The young ladies dried their eyes, but had lost their appetites; in vain did Emily endeavour to manage the tail of a small smelt.  I filled a glass of wine to each.  “Come,” said I, “in sea phrase, spirits are always more easily stowed away than dry provisions; let us drink each other’s health, and then we shall get on better.”

They took my advice, and it answered the purpose.  Our repast was cheerful, but tempered and corrected by a feeling of past sorrow, and a deep sense of great mercies from Heaven.

  “If Heaven were every day like this,
  Then ’twere indeed a Heaven of bliss.”

Reader, I know you have long thought me a vain man—­a profligate, unprincipled Don Juan, ready to pray when in danger, and to sin when out of it:  but as I have always told you the truth, even when my honour and character were at stake, I expect you will believe me now, when I say a word in my own favour.  That I felt gratitude to God for my deliverance and safe return, I do most solemnly aver; my heart was ready to burst with the escape of this feeling, which I suppressed from a false sense of shame, though I never was given much to the melting mood; moreover, I was too proud to show what I thought a weakness, before the great he-fellows of footmen.  Had we been in private, I could have fallen down on my knees before that God whom I had so often offended; who had rescued me twice from the jaws of the shark; who had lifted me from the depth of the sea when darkness covered me; who had saved me from the poison and the wreck, and guided me clear of the rock at Trinidad; and who had sent the dog to save me from a horrible death.

These were only a small part of the mercies I had received; but they were the most recent, and consequently had left the deepest impression on my memory.  I would have given one of Emily’s approving smiles, much as I valued them, to have been relieved from my oppressed feelings by a hearty flood of tears, and by a solemn act of devotion and thanksgiving; but I felt all this, and that feeling, I hope, was accounted to me for righteousness.  For the first time in my life, the love of God was mixed up with a pure and earthly love for Emily, and affection for my family.

The ladies sat with us some time after the cloth was removed, unable to drag themselves away, while I related my “hair-breadth escapes.”  When I spoke of the incident of trying to save the poor man who fell overboard from the brig—­of my holding him by the collar, and being dragged down with him until the sea became dark over my head—­Emily could bear it no longer; she jumped up, and falling on her knees, hid her lovely face in my sister’s lap, passionately exclaiming, “Oh, do not, do not, my dear Frank, tell me any more—­I cannot bear it—­indeed, I cannot bear it.”

We all gathered round her, and supported her to the drawing-room, where we diverted ourselves with lighter and gayer anecdotes.  Emily tried a tune on the pianoforte, and attempted a song; but it would not do:  she could not sing a gay one, and a melancholy one overpowered her.  At twelve o’clock, we all retired to our apartments, and before I slept I spent some minutes in devotion, with vows of amendment which I fully intended to keep.