CHAPTER I.

“Then, if he were my brother's,
My brother might not claim him; nor your father,
Being none of his, refuse him: This concludes—
My mother's son did get your father's heir;
Your father's heir must have your father's land.”
King John.

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The events we are about to relate, occurred near the
middle of the last century, previously even to that struggle,
which it is the fashion of America to call “the old
French War.” The opening scene of our tale, however,
must be sought in the other hemisphere, and on the coast of
the mother country. In the middle of the eighteenth century,
the American colonies were models of loyalty; the very
war, to which there has just been allusion, causing the great
expenditure that induced the ministry to have recourse to
the system of taxation, which terminated in the revolution.
The family quarrel had not yet commenced. Intensely occupied
with the conflict, which terminated not more gloriously
for the British arms, than advantageously for the
British American possessions, the inhabitants of the provinces
were perhaps never better disposed to the metropolitan
state, than at the very period of which we are about to
write. All their early predilections seemed to be gaining
strength, instead of becoming weaker; and, as in nature,
the calm is known to succeed the tempest, the blind attachment
of the colony to the parent country, was but a precursor
of the alienation and violent disunion that were so soon to
follow.

Although the superiority of the English seaman was well

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established, in the conflicts that took place between the year
1740, and that of 1763, the naval warfare of the period by
no means possessed the very decided character with which
it became stamped, a quarter of a century later. In our
own times, the British marine appears to have improved in
quality, as its enemies' deteriorated. In the year 1812, however,
“Greek met Greek,” when, of a verity, came “the
tug of war.” The great change that came over the other
navies of Europe, was merely a consequence of the revolutions,
which drove experienced men into exile, and which, by rendering
armies all-important even to the existence of the different
states, threw nautical enterprises into the shade, and
gave an engrossing direction to courage and talent, in another
quarter. While France was struggling, first for independence,
and next for the mastery of the continent, a
marine was a secondary object; for Vienna, Berlin, and
Moscow, were as easily entered without, as with its aid.
To these, and other similar causes, must be referred the explanation
of the seeming invincibility of the English arms at
sea, during the late great conflicts of Europe; an invincibility
that was more apparent than real, however, as many well
established defeats were, even then, intermingled with her
thousand victories.

From the time when her numbers could furnish succour
of this nature, down to the day of separation, America had
her full share in the exploits of the English marine. The
gentry of the colonies willingly placed their sons in the
royal navy, and many a bit of square bunting has been
flying at the royal-mast-heads of King's ships, in the nineteenth
century, as the distinguishing symbols of flag-officers,
who had to look for their birth-places among ourselves. In
the course of a chequered life, in which we have been brought
in collision with as great a diversity of rank, professions, and
characters, as often falls to the lot of any one individual, we
have been thrown into contact with no less than eight English
admirals, of American birth; while, it has never yet
been our good fortune to meet with a countryman, who has
had this rank bestowed on him by his own government. On
one occasion, an Englishman, who had filled the highest
civil office connected with the marine of his nation, observed
to us, that the only man he then knew, in the British navy, in

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whom he should feel an entire confidence in entrusting an
important command, was one of these translated admirals;
and the thought unavoidably passed through our mind, that
this favourite commander had done well in adhering to the
conventional, instead of clinging to his natural allegiance, inasmuch
as he might have toiled for half-a-century, in the
service of his native land, and been rewarded with a rank
that would merely put him on a level with a colonel in the
army! How much longer this short-sighted policy, and
grievous injustice, are to continue, no man can say; but it
is safe to believe, that it is to last until some legislator of
influence learn the simple truth, that the fancied reluctance
of popular constituencies to do right, oftener exists in the apprehensions
of their representatives, than in reality.—But to
our tale.

England enjoys a wide-spread reputation for her fogs;
but little do they know how much a fog may add to natural
scenery, who never witnessed its magical effects, as it has
caused a beautiful landscape to coquette with the eye, in playful
and capricious changes. Our opening scene is in one of
these much derided fogs; though, let it always be remembered,
it was a fog of June, and not of November. On a high head-land
of the coast of Devonshire, stood a little station-house,
which had been erected with a view to communicate, by signals,
with the shipping, that sometimes lay at anchor in an adjacent
roadstead. A little inland, was a village, or hamlet,
that it suits our purposes to call Wychecombe; and at no
great distance from the hamlet, itself, surrounded by a small
park, stood a house of the age of Henry VII., which was
the abode of Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, a baronet of the
creation of King James I., and the possessor of an improveable
estate of some three or four thousand a year, which
had been transmitted to him, through a line of ancestors,
that ascended as far back as the time of the Plantagenets.
Neither Wychecombe, nor the head-land, nor the anchorage,
was a place of note; for much larger and more favoured
hamlets, villages, and towns, lay scattered about that fine
portion of England; much better roadsteads and bays could
generally be used by the coming or the parting vessel; and
far more important signal-stations were to be met with, all
along that coast. Nevertheless, the roadstead was entered,

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when calms or adverse winds rendered it expedient; the
hamlet had its conveniences, and, like most English hamlets,
its beauties; and the Hall and park were not without
their claims to state and rural magnificence. A century
since, whatever the table of precedency, or Blackstone may
say, an English baronet, particularly one of the date of
1611, was a much greater personage than he is to-day; and
an estate of £4000 a year, more especially if not rackrented,
was of an extent, and necessarily of a local consequence,
equal to one of near, or quite three times the same
amount, in our own day. Sir Wycherly, however, enjoyed
an advantage that was of still greater importance, and which
was more common in 1745, than at the present moment.
He had no rival within fifteen miles of him, and the nearest
potentate was a nobleman of a rank and fortune that put
all competition out of the question; one who dwelt in courts,
the favourite of kings; leaving the baronet, as it might be,
in undisturbed enjoyment of all the local homage. Sir
Wycherly had once been a member of Parliament, and only
once. In his youth, he had been a fox-hunter; and a small
property in Yorkshire had long been in the family, as a
sort of foot-hold on such enjoyments; but having broken a
leg, in one of his leaps, he had taken refuge against ennui,
by sitting a single session in the House of Commons, as the
member of a borough that lay adjacent to his hunting-box.
This session sufficed for his whole life; the good baronet
having taken the matter so literally, as to make it a point to
be present at all the sittings; a sort of tax on his time, which,
as it came wholly unaccompanied by profit, was very likely
soon to tire out the patience of an old fox-hunter. After
resigning his seat, he retired altogether to Wychecombe,
where he had passed the last fifty years, extolling England,
and most especially that part of it in which his own estates
lay; in abusing the French, with occasional innuendoes
against Spain and Holland; and in eating and drinking.
He had never travelled; for, though Englishmen of his station
often did visit the continent, a century ago, they oftener
did not. It was the courtly and the noble, who then chiefly
took this means of improving their minds and manners; a
class, to which a baronet by no means belonged, ex officio.
To conclude, Sir Wycherly was now eighty-four; hale,

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hearty, and a bachelor. He had been born the oldest of
five brothers; the cadets taking refuge, as usual, in the
Inns of court, the church, the army, and the navy; and precisely
in the order named. The lawyer had actually risen
to be a judge, by the style and appellation of Baron Wychecombe;
had three illegitimate children by his housekeeper,
and died, leaving to the eldest thereof, all his professional
earnings, after buying commissions for the two younger in
the army. The divine broke his neck, while yet a curate,
in a fox-hunt; dying unmarried, and, so far as is generally
known, childless. This was Sir Wycherly's favourite brother;
who, he was accustomed to say, “lost his life, in setting
an example of field sports, to his parishioners.” The
soldier was fairly killed in battle, before he was twenty; and
the name of the sailor suddenly disappeared from the list of
His Majesty's lieutenants, about half-a-century before the
time when our tale opens, by shipwreck. Between the
sailor and the head of the family, however, there had been
no great sympathy; in consequence, as it was rumoured, of
a certain beauty's preference for the latter, though this preference
produced no suites, inasmuch as the lady died a
maid. Mr. Gregory Wychecombe, the lieutenant in question,
was what is termed a “wild boy;” and it was the
general impression, when his parents sent him to sea, that
the ocean would now meet with its match. The hopes of
the family centred in the judge, after the death of the curate;
and it was a great cause of regret, to those who took an interest
in its perpetuity and renown, that this dignitary did
not marry; since the premature death of all the other sons
had left the hall, park, and goodly farms, without any known
legal heir. In a word, this branch of the family of Wychecombe
would be extinct, when Sir Wycherly died, and the
entail become useless. Not a female inheritor, even, or a
male inheritor through females, could be traced; and it had
become imperative on Sir Wycherly to make a will, lest the
property should go off, the Lord knew where; or, what was
worse, it should escheat. It is true, Tom Wychecombe, the
judge's eldest son, often gave dark hints about a secret, and
a timely marriage between his parents, a fact that would
have superseded the necessity for all devises, as the property
was strictly tied up, so far as the lineal descendants of a

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certain old Sir Wycherly were concerned; but the present Sir
Wycherly had seen his brother, in his last illness, on which
occasion, the following conversation had taken place.

“And now, brother Thomas,” said the baronet, in a
friendly and consoling manner; “having, as one may say,
prepared your soul for heaven, by these prayers and admissions
of your sins, a word may be prudently said, concerning
the affairs of this world. You know I am childless—
that is to say,—”

“I understand you, Wycherly,” interrupted the dying
man, “you 're a bachelor.”

“That 's it, Thomas; and bachelors ought not to have
children. Had our poor brother James escaped that mishap,
he might have been sitting at your bed-side, at this moment,
and he could told us all about it. St. James, I used to
call him; and well did he deserve the name!”

“St. James the least, then, it must have been, Wycherly.”

“It 's a dreadful thing to have no heir, Thomas! Did you
ever know a case in your practice, in which another estate
was left so completely without an heir, as this of ours?”

“It does not often happen, brother; heirs are usually
more abundant than estates.”

“So I thought. Will the king get the title, as well as the
estate, brother, if it should escheat, as you call it?”

“Being the fountain of honour, he will be rather indifferent
about the baronetcy.”

“I should care less, if it went to the next sovereign, who
is English born. Wychecombe has always belonged to
Englishmen!”

“That it has; and ever will, I trust. You have only to
select an heir, when I am gone, and by making a will, with
proper devises, the property will not escheat. Be careful to
use the full terms of perpetuity.”

“Every thing was so comfortable, brother, while you
were in health,” said Sir Wycherly, fidgeting; “you were
my natural heir—”

“Heir of entail,” interrupted the judge.

“Well, well, heir, at all events; and that was a prodigious
comfort to a man like myself, who has a sort of religious
scruples about making a will. I have heard it whispered,
that you were actually married to Martha; in which

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case, Tom might drop into our shoes, so readily, without
any more signing and sealing.”

“A filius nullius,” returned the other, too conscientious to
lend himself to a deception of that nature.

“Why, brother, Tom often seems to me to favour such
an idea, himself.”

“No wonder, Wycherly, for the idea would greatly favour
him. Tom, and his brothers, are all filii nullorum,
God forgive me, for that same wrong.”

“I wonder neither Charles, nor Gregory, thought of marrying,
before they lost their lives for their king and country,”
put in Sir Wycherly, in an upbraiding tone, as if he thought
his penniless brethren had done him an injury, in neglecting
to supply him with an heir, though he had been so forgetful
himself, of the same great duty. “I did think of bringing
in a bill, for providing heirs for unmarried persons, without
the trouble and responsibility of making wills.”

“That would have been a great improvement on the law
of descents—I hope you wouldn't have overlooked the ancestors.”

“Not I—everybody would have got his rights. They
tell me poor Charles never spoke after he was shot; but I
dare say, did we know the truth, he regretted sincerely that
he never married.”

“There, for once, Wycherly, I think you are likely to be
wrong. A femme sole without food, is rather a helpless sort
of a person.”

“Well, well, I wish he had married. What would it
have been to me, had he left a dozen widows.”

“It might have raised some awkward questions as to
dowry; and if each left a son, the title and estates would
have been worse off than they are at present, without
widows, or legitimate children.”

“Any thing would be better than having no heir. I believe
I 'm the first baronet of Wychecombe, who has been
obliged to make a will!”

“Quite likely,” returned the brother, drily; “I remember
to have got nothing from the last one, in that way.
Charles and Gregory fared no better. Never mind, Wycherly,
you behaved like a father to us all.”

“I don't mind signing cheques, in the least; but the wills

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have an irreligious appearance, in my eyes. There are a
good many Wychecombes, in England; I wonder some of
them are not of our family! They tell me a hundredth
cousin is just as good an heir, as a first-born son.”

“Failing nearer of kin. But we have no hundredth
cousins of the whole blood.”

“There are the Wychecombes of Surrey, brother Thomas—?”

“Descended from a bastard of the second baronet, and
out of the line of descent, altogether.”

“But the Wychecombes of Hertfordshire, I have always
heard were of our family, and legitimate.”

“True, as regards matrimony—rather too much of it, by
the way. They branched off in 1487, long before the creation,
and have nothing to do with the entail; the first of
their line coming from old Sir Michael Wychecombe, Kt.
and Sheriff of Devonshire, by his second wife Margery;
while we are derived from the same male ancestor, through
Wycherly, the only son by Joan, the first wife. Wycherly,
and Michael, the son of Michael and Margery, were of the
half-blood, as respects each other, and could not be heirs of
blood. What was true of the ancestors, is true of the descendants.”

“But we came of the same ancestor, and the estate is
far older than 1487.”

“Quite true, brother; nevertheless, the half-blood can't
take; so says the perfection of human reason.”

“I never could understand these niceties of the law,” said
Sir Wycherly, sighing; “but I suppose they are all right.
There are so many Wychecombes scattered about England,
that I should think some one among them all, might be my
heir!”

“Every man of them bears a bar in his arms, or is of the
half-blood.”

“You are quite sure, brother, that Tom is a filius nullus?”
for the baronet had forgotten most of the little Latin
he ever knew, and translated this legal phrase into “no
son.”

“Filius nullius, Sir Wycherly, the son of nobody; your
reading would literally make Tom, nobody; whereas, he is
only the son of nobody.”

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“But, brother, he is your son, and as like you, as two
hounds of the same litter.”

“I am nullus, in the eye of the law, as regards poor
Tom; who, until he marries, and has children of his own,
is altogether without legal kindred. Nor do I know that
legitimacy would make Tom any better; for he is presuming
and confident enough for the heir apparent to the throne, as
it is.”

“Well, there's this young sailor, who has been so much
at the station lately, since he was left ashore for the cure of
his wounds. 'T is a most gallant lad; and the First Lord
has sent him a commission, as a reward for his good conduct,
in cutting out the Frenchman. I look upon him as a
credit to the name; and I make no question he is, some way
or other, of our family.”

“Does he claim to be so?” asked the judge, a little quickly,
for he distrusted men in general, and thought, from all he
had heard, that some attempt might have been made to practise
on his brother's simplicity. “I thought you told me
that he came from the American colonies?”

“So he does; he's a native of Virginia, as was his father
before him.”

“A convict, perhaps; or a servant, quite likely, who has
found the name of his former master, more to his liking
than his own. Such things are common, they tell me, beyond
seas.”

“Yes, if he were anything but an American, I might wish
he were my heir,” returned Sir Wycherly, in a melancholy
tone; “but it would be worse than to let the lands escheat,
as you call it, to place an American in possession of Wychecombe.
The manors have always had English owners,
down to the present moment, thank God!”

“Should they have any other, it will be your own fault,
Wycherly. When I am dead, and that will happen ere
many weeks, the human being will not be living, who can
take that property, after your demise, in any other manner
than by escheat, or by devise. There will then be neither
heir of entail, nor heir at law; and you may make whom
you please, master of Wychecombe, provided he be not an
alien.”

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“Not an American, I suppose, brother; an American is
an alien, of course.”

“Humph!—why, not in law, whatever he may be according
to our English notions. Harkee, brother Wycherly;
I've never asked you, or wished you to leave the estate to
Tom, or his younger brothers; for one, and all, are filii
nullorum—as I term 'em, though my brother Record will
have it, it ought to be filii nullius, as well as filius nullius.
Let that be as it may; no bastard should lord it at Wychecombe;
and rather than the king should get the lands, to bestow
on some favourite, I would give it to the half-blood.”

“Can that be done without making a will, brother Thomas?”

“It cannot, Sir Wycherly; nor with a will, so long as an
heir of entail can be found.”

“Is there no way of making Tom a filius somebody, so
that he can succeed?”

“Not under our laws. By the civil law, such a thing
might have been done, and by the Scotch law; but not under
the perfection of reason.”

“I wish you knew this young Virginian! The lad bears
both of my names, Wycherly Wychecombe.”

“He is not a filius Wycherly—is he, baronet?”

“Fie upon thee, brother Thomas! Do you think I have
less candour than thyself, that I would not acknowledge my
own flesh and blood. I never saw the youngster, until
within the last six months, when he was landed from the
roadstead, and brought to Wychecombe, to be cured of his
wounds; nor ever heard of him before. When they told
me his name was Wycherly Wychecombe, I could do no
less than call and see him. The poor fellow lay at death's
door for a fortnight; and it was while we had little or no
hope of saving him, that I got the few family anecdotes from
him. Now, that would be good evidence in law, I believe,
Thomas.”

“For certain things, had the lad really died. Surviving,
he must be heard on his voire dire, and under oath. But
what was his tale?”

“A very short one. He told me his father was a Wycherly
Wychecombe, and that his grandfather had been a

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Virginia planter. This was all he seemed to know of his
ancestry.”

“And probably all there was of them. My Tom is not
the only filius nullius that has been among us, and this
grandfather, if he has not actually stolen the name, has got
it by these doubtful means. As for the Wycherly, it should
pass for nothing. Learning that there is a line of baronets
of this name, every pretender to the family would be apt to
call a son Wycherly.”

“The line will shortly be ended, brother,” returned Sir
Wycherly, sighing. “I wish you might be mistaken; and,
after all, Tom shouldn't prove to be that filius you call
him.”

Mr. Baron Wychecombe, as much from esprit de corps
as from moral principle, was a man of strict integrity, in
all things that related to meum and tuum. He was particuarly
rigid in his notions concerning the transmission of
real estate, and the rights of primogeniture. The world had
taken little interest in the private history of a lawyer, and
his sons having been born before his elevation to the bench,
he passed with the public for a widower, with a family of
promising boys. Not one in a hundred of his acquaintances
even, suspected the fact; and nothing would have been easier
for him, than to have imposed on his brother, by inducing
him to make a will under some legal mystification or other,
and to have caused Tom Wychecombe to succeed to the
property in question, by an indisputable title. There would
have been no great difficulty even, in his son's assuming
and maintaining his right to the baronetcy, inasmuch as
there would be no competitor, and the crown officers were
not particularly rigid in inquiring into the claims of those
who assumed a title that brought with it no political privileges.
Still, he was far from indulging in any such project.
To him it appeared that the Wychecombe estate ought to go
with the principles that usually governed such matters; and,
although he submitted to the dictum of the common law, as
regarded the provision which excluded the half-blood from
inheriting, with the deference of an English common-law
lawyer, he saw and felt, that, failing the direct line, Wychecombe
ought to revert to the descendants of Sir Michael by
his second son, for the plain reason that they were just as

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much derived from the person who had acquired the estate,
as his brother Wycherly and himself. Had there been descendants
of females, even, to interfere, no such opinion
would have existed; but, as between an escheat, or a devise
in favour of a filius nullius, or of the descendant of a filius
nullius, the half-blood possessed every possible advantage.
In his legal eyes, legitimacy was everything, although he
had not hesitated to be the means of bringing into the world
seven illegitimate children, that being the precise number
Martha had the credit of having borne him, though three
only survived. After reflecting a moment, therefore, he
turned to the baronet, and addressed him more seriously
than he had yet done, in the present dialogue; first taking a
draught of cordial to give him strength for the occasion.

“Listen to me, brother Wycherly,” said the judge, with
a gravity that at once caught the attention of the other.
“You know something of the family history, and I need do
no more than allude to it. Our ancestors were the knightly
possessors of Wychecombe, centuries before King James
established the rank of baronet. When our great-grandfather,
Sir Wycherly, accepted the patent of 1611, he
scarcely did himself honour; for, by aspiring higher, he
might have got a peerage. However, a baronet he became,
and for the first time since Wychecombe was Wychecombe,
the estate was entailed, to do credit to the new rank. Now,
the first Sir Wycherly had three sons, and no daughter.
Each of these sons succeeded; the two eldest as bachelors,
and the youngest was our grandfather. Sir Thomas, the
fourth baronet, left an only child, Wycherly, our father.
Sir Wycherly, our father, had five sons, Wycherly his successor,
yourself, and the sixth baronet; myself; James;
Charles; and Gregory. James broke his neck at your side.
The two last lost their lives in the king's service, unmarried;
and neither you, nor I, have entered into the holy state of
matrimony. I cannot survive a month, and the hopes of
perpetuating the direct line of the family, rest with yourself.
This accounts for all the descendants of Sir Wycherly,
the first baronet; and it also settles the question of
heirs of entail, of whom there are none after myself. To
go back beyond the time of King James I.: Twice did the
elder lines of the Wychecombes fail, between the reign of

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King Richard II. and King Henry VII., when Sir Michael
succeeded. Now, in each of these cases, the law disposed
of the succession; the youngest branches of the family, in
both instances, getting the estate. It follows that agreeably
to legal decisions had at the time, when the facts must have
been known, that the Wychecombes were reduced to these
younger lines. Sir Michael had two wives. From the
first we are derived — from the last, the Wychecombes of
Hertfordshire—since known as baronets of that county, by
the style and title of Sir Reginald Wychecome of Wychecombe-Regis,
Herts.”

“The present Sir Reginald can have no claim, being of
the half-blood,” put in Sir Wycherly, with a brevity of manner
that denoted feeling. “The half-blood is as bad as a
nullius, as you call Tom.”

“Not quite. A person of the half-blood is as legitimate
as the king's majesty; whereas, a nullius is of no blood.
Now, suppose for a moment, Sir Wycherly, that you had
been a son by a first wife, and I had been a son by a second—
would there have been no relationship between us?”

“What a question, Tom, to put to your own brother!”

“But I should not be your own brother, my good sir;
only your half brother; of the half, and not of the whole
blood.”

“What of that—what of that?—your father would have
been my father—we would have had the same name—the
same family history—the same family feelings—poh! poh!—
we should have been both Wychecombes, exactly as we
are to-day.”

“Quite true, and yet I could not have been your heir, nor
you mine. The estate would escheat to the king, Hanoverian
or Scotchman, before it came to me. Indeed, to me it
could never come.”

“Thomas, you are trifling with my ignorance, and making
matters worse than they really are. Certainly, as long as
you lived, you would be my heir!”

“Very true, as to the £20,000 in the funds, but not as to
the baronetcy and Wychecombe. So far as the two last
are concerned, I am heir of blood, and of entail, of the body
of Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the first baronet, and the
maker of the entail.”

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“Had there been no entail, and had I died a child, who
would have succeeded our father, supposing there had been
two mothers?”

“I, as the next surviving son.”

“There! — I knew it must be so!” exclaimed Sir Wycherly,
in triumph; “and all this time you have been joking
with me!”

“Not so fast, brother of mine—not so fast. I should be
of the whole blood, as respected our father, and all the
Wychecombes that have gone before him; but of the half-
blood, as respected you. From our father I might have
taken, as his heir-at-law: but from you, never, having been
of the half-blood.”

“I would have made a will, in that case, Thomas, and
left you every farthing,” said Sir Wycherly, with feeling.

“That is just what I wish you to do with Sir Reginald
Wychecombe. You must take him; a filius nullius, in the
person of my son Tom; a stranger; or let the property escheat;
for, we are so peculiarly placed as not to have a
known relative, by either the male or female lines; the maternal
ancestors being just as barren of heirs as the paternal.
Our good mother was the natural daughter of the third
Earl of Prolific; our grandmother was the last of her race,
so far as human ken can discover; our great-grandmother
is said to have had semi-royal blood in her veins, without
the aid of the church, and beyond that it would be hopeless
to attempt tracing consanguinity on that side of the house.
No, Wycherly; it is Sir Reginald who has the best right to
the land; Tom, or one of his brothers, an utter stranger, or
His Majesty, follow. Remember that estates of £4000 a
year, don't often escheat, now-a-days.”

“If you 'll draw up a will, brother, I 'll leave it all to
Tom,” cried the baronet, with sudden energy. “Nothing
need be said about the nullius; and when I 'm gone, he 'll
step quietly into my place.”

Nature triumphed a moment in the bosom of the father;
but habit, and the stern sense of right, soon overcame the
feeling. Perhaps certain doubts, and a knowledge of his
son's real character, contributed their share towards the
reply.

“It ought not to be, Sir Wycherly,” returned the judge,

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

musing; “Tom has no right to Wychecombe, and Sir
Reginald has the best moral right possible, though the law
cuts him off. Had Sir Michael made the entail, instead of
our great-grandfather, he would have come in, as a matter
of course.”

“I never liked Sir Reginald Wychecombe,” said the
baronet, stubbornly.

“What of that? — He will not trouble you while living,
and when dead it will be all the same. Come—come—I
will draw the will myself, leaving blanks for the name; and
when it is once done, you will sign it, cheerfully. It is the last
legal act I shall ever perform, and it will be a suitable one,
death being constantly before me.”

This ended the dialogue. The will was drawn according
to promise; Sir Wycherly took it to his room to read,
carefully inserted the name of Tom Wychecombe in all the
blank spaces, brought it back, duly executed the instrument
in his brother's presence, and then gave the paper to
his nephew to preserve, with a strong injunction on him to
keep the secret, until the instrument should have force by
his own death. Mr. Baron Wychecombe died in six weeks,
and the baronet returned to his residence, a sincere mourner
for the loss of an only brother. A more unfortunate selection
of an heir could not have been made, as Tom Wychecombe
was, in reality, the son of a barrister in the Temple;
the fancied likeness to the reputed father existing only in
the imagination of his credulous uncle.

CHAPTER II.

—“How fearful
And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles: Half-way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire: dreadful trade!”
King Lear.

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

This digression on the family of Wychecombe has led us
far from the signal-station, the head-land, and the fog, with
which the tale opened. The little dwelling connected with
the station stood at a short distance from the staff, sheltered,
by the formation of the ground, from the bleak winds of the
channel, and fairly embowered in shrubs and flowers. It
was a humble cottage, that had been ornamented with more
taste than was usual in England at that day. Its whitened
walls, thatched roof, picketed garden, and trellised porch,
bespoke care, and a mental improvement in the inmates,
that were scarcely to be expected in persons so humbly employed
as the keeper of the signal-staff, and his family.
All near the house, too, was in the same excellent condition;
for while the headland itself lay in common, this portion of
it was enclosed in two or three pretty little fields, that were
grazed by a single horse, and a couple of cows. There were
no hedges, however, the thorn not growing willingly in a
situation so exposed; but the fields were divided by fences,
neatly enough made of wood, that declared its own origin,
having in fact been part of the timbers and planks of a
wreck. As the whole was whitewashed, it had a rustic, and
in a climate where the sun is seldom oppressive, by no means
a disagreeable appearance.

The scene with which we desire to commence the tale,
opens about seven o'clock on a July morning. On a bench
at the foot of the signal-staff, was seated one of a frame
that was naturally large and robust, but which was sensibly
beginning to give way, either by age or disease. A glance
at the red, bloated face, would suffice to tell a medical man,
that the habits had more to do with the growing failure of

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

the system, than any natural derangement of the physical
organs. The face too, was singularly manly, and had once
been handsome, even; nay, it was not altogether without
claims to be so considered still; though intemperance was
making sad inroads on its comeliness. This person was
about fifty years old, and his air, as well as his attire, denoted
a mariner; not a common seaman, nor yet altogether
an officer; but one of those of a middle station, who in navies
used to form a class by themselves; being of a rank
that entitled them to the honours of the quarter-deck, though
out of the regular line of promotion. In a word, he wore
the unpretending uniform of a master. A century ago,
the dress of the English naval officer was exceedingly simple,
though more appropriate to the profession perhaps, than
the more showy attire that has since been introduced.
Epaulettes were not used by any, and the anchor button,
with the tint that is called navy blue, and which is meant to
represent the deep hue of the ocean, with white facings,
composed the principal peculiarities of the dress. The person
introduced to the reader, whose name was Dutton, and
who was simply the officer in charge of the signal-station,
had a certain neatness about his well-worn uniform, his
linen, and all of his attire, which showed that some person
more interested in such matters than one of his habits was
likely to be, had the care of his wardrobe. In this respect,
indeed, his appearance was unexceptionable; and there was
an air about the whole man which showed that nature, if
not education, had intended him for something far better
than the being he actually was.

Dutton was waiting, at that early hour, to ascertain, as
the veil of mist was raised from the face of the sea, whether
a sail might be in sight, that required of him the execution
of any of his simple functions. That some one was near
by, on the head-land, too, was quite evident, by the occasional
interchange of speech; though no person but himself
was visible. The direction of the sounds would seem to indicate
that a man was actually over the brow of the cliff,
perhaps a hundred feet removed from the seat occupied by
the master.

“Recollect the sailor's maxim, Mr. Wychecombe,” called
out Dutton, in a warning voice; “one hand for the king,

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

and the other for self! Those cliffs are ticklish places; and
really it does seem a little unnatural that a sea-faring person
like yourself, should have so great a passion for flowers, as
to risk his neck in order to make a posy!”

“Never fear for me, Mr. Dutton,” answered a full, manly
voice, that one could have sworn issued from the chest of
youth; “never fear for me; we sailors are used to hanging
in the air.”

“Ay, with good three-stranded ropes to hold on by, young
gentleman. Now His Majesty's government has just made
you an officer, there is a sort of obligation to take care of
your life, in order that it may be used, and, at need, given
away, in his service.”

“Quite true—quite true, Mr. Dutton—so true, I wonder
you think it necessary to remind me of it. I am very grateful
to His Majesty's government, and—”

While speaking the voice seemed to descend, getting at
each instant less and less distinct, until, in the end, it became
quite inaudible. Dutton looked uneasy, for at that instant
a noise was heard, and then it was quite clear some heavy
object was falling down the face of the cliff. Now it was
that the mariner felt the want of good nerves, and experienced
the sense of humiliation which accompanied the consciousness
of having destroyed them by his excesses. He
trembled in every limb, and, for the moment, was actually
unable to rise. A light step at his side, however, drew a
glance in that direction, and his eye fell on the form of a
lovely girl of nineteen, his own daughter, Mildred.

“I heard you calling to some one, father,” said the latter,
looking wistfully but distrustfully at her parent, as if wondering
at his yielding to his infirmity so early in the day;
“can I be of service to you?”

“Poor Wychecombe?” exclaimed Dutton. “He went over
the cliff in search of a nosegay to offer to yourself, and —
and—I fear—greatly fear—”

“What, father?” demanded Mildred, in a voice of horror,
the rich colour disappearing from a face which it left of the
hue of death. “No—no—no—he cannot have fallen.”

Dutton bent his head down, drew a long breath, and then
seemed to gain more command of his nerves. He was about
to rise, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard, and then

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, mounted on a quiet pony, rode
slowly up to the signal-staff. It was a common thing for
the baronet to appear on the cliffs early in the morning, but
it was not usual for him to come unattended. The instant
her eyes fell on the fine form of the venerable old man,
Mildred, who seemed to know him well, and to use the familiarity
of one confident of being a favourite, exclaimed—

“Oh! Sir Wycherly, how fortunate—where is Richard?”

“Good morrow, my pretty Milly,” answered the baronet,
cheerfully; “fortunate or not, here I am, and not a bit flattered
that your first question should be after the groom, instead
of his master. I have sent Dick on a message to the
vicar's. Now my poor brother, the judge, is dead and gone,
I find Mr. Rotherham more and more necessary to me.”

“Oh! dear Sir Wycherly—Mr. Wychecombe—Lieutenant
Wychecombe, I mean—the young officer from Virginia—
he who was so desperately wounded—in whose recovery
we all took so deep an interest—”

“Well—what of him, child?—you surely do not mean to
put him on a level with Mr. Rotherham, in the way of religious
consolation—and, as for anything else, there is no
consanguinity between the Wychecombes of Virginia and
my family. He may be a filius nullius of the Wychecombes
of Wychecombe-Regis, Herts, but has no connection
with those of Wychecombe-Hall, Devonshire.”

“There—there—the cliff!—the cliff!” added Mildred,
unable, for the moment, to be more explicit.

As the girl pointed towards the precipice, and looked the
very image of horror, the good-hearted old baronet began to
get some glimpses of the truth; and, by means of a few words
with Dutton, soon knew quite as much as his two companions.
Descending from his pony with surprising activity
for one of his years, Sir Wycherly was soon on his feet, and
a sort of confused consultation between the three succeeded.
Neither liked to approach the cliff, which was nearly perpendicular
at the extremity of the headland, and was always
a trial to the nerves of those who shrunk from standing on
the verge of precipices. They stood like persons paralyzed,
until Dutton, ashamed of his weakness, and recalling the
thousand lessons in coolness and courage, he had received
in his own manly profession, made a movement towards

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

advancing to the edge of the cliff, in order to ascertain the real
state of the case. The blood returned to the cheeks of Mildred,
too, and she again found a portion of her natural spirit
raising her courage.

“Stop, father,” she said, hastily; “you are infirm, and
are in a tremour, at this moment. My head is steadier—let
me go to the verge of the hill, and learn what has happened.”

This was uttered with a forced calmness that deceived her
auditors, both of whom, the one from age, and the other
from shattered nerves, were certainly in no condition to assume
the same office. It required the all-seeing eye, which
alone can scan the heart, to read all the agonized suspense
with which that young and beautiful creature approached the
spot, where she might command a view of the whole of the
side of the fearful declivity, from its giddy summit to the
base where it was washed by the sea. The latter, indeed,
could not literally be seen from above, the waves having so
far undermined the cliff, as to leave a projection that concealed
the point where the rocks and the water came absolutely
in contact; the upper portion of the weather-worn rocks
falling a little inwards, so as to leave a ragged surface that
was sufficiently broken to contain patches of earth, and
verdure, sprinkled with the flowers peculiar to such an exposure.
The fog, also, intercepted the sight, giving to the
descent the appearance of a fathomless abyss. Had the life
of the most indifferent person been in jeopardy, under the
circumstances named, Mildred would have been filled with
deep awe; but a gush of tender sensations, which had hitherto
been pent in the sacred privacy of her virgin affections,
struggled with natural horror, as she trod lightly on the very
verge of the declivity, and cast a timid but eager glance beneath.
Then she recoiled a step, raised her hands in alarm,
and hid her face, as if to shut out some frightful spectacle.

By this time, Dutton's practical knowledge and recollection
had returned. As is common with seamen, whose
minds contain vivid pictures of the intricate tracery of their
vessel's rigging in the darkest nights, his thoughts had
flashed athwart all the probable circumstances, and presented
a just image of the facts.

“The boy could not be seen had he absolutely fallen, and

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

were there no fog; for the cliff tumbles home, Sir Wycherly,”
he said, eagerly, unconsciously using a familiar
nautical phrase to express his meaning. “He must be clinging
to the side of the precipice, and that, too, above the
swell of the rocks.”

Stimulated by a common feeling, the two men now advanced
hastily to the brow of the hill, and there, indeed, as
with Mildred herself, a single look sufficed to tell them the
whole truth. Young Wychecombe, in leaning forward to
pluck a flower, had pressed so hard upon the bit of rock
on which a foot rested, as to cause it to break, thereby
losing his balance. A presence of mind that amounted almost
to inspiration, and a high resolution, alone saved him
from being dashed to pieces. Perceiving the rock to give
way, he threw himself forward, and alighted on a narrow
shelf, a few feet beneath the place where he had just stood,
and at least ten feet removed from it, laterally. The shelf
on which he alighted was ragged, and but two or three feet
wide. It would have afforded only a check to his fall, had
there not fortunately been some shrubs among the rocks
above it. By these shrubs the young man caught, actually
swinging off in the air, under the impetus of his leap.
Happily, the shrubs were too well rooted to give way; and,
swinging himself round, with the address of a sailor, the
youthful lieutenant was immediately on his feet, in comparative
safety. The silence that succeeded was the consequence
of the shock he felt, in finding him so suddenly thrown into
this perilous situation. The summit of the cliff was now
about six fathoms above his head, and the shelf on which he
stood, impended over a portion of the cliff that was absolutely
perpendicular, and which might be said to be out of
the line of those projections along which he had so lately
been idly gathering flowers. It was physically impossible
for any human being to extricate himself from such a situation,
without assistance. This Wychecombe understood at
a glance, and he had passed the few minutes that intervened
between his fall and the appearance of the party above him,
in devising the means necessary to his liberation. As it
was, few men, unaccustomed to the giddy elevations of the
mast, could have mustered a sufficient command of nerve to
maintain a position on the ledge where he stood. Even

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

he could not have continued there, without steadying his
form by the aid of the bushes.

As soon as the baronet and Dutton got a glimpse of the
perilous position of young Wychecombe, each recoiled in
horror from the sight, as if fearful of being precipitated on
top of him. Both, then, actually lay down on the grass,
and approached the edge of the cliff again, in that humble
attitude, even trembling as they lay at length, with their
chins projecting over the rocks, staring downwards at the
victim. The young man could see nothing of all this; for,
as he stood with his back against the cliff, he had not room
to turn, with safety, or even to look upwards. Mildred,
however, seemed to lose all sense of self and of danger, in
view of the extremity in which the youth beneath was placed.
She stood on the very verge of the precipice, and looked
down with a steadiness and impunity that would have been
utterly impossible for her to attain under less exciting circumstances;
even allowing the young man to catch a
glimpse of her rich locks, as they hung about her beautiful
face.

“For God's sake, Mildred,” called out the youth, “keep
further from the cliff—I see you, and we can now hear each
other without so much risk.”

“What can we do to rescue you, Wychecombe?” eagerly
asked the girl. “Tell me, I entreat you; for Sir Wycherly
and my father are both unnerved!”

“Blessed creature! and you are mindful of my danger!
But, be not uneasy, Mildred; do as I tell you, and all will
yet be well. I hope you hear and understand what I say,
dearest girl?”

“Perfectly,” returned Mildred, nearly choked by the effort
to be calm. “I hear every syllable—speak on.”

“Go you then to the signal-halyards—let one end fly
loose, and pull upon the other, until the whole line has come
down—when that is done, return here, and I will tell you
more—but, for heaven's sake, keep farther from the cliff.”

The thought that the rope, small and frail as it seemed,
might be of use, flashed on the brain of the girl; and in a
moment she was at the staff. Time and again, when liquor
incapacitated her father to perform his duty, had Mildred
bent-on, and hoisted the signals for him; and thus, happily,

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

she was expert in the use of the halyards. In a minute she
had unrove them, and the long line lay in a little pile at her
feet.

“'T is done, Wycherly,” she said, again looking over the
cliff; “shall I throw you down one end of the rope?—but,
alas! I have not strength to raise you; and Sir Wycherly
and father seem unable to assist me!”

“Do not hurry yourself, Mildred, and all will be well.
Go, and put one end of the line around the signal-staff, then
put the two ends together, tie them in a knot, and drop them
down over my head. Be careful not to come too near the
cliff, for—”

The last injunction was useless, Mildred having flown to
execute her commission. Her quick mind readily comprehended
what was expected of her, and her nimble fingers
soon performed their task. Tying a knot in the ends
of the line, she did as desired, and the small rope was soon
dangling within reach of Wychecombe's arm. It is not easy
to make a landsman understand the confidence which a
sailor feels in a rope. Place but a frail and rotten piece of
twisted hemp in his hand, and he will risk his person in
situations from which he would otherwise recoil in dread.
Accustomed to hang suspended in the air, with ropes only
for his foothold, or with ropes to grasp with his hand, his
eye gets an intuitive knowledge of what will sustain him,
and he unhesitatingly trusts his person to a few seemingly
slight strands, that, to one unpractised, appear wholly unworthy
of his confidence. Signal-halyards are ropes smaller
than the little finger of a man of any size; but they are
usually made with care, and every rope-yarn tells. Wychecombe,
too, was aware that these particular halyards were
new, for he had assisted in reeving them himself, only the
week before. It was owing to this circumstance that they
were long enough to reach him; a large allowance for wear
and tear having been made in cutting them from the coil.
As it was, the ends dropped some twenty feet below the
ledge on which he stood.

“All safe, now, Mildred!” cried the young man, in a
voice of exultation, the moment his hand caught the two
ends of the line, which he immediately passed around his
body, beneath the arms, as a precaution against accidents.

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

“All safe, now, dearest girl; have no further concern about
me.”

Mildred drew back, for worlds could not have tempted her
to witness the desperate effort that she knew must follow.
By this time, Sir Wycherly, who had been an interested
witness of all that passed, found his voice, and assumed the
office of director.

“Stop, my young namesake,” he eagerly cried, when he
found that the sailor was about to make an effort to drag his
own body up the cliff; “stop; that will never do; let Dutton
and me do that much for you, at least. We have seen
all that has passed, and are now able to do something.”

“No—no, Sir Wycherly—on no account touch the halyards.
By hauling them over the top of the rocks you will
probably cut them, or part them, and then I 'm lost, without
hope!”

“Oh! Sir Wycherly,” said Mildred, earnestly, clasping
her hands together, as if to enforce the request with prayer;
“do not—do not touch the line.”

“We had better let the lad manage the matter in his own
way,” put in Dutton; “he is active, resolute, and a seaman,
and will do better for himself than I fear we can do for him.
He has got a turn round his body, and is tolerably safe
against any slip, or mishap.”

As the words were uttered, the whole three drew back a
short distance and watched the result, in intense anxiety.
Dutton, however, so far recollected himself, as to take an
end of the old halyards, which were kept in a chest at the
foot of the staff, and to make an attempt to stopper together
the two parts of the little rope on which the youth depended,
for should one of the parts of it break, without this precaution,
there was nothing to prevent the halyards from running
round the staff, and destroying the hold. The size of
the halyards rendered this expedient very difficult of attainment,
but enough was done to give the arrangement a little
more of the air of security. All this time young Wychecombe
was making his own preparations on the ledge, and
quite out of view; but the tension on the halyards soon announced
that his weight was now pendent from them. Mildred's
heart seemed ready to leap from her mouth, as she
noted each jerk on the lines; and her father watched every

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

new pull, as if he expected the next moment would produce
the final catastophe. It required a prodigious effort in the
young man to raise his own weight for such a distance, by
lines so small. Had the rope been of any size, the
achievement would have been trifling for one of the frame
and habits of the sailor, more especially as he could slightly
avail himself of his feet, by pressing them against the rocks;
but, as it was, he felt as if he were dragging the mountain
up after him. At length, his head appeared a few inches
above the rocks, but with his feet pressed against the cliff,
and his body inclining outward, at an angle of forty-five
degrees.

“Help him—help him, father!” exclaimed Mildred, covering
her face with her hands, to exclude the sight of Wychecombe's
desperate struggles. “If he fall now, he will be
destroyed. Oh! save him, save him, Sir Wycherly!”

But neither of those to whom she appealed, could be of
any use. The nervous trembling again came over the father;
and as for the baronet, age and inexperience rendered
him helpless.

“Have you no rope, Mr. Dutton, to throw over my
shoulders,” cried Wychecombe, suspending his exertions in
pure exhaustion, still keeping all he had gained, with his
head projecting outward, over the abyss beneath, and his
face turned towards heaven. “Throw a rope over my
shoulders, and drag my body in to the cliff.”

Dutton showed an eager desire to comply, but his nerves
had not yet been excited by the usual potations, and his
hands shook in a way to render it questionable whether he
could perform even this simple service. But for his daughter,
indeed, he would hardly have set about it intelligently.
Mildred, accustomed to using the signal-halyards, procured
the old line, and handed it to her father, who discovered
some of his professional knowledge in his manner of using
it. Doubling the halyards twice, he threw the bight over
Wychecombe's shoulders, and aided by Mildred, endeavoured
to draw the body of the young man upwards and towards
the cliff. But their united strength was unequal to the task,
and wearied with holding on, and, indeed, unable to support
his own weight any longer by so small a rope, Wychecombe
felt compelled to suffer his feet to drop beneath him, and slid

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

down again upon the ledge. Here, even his vigorous frame
shook with its prodigious exertions; and he was compelled
to seat himself on the shelf, and rest with his back against
the cliff, to recover his self-command and strength. Mildred
uttered a faint shriek as he disappeared, but was too
much horror-stricken to approach the verge of the precipice
to ascertain his fate.

“Be composed, Milly,” said her father, “he is safe, as
you may see by the halyards; and to say the truth, the stuff
holds on well. So long as the line proves true, the boy
can't fall; he has taken a double turn with the end of it round
his body. Make your mind easy, girl, for I feel better now,
and see my way clear. Don't be uneasy, Sir Wycherly;
we'll have the lad safe on terra firma again, in ten minutes.
I scarce know what has come over me, this morning; but
I've not had the command of my limbs as in common. It
cannot be fright, for I've seen too many men in danger to be
disabled by that; and I think, Milly, it must be the rheumatism,
of which I've so often spoken, and which I've inherited
from my poor mother, dear old soul. Do you know,
Sir Wycherly, that rheumatism can be inherited like gout?”

“I dare say it may—I dare say it may, Dutton—but
never mind the disease, now; get my young namesake back
here on the grass, and I will hear all about it. I would give
the world that I had not sent Dick to Mr. Rotherham's this
morning. Can't we contrive to make the pony pull the
boy up?”

“The traces are hardly strong enough for such work, Sir
Wycherly. Have a little patience, and I will manage the
whole thing, `ship-shape, and Brister-fashion,' as we say at
sea. Halloo there, Master Wychecombe—answer my hail,
and I will soon get you into deep water.”

“I'm safe on the ledge,” returned the voice of Wychecombe,
from below; “I wish you would look to the signal-halyards,
and see they do not chafe against the rocks, Mr.
Dutton.”

“All right, sir; all right. Slack up, if you please, and
let me have all the line you can, without casting off from
your body. Keep fast the end, for fear of accidents.”

In an instant the halyards slackened, and Dutton, who by
this time had gained his self-command, though still weak

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

and unnerved by the habits of the last fifteen years, forced
the bight along the edge of the cliff, until he had brought it
over a projection of the rocks, where it fastened itself. This
arrangement caused the line to lead down to the part of the
cliffs from which the young man had fallen, and where it was
by no means difficult for a steady head and active limbs to
move about and pluck flowers. It consequently remained
for Wychecombe merely to regain a footing on that part of
the hill-side, to ascend to the summit without difficulty. It
is true he was now below the point from which he had fallen;
but by swinging himself off laterally, or even by springing,
aided by the line, it was not a difficult achievement to reach
it, and he no sooner understood the nature of the change
that had been made, than he set about attempting it. The
confident manner of Dutton encouraged both the baronet
and Mildred, and they drew to the cliff, again; standing near
the verge, though on the part where the rocks might be descended,
with less apprehension of consequences.

As soon as Wychecombe had made all his preparations,
he stood on the end of the ledge, tightened the line, looked
carefully for a foothold on the other side of the chasm, and
made his leap. As a matter of course, the body of the
young man swung readily across the space, until the line
became perpendicular, and then he found a surface so
broken, as to render his ascent by no means difficult, aided
as he was by the halyards. Scrambling upwards, he soon
rejected the aid of the line, and sprang upon the head-land.
At the same instant, Mildred fell senseless on the grass.

CHAPTER III.

“I want a hero:—an uncommon want,
When every year and month send forth a new one;
'Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;—”
Byron.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

In consequence of the unsteadiness of the father's nerves,
the duty of raising Mildred in his arms, and of carrying her
to the cottage, devolved on the young man. This he did
with a readiness and concern which proved how deep an
interest he took in her situation, and with a power of arm
which showed that his strength was increased rather than
lessened by the condition into which she had fallen. So
rapid was his movement, that no one saw the kiss he impressed
on the pallid cheek of the sweet girl, or the tender
pressure with which he grasped the lifeless form. By the
time he reached the door, the motion and air had begun to
revive her, and Wychecombe committed her to the care of
her alarmed mother, with a few hurried words of explanation.
He did not leave the house, however, for a quarter of
an hour, except to call out to Dutton that Mildred was reviving,
and that he need be under no uneasiness on her account.
Why he remained so long, we leave the reader to
imagine, for the girl had been immediately taken to her
own little chamber, and he saw her no more for several
hours.

When our young sailor came out upon the head-land
again, he found the party near the flag-staff increased to
four. Dick, the groom, had returned from his errand, and
Tom Wychecombe, the intended heir of the baronet, was
also there, in mourning for his reputed father, the judge.
This young man had become a frequent visiter to the station,
of late, affecting to imbibe his uncle's taste for sea
air, and a view of the ocean. There had been several meetings
between himself and his namesake, and each interview
was becoming less amicable than the preceding, for a reason
that was sufficiently known to the parties. When they met

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

on the present occasion, therefore, the bows they exchanged
were haughty and distant, and the glances cast at each other
might have been termed hostile, were it not that a sinister
irony was blended with that of Tom Wychecombe. Still,
the feelings that were uppermost did not prevent the latter
from speaking in an apparently friendly manner.

“They tell me, Mr. Wychecombe,” observed the judge's
heir, (for this Tom Wychecombe might legally claim to be;)
“they tell me, Mr. Wychecombe, that you have been taking
a lesson in your trade this morning, by swinging over the
cliffs at the end of a rope? Now, that is an exploit, more
to the taste of an American than to that of an Englishman,
I should think. But, I dare say one is compelled to do many
things in the colonies, that we never dream of at home.”

This was said with seeming indifference, though with
great art. Sir Wycherly's principal weakness was an over-weening
and an ignorant admiration of his own country, and
all it contained. He was also strongly addicted to that feeling
of contempt for the dependencies of the empire, which
seems to be inseparable from the political connection between
the people of the metropolitan country and their colonies.
There must be entire equality, for perfect respect, in
any situation in life; and, as a rule, men always appropriate
to their own shares, any admitted superiority that may happen
to exist on the part of the communities to which they
belong. It is on this principle, that the tenant of a cockloft
in Paris or London, is so apt to feel a high claim to superiority
over the occupant of a comfortable abode in a
village. As between England and her North American
colonies in particular, this feeling was stronger than is the
case usually, on account of the early democratical tendencies
of the latter; not, that these tendencies had already become
the subject of political jealousies, but that they left social impressions,
which were singularly adapted to bringing the
colonists into contempt among a people predominant for
their own factitious habits, and who are so strongly inclined
to view every thing, even to principles, through the medium
of arbitrary, conventional customs. It must be confessed
that the Americans, in the middle of the eighteenth century,
were an exceedingly provincial, and in many particulars a
narrow-minded people, as well in their opinions as in their

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

habits; nor is the reproach altogether removed at the present
day; but the country from which they are derived had
not then made the vast strides in civilization, for which it
has latterly become so distinguished. The indifference, too,
with which all Europe regarded the whole American continent,
and to which England, herself, though she possessed
so large a stake on this side of the Atlantic, formed no material
exception, constantly led that quarter of the world into
profound mistakes in all its reasoning that was connected
with this quarter of the world, and aided in producing the
state of feeling to which we have alluded. Sir Wycherly
felt and reasoned on the subject of America much as the
great bulk of his countrymen felt and reasoned in 1745;
the exceptions existing only among the enlightened, and
those whose particular duties rendered more correct knowledge
necessary, and not always among them. It is said
that the English minister conceived the idea of taxing
America, from the circumstance of seeing a wealthy Virginian
lose a large sum at play, a sort of argumentum
ad hominem that brought with it a very dangerous conclusion
to apply to the sort of people with whom he had to
deal. Let this be as it might, there is no more question, that
at the period of our tale, the profoundest ignorance concerning
America existed generally in the mother country, than
there is that the profoundest respect existed in America for
nearly every thing English. Truth compels us to add, that
in despite of all that has passed, the cis-atlantic portion of
the weakness has longest endured the assaults of time and
of an increased intercourse.

Young Wycherly, as is ever the case, was keenly
alive to any insinuations that might be supposed to reflect
on the portion of the empire of which he was a native. He
considered himself an Englishman, it is true; was thoroughly
loyal; and was every way disposed to sustain the honour
and interests of the seat of authority; but when questions
were raised between Europe and America, he was an American;
as, in America itself, he regarded himself as purely a
Virginian, in contradistinction to all the other colonies. He
understood the intended sarcasm of Tom Wychecombe, but
smothered his resentment, out of respect to the baronet, and

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

perhaps a little influenced by the feelings in which he had
been so lately indulging.

“Those gentlemen who are disposed to fancy such things
of the colonies, would do well to visit that part of the world,”
he answered, calmly, “before they express their opinions too
loudly, lest they should say something that future observation
might make them wish to recall.”

“True, my young friend—quite true,” put in the baronet,
with the kindest possible intentions. “True as gospel. We
never know any thing of matters about which we know nothing;
that we old men must admit, Master Dutton; and I
should think Tom must see its force. It would be unreasonable
to expect to find every thing as comfortable in
America as we have it here, in England; nor do I suppose
the Americans, in general, would be as likely to get
over a cliff as an Englishman. However, there are exceptions
to all general rules, as my poor brother James used to
say, when he saw occasion to find fault with the sermon of
a prelate. I believe you did not know my poor brother,
Dutton; he must have been killed about the time you were
born — St. James, I used to call him, although my brother
Thomas, the judge that was, Tom's father, there — said he
was St. James the less.”

“I believe the Rev. Mr. Wychecombe was dead before I
was of an age to remember his virtues, Sir Wycherly,” said
Dutton, respectfully; “though I have often heard my own
father speak of all your honoured family.”

“Yes, your father, Dutton, was the attorney of the next
town, and we all knew him well. You have done quite
right to come back among us to spend the close of your own
days. A man is never as well off, as when he is thriving
in his native soil; more especially when that soil is old England,
and Devonshire. You are not one of us, young gentleman,
though your name happens to be Wychecombe;
but, then we are none of us accountable for our own births,
or birth-places.”

This truism, which is in the mouths of thousands while it
is in the hearts of scarcely any, was well meant by Sir
Wycherly, however plainly expressed. It merely drew from
the youth the simple answer that — “he was born in the

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

colonies, and had colonists for his parents;” a fact that the
others had heard already, some ten or a dozen times.

“It is a little singular, Mr. Wychecombe, that you should
bear both of my names, and yet be no relative,” continued
the baronet. “Now, Wycherly came into our family from
old Sir Hildebrand Wycherly, who was slain at Bosworth
Field, and whose only daughter, my ancestor, and Tom's
ancestor, there, married. Since that day, Wycherly has
been a favourite name among us. I do not think that the
Wychecombes of Herts, ever thought of calling a son Wycherly,
although, as my poor brother the judge used to say,
they were related, but of the half-blood, only. I suppose
your father taught you what is meant by being of the half-blood,
Thomas?”

Tom Wychecombe's face became the colour of scarlet,
and he cast an uneasy glance at all present; expecting in
particular, to meet with a look of exultation in the eyes
of the lieutenant. He was greatly relieved, however, at
finding that neither of the three meant or understood more
than was simply expressed. As for his uncle, he had not
the smallest intention of making any allusion to the peculiarity
of his nephew's birth; and the other two, in common
with the world, supposed the reputed heir to be legitimate.
Gathering courage from the looks of those around him, Tom
answered with a steadiness that prevented his agitation from
being detected:

“Certainly, my dear sir; my excellent parent forgot nothing
that he thought might be useful to me, in maintaining
my rights, and the honour of the family, hereafter. I very
well understand that the Wychecombes of Hertfordshire
have no claims on us; nor, indeed, any Wychecombe who
is not descended from my respectable grandfather, the late
Sir Wycherly.”

“He must have been an early, instead of a late Sir Wycherly,
rather, Mr. Thomas,” put in Dutton, laughing at his
own conceit; “for I can remember no other than the
honourable baronet before us, in the last fifty years.”

“Quite true, Dutton—very true,” rejoined the person last
alluded to. “As true as that `time and tide wait for no
man.' We understand the meaning of such things on the
coast here. It was half a century, last October, since I

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

succeeded my respected parent; but, it will not be another
half century before some one will succeed me!”

Sir Wycherly was a hale, hearty man for his years, but
he had no unmanly dread of his end. Still he felt it could
not be very distant, having already numbered fourscore and
four years. Nevertheless, there were certain phrases of
usage, that Dutton did not see fit to forget on such an occasion,
and he answered accordingly, turning to look at and
admire the still ruddy countenance of the baronet, by way
of giving emphasis to his words.

“You will yet see half of us into our graves, Sir Wycherly,”
he said, “and still remain an active man. Though I dare
say another half century will bring most of us up. Even
Mr. Thomas, here, and your young namesake can hardly
hope to run out more line than that. Well, as for myself,
I only desire to live through this war, that I may again see
His Majesty's arms triumphant; though they do tell me that
we are in for a good thirty years' struggle. Wars have
lasted as long as that, Sir Wycherly, and I don't see why
this may not, as well as another.”

“Very true, Dutton; it is not only possible, but probable;
and I trust both you and I may live to see our flower-hunter
here, a post-captain, at least — though it would be
wishing almost too much to expect to see him an admiral.
There has been one admiral of the name, and I confess I
should like to see another!”

“Has not Mr. Thomas a brother in the service?” demanded
the master; “I had thought that my lord, the judge,
had given us one of his young gentlemen.”

“He thought of it; but the army got both of the boys, as
it turned out. Gregory was to be the midshipman; my
poor brother intending him for a sailor from the first, and so
giving him the name that was once borne by the unfortunate
relative we lost by shipwreck. I wished him to call one of the
lads James, after St. James; but, somehow, I never could
persuade Thomas to see all the excellence of that pious
young man.”

Dutton was a little embarrassed, for St. James had left
anything but a godly savour behind him; and he was about
to fabricate a tolerably bold assertion to the contrary, rather
than incur the risk of offending the lord of the manor, when,

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

luckily, a change in the state of the fog afforded him a favourable
opportunity of bringing about an apposite change
in the subject. During the whole of the morning the sea
had been invisible from the head-land, a dense body of vapour
resting on it, far as eye could reach; veiling the whole
expanse with a single white cloud. The lighter portions of
the vapour had at first floated around the head-land, which
could not have been seen at any material distance; but all
had been gradually settling down into a single mass, that
now rose within twenty feet of the summit of the cliffs. The
hour was still quite early, but the sun was gaining force,
and it speedily drank up all the lighter particles of the mist,
leaving a clear, bright atmosphere above the feathery bank,
through which objects might be seen for miles. There was
what seamen call a “fanning breeze,” or just wind enough
to cause the light sails of a ship to swell and collapse, under
the double influence of the air and the motion of the hull,
imitating in a slight degree the vibrations of that familiar
appliance of the female toilet. Dutton's eye had caught a
glance of the loftiest sail of a vessel, above the fog, going
through this very movement; and it afforded him the release
he desired, by enabling him to draw the attention of his
companions to the same object.

“See, Sir Wycherly—see, Mr. Wychecombe,” he cried,
eagerly, pointing in the direction of the sail; “yonder is
some of the king's canvass coming into our roadstead, or I
am no judge of the set of a man-of-war's royal. It is a
large bit of cloth, too, Mr. Lieutenant, for a sail so lofty!”

“It is a two-decker's royal, Master Dutton,” returned the
young sailor; “and now you see the fore and main, separately,
as the ship keeps away.”

“Well,” put in Sir Wycherly, in a resigned manner;
“here have I lived fourscore years on this coast, and, for
the life of me, I have never been able to tell a fore-royal
from a back-royal; or a mizzen head-stay from a head
mizzen-stay. They are the most puzzling things imaginable;
and now I cannot discover how you know that yonder
sail, which I see plain enough, is a royal, any more than
that it is a jib!”

Dutton and the lieutenant smiled, but Sir Wycherly's
simplicity had a cast of truth and nature about it, that

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

deterred most people from wishing to ridicule him. Then, the
rank, fortune, and local interest of the baronet, counted for
a good deal on all such occasions.

“Here is another fellow, farther east,” cried Dutton, still
pointing with a finger; “and every inch as big as his consort!
Ah! it does my eyes good to see our roadstead come
into notice, in this manner, after all I have said and done in
its behalf — But, who have we here — a brother chip, by
his appearance; I dare say some idler who has been sent
ashore with despatches.”

“There is another fellow further east, and every inch as
big as his consort,” said Wychecombe, as we shall call our
lieutenant, in order to distinguish him from Tom of the same
name, repeating the very words of Dutton, with an application
and readiness that almost amounted to wit, pointing, in
his turn, at two strangers who were ascending to the station
by a path that led from the beach. “Certainly both these
gentlemen are in His Majesty's service, and they have probably
just landed from the ships in the offing.”

The truth of this conjecture was apparent to Dutton at a
glance. As the strangers joined each other, the one last
seen proceeded in advance; and there was something in his
years, the confident manner in which he approached, and
his general appearance, that induced both the sailors to believe
he might be the commander of one of the ships that had
just come in view.

“Good-morrow, gentlemen,” commenced this person, as
soon as near enough to salute the party at the foot of the
flag-staff; “good-morrow to ye all. I 'm glad to meet you,
for it 's but a Jacob's ladder, this path of yours, through the
ravine in the cliffs. Hey! why Atwood,” looking around
him at the sea of vapour, in surprise, “what the devil has
become of the fleet?”

“It is lost in the fog, sir; we are above it, here; when
more on a level with the ships, we could see, or fancy we
saw, more of them than we do now.”

“Here are the upper sails of two heavy ships, sir,” observed
Wychecombe, pointing in the direction of the vessels
already seen; “ay, and yonder are two more—nothing but
the royals are visible.”

“Two more!—I left eleven two-deckers, three frigates, a

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

sloop, and a cutter in sight, when I got into the boat. You
might have covered 'em all with a pocket-handkerchief, hey!
Atwood?”

“They were certainly in close order, sir, but I 'll not take
it on myself to say quite as near together as that.”

“Ay, you 're a dissenter by trade, and never will believe
in a miracle. Sharp work, gentlemen, to get up such a
hill as this, after fifty.”

“It is, indeed, sir,” answered Sir Wycherly, kindly.
“Will you do us the favour to take a seat among us, and
rest yourself after so violent an exertion? The cliff is hard
enough to ascend, even when one keeps the path; though
here is a young gentleman who had a fancy just now to go
down it, without a path; and that, too, merely that a pretty
girl might have a nosegay on her breakfast-table.”

The stranger looked intently at Sir Wycherly for a moment,
then glanced his eye at the groom and the pony, after
which he took a survey of Tom Wychecombe, the lieutenant,
and the master. He was a man accustomed to look about
him, and he understood, by that rapid glance, the characters
of all he surveyed, with perhaps the exception of that of
Tom Wychecombe; and even of that he formed a tolerably
shrewd conjecture. Sir Wycherly he immediately set down
as the squire of the adjacent estate; Dutton's situation he
hit exactly, conceiving him to be a worn-out master, who
was employed to keep the signal-station; while he understood
Wychecombe, by his undress, and air, to be a sea-lieutenant
in the king's service. Tom Wychecombe he
thought it quite likely might be the son and heir of the lord
of the manor, both being in mourning; though he decided
in his own mind that there was not the smallest family likeness
between them. Bowing with the courtesy of a man
who knew how to acknowledge a civility, he took the proffered
seat at Sir Wycherly's side without farther ceremony.

“We must carry the young fellow to sea with us, sir,” rejoined
the stranger, “and that will cure him of looking for
flowers in such ticklish places. His Majesty has need of us
all, in this war; and I trust, young gentleman, you have
not been long ashore, among the girls.”

“Only long enough to make a cure of a pretty smart
burt, received in cutting out a lugger from the opposite

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

coast,” answered Wychecombe, with sufficient modesty, and
yet with sufficient spirit.

“Lugger!—ha! what Atwood? You surely do not mean,
young gentleman, la Voltigeuse?”

“That was the name of the craft, sir — we found her in
the roads of Groix.”

“And then I 've the pleasure of seeing Mr. Wychecombe,
the young officer who led in that gallant attack?”

This was said with a most flattering warmth of manner,
the stranger even rising and removing his hat, as he uttered
the words with a heartiness that showed how much his feelings
were in unison with what he said.

“I am Mr. Wychecombe, sir,” answered the other, blushing
to the temples, and returning the salute; “though I had
not the honour of leading; one of the lieutenants of our ship
being in another boat.”

“Yes—I know all that—but he was beaten off, while you
boarded and did the work. What have my lords commissioners
done in the matter?”

“All that is necessary, so far as I am concerned, sir, I do
assure you; having sent me a commission the very next
week. I only wish they had been equally generous to Mr.
Walton, who received a severe wound also, and behaved as
well as man could behave.”

“That would not be so wise, Mr. Wychecombe, since it
would be rewarding a failure,” returned the stranger, coldly.
“Success is all in all, in war. Ah! There the fellows begin
to show themselves, Atwood.”

This remark drew all eyes, again, towards the sea, where
a sight now presented itself that was really worthy of a
passing notice. The vapour appeared to have become
packed into a mass of some eighty or a hundred feet in
height, leaving a perfectly clear atmosphere above it. In
the clear air, were visible the upper spars and canvass of the
entire fleet mentioned by the stranger; sixteen sail in all.
There were the eleven two-deckers, and the three frigates,
rising in pyramids of canvass, still fanning in towards the
anchorage, which in that roadstead was within pistol-shot of
the shore; while the royals and upper part of the top-gallant
sails of the sloop seemed to stand on the surface of the fog,
like a monument. After a moment's pause, Wychecombe

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

discovered even the head of the cutter's royal-mast, with the
pennant lazily fluttering ahead of it, partly concealed in vapour.
The fog seemed to settle, instead of rising, though it
evidently rolled along the face of the waters, putting the
whole scene in motion. It was not long ere the tops of the
ships of the line became visible, and then living beings were
for the first time seen in the moving masses.

“I suppose we offer just such a sight to the top-men of
the ships, as they offer to us,” observed the stranger. “They
must see this head-land and flag-staff, Mr. Wychecombe;
and there can be no danger of their standing in too far!”

“I should think not, sir; certainly the men aloft can see
the cliffs above the fog, as we see the vessels' spars. Ha!
Mr. Dutton, there is a rear-admiral's flag flying on board
the ship farthest to the eastward.”

“So I see, sir; and by looking at the third vessel on the
western side of the line, you will find a bit of square bunting
at the fore, which will tell you there is a vice-admiral beneath
it.”

“Quite true!” exclaimed Wychecombe, who was ever
enthusiastic on matters relating to his profession; “a vice-admiral
of the red, too; which is the next step to being a full
admiral. This must be the fleet of Sir Digby Downes!”

“No, young gentleman,” returned the stranger, who perceived
by the glance of the other's eye, that a question was
indirectly put to himself; “it is the southern squadron; and
the vice-admiral's flag you see, belongs to Sir Gervaise
Oakes. Admiral Bluewater is on board the ship that carries
a flag at the mizzen.”

“Those two officers always go together, Sir Wycherly,”
added the young man. “Whenever we hear the name of
Sir Gervaise, that of Bluewater is certain to accompany it.
Such a union in service is delightful to witness.”

“Well may they go in company, Mr. Wychecombe,” returned
the stranger, betraying a little emotion. “Oakes
and Bluewater were reefers together, under old Breasthook,
in the Mermaid; and when the first was made a lieutenant
into the Squid, the last followed as a mate. Oakes was first
of the Briton, in her action with the Spanish frigates, and
Bluewater third. For that affair Oakes got a sloop, and his
friend went with him as his first. The next year they had

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

the luck to capture a heavier ship than their own, when, for
the first time in their service, the two young men were separated;
Oakes getting a frigate, and Bluewater getting the
Squid. Still they cruised in company, until the senior was
sent in command of a flying squadron, with a broad pennant,
when the junior, who by this time was post, received
his old messmate on board his own frigate. In that manner
they served together, down to the hour when the first hoisted
his flag. From that time, the two old seamen have never
been parted; Bluewater acting as the admiral's captain, until
he got the square bunting himself. The vice-admiral has
never led the van of a fleet, that the rear-admiral did not
lead the rear-division; and, now that Sir Gervaise is a commander-in-chief,
you see his friend, Dick Bluewater, is
cruising in his company.”

While the stranger was giving this account of the Two
Admirals, in a half-serious, half-jocular manner, the eyes
of his companions were on him. He was a middle-sized,
red-faced man, with an aquiline nose, a light-blue animated
eye, and a mouth, which denoted more of the habits and care
of refinement than either his dress or his ordinarily careless
mien. A great deal is said about the aristocracy of the ears,
and the hands, and the feet; but of all the features, or other appliances
of the human frame, the mouth and the nose have
the greatest influence in producing an impression of gentility.
This was peculiarly the case with the stranger, whose
beak, like that of an ancient galley, gave the promise of a
stately movement, and whose beautiful teeth and winning
smile, often relieved the expression of a countenance that
was not unfrequently stern. As he ceased speaking, Dutton
rose, in a studied manner, raised his hat entirely from his
head, bowed his body nearly to a right angle, and said,

“Unless my memory is treacherous, I believe I have the
honour to see Rear-Admiral Bluewater, himself; I was a mate
in the Medway, when he commanded the Chloe; and unless
five-and-twenty years have made more changes than I think
probable, he is now on this hill.”

“Your memory is a bad one, Mr. Dutton, and your hill
has on it a much worse man, in all respects, than Admiral
Bluewater. They say that man and wife, from living together,
and thinking alike, having the same affections, loving

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

the same objects, or sometimes hating them, get in time to
look alike; hey! Atwood? It may be that I am growing
like Bluewater, on the same principle; but this is the first
time I ever heard the thing suggested. I am Sir Gervaise
Oakes, at your service, sir.”

The bow of Dutton was now much lower than before,
while young Wychecombe uncovered himself, and Sir Wycherly
arose and paid his compliments cordially, introducing
himself, and offering the admiral and all his officers the
hospitality of the Hall.

“Ay, this is straight-forward and hearty, and in the good
old English manner!” exclaimed the admiral, when he had
returned the salutes, and cordially thanked the baronet.
“One might land in Scotland, now, anywhere between the
Tweed and John a'Groat's house, and not be asked so much
as to eat an oaten cake; hey! Atwood?—always excepting
the mountain dew.”

“You will have your fling at my poor countrymen, Sir
Gervaise, and so there is no more to be said on the subject,”
returned the secretary, for such was the rank of the admiral's
companion. “I might feel hurt, at times, did I not
know that you get as many Scotsmen about you, in your
own ship, as you can; and that a fleet is all the better in
your judgment, for having every other captain from the land
o' cakes.”

“Did you ever hear the like of that, Sir Wycherly? Because
I stick to a man I like, he accuses me of having a
predilection for his whole country. Here's Atwood, now;
he was my clerk, when in a sloop; and he has followed me
to the Plantagenet, and because I do not throw him over-board,
he wishes to make it appear half Scotland is in her
hold.”

“Well, there are the surgeon, the purser, one of the
mates, one of the marine officers, and the fourth lieutenant,
to keep me company, Sir Gervaise,” answered the secretary,
smiling like one accustomed to his superior's jokes, and who
cared very little about them. “When you send us all back
to Scotland, I'm thinking there will be many a good vacancy
to fill.”

“The Scotch make themselves very useful, Sir Gervaise,”
put in Sir Wycherly, by way of smoothing the matter over;

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

“and now we have a Brunswick prince on the throne, we
Englishmen have less jealousy of them than formerly. I
am sure I should be happy to see all the gentlemen mentioned
by Mr. Atwood, at Wychecombe Hall.”

“There, you're all well berthed, while the fleet lies in
these roads. Sir Wycherly, in the name of Scotland, I
thank you.—But what an extr'ornary (for so admirals pronounced
the word a hundred years ago,) scene this is, hey!
Atwood? Many a time have I seen the hulls of ships when
their spars were hid in the fog; but I do not remember ever
to have seen before sixteen sets of masts and sails, moving
about on vapour, without a single hull to uphold them. The
tops of all the two-decked ships are as plainly to be seen, as
if the air were without a particle of vapour, while all below
the cat-harpings is hid in a cloud as thick as the smoke of
a battle. I do not half like Bluewater's standing in so far;
perhaps, Mr. Dutton, they cannot see the cliffs, for I assure
you we did not, until quite close under them. We went altogether
by the lead, the masters feeling their way like so
many blind beggars!”

“We always keep that nine-pounder loaded, Sir Gervaise,”
returned the master, “in order to warn vessels when
they are getting near enough in; and if Mr. Wychecombe,
who is younger than I, will run to the house and light this
match, I will prime, and we may give 'em warning where
they are, in less than a minute.”

The admiral gave a ready assent to this proposition, and
the respective parties immediately set about putting it in execution.
Wychecombe hastened to the house to light the
match, glad of an opportunity to inquire after Mildred;
while Dutton produced a priming-horn from a sort of armchest,
that stood near the gun, and put the latter in a condition
to be discharged. The young man was absent but a
minute, and when all was ready he turned towards the admiral,
in order to get the signal to proceed.

“Let'em have it, Mr. Wychecombe,” cried Sir Gervaise,
smiling; “it will wake Bluewater up; perhaps he may
favour us with a broadside, by way of retort.”

The match was applied, and the report of the gun succeeded.
Then followed a pause of more than a minute;
when the fog lifted around the Cæsar, the ship that wore

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a rear-admiral's flag, a flash like lightning was seen glancing
in the mist, and then came the bellowing of a piece of
heavy ordnance. Almost at the same instant, three little
flags appeared at the mast-head of the Cæsar, for previously
to quitting his own ship, Sir Gervaise had sent a message
to his friend, requesting him to take care of the fleet.
This was the signal to anchor. The effect of all this, as
seen from the height, was exceedingly striking. As yet
not a single hull had become visible, the fog remaining
packed upon the water, in a way to conceal even the lower
yards of the two-deckers. All above was bright, distinct,
and so near as almost to render it possible to distinguish persons.
There everything was vivid, while a sort of supernatural
mystery veiled all beneath. Each ship had an officer
aloft to look out for signals, and no sooner had the Cæsar
opened her three little flags, which had long been suspended
in black balls, in readiness for this service, than the answers
were seen floating at the mast-head of each of the vessels.
Then commenced a spectacle still more curious than that
which those on the cliff had so long been regarding with interest.
Ropes began to move, and the sails were drawn up
in festoons, apparently without the agency of hands. Cut
off from a seeming communication with the ocean, or the
hulls, the spars of the different ships appeared to be instinct
with life; each machine playing its own part independently
of the others, but all having the same object in view. In a
very few minutes, the canvass was hauled up, and the whole
fleet was swinging to the anchors. Presently head after
head was thrown out of the fog, the upper yards were alive
with men, and the sails were handed. Next came the
squaring of the yards, though this was imperfectly done,
and a good deal by guess-work. The men came down,
and there lay a noble fleet at anchor, with nothing visible to
those on the cliffs, but their top-hamper, and upper spars.

Sir Gervaise Oakes had been so much struck and amused
with a sight that to him happened to be entirely novel, that
he did not speak during the whole process of anchoring.
Indeed many a man might pass his life at sea, and never
witness such a scene; but those who have, know that it is
one of the most beautiful and striking spectacles connected
with the wonders of the great deep.

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By this time the sun had got so high, as to begin to stir
the fog, and streams of vapour were shooting up from the beach,
like smoke rising from coal-pits. The wind increased, too,
and rolled the vapour before it, and in less than ten minutes,
the veil was removed; ship after ship coming out in plain
view, until the entire fleet was seen riding in the roadstead,
in its naked and distinct proportions.

“Now, Bluewater is a happy fellow,” exclaimed Sir Gervaise.
“He sees his great enemy, the land, and knows how
to deal with it.”

“I thought the French were the great and natural enemies
of every British sailor,” observed Sir Wycherly, simply, but
quite to the point.

“Hum—there's truth in that too. But the land is an
enemy to be feared, while the Frenchman is not—hey! Atwood?”

It was indeed a goodly sight to view the fine fleet that
now lay anchored beneath the cliffs of Wychecombe. Sir
Gervaise Oakes was, in that period, considered a successful
naval commander, and was a favourite both at the admiralty
and with the nation. His popularity extended to the
most distant colonies of England, in nearly all of which he
had served with zeal and credit. But we are not writing of
an age of nautical wonders, like that which succeeded, at
the close of the century. The French, and Dutch, and even
the Spaniards, were then all formidable as naval powers;
for revolutions and changes had not destroyed their maritime
corps, nor had the consequent naval ascendency of
England annihilated their navigation; the two great causes
of the subsequent apparent invincibility of the latter power.
Battles at sea, in that day, were warmly contested, and were
frequently fruitless; more especially when fleets were brought
in opposition. The single combats were usually more decisive,
though the absolute success of the British flag, was
far from being as much a matter of course as it subsequently
became. In a word, the science of naval warfare had not
made those great strides, which marked the career of England
in the end, nor had it retrograded among her enemies,
to the point which appears to have rendered their defeat
nearly certain. Still Sir Gervaise was a successful officer;
having captured several single ships, in bloody encounters,

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and having actually led fleets with credit, in four or five of
the great battles of the times; besides being second and
third in command, on various similar occasions. His own
ship was certain to be engaged, let what would happen to
the others. Equally as captains and as flag-officers, the
nation had become familiar with the names of Oakes and
Bluewater, as men ever to be found sustaining each other in
the thickest of the fight. It may be well to add here, that
both these favourite seamen were men of family, or at least
what was considered men of family among the mere gentry
of England; Sir Gervaise being a baronet by inheritance,
while his friend actually belonged to one of those naval lines
which furnishes admirals for generations; his father having
worn a white flag at the main; and his grandfather having
been actually ennobled for his services, dying vice-admiral
of England. These fortuitous circumstances perhaps rendered
both so much the greater favourites at court.