My father had procured for me a berth on board a fine frigate at Plymouth, and the interval between my nomination and joining was spent by my parents in giving advice to me, and directions to the several tradesmen respecting my equipment.  The large chest, the sword, the cocked-hat, the half-boots, were all ordered in succession; and the arrival of each article either of use or ornament was anticipated by me with a degree of impatience which can only be compared to that of a ship’s company arrived off Dennose from a three years’ station in India, and who hope to be at anchor at Spithead before sunset.  The circumstance of my going to sea affected my father in no other way than it interfered with his domestic comforts by the immoderate grief of my poor mother.  In any other point of view my choice of profession was a source of no regret to him.  I had an elder brother, who was intended to have the family estates, and who was then at Oxford, receiving an education suitable to his rank in life, and also learning how to spend his money like a gentleman.  Younger brothers are, in such cases, just as well out of the way, particularly one of my turbulent disposition:  a man-of-war, therefore, like another piece of timber, has its uses.  My father paid all the bills with great philosophy, and made me a liberal allowance for my age.

The hour of departure drew near; my chest had been sent off by the Plymouth waggon, and a hackney-coach drew up to the door, to convey me to the White Horse Cellar.  The letting down of the rattling steps completely overthrew the small remains of fortitude which my dearest mother had reserved for our separation, and she threw her arms around my neck in a frenzy of grief.  I beheld her emotions with a countenance as unmoved as the figure-head of a ship; while she covered my stoic face with kisses, and washed it with her tears.  I almost wondered what it all meant, and wished the scene was over.

My father helped me out of this dilemma; taking me firmly by the arm, he led me out of the room:  my mother sank upon the sofa, and hid her face in her pocket-handkerchief.  I walked as slowly to the coach as common decency would permit.  My father looked at me, as if he would inquire of my very inward soul whether I really did possess human feelings?  I felt the meaning of this, even in my then tender years; and such was my sense of propriety, that I mustered up a tear for each eye, which, I hope, answered the intended purpose.  We say at sea, “When you have no decency, sham a little;” and I verily believe I should have beheld my poor mother in her coffin with less regret than I could have foregone the gay and lovely scenes which I anticipated.

How amply has this want of feeling towards a tender parent been recalled to my mind, and severely punished, in the events of my vagrant life!

Chapter II

    Injuries may be atoned for and forgiven; but insults admit of no
    compensation.  They degrade the mind in its own esteem, and force
    it to recover its level by revenge.—­JUNIUS.