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<h3>Chapter Thirty Four.</h3> <h4>O’Brien’s good advice—Captain Kearney again deals in the marvellous.</h4> I do not remember any circumstance in my life which, at that time, lay so heavily on my mind, as the loss of poor Mr Chucks, the boatswain, whom, of course, I took it for granted I should never see again. I believe that the chief cause was, that at the time I entered the service, and every one considered me to be the fool of the family, Mr Chucks and O’Brien were the only two who thought of and treated me differently; and it was their conduct which induced me to apply myself, and encouraged me to exertion. I believe, that many a boy, who, if properly patronised, would turn out well, is, by the injudicious system of brow-beating and ridicule, forced into the wrong path, and, in his despair, throws away all self-confidence, and allows himself to be carried away by the stream to perdition. O’Brien was not very partial to reading himself; he played the German flute remarkably well, and had a very good voice. His chief amusement was practising, or rather playing, which is a very different thing; but although he did not study himself, he always made me come into his cabin for an hour or two every day, and after I had read, repeat to him the contents of the book. By this method, he not only instructed me, but gained a great deal of information himself; for he made so many remarks upon what I had read, that it was impressed upon both our memories. “Well, Peter,” he would say, as became into the cabin, “what have you to tell me this morning? Sure it’s you that’s the schoolmaster, and not me—for I learn from you every day.” “I have not read much, O’Brien, to-day, for I have been thinking of poor Mr Chucks.” “Very right for you so to do, Peter: never forget your friends in a hurry; you’ll not find too many of them as you trot along the highway of life.” “I wonder whether he is dead?” “Why, that’s a question I cannot answer: a bullet through the chest don’t lengthen a man’s days, that’s certain; but this I know, that he’ll not die if he can help it, now that he’s got the captain’s jacket on.” “Yes; he always aspired to be a gentleman—which was absurd enough in a boatswain.” “Not at all absurd, Peter, but very absurd of you to talk without thinking: when did any one of his shipmates ever know Mr Chucks to do an unhandsome or mean action? Never—and why? because he aspired to be a gentleman, and that feeling kept him above it. Vanity’s a confounded donkey, very apt to put his head between his legs, and chuck us over; but pride’s a fine horse, who will carry us over the ground, and enable us to distance our fellow-travellers. Mr Chucks had pride, and that’s always commendable, even in a boatswain. How often have you read of people rising from nothing, and becoming great men? This was from talent, sure enough: but it was talent with pride to force it onward, not talent with vanity to cheek it.” “You are very right, O’Brien; I spoke foolishly.” “Never mind, Peter, nobody heard you but me, so it’s of no consequence. Don’t you dine in the cabin to-day?” “Yes.” “So do I. The captain is in a most marvellous humour this morning. He told me one or two yarns that quite staggered my politeness and my respect for him on the quarter-deck. What a pity it is that a man should have gained such a bad habit!” “He’s quite incurable, I’m afraid,” replied I; “but, certainly, his fibs do no harm; they are what they call white lies: I do not think he would really tell a lie, that is, a lie which would be considered to disgrace a gentleman.” “Peter, all lies disgrace a gentleman, white or black; although I grant there is a difference. To say the least of it, it is a dangerous habit, for white lies are but the gentlemen ushers to black ones. I know but of one point on which a lie is excusable, and that is, when you wish to deceive the enemy. Then your duty to your country warrants your lying till you’re black in the face; and, for the very reason that it goes against your grain, it becomes, as if were, a sort of virtue.” “What was the difference between the marine officer and Mr Phillott that occurred this morning?” “Nothing at all in itself—the marine officer is a bit of a gaby, and takes offence where none is meant. Mr Phillott has a foul tongue, but he has a good heart.” “What a pity it is!” “It is a pity, for he’s a smart officer; but the fact is, Peter, that junior officers are too apt to copy their superiors, and that makes it very important that a young gentleman should sail with a captain who is a gentleman. Now, Phillott served the best of his time with Captain Ballover, who is notorious in the service for foul and abusive language. What is the consequence?—that Phillott, and many others, who have served under him, have learnt his bad habit.” “I should think, O’Brien, that the very circumstance of having had your feelings so often wounded by such language when you were a junior officer, would make you doubly careful not to make use of it to others, when you had advanced in the service.” “Peter, that’s just the first feeling, which wears away after a time; but at last, your own sense of indignation becomes blunted, and becoming indifferent to it, you forget also that you wound the feelings of others, and carry the habit with you, to the great injury and disgrace of the service. But it’s time to dress for dinner, so you’d better make yourself scarce, Peter, while I tidivate myself off a little, according to the rules and regulations of His Majesty’s service, when you are asked to dine with the skipper.” We met at the captain’s table, where we found, as usual, a great display of plate, but very little else, except the ship’s allowance. We certainly had now been cruising some time, and there was some excuse for it; but still, few captains would have been so unprovided. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, you will not have a very grand dinner,” observed the captain, as the steward removed the plated covers off the dishes; “but when on service we must rough it out how we can. Mr O’Brien, pea-soup? I recollect faring harder than this through one cruise, in a flush vessel. We were thirteen weeks up to our knees in water, and living the whole time upon raw pork—not being able to light a fire during the cruise.” “Pray, Captain Kearney, may I ask where this happened?” “To be sure. It was off Bermudas: we cruised for seven weeks before we could find the Islands, and began verily to think that the Bermudas were themselves on a cruise.” “I presume, sir, you were not sorry to have a fire to cook your provisions when you came to an anchor?” said O’Brien. “I beg your pardon,” replied Captain Kearney; “we had become so accustomed to raw provisions and wet feet, that we could not eat our meals cooked, or help dipping our legs over the side, for a long while afterwards. I saw one of the boat keepers astern catch a large barracouta, and eat it alive—indeed, if I had not given the strictest orders, and flogged half-a-dozen of them, I doubt whether they would not have eaten their victuals raw to this day. The force of habit is tremendous.” “It is, indeed,” observed Mr Phillott, dryly, and winking to us—referring to the captain’s incredible stories. “It is, indeed,” repeated O’Brien; “we see the ditch in our neighbour’s eye, and cannot observe the log of wood in our own;” and O’Brien winked at me, referring to Phillott’s habit of bad language. “I once knew a married man,” observed the captain, “who had been always accustomed to go to sleep with his hand upon his wife’s head, and would not allow her to wear a night-cap in consequence. Well, she caught cold and died, and he never could sleep at night until he took a clothes brush to bed with him, and laid his hand upon that, which answered the purpose—such was the force of habit.” “I once saw a dead body galvanised,” observed Mr Phillott: “it was the body of a man who had taken a great deal of snuff during his lifetime, and, as soon as the battery was applied to his spine, the body very gently raised its arm, and put its fingers to its nose, as if it were taking a pinch.” “You saw that yourself, Mr Phillott?” observed the captain, looking the first lieutenant earnestly in the face. “Yes, sir,” replied Mr Phillott, coolly. “Have you told that story often?” “Very often, sir.” “Because I know that some people, by constantly telling a story, at last believe it to be true; not that I refer to you, Mr Phillott, but still I should recommend you not to tell that story where you are not well known, or people may doubt your credibility.” “I make it a rule to believe everything myself,” observed Mr Phillott, “out of politeness; and I expect the same courtesy from others.” “Then, upon my soul! when you tell that story, you trespass very much upon our good manners. Talking of courtesy, you might meet a friend of mine, who has been a courtier all his life; he cannot help bowing. I have seen him bow to his horse, and thank him after he had dismounted—beg pardon of a puppy for treading on his tail; and one day, when he fell over a scraper, he took off his hat, and made it a thousand apologies for his inattention.” “Force of habit again,” said O’Brien. “Exactly so. Mr Simple, will you take a slice of this pork; and perhaps you’ll do me the honour to take a glass of wine? Lord Privilege would not much admire your dinner to-day, would he, Mr Simple?” “As a variety he might, sir, but not for a continuance.” “Very truly said. Variety is charming. The negroes here get so tired of salt fish and occra broth, that they eat dirt by way of a relish. Mr O’Brien, how remarkably well you played that sonata of Pleydel’s this morning.” “I am happy that I did not annoy you, Captain Kearney, at all events,” replied O’Brien. “On the contrary, I am very partial to good music. My mother was a great performer. I recollect once, she was performing a piece on the piano, in which she had to imitate a thunder storm. So admirably did she hit it off, that when we went to tea, all the cream was turned sour, as well as three casks of beer in the cellar.” At this assertion Mr Phillott could contain himself no longer; he burst out into a loud laugh, and having a glass of wine to his lips, spattered it all over the table, and over me, who unfortunately was opposite to him. “I really beg pardon, Captain Kearney, but the idea of such an expensive talent was too amusing. Will you permit me to ask you a question?—As there could not have been thunder without lightning, were any people killed at the same time by the electric fluid of the piano?” “No, sir,” replied Captain Kearney, very angrily; “but her performance electrified us, which was something like it. Perhaps, Mr Phillott, as you lost your last glass of wine, you will allow me to take another with you?” “With great pleasure,” replied the first lieutenant, who perceived that he had gone far enough. “Well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “we shall soon be in the land of plenty. I shall cruise a fortnight more, and then join the admiral at Jamaica. We must make out our despatch relative to the cutting out of the Sylvia” (that was the name of the privateer brig), “and I am happy to say that I shall feel it my duty to make honourable mention of all the party present. Steward, coffee.” The first lieutenant, O’Brien, and I, bowed to this flattering avowal on the part of the captain; as for myself, I felt delighted. The idea of my name being mentioned in the Gazette, and the pleasure that it would give to my father and mother, mantled the blood in my cheeks till I was as red as a turkey-cock. “Cousin Simple,” said the captain, good-naturedly, “you have no occasion to blush; your conduct deserves it; and you are indebted to Mr Phillott for having made me acquainted with your gallantry.” Coffee was soon over, and I was glad to leave the cabin and be alone, that I might compose my perturbed mind. I felt too happy. I did not however, say a word to my messmates, as it might have created feelings of envy or ill-will. O’Brien gave me a caution not to do so, when I met him afterwards, so that I was very glad that I had been so circumspect. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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