t him to sea again, with despatches. It was known that all hands
were drunk on quitting the port; and the vessel ran upon a reef of
rocks called the Sisters, where she sank, and every soul perished. Her
mast-heads were seen just above water the next morning.

The frigate I was to join, came into harbour soon after I reached
Halifax. This I was sorry for, as I found myself in very good
quarters. I had letters of introduction to the best families. The
place is proverbial for hospitality; and the society of the young
ladies, who are both virtuous and lovely, tended in some degree
to reform and polish the rough and libertine manners which I had
contracted in my career. I had many sweethearts; but they were more
like Emily than Eugenia. I was a great flirt among them, and would
willingly have spent more time in their company; but my fate or
fortune was to be accomplished, and I went on board the frigate, where
I presented my introductory letters to the nobleman who commanded her.
I expected to have seen an effeminate young man, much too refined to
learn his business; but I was mistaken. Lord Edward was a sailor
every inch of him: he knew a ship from stem to stern, understood the
characters of seamen, and gained their confidence. He was, besides,
a good mechanic--a carpenter, rope-maker, sail-maker, and cooper. He
could hand, reef, and steer, knot and splice; but he was no orator:
he read little, and spoke less. He was a man of no show. He was
good-tempered, honest, and unsophisticated, with a large proportion of
common sense. He was good-humoured and free with his officers; though,
if offended he was violent but soon calm again; nor could you ever
perceive any assumption of consequence from his title of nobility. He
was pleased with my expertness in practical seamanship; and before
we left the harbour, I became a great favourite. This I took care
to improve, as I liked him both for himself and his good qualities,
independently of the advantages of being on good terms with the
captain.

We were not allowed to remain long in this paradise of sailors, being
ordered suddenly to Quebec. I ran round to say adieu to all my dear
Arcadian friends. A tearful eye, a lock of hair, a hearty shake of a
fair hand, were all the spoils with which I was loaded when I quitted
the shore, and I cast many a longing, lingering look behind, as the
ship glided out of the harbour; white handkerchiefs were waved from
the beach, and many a silent pra