tions; "shall we
beat to quarters?"--"Certainly, Mr B---," replied I; and he
disappeared. But this interruption produced only a temporary cessation:
I was in the height of "Cavalier seul," when his head popped into the
cabin--

"All present, and sober, sir," reported he, with a demure smile.

"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.

"Oh! no indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."

"I am, Mr B---, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectual
intoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."

"A what! sir?"

"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look into
a book--beat a retreat."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first-lieutenant; and he disappeared.

And I also beat a retreat to my sofa; and as I threw myself upon it,
mentally vowed that, for two months at the least, I never would take up
a pen. But we seldom make a vow which we do not eventually break; and
the reason is obvious. We vow only when hurried into excesses; we are
alarmed at the dominion which has been acquired over us by our feelings
or by our habits. Checked for a time by an adherence to our
resolutions, they gradually recover their former strength, until they
again break forth, and we yield to their overpowering influence. A few
days after I had made the resolution, I found myself, like the sailor,
_rewarding_ it, by writing more indefatigably than ever.

So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as Tony
Lumpkin says--not to please my good-natured friends, "but because I
can't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as an
amusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a
_confirmed habit_.

So much for the overture. Now let us draw up the curtain, and our
actors shall appear upon the stage.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

Boldly I venture on a naval scene,
Nor fear the critics' frown, the pedants' spleen.
Sons of the ocean, we their rules disdain.

Hark!--a shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock.
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair--While yet another stroke
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak,
Till like the mine in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder-torn, her frame divides,
And crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
FALCONER.

It was in the dreary month of fog, mi