y would call it _tete d'amour a l'Ethiopique_, and then you
would be even more puzzled. As for their wine, there is no disguise in
that; it's half vinegar. No, no! stay at home; you can live just as
cheaply, if you choose; and then you will have good meat, good
vegetables, good ale, good beer, and a good glass of grog; and, what is
of more importance, you will be in good company. Live with your friends,
and don't make a fool of yourself.

I would not have condescended to have noticed this place, had it not
been that I wish you to observe a vessel which is lying along the
pier-wharf, with a plank from the shore to her gunwale. It is low water,
and she is aground, and the plank dips down at such an angle that it is
a work of danger to go either in or out of her. You observe that there
is nothing very remarkable in her. She is a cutter, and a good sea-boat,
and sails well before the wind. She is short for her breadth of beam,
and is not armed. Smugglers do not arm now--the service is too
dangerous; they effect their purpose by cunning, not by force.
Nevertheless, it requires that smugglers should be good seamen, smart,
active fellows, and keen-witted, or they can do nothing. This vessel has
not a large cargo in her, but it is valuable. She has some thousand
yards of lace, a few hundred pounds of tea, a few bales of silk, and
about forty ankers of brandy--just as much as they can land in one boat.
All they ask is a heavy gale or a thick fog, and they trust to
themselves for success.

There is nobody on board except a boy; the crew are all up at the
cabaret, settling their little accounts of every description--for they
smuggle both ways, and every man has his own private venture. There they
are all, fifteen of them, and fine-looking fellows, too, sitting at that
long table. They are very merry, but quite sober, as they are to sail
to-night.

[Illustration: _The captain of the_ Happy-go-lucky, _Jack Pickersgill._]

The captain of the vessel (whose name, by the bye, is the
_Happy-go-lucky_--the captain christened her himself) is that
fine-looking young man, with dark whiskers meeting under his throat. His
name is Jack Pickersgill. You perceive at once that he is much above a
common sailor in appearance. His manners are good, he is remarkably
handsome, very clean, and rather a dandy in his dress. Observe how very
politely he takes off his hat to that Frenchman, with whom he has just
settled accounts; he beats Johnny Crapeau