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It was at the close of that war which lost
this country the wealthiest and most populous
of her American colonies, that a fleet
of ships were returning from their service,
amongst the islands of the New World, to
seek for their worn out, and battered hulks,
and equally weakened crews, the repairs and
comforts of England and home.

That latter, most endearing to the mariner
of all sounds, had, as it were, drawn together
by instinct, a group of sailors on the forecastle
of the proudest ship of the squadron—who
gazed with varied emotions on the land
which gave them birth---but with one common
feeling of joy, that the day of their
attaining it was at length arrived.

The water curled from the bows of this
castle of the ocean, in increasing waves and
growing murmurs, that at times drew the
attention of the veteran tar to their quickening
progress, and who having cheered his
heart with the sight---cast his experienced
eye in silence on the swelling sails, to see if
nothing more could be done to shorten the
distance between him and his country.

Hundreds of eyes were fixed on the land of
their birth, and hundreds of hearts were beating
in that one vessel with the awakening delights
of domestic love, and renewed affections,
but no tongue broke the disciplined silence

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of the ship, into sounds that overcame the
propitious ripple of the water, they began
smoothly and steadily to glide through.

On the highest summit of their towering
mast, floated a small blue flag--the symbol of
authority—and beneath it paced a man, to
and fro the deck—deserted by his inferiors
to his more elevated rank. His square built
form, and care-worn features, which had lost
the brilliancy of an English
complexion---and hair whitened prematurely—spoke of
bodily vigour—and arduous services, which
had put that vigour to the severest trials.

At each turn of his walk, as he faced the
land of his nativity, a lurking smile stole
over his sun-burnt features, and then a glance
of his eye would scan the progress of the
far-stretched squadron, which obeyed his orders,
and which he was now returning to
his superiors, undiminished in numbers, and
proud with victory.

By himself stood an officer in a uniform differing
from all around him---his figure was
small—his eye restless, quick, and piercing,
and bent on those shores to which he was
unwillingly advancing, with a look of anxiety
and mortification, that showed him the late
commander of those vessels around them,
which, by displaying their double flags, manifested
to the eye of the seaman, a recent
change of masters.

Occasionally the conqueror would stop, and
by some effort of his well-meant but rather
uncouth civility, endeavour to soften the

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bonds of captivity to his guest; and which
were received with the courtesy of the most
punctilious etiquette, but a restraint, that
showed them civilities that were unwelcome.

It was, perhaps, the most unlucky moment
that had occurred, within the two months of
their association, for an exchange of their
better feelings. The honest heart of the English
tar, dilated with ill-concealed delight at
his approach to the termination of labours,
performed with credit and honour---and his
smiles and good humour, which partly proceeded
from the feelings of a father and a
friend, were daggers to the heart of his discomfited
rival.

A third personage now appeared from the
cabin of the vessel, and approached the spot
where the adverse admirals were, at the moment,
engaged in one of these constrained
conferences

The appearance and dress of this gentleman
differed yet more widely from the two
just described. He was tall, graceful, and
dignified; he was a soldier, and clearly of
high rank. His carefully dressed hair, concealed
the ravages of time; and on the quarter-deck
of a first-rate, his attire and manners
were suited to a field-day in the park.

“I really insist, Monsieur,” cried the Admiral,
good naturedly, “that you shall take
part of my chaise to London; you are a
stranger to the country, and it will help to
keep up your spirits by the way.”

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“You are very good, Monsieur Howell,”
replied the Frenchman, with a polite bow,
and forced smile' misconstruing ill-judged
benevolence into a wish for his person to
grace a triumph---“but I have accepted the
offer Monsieur le General Denbigh was so
good as to make me.”

“The Compte is engaged to me, Howell,”
said the General, with a courtly smile, “and
indeed, you must leave the ship to-night, or
as soon as we anchor.---But I shall take day-light,
and to-morrow.”

“Well---well---Denbigh,” exclaimed the
other, rubbing his hands with pleasure, as he
viewed the increasing power of the wind,
“only make yourselves happy, and I am contented.”

A few hours yet intervened before they
reached the Bay of Plymouth; and round
the table, after their dinner, were seated the
General and English Admiral.—The Compte,
under the pretence of preparing his things
for a removal, had retired to his apartment,
for the concealment of his feelings;—and the
Captain of the ship was above, superintending
the approach of the vessel to the anchorage-ground.
Two or three well emptied
bottles of wine yet remained, but as the
healths of all the branches of the House of
Brunswick had been propitiated from their
contents, with a polite remembrance of Louis
the XVI., and Marie Antoinette, from

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General Denbigh—neither of the superiors were
much inclined for action.

“Is the Thunderer in her station?” said
the Admiral, to his signal Lieutenant, who
at that moment came below with a report.

“Yes sir, and has answered,”—was the
reply.

“Very well—make the signal to prepare
to anchor.”

“Ay—ay, sir.”

“And here, Bennett,” to the retiring Lieutenant—
“call the transports all in shore of
us.”

“Three hundred and eighty-four, sir,”
said the officer, looking at his signal-book.—
The Admiral cast his eye at the book, and
nodded his assent.

“And let the Mermaid—Flora—Weasel—
Bruiser, and all the sloops, lie well off, until
we have landed the soldiers; the pilot says
the channel is full of luggers, and Jonathan
is grown very saucy.”

The Lieutenant made a complying bow,
and was retiring to execute these orders, as
Admiral Howell, taking up a bottle not yet
entirely deserted by its former tenant—cried
stoutly—“Here, Bennet—I forgot—take a
glass of wine—drink success to ourselves,
and defeat to the French all over the world.”

The General pointed significantly to the
adjoining cabin of the French Admiral, as he
pressed his hand on his lips for silence.

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“Oh!” cried Admiral Howell, recollecting
himself; and continued in a whisper, “but
you can drink it in your heart.”

The signal-officer nodded, and drank the
liquor; as he smacked his lips on going on
deck, he thought to himself, these nabobs
drink famous good wine.

Although the feelings of General Denbigh
were under much more command, and disciplined
obedience, than those of his friend,
yet was he unusually elated with his return to
his home, and expected honours. If the
Admiral had captured a fleet, he had taken
an island;—and hand in hand they had cooperated
in unusual harmony, through the
difficulties of an arduous campaign. This
rather singular circumstance was owing to
their personal friendship.—From their youth
they had been companions, and although of
very different characters and habits, chance
had cemented their intimacy in their more
advanced life;—while in subordinate stations,
they had been associated together in service;
and the now General and Admiral, in command
of an army, and a fleet, had once before
returned to England with lesser renown,
as a Colonel and Captain of a frigate. The
great family influence of the soldier, with
the known circumstance of their harmony,
had procured them this later command, and
home with its comforts and rewards was
close before them. Pouring out a glass of

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Madeira, the General, who always calculated
what he said, exclaimed,

“Peter--we have been friends from boys.”

“To be sure we have,” said the Admiral,
looking up in a little surprise, at this unexpected
commencement—“and it will not be
my fault, if we do not die such, Frederic.”

Dying was a subject the General did not
much delight in, although of conspicuous
courage in the field; and he proceeded to
his more important purpose—

“I could never find, although I have looked
over our family tree so often, that we are
in any manner related, Howell.”

“I believe it is too late to mend that matter
now,” said the Admiral, musing.

“Why no—hem—I think not, Howell,—
take a glass of this Burgundy.” The Admiral
shook his head with a stubborn resolution
to taste nothing French—but helped
himself to a bountiful stock of Madeira, as
he replied,

“I should like to know how you can
bring it about, this time a-day, Denbigh.”

“How much money will you be able to
give that girl of yours, Peter?” said his
friend, evading the point.

“Forty thousand down, my good fellow,
and as much more when I die,” cried the
open-hearted sailor, with a nod of exultation.

“George, my youngest son, will not be
rich—but Francis will be a Duke, and have
a noble estate—yet” said the General,

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“he is so unhappy in his meditating---,
and uncouth in his manners, I cannot
think of offering him to your daughter as a
husband.

“Isabel shall marry a good-natured man,
like myself, or not at all,” said the Admiral
positively, but not in the least suspecting the
drift of his friend—who was influenced by
any thing but a regard to the lady's happiness.

Francis, his first born, was, in truth, as
he had described---but his governing wish
was to provide for his favourite George—
Dukes could never want wives--but unportioned
Captains in the Guards might.

“George is one of the best tempers in
the world,” said his father, with strong
feeling, “and the delight of all--I could
wish he had been the heir to the family
honours.”

“That it is certainly too late to help,”
cried the Admiral, wondering if the ingenuity
of his friend could devise a remedy for this
evil too.

“Yes, too late, indeed,” said the other,
with a heavy sigh, “but Howell, what say
you to matching Isabel with my favourite
George.”

“Denbigh,” cried the sailor, eyeing him
keenly, “Isabel is my only child--and a dutiful,
good girl—one that will obey orders if
she breaks owners, as we sailors say—now.
I did think of marrying her to a seaman,

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when a proper man came athwart my course;
yet, your son is a soldier, and that is next to
being in the navy—if-so-be you had made
him come aboard me, when I wanted you
to, there would have been no objection at
all—however, when occasion offers, I will
overhaul the lad, and if I find him staunch,
he may turn in with Bell and welcome.”

This was uttered in perfect simplicity, and
no intention of giving offence; and partook
partly of the nature of a soliloquy—so the
General, greatly encouraged, was about to
proceed to push the point, as a gun was
fired from their own ship.

“There's some of them lubberly transports
won't mind our signals—they have had
these soldiers so long on board, they get
as clumsy as the red-coats themselves,”
muttered the Admiral, as he hapened on
deck to enforce his commands.

A shot or two, sent significantly, in the
direction of the wanderers, but so as not to
hit them, restored order; and within an
hour, forty line of battle ships, and an hundred
transports, were disposed in the best
manner for convenience and safety.

On their presentation to their sovereign,
both veterans were embellished with the
ribbon of the Bath, and as their exploits
filled the mouths of the news-mongers, and
columns of the public prints of the day---
the new Knights began to think seriously
of building a monument to their victories,

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in an union between their children; the
Admiral, however, determined to do nothing
with his eyes shut, and demanded a scrutiny.

“Where is the boy who is to be a Duke?”
exclaimed he, one day, his friend had introduced
the point with a view to a final arrangement.
“Bell has good blood in her
veins---is a tight built little vessel---clean
heel'd and trim, and would make as good a
Duchess as the best of them; so, Denbigh,
I will begin by taking a survey of the senior”---
to this the General had no objection,
as he well knew, Francis would be wide of
pleasing the tastes of an open-hearted, simple
man, like the sailor---they met accordingly,
for what the General facetiously called
their review, and the Admiral, innocently
termed, his survey---at the house of the
former, and the young gentlemen were submitted
to his inspection.

Francis Denbigh was about four and
twenty, of a feeble body, and face marked
with the small-pox, to approaching deformity;
his eye was brilliant and piercing, but
unsettled, and, at times, wild—his manner
awkward—constrained and timid; there
would seem, it is true, an intelligence and
animation, which occasionally lighted his
countenance into gleams of sunshine, that
caused you to overlook the lesser accompaniments
of complexion and features, in the
expression—but they were transient, and

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inevitably vanished, whenever his father spoke,
or in any manner mingled in his pursuits.

An observer, close as Mrs. Wilson, would
have said—the feelings of the father and
son, were not such as ought to exist between
parent and child.

But the Admiral, who regarded model and
rigging, a good deal, satisfied himself with
muttering, as he turned his eyes on the junior.

“He may do for a Duke---but I would not
have him for a cockswain.”

George was a year younger than Francis;
in form---stature, and personal grace, the
counterpart of his father; his eye was less
keen, but more attractive, than that of his
brother---his air open---polished and manly.

“Ah!” thought the sailor, as he ended his
satisfactory survey of the youth---“what a
thousand pities Denbigh did not send him to
sea.”

The thing was soon settled, and George
was to be the happy man; Sir Peter concluded
to dine with his friend, in order to
arrange and settle preliminaries over their
bottle, by themselves—the young men and
their mother, being engaged to their uncle
the Duke.

“Well, Denbigh,” cried the Admiral, as
the last servant withdrew, “when do you
mean to have the young couple spliced?”

“Why,” replied the wary soldier, who knew
he could not calculate on obedience to his
mandates, with as great a certainty, as his

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friend—“the better way is to bring the
young people together, in order they may
become acquainted, you know.”

“Acquainted—together—” cried his companion,
in a little surprise, “what better way
is there to bring them together, than to have
them up before a priest—or to make them
acquainted, than by letting them swing in the
same hammock?”

“It might answer the end, indeed,” said
the General, with a smile, “but, some how
or other, it is always the best method to
bring young folks together, to let them have
their own way in the affair, for a time.”

“Own way!” rejoined Sir Peter, bluntly,
“did you ever find it answer to let a woman
have her own way, Sir Frederic?”

“Not common women, certainly, my
good friend,” said the general, “but such a
girl as my intended daughter is an exception.”

“I don't know,” cried the sailor, “Bell is a
good girl, but she has her quirks and whims,
like all the sex.”

“You have had no trouble with her, as
yet, I believe, Howell,” said Sir Frederic,
cavalierly, but throwing an inquiring glance
on his friend.

“No, not yet—nor do I think she will
ever dare to mutiny—but there has been one
wishing to take her in tow already, since
we got in.”

“How!” said the other, in alarm—” who—

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what is he—some officer in the navy, I suppose.”

“No, he was a kind of a chaplain—one
Parson Ives—a good sort of a youth enough,
and a prodigious favourite with my sister,
Lady Hawker.”

“Well, what did you answer, Peter?”
cried his companion, in increasing uneasiness,
“did you put him off?”

“Off! to be sure I did—do you think I
wanted a barber's clerk for a son-in-law---no—
no—Denbigh, a soldier is bad enough,
without having a preacher.”

The General compressed his lips, at this
direct attack on a profession, he thought most
honourable of any in the world, in some
resentment---but remembering the eighty
thousand pounds---and accustomed to the
ways of the other, he curbed his temper, and
inquired—

“But Miss Howell—your daughter—how
did she stand affected to this said priest?”

“How?—why—how?—why I never asked
her.”

“Did not?”

“No—never asked—she is my daughter,
you know---and bound to obey my orders,
and I did not choose she should marry a parson—
but once for all, when is the wedding
to be?”

General Denbigh had indulged his younger
son, too blindly, and too fondly, to expect
that implicit obedience, the Admiral

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calculated to a certainty on, and with every prospect
of not being disappointed, from his daughter—
Isabel Howell was pretty—mild and timid,
and unused to oppose any of her father's
commands—but George Denbigh was haughty---positive
and self-willed, and unless the
affair could be so managed, as to make him
a willing assistant in the courtship—his father
knew it might be abandoned at once—he
thought he might be led, but not driven---
and relying on his own powers for managing,
the General saw his only safety in executing
the scheme, in postponing his advances
for a regular seige to the lady's heart.

Sir Peter chafed and swore at this circumlocution---the
thing could be done as well
in a week as in a year; and the veterans, who
had, for a miracle, agreed in their rival stations,
and in doubtful moments of success---
were near splitting, on the point of marrying
a girl of nineteen.

As Sir Peter both loved his friend, and had
taken a prodigious fancy to the youth—he
was fain to submit to a short probation.

“You are always for going a round-about
way to do a thing,” said the admiral, as he
yielded the point, “now when you took that
battery-- had you gone up in front as I advised
you---you would have taken it in ten
minutes, instead of five hours”---“Yes,” said
the other, with a friendly shake of the hand,
at parting, “and lost fifty men, in place of
one, by the step.”

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