that we should become
partners.  My proposal was accepted--on the condition that we should
stop awhile on the Stanislaus--a river of whose auriferous deposits my
new partner had formed a very high opinion.

To this I made no objection; and, on reaching the Stanislaus, we pitched
our tents upon its northern bank.

When I became a little acquainted with the past history of my companion,
I might reasonably have been expected to object to the partnership.
From his own account, he was born to ill-luck: and, such being the case,
I could scarce hope that fortune would favour me--so long as I was in
his company.  Assuredly was Richard Guinane the victim of unfortunate
circumstances.  There are many such in the world, though few whom
Fortune will not sometimes favour with her smiles--when they are
deserved; and, ofttimes, when they are not.

Richard Guinane, according to his own account of himself, was one of
these few.  Circumstances seemed to have been always against him.  Each
benevolent, or praiseworthy action he might perform, appeared to the
world as dictated by some base and selfish feeling!  Whenever he
attempted to confer a favour, the effort resulted in an injury, to those
whom he meant to benefit.  Whenever he tried to win a friend, it ended
by his making an enemy!

His hopes of happiness had ever proved delusive--his anticipations of
misery were always realised!

Pride, honour, in short, every noble feeling that man should possess,
appeared to be his; and yet fate so controlled those sentiments, that
each manifestation of them seemed, to the world, the reverse of the true
motive that inspired it.  Such was Guinane's character--partly drawn
from statements furnished by himself, and partly from facts that came
under my own observation.

Certain circumstances of his life, which he made known to me, had
produced an impression on my memory; but more especially those of which
I was myself a spectator, and which brought his unhappy existence to an
abrupt and tragical termination.  The history of his life is too strange
to be left unrecorded.

Richard Guinane was a native of New York State, where his father died
before he was quite five years of age--leaving a wife and three
children, of whom Dick was the eldest.

So early had Dick's ill-fortune made its appearance, that before he had
reached his fourteenth year, he had established the reputation of being
the greatest thief and liar in his native village!

When once this character became attached to him, no church window could
be broken, nor any other mischief occur, that was not attributed to Dick
Guinane, although, according to his own account, he was really the best
behaved boy in the place!

Near the residence of his mother, lived the widow of a merchant, who had
left a small fortune to his only child, a daughter--the widow having the
sole charge both of the fortune and the heiress--already a half grown
girl.

With a charming voice, this young lady would answer to the name of
Amanda Milne.  She had seen Dick every day, since her earliest
childhood; and she had formed a better opinion of him than of any other
lad in the village.  She was the only one in the place, except his own
mother, who felt any regard for Dick Guinane.  All his other neighbours
looked upon him, as a living evidence of God's amazing mercy!

Like most young ladies, Amanda was learning some accomplishments--to
enable her to kill time in a genteel, and useless manner.

The first great work achieved by her fingers, and to her own entire
satisfaction, was a silk purse--which it had not taken her quite two
months to knit.  This purse, on a favourable opportunity having offered
itself, was presented to Dick.

Not long after, her mother wished to exhibit her needle-work to some
friends--as a proof of the skill and industry of her daughter, who was
requested to produce the purse.

Amanda knew that Dick was not liked by the inhabitants of the village;
and that her own mother had an especially bad opinion of him.  Moreover,
the Guinane family was not so wealthy as the widow Milne; and in the
opinion of many, there was no equality whatever between the young people
representing each.

Though Amanda was well aware of all this, had she been alone with her
mother, in all likelihood she would have told the truth; but, in the
presence of strangers, she acted as most other girls would have done
under similar circumstances.  She said she had lost the purse; and had
searched for it everywhere without finding it.  About that time, Dick
was seen in possession of a purse; and would give no account, of how he
came by it.  The two facts that Amanda Milne had lost a purse, and that
Dick Guinane had one in his possession, soon became the subject of a
comparison; and the acquaintances of both arrived at the conclusion:
that Amanda, as she had stated, must have lost her purse, and that Dick
must have stolen it!

Time passed on--each month producing some additional evidence to condemn
poor Dick in the estimation of his acquaintances.

Mrs Guinane was a member of the Methodist Church, over which presided
the Reverend Joseph Grievous.  This gentleman was in the habit of
holding frequent conversations with Mrs Guinane, on the growing
sinfulness of her son.  Notwithstanding her great reverence for her
spiritual instructor, she could not perceive Dick's terrible faults.
Withal, the complaints made to her--of his killing cats, dogs, and
geese, stealing fruit, and breaking windows--were so frequent, and
apparently so true, that she used to take Dick to task, and in a kindly
way read long maternal lectures to him.

Dick always avowed his innocence--even in the presence of Mr Grievous--
and would use the best of arguments to prove himself as "not guilty."
This pretence of innocence, in the opinion of the Reverend Grievous, was
a wickedness exceeding all his other misdeeds; and the sanctimonious
gentleman suggested the remedy, of having Dick beaten into confession
and repentance!  To this course of treatment, however, Mrs Guinane
firmly refused to give her consent.

One day, Dick had been to a neighbouring town; and when returning, had
passed a house--to the gate of which the old and well known horse of the
Reverend Grievous stood tied.  Simply noticing the horse, and reflecting
that his reverend owner must be inside the house, Dick continued on.

When near his mother's house, he was overtaken by the horse, that bad
come trotting along the road after him.  The horse was without a rider,
which proved that not being properly secured, he had got loose.

Dick caught the horse, mounted him, and commenced riding back--for the
purpose of delivering him to the minister, for he could not permit, that
so pious a person should have to walk home through the mud.

The road was bad--like most of the country roads in the United States--
and Dick was already fatigued with a long walk.  To take the horse to
the house where his owner was visiting, would give him more than a mile
to walk back; but no personal consideration could deter the lad from
doing what he thought to be his duty.

On coming out of the house--where he had been visiting one of the
members of his church--Mr Grievous was surprised not to find his horse;
but the mystery was fully explained when, after proceeding a short
distance, he saw Dick Guinane on the horse's back.

Here was evidence welcome to Mr Grievous.  Dick was at one of his old
games--caught in the very act--riding another man's horse--and that
horse the property of his own minister!

The Reverend Joseph was rejoiced, as he had long been looking for an
opportunity like this.  He attributed all Dick's misdeeds to the want of
proper chastisement; and here was a good reason for administering it to
him.  Dick had no father to correct his faults; and, in the opinion of
Mr Grievous, his mother was too lenient with the lad.

He had long promised, that if ever he caught Dick in any misdemeanour,
he would himself administer a lesson that would not only benefit the
boy, but the community in which he dwelt.  He would be only fulfilling a
duty, which his sacred office imposed upon him; and the present
opportunity was too good a one to be lost.

Dick rode up to the minister, dismounted, and accosted him in a manner
that should have been proof of innocence.  Perhaps it would have been,
by any other person; but to the Reverend Grievous, Dick's confident
deportment--inspired by the consciousness of having acted rightly--only
aggravated the offence of which he was supposed to be guilty.  His bold
effrontery was but the bearing of a person long accustomed to crime.  So
reasoned Mr Grievous!

Without giving Dick time to finish his explanation, the minister seized
him by the collar; and, with his riding whip, commenced administering to
him a vigorous chastisement.

Dick was at the time over sixteen years of age; and was, moreover, a
strong, active youth for his years.

So great was his respect, for all persons, whom he thought superior to
himself, that for some time he bore the chastisement--unresistingly
permitting the minister to proceed in the execution of his fancied duty.

Human nature could not stand such treatment long; and Dick's temper at
length giving way, he picked up a stone, hurled it at the head of the
reverend horsewhipper--who, on receiving the blow, fell heavily to the
earth.

He rose again; and in all probability would have returned to a more
vigorous use of his horsewhip, had his victim been still within reach;
but Dick had secured himself against farther punishment, by taking to
his heels, and placing a wide distance between himself and his irate
pastor.

Next day, Dick was brought before a magistrate, the Reverend Grievous,
upon oath, being compelled to make a somewhat true statement of the
affair.  The justice had no other course than to discharge the prisoner,
which he did with reluctance--expressing regret that the strict letter
of the law did not allow him to deal with the offence in the manner it
so justly merited!

His native village no longer afforded a peaceful home for Dick Guinane.

He was pointed at in the streets.  Other boys of his age were forbidden
by their parents to play with him; and the little school girls crossed
the road in terror, as they saw him approach.  In the opinion of the
villagers, he had reached the climax of earthly iniquity.

He was sent to reside with an uncle--his mother's brother--who lived in
the city of New York.  Before leaving his native place, he attempted to
make a call on Amanda Milne; but was met at the door by her mother, who
refused either to admit him within the house, or allow her daughter to
see him.

Shortly after reaching his new home in the great city, he received a
letter from his mother--enclosing a note from Amanda, the contents of
which partly repaid him for all the injuries he had suffered.

During a residence of five years in New York, he was unsuccessful in
everything he undertook; and, unfortunately, though from no fault of his
own, lost the confidence of his uncle, as also his protection.

He returned to his native village, where he found that he was still
remembered with disfavour.

He talked of love to Amanda Milne; but his suit was rejected.  She
admitted being much prepossessed in his favour, and that he had no rival
in her affections; but what woman can brave the ridicule of all her
acquaintances, and the anger of an only parent, by accepting a lover
universally shunned and condemned?

Dick once more bade adieu to his native village; and after various
vicissitudes in different cities of the United States, at length found
his way to California.  He had been one of the most fortunate miners on
the Feather river; and had invested the money made there in a dry goods
store in San Francisco.

Just one week after entering upon his new business, the city of San
Francisco was burnt to the ground; and Dick's dry goods store, including
the contents, along with it.

With only one hundred dollars in his purse, he again started for the
diggings; and it was while journeying thither that he and I came
together, and entered into partnership as above related.

Volume One, Chapter XXI.

After breaking ground upon the Stanislaus, we toiled for three weeks
without any success.  Every one around us seemed to be doing well; but
the several mining claims worked by Guinane and myself seemed to be the
only places in the valley of the Stanislaus where no gold existed.  Not
a grain rewarded our labours.

"For your sake we had better part company," said Guinane to me one
evening, after we had toiled hard all day, and obtained nothing.  "You
will never have any luck, so long as you are my partner."

I was inclined to think there was some truth in what my comrade said;
but I did not like the idea of leaving a man, merely because he had been
unfortunate.

"Your fate cannot long contend with mine," I answered.  "I am one of the
most fortunate fellows in the world.  If we continue to act in
partnership, my good fortune will, in time, overcome the ill-luck that
attends upon you.  Let us keep together awhile longer."

"Very well," assented Guinane, "but I warn you that some one above--or
below, may be--has a `down' on me; and the good genius attending you
will need to be very powerful to make things square.  However, you lead
the way, and I will follow."

I did lead the way; and we went to Sonora, further south, where we
entered upon a claim at a place called Dry Creek.  Here we met with
success, of which we could not reasonably complain.

We often used to walk into Sonora in the evening; and amuse ourselves,
by witnessing the scenes occurring in the gambling houses, or having a
dance with the bright-eyed Mexican senoritas.

One evening, while loitering about in one of the gambling houses, we saw
a digger who was intoxicated, almost to the degree of drunkenness.  He
was moving about in half circles over the floor, keeping his feet under
him with much difficulty, unknown to himself.  Every now and then, he
loudly declared his intention of going home, as if he thought such a
proceeding on his part, was one in which all around him must be highly
interested.  Each time, before going, he would insist upon having
another drink; and this continued, until he had swallowed several
glasses of brandy, on the top of those that had already produced his
intoxication.  In paying for these drinks, he pulled out a bag of gold
dust, which carried, judging from its size, about one hundred ounces;
and a man behind the bar, weighed from it the few specks required in
payment for the liquor.

There was something in the appearance of this miner that strangely
interested me.  I fancied that I had seen him before; but could not tell
where.  While I was endeavouring to identify him, he staggered out of
the house into the street--leaving me in doubt, as to whether we had met
before or not.

The thoughts of my companion Guinane, were not absorbed by wanderings
like mine; and he had been more observant of what was transpiring around
him.  After the miner had gone out, he came close up to me, and
whispered:--

"That man will be robbed.  When he pulled out his bag of gold to pay for
the drink, I saw two men exchange glances, and walk out before him.
They will waylay, and rob him.  Shall we let them do it?"

"Certainly not," I answered, "I like the look of the man; and do not
think that he deserves to lose his money."

"Come on then!" said Guinane; and we both stepped out into the street.

The first direction in which we turned was the wrong one: for, after
proceeding about a hundred yards, nothing of the drunken man was to be
seen; and we knew that he was too drunk to have got any farther away.

We turned back; and walked at a quick pace--indeed, ran--in the opposite
direction.  This time our pursuit was more successful.  We saw the
drunken miner lying on the pavement, with two men standing over him, who
pretended, as we came up, that they were his friends; and that they were
endeavouring to get him home.

Had the drunken man been willing to accept of their assistance, we might
have found no excuse for interfering; but as we drew near, we could hear
him exclaiming, "Avast there, mates!  I can navigate for myself.  Be
off, or, dammee!  I'll teach you manners."

"Stormy Jack!"  I exclaimed, rushing forward, followed by Guinane.
"'Tis you Stormy?  What's wrong?  Do you want any help?"

"Yes," replied Jack, "teach these fellows some manners for me.  My legs
are too drunk; and I can't do so myself."

The two men moved silently, but rapidly away.

"Have you got your gold?"  I asked, ready for pursuit in case the
fellows had robbed him.

"Yes, that's all right.  One of them tried to take it; but I wouldn't
let him.  I'm sober enough for that.  It's only my legs that be drunk.
My hands are all right."

Stormy's legs were indeed drunk, so much so, that Guinane and I had much
difficulty in getting him along.  We were obliged to place him between
us, each supporting one of his sides.  After considerable labour, we
succeeded in taking him to a house where I was acquainted.  Here we put
him to bed; and, after leaving instructions with the landlord, not to
let him depart until one of us should return, we went home to our own
lodgings.

Next morning, at an early hour, I called to see Stormy; and found him
awake and waiting for me.

"You done me a good turn last night," said he, "and I shall not forget
it, as I have you."

"Why do you think you have forgotten me?"  I asked.

"Because last night you called me Stormy Jack; and from that, I know you
must have seen me before.  I've not been hailed by that name for several
years.  Now, don't tell me who you are: for I want to find out for
myself."

"You could not have been very drunk last night," said I, "or you would
not remember what you were called?"

"Yes, would I," answered Stormy, "according as the land lay, or what
sort of drunk it was.  Sometimes my mind gets drunk, and sometimes my
legs.  It's not often they both get drunk together.  Last night it was
the legs.  Had you been a man six or seven years ago, when I was called
Stormy Jack, I should remember you: for I've got a good memory of things
that don't change much.  But when I used to be called Stormy Jack, you
must have been a bit o' a tiny boy.  Now, who can you be?  What a stupid
memory I've got!" continued he, scratching his head.  "There's no way of
teaching it manners, as I knows of.  But what boy used to call me Stormy
Jack--that looked as you ought to have looked a few years ago?  Ah! now
I have it.  Bless my eyes, if you arn't the Rollin' Stone!"

Stormy then rushed forward, grasped my hand, and nearly crushed it
between his strong, sinewy fingers.

"Rowley, my boy!" said he, "I knew we should meet again.  I've thought
of you, as I would of my own son, if I'd had one.  I've looked the world
over, trying to find you.  How come you to hail me by name last night?
You are an astonishing chap.  I knew you would be; and some one has
larnt you manners.  Ah!  I suppose 'twas Nature as did it?"

I need not say, that Stormy and I, after this singular renewal of
companionship, were not likely to part in a hurry.  We passed that day
together, talking over old times--Stormy giving me a history of some
events of his life, which had transpired since our parting in New
Orleans.

"On the morning I last saw you," said he, "I went to work on the ship,
as I intended; and did a hard day's work--for which I've never yet been
paid.

"When I was going home to you, I met an old shipmate; and, in course, we
went into a grog-shop to have something to drink.

"After having a glass with my friend at his expense, of course, it was
but right for him to have one at mine.  We then parted company; and I
made tracks for the lodging-house, where I had left you.

"Them two glasses of brandy, after working hard all the afternoon in the
hot sun, did more for me, than ever the same quantity had done before.
I was drunk somewhere, though I was not exactly certain where.

"Just before reaching the house where we were staying, I met the first
breezer, who, you remember, had knocked me down with the carpenter's
mallet.  Well! without more ado, I went to work to teach him manners.

"While giving him the lesson, I larnt that it was my head that was
drunk: for my legs and arms did their duty.  I beat and kicked him in a
way, that would have rejoiced the heart of any honest man.  Just as I
was polishing him off, two constables came up, and collared me away to
gaol.

"The next morning, I was sentenced to one month's imprisonment.  Captain
Brannon did not like that: for he wanted me back aboard of his ship.
But the magistrate, mayor, or whatever he was, that sentenced me, had
too much respect for me to allow the captain to have his own way; and I
was lodged and fed, free of all expense, until the `Hope' had sailed.

"After coming out of the gaol, I went straight to the boarding-house, in
hopes of finding you still there; but I larnt that you had gone away,
the next day after I was jug

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