The Georgia weekly. (Greenville, Ga.) 1861-186?, February 06, 1861, Image 1
VOL. I.
Orijc (ScovQici llhckly,
DKVOTED TO
Literature and Gcncial Information,
WM. HENRY PECK,
" Editor mid Proprietor .
PUBLISHED EVERY WEDNESDAY, UY
PECK & EIN Es.
TERMS, INVARIABLY IN ADVANCE :
Single copy, per annum s 2 ' oo
' AilvV'f tieuu 1 uts inserted at $1 a square
••0f ,12 lines, for one insertion, and 50 cents for
- each subsequent insertion. A liberal deduction
nude to those who advertise by the year.
The Churn.
In the dairy, coo! and airy,
Stands the farmer's daughter churning ;
Her cheeks are all aglow,
With health, from labor, burning j
Her ruddy arms are bare,
In a snood ber flaxen hair,
Round her brimming pans of milk,
And her gown—'tis not of silk
Is tucked beneath her apron,
Clean and snowy white :
And while the staff is duelling
Up and down, incessant splashing,
In unison with band and foot
She sings with spirit light.
<l Come, Sally 1 take a torn’
At the oh) wooden churn.
And quit your novel reading,
Nor tbiuk yourself a queen ;
You're more like .-illy Nancy,
■Who lived on airy fancy,
An! (fled in single wretchedness,
In poverty 1 ween.
a Here. Mary! in the dairy
Is \our proper place, toy bonny lass,
An hoar and more you’ve stood before
That flatterer false, me lo.iiiug-gia.-s.;
So'couie 1 take a turn at the b g wooden churn
’Twill lend your face a glow and grace
That paint cannot impart ;
Ar.d while the staff is dashing
Up and down, incessant splashing,
”1 vili set your eyes >■ flashing,
fill ev< ry look's a dart
You'll lose (flat sobbing, sighing,
Tnai pallid look of dying,
’Twill send the ruddy current
Heating time from out your heart.
“Come, hasten, sister Anna!
Slop a-pokiiding that pu.uu !
Poor broken-hearted instrument,
’Tis ever out ot tune:
So cease your useless jiggin,
Aid bring the can anti ptggm,
To bold the. luscious butte, milk
That a ill be ready soon ;
lifjitfo: Asa ■ thrashing, . *
And father’s witli_tfcw ploughs;
Mother supper’s getting,
And Kite’s the table setting,
So h t us get the cburiiine 'lone
Kre in Iking of the cor a. '
A'd we’ll take a turn
At tlie b g wooden ebu'u :
Tho' ’tis an ancient insiruno ut,
Tis never out of time.
And sing whil we’re dashing,
Pia-h. plaati, plash, plashing,
A 'ively lav, and bang awey,
We ll bring the Imuertoou.
The Poisoned Almond,
BY WILLIAM HENRY PECK.
The vaunting hosts of England had
fled, smitten and shattered, from the
fatal rifles of the Americans, blazing
under the eagle eye of the immortal
Andrew Jackson, and the glad tidings
bad leaped from the red field of battle
to the anxious hearts of the citizens of
New Orleans ; and as night came down
upon tlie rescued city, the glare of
huge bonfires, the flashing of dancing
torches and the glitter of innumerable
lamps, with jubilant shouts, erics and
exultant laughter, that met eye and
ear at every turn, betokened the vic
tor’s triumph. The humble home of
the Artisan, and the proud mansion of
the rich, alike shone with the light and
resounded with sounds of joy.' But
no home was so gay and resplendent
as that of the wealthy and. hospitable
Robert Dainemert; whose twin-born
sons had that day, and ever since the
landing of the foe, been foremost in
tne battle, and who were now* fresh
.from victory to see their only sister
wedded to William Avert, a young
and distinguished captain of the Ten
nessee rifles. Long before Packenham
gave his soldiers .the bandit watchword
of “ Booty and Beauty,” William
Avern and Clara Dainemert had
pledged their vows; and their loves
having gained the willing consent of
Gen. Robert, the day that should see
them united had been fbted upon, and
that day was the Bth of January.—
Tnough when the time was appointed,
none dreamed that it was a day of bat
tle. Honored and unscathed the
young Tennesseean had ridden from
the field as the enemy turned in defeat
and dismay, and with old white-haired
Dainemert and his warrior boys, had
hastened to bear the happy news to
mother, sister and betrothed.
“ She shall be yours this night, my
dear William,” said the old general,
as they drew rein before his house on
Toulouse street. “ What happier date
for a marriage anniversary than that
which shall be a matron’s pride. Ha!
the good news is before us,” he con
fined, as his wife and daughter sprang
from the house to greet them.
“ Thank Heaven you have all re
turned safe in life and limb,” was the
exclamation of the wife and mother,
as she embraced her husband and sons.
“ Thank the God ctf battles that he
has given our country the victory !”
geboteb tor Southern literature, fto, anb general Information.
GREENVILLE, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 6, 18CX.
was the response of the stout old pa
triot, who had seen the same foe flying
from the muskets that rattled along
Bunker Ililt many years before. The
lovers uttered not a word, but the
beaming of their eyes spoke volumes
of mutual happiness.
But if the joy of the lovers found
no tongue, the clamorous and hearty
shouts of the ebon-visaged servants,
clustering around with eager faces,
that shone in the torchlight, made am
ple a mends, v
“I have a promise to fulfil,” said
the general, “ and we must invite our
! friends as fast as legs oan carry mes
sages. “ William is to wed Clara this
night. Come, wife, you are nimble
with the pen—run, write to those who
stand upon etiquette, and hurry ver
bal invitations to the rest. Send for
your brideinaids, Clara, my sons shall
be your groomsmen, William. I
would that your father were alive to
see this happy day—but he fell like a
patriot at Lundy’s Lane, as did your
grandfather at Monmouth. You
spring from a race of soldiers my dear
boy, and this campaign has proved you
worthy of your descent.”
This was spoken us the general led
the wav into his parlor, and every word
was heard by* a dark faced and haugh
ty young man, who rose from a sofa as
they entered.
“ Well, nephew, we won the fight,
and Huron St. Maur was not there,”
said tlie general, with a severe glance
as the young man met his eye.
“ Huron St. Maur when taken pris
oner at Detroit,” replied his nephew, j
“pledged his word not to bear arms
against England during this war. But ,
my heart was with you all, Uncle.”
“ If I had been at Detroit,” retorted
the old patriot, “ Hull had died by my
hand before he should have disgraced
tlie name iie won in the Revolution ;
and if 1 laid been Huron St. Maur id .
remained a captive rather than accept
liberty with my sword in limbo But
make ready, my boys, for the wedding.
Be happy while you can, for the Brit
on is a tough dog, and may give us
• So teir. : .g.'lii. nnoie old soldier has-
tened to change his dress and scatter
his orders, while his sous with William
Avern hurried to their apartments to
exchange their war staiqgd garb for
garments befitting the occasion.
Huron Bt. Maur, a coward in heart,
villian in mind, had. as he said, given
his parole at Detroit—given it before
the dutaid Hull disgraced the Ameri
can at tens, with a bloodless surrender,
to an inferior force ; for .Huron St.
Maur was traitor as well as poltroon.
He had long loved his cousin Clara,
both for the wealth that- would he hers,
and for her lovely person. He was
the son of the general’s youngest sis
ter, and bis father had been a French
officer, who served under Las ayette.
Both father and mother sprung from a
brave and warlike line, hut theofin had
inherited none of their nobler traits.
A shrewd schemer, a cowardly plotter,
and a selfish, unscrupulous man, Hu
ron St. Maur had lived thirty years,
atid not done one worthy deed. The
name Hud influence ot his uncle had
obtained for him a captain’s commis
sion, but the tap of the drum, and the
fume of gunpowder always drove his
watery blood from his cheeks. Glad
to forsake the field for the carpet, he
had returned to his uncle’s to push his
suit for the heart and hand of Clara
Dainemert. But he met blank repulse,
for both were already pledged to the
brave and handsome William Avern, a
young man of noble character, good
descent, apd rising fame. Had he
dared, Huron St. Maur would have
fought nis rival for the prize, but his
craven soul instinctively shrank from
a combat with the young Tennesseean:
St. Maur had already enough wealth
to content any but a mercenary spirit,
but grasping eagerly for more, and in
fatuated with the beauty of his cousin,
he would have sold his salvation to call
her and her fortune his own.
When left by his uncle in the parlor,
as I have related, he hurried from the
house with a throbbing heart and
burning brain. He had. not dreamed
that the marriage was to be sosudden,
and all that day he had prayed to the
evil spirits he worshiped to guide lead
and steel to the heart of his rival.—
Now he saw him returned triumphant
—a victor and a bridegroom. lie
hastened to do what his wicked mind
had long been plotting. Ere many
minutes had passed he stood in the
private office of an Italian apothecary
and chemist, a dastard who would have
taken a thousand human lives, for as
many gold pieces, if no danger of de
tection should menace him ; a lean and
withered old miser, who looked upon
all mankind as so many vermin, deem
ing gold the only valuable thing on
earth. So said report, and Huron be
lieved it. Who can explain the insan
ity of such avarice, for Carlo Berbi
made no use of his wealth, save- to
gloat over it in grim solitude ?
“ I have come for the almond,” said
Huron, as the chemist raised his small
black eyes to his.
“ Have you brought the price, young
man ?”
Huron threw a purse upon the ta
ble. Carlo counted out the yellow
coins, one by one, trying the weight
and ring of each, until no had num
bered a hundred.
“Right,” said he, as he swept them
into his pouch, and stowed that in his
bosom. “ I only wish I <#uid sell a
sack of double almoqds at that price,
—ssoo a nut !”
Carlo Berbi then produced a large
almond, neatly halved, and containing
twin kernels, one of which was chipped
at eacii end.
“ Whoever swallows this,” said the
Italian holding up the marked alinond,
“does himself.no harm ; but I would
not be he who shall eat the other. —
Do not make a mistake.”
“ Never fear,*” said Huron, as the
chemist glued the halves nicely to
getlier. “ But how long does it take
to effect its purpose?”
“ Three hours—and leaves no trace,
my young friend. You ordered this
to he made ready three weefts ago, and
as you have not called foi'it I began
to think your courage had failed.” i
“ The time had not arrived,” said
Huron, as lie placed the almond iruJtS
vest. “But tell me, old man, Lave,
we not met before?” S j
“Where? until three weeks si.n-cs?”j
“In Italy, where I lived some five)
years ago. There is an air —a tone in)
your voice that reminds me of some j
one 1 once knew in Rome,” said j
Huron.
“ All! I had a relative there; per-;
haps you knew her,” said Carlo,- gaz
ing sharply into his face. “ She was
very beautiful, all said, and ber name
was Bianca, the Flower Girl.”
Huron St. Maur grew ashy pale;,
but in a moment lie replied:
“ I have seen her; what has become
of her?”
“ She is dead ! She gave her love
to some young and heatless- villiun.— :
He deserted her.; and ahe died- Bqmj
"' veTiri-j 11 ITS? 1 Will; 1 " ane UiW
troyer of her young life was a Gcni.au
count, v I have heard. He had left
Rome three or four'years before Bi
anca died in ray arms. I wish I could
find the scoundrel. So loug as Biam a
lived she blessed him; but now that |
she is no more. I think that I would j
give all my gold to take an' Italian’s j
vengeance.”
“And justly, too,” said Huron—
“the reprobate! Well trood, night.”
“Good night, my young friend. Do
not eat the unmarked aluiond.”
“ Not I, indeed,” laughed the
heartless Huron, as he turned and
sped rapidly away.
When he again stood in his uncle’s
house it was thronged with guests,
among whom he soon was scattering
jest and compliment. ♦ ;
“Ha !” said hjf old uncle, as he
met him near tjje centre of the main
parlor, “ you #e a»laggard again. —
Absent from the jkld, and tardy at
the wedding. Wifflam and Clara be
came man and wife ju.vt five minutes,
since.”
“ I claim a kiss from the bride,”
said Huron, as he saluted the new
made wife s and then grasped the hand
of the happy husband.
“ I wish you a hundred years of
mutual joy, Cousin Clara—and you,
too, William,”,said he, with smiling
lips and devil’s heart ; and all that
jubilant evening—who so gay as Hu
ron St. Maur?
At length the festive rime came on,
and sparkling wine and wit, over
frosted cake and dainty viands,'ruled
the hour. Theu said Huron St. Matfff
as he filled a plate with almonds:
“ Come, Cousin Will—since we are
newly-made kinsmen, eat a Philopoe l
na with me; and who loses shall for
feit to the bride.”
“ Agreed,” laughed the joyous
bridegroom, “ Seek a double almond.”
“ Ah ! I am sure I have one here,”
said Huron, crushing the almond for
which he had paid in gold. “This is
yours—now ! we eat together and for
feit singly.”
All unsuspecting the gallant young
warrior, nearer death than when Brit
ish bullets had fanned his manly cheek
that morn, ate the unmarked aluiond
; kernel, while the Judas betraying with
: a kiss, half unconscious of the pet, -eo
fierce- were the guilty throbbings' of
his heart, swallowed tha other kera^l..
Two hours after, when Huron stood
aloof watching the bride and her
spouse as they moved in grace and joy.
in the lively dance, a servant ap
proached and told him someone wish'
ed to see him at the street door, llu
.ron impatiently followed the call, for'
he hoped to see that handsome face
grow deadly pale, that manly form re
lax in sudden death, and to hear
the crash of his rival’s fall, at the very
feet of his blooming, blushing bride.
He found Carlo Berbi at the door.
“ You did not eat the unmarked
kernel?” asked the old Italian ea
gerly.
“No—l ate the one chipped at the
ends,” replied the traitor.
“It is well,” said Carlo. “Now
go read this,” and as he spoke, he
placed a. billet in Huron’s hand, and
hurried away.
Carelessly, for his mind was upon
the bridegroom, Huron St. Maur
opened the door as he entered the par
lors again, and read these words :
.>•* With Ihb last iiLuca told Die the .
•fcwut! of ties troyer., < bb'e knew noi what
she said, for delirium ruled her speech. She
said the true name of tlie pretended German
Qount was Huron St. Maur, of New Orleans.
1 sought that villian—l found him in you—
your likeness so long worn upon the bosom of j
Bianca, guided me in my search—Bianca is '
avenged, tor Huron St. Maur shall not live to
3ee to-morrow’s sun. He has swallowed the
poisoned almond 1 Bianca’s Father ” j
Ilow pale, how ghastly looked Hu
ron St. Maur then ! What sight so j
pitiable iis the traitor strangled by nis
own treachery. He said not a word, j
% fled to the house of the chemist;
tlie door was barred —he clamored in
vain.. When the next day came, the •
corpse of Huron St. Maur, lay cold 1
amPStark upon the ground, and the 1
lcUxg' icy hand grasped, revealed
thflpiystery.
Bianca's Yather was never seen more
in the Crescent City. His task was
Rohe.
, (Written for the Georgia Weekly.)
I- \ K ,TIS mkS.
BY AQ£BUK V HAYS TALBOT.
Where-i- K.itie—my beloved
Who has shared my joys anti pain?
Ab, I oiiss thee, -Ktktie De&s.
Sli.dl i ne'er meet thee again ?
Katife’s only gone"before.
Oft I liflttfn'for ihy cojnrbg,
For thy footsteps ‘mid the gloomy "
Vainly tho’, for you are sleeping *»''
lu the lonely, silent tomb.
Katie's only gone before.
Thou, who know’st every sorrow
Os lity’s dark and toilsome wrj, /
Lead iu duty's furrow
Onvv'ifrd to the.perfect day—
With'.her who’s gone bofore.
For mv breast is oft rehelJitmSj
—•?
Farther from the mount of God. *
Kittie's only gone before.
But I #ill onward press, and upward, \
1 *iil turn 'aside no more,
For K*;ie I>* ua Jjas not perished,
Sh*' inis ouly go tup before,'
Katie’s only gonthbefore.
Mountain JUp- liH>l.
Shrink’s Island,
The ship which bore me from New
Zealand, was tho smallest craft, 1 be
believe, that had ever made the jour
ney ; and the skipper, Abel Shrink,
the smallest man that ever had com
mand of a cockle-shell on the high
seas. Whether he bud been made for
the ship, or the ship for him, is a mat
ter of uncertainty ; but they matched
each other admirably well—were both
uaubereaky in the joints, and black
with tar. There was a very small
crew—l don’t think half a-dozen alto
gether—to the “Naiad,” as the ship
was called, ami I was the only passen
ger ou board. The “Nai’d” traded in
iv variety of goods, and made no boast
of its accommodation for passengers ;
which was frank and open, and de
ceived nobody. Skipper Shrink did
not lay himself out for passengers, but
I was' anxious to reach home, and
Shrink never turned away a chance of
a sixpence.
Not having long enjoyed the pleas
ure of that gentleman’s acquaintance,
there was nothing remarkable iu being
puzzled with him ; but when the crew
began to be doubtful of the skipper’s
movements, and the sailors to mutter
“damnation” on their eyes and limbs
"Ts they could make it out, it was time
to grow curious concerning him. Pos
sessing no knowledge of navigation, I
i was perfectly content for a time with
! the consciousness of the ship’s move
meat; but- when, after four or five
] week’s sail, one man swore we had been
| exactly in the same latitude three
- weeks, ray misgivings concerning Skip
per Shrink's sanity began to strength
-1 eu.
i Having more time on my hands than
| the small crew—though what they did
‘ to occupy their minds, save pulling a
I rope, now and then, is doubtful—l set
myself a task of keeping a quiet look
out on skipper Shrink. I accustomed
myself to read a great deal on dock,
: and Shrink, who had long since set
me down a milk-sop, took little notice
Lp? me. I observed that he was al
f’ways busy with a telescope: that ev
ery spare moment of his time lie was
. standing on a coil of rope, or on a pail
turned bottom side upwards on deck,
1 or else curled up in the rigging, look
ing out to sea. with great intentness.
Sometimes he would exchange a few
w.ords with the mate, a black-bearded,
Blueskin kind of person, I had never
taken kindly to ; but in most cases he
prosecuted nis studies alone, looking
through his telescope, or drawing ex
: traordinary diagrams on the palm of
his hand with a lead pencil, and lick
ing' them carefully out again, when
they did not seem to please him. So
weeks went on at this game, and the
ship, as I learned afterward, wander
ed about the high seas in a very ec
centric fashion, and went every way
but the right.
The secret came out at last in an
odd manner. We had been two
months away frojn New Zealand, and
I was still reflecting on the littleness
' of humanity, compared with that im
j mensity of sea and sky which shuts us
1 in between' thfcm, a tiriy speck to be
blotted out at any instant, and nobody
the wiser. It was mid-day, and I had
been indulging in one of my old naps,
when the harsh voice of skipper
Shrink woke me with a start.
“By the Lud, there’s one at last,
Marks! By the Lud, we’ve got it!
Take the bearings —hold the glass—
look at the compass —by the Lud, our
blessed fortune’s made!”
“ Hush!” cried Marks, looking
quic klf around,
I had presence of mind to shut my
eyes again, and snore on peacefully.
“It’s all right,” said Shrink, iri a
husky whisper, “he’s sound asleep ;
he always goes to sleep about this
time, the fool! Bang in the sun, blis
ter him !”
lie ran to the compass pored over it
some time, scrawled out some hierog
lyphics in a dog’s-eared note-book,
sprung at Marks, snatched the teles
cope from his hands, danced frantical
ly about the deck, ran to the hold and
listened, and came back to Marks
again.
“ Sixty thousand pounds, Marks—
nearly a hundred thousand, perhaps —
you and I gentlemen for life, when we
come back this way ! A real seal is
land ! I can see them flipping abaut
like mad, hundreds of seals. And
there they’ll be till we fetch them, and
weigh all the heavier and increase
their blessed blubber, and their blessed
families, and all for you and me
Marks.”
“ Ah!” said Marks, drawing a deep
breath, and rubbing one hand bverjflm
> iwl ini,i <mm»> mm . ii" <
“Old Bones made his fortune Hot*
way, Marks ; he looked the' latitude
and longitude quietly as we might, (fid
his voyage, and came back with every
thing suitable, and made heaps of
money, and we’re as lucky as Bones,
and that’s Shrink’s Island, by
“ The less said about it the better,
now,” growled Marks, who was of a
taciturn nature, and able to master his
emotions.
“ You’re right, Marks ; you’re al
ways right. Mum’s the word.”
Two of the men came on deck at
this juucture; the skipper and the
mate separated, and, a few minutes af
terwards, Shrink was ordering all sail
up, and taking advantage of a stiff
breeze, away we went, and left the is
and many miles behind us.
Time passed on, and there was no
more idling it; Shi ink cursed every
slackness of wind, and every intensity
of wiild that blew u3 the wrong way,
and prayed for fine weather and a
quick journey, like an angel as he
wasu’t. Time upset one man’s calcu
lations too, very strangely. Marks
was taken ill and died. A queer ill
ness, with lots of queer pains, that
made me rather suspicious of foul play
from Shrink. Still, Shrink was very
much cut up at his loss, and perhaps
I am doing the man an injustice in
that respect, remembering ail that hap
pened afterwards. So Marks was
sewed up in canvass and pitched over
board, and the fate of him and his
hopes strongly reminded me of foul
dealing, as he sank in the deep wa
ter. So Shrink read the burial service
over him, and cursed all the hard
words.
We had been three months at sea,
and I had wearied and addled my
brain by thinking of the skipper’s
luck, and how some men come to grief,
and others to seal-islands. Ponder
ing on the same topic one breezy morn
ing, when the ship was suffering from
staggers, 1 came upon the skipper
fighting against the wind, and deep in
calculation. Shrink had the advantage
I of me in tlie matter of sea legs, and I
: was compelled to hang by ropes, and
hold by the side of the vessel, to keep
ion my legs at all. Consequently, as I
slowly made my way along the deck,
I might have presented rather a skulk
ing appearance had the skipper glanced
in my direction. But Shrink had his
note-book onen, and his hands were
full of which the wind rustled
and blew about. His old hat was wedg
ed on his forehead, while the ship was
lurching frightfully, and the salt water
was splashing over the deck, and he
had several things upon his mind that
kept his thoughts distracted. Now
and then I observed that he crumpled
the papers in one hand, and scrawled
on them as well as he could with a
lead pencil; that he swore occasion
ally and stamped with his feet, and
once burst into a screeching laugh of
triumph that curdled every drop of
blood in my body. I might have been
watching him, and yet I was thinking
of my heritage and my sister in Eng
land, and had no felonious thoughts in
mind, when an oath of uncommon vol
ume, followed by a madman’s yell,
made me execute a nervous leap in the
air. The wind had blown half a dozen
papers out of Shrink’s hands, and
they were whisking about the deck in
half a dozen different directions, with
Shrink leaping and tumbling after
them, and trying to catch them all at
once. But the skipper was not übi
quitous, and one paper was blown be
hind him, another into the boat, one
was stopped by my feet, and two
whirled out to sea and were never
heard of more. Instinctively I stop
ped and picked up a paper for the
skipper, almost unconsciously glancing
at the one line written on it—“Shrink’s
Island. Lat. 12 deg. 4 min. 17 sec.
N., Long. 97 deg. 37 min. 30 sec. E.”
I mention these figures to make up. my
story. lam certain that they are in
correct, hut they are as near the mark
as my memory will allow. At the
time of which I write the true figures
sank at once into my brain, and be
came fixed there as for some wise pur
pose. I had not time to take a second
glance before the skipper’s hand had
snatched the paper from me, and the
skipper, with eyes like balls of fire,
was dancing round me and gesticula
ting violently.
“ What have you seen ? What have
you read ? What did you touch the
paper for ? I’ll murder you ! I’ll
heave you overboard, by !” And
then followed a string of the fiercest
expletives I had even heard him in
dulge in; and his great, bony hands
opened and shut, and came nearer iny
throat every moment.
“ Keep back, Mr. Shrink,” I cried.
“ I don’t know what reason you have
for this conduct; there’s nothing I
have seen in your papers that’s com
prehensible to me. I can’t under
stand your conduct sir.”
This was not strictly the truth, hut
[when a man’s within an ace of being
Tule. At least, 1 was'Tor tlilire was
little of the hero in me.
“You’ve seen the figures !”
“ I certainly saw some figures—a
string of figures. What of, that ?”
“ Nothing,” he grunted, thrashing
the paper into his trousers pocket,
wheeling round, scuttling oft’ after the
rest, and threatening to split my fool’s
head open if I moved, llecove' ng
the majority of his papers, he came tqu,
my side with quite a bland expression
of countenance. “A man’s a bit_,
rough whet, he's riled,” said he, half
apologetic.illy. “ Y'ou mustn’t mind
a row in those times. The papers are
worth nothing—only old washing bills,
hut they might have been bank-notes,
for that matter. I did’nt know at the
moment, o’ course. Y'ou couldn’t ha"
read the figures in the time, if they
had been worth anything, eh?”
“ Not very likely.”
Shrink walked away relieved in
mind, and I was left to mutter to my
self, “ Lat. 12 deg. 4 min. 17 sec. N.,
Long. 97 deg. 37 min. 30 sec. E.”
Still the skipper had his suspicions of
me ; they could not be shaken off by
a man who was born suspicious of his
mother, and who would possibly die
distrustful of the doctor. The way
that man dogged me about, and har
rassed me to death with questions, and
put one or two of the figures to me
suddenly, in an attempt to throw me
off my guard, was wearisome and try
ing to my nerves. I knew Shrink
was doubtful of me, and knowing more
myself than he perhaps gave me
it for, I felt rather insecure on the
high seas beneath that man’s murder
ous glances. I took the trouble to
load an old pistol of mine, and sleep
with it under my pillow, in the ragged
old hammock where every night I
fought so hard for sleep. 1 felt 1 was
in danger, and that un&wares, some
day or night, skipper Shrisk.-might
make an end of me. I thou&ht -of
Marks, and the sudden manner in
which he took his leave of society,
: and I was very careful in my food and
i drink, and made advances to the crew,
and offered wondrous treats in rum
when the journey was over, and my
native land was under my feet. I on
ly wanted to reach home; I did not
care for seal islands, o? believe in
their existence; I would be content
with the little shop and the forty gold
en pounds that were to set me up in
life. Shrink was a great visionary;
let him be even the most practical of
men, his business was not my business,
and I had no right to interfere with
it.
How well I remember the night I
thought of this most, and lay in my
hammock, tossing from one side to an
other, till I tossed my brains into con
fusion, and confounded things hope
lessly. How the seal island mixed it
self with home matters, and Shrink
was married to*my sister, and selling
seal-skins in Seven Dials j and how
NO. 1.