I shall not go any farther back with his memoirs than the day he chose to teach an old woman how to make mutton-broth.  He had, in the course of an honest discharge of his duty, at a certain very dirty sea-port town, incurred the displeasure of the lower orders generally:  he nevertheless would omit no opportunity of doing good, and giving advice to the poor, gratis.  One day he saw a woman emptying the contents of a boiling kettle out of her door into the street.  He approached, and saw a leg of mutton at the bottom, and the unthrifty housewife throwing away the liquor in which it had been boiled.

“Good woman,” said the economical baronet, “do you know what you are doing?  A handful of meat, a couple of carrots, and a couple of turnips, cut up into dice, and thrown into that liquor, with a little parsley, would make excellent mutton-broth for your family.”

The old woman looked up, and saw the ogre of the dockyard; and either by losing her presence of mind, or by a most malignant slip of the hand, she contrived to pour a part of the boiling water into the shoes of Sir Hurricane.  The baronet jumped, roared, hopped, stamped, kicked off his shoes, and ran home, d——­ning the old woman, and himself too, for having tried to teach her how to make mutton-broth.  As he ran off, the ungrateful hag screamed after him, “Sarves you right; teach you to mind your own business.”

The next day, in his magisterial capacity, he commanded the attendance of “the dealer in slops.”  “Well, Madam, what have you got to say for yourself for scalding one of his Majesty’s Justices of the Peace? don’t you know that I have the power to commit you to Maidstone gaol for the assault?”

“I beg your honour’s pardon, humbly,” said the woman; “I did not know it was your honour, or I am sure I wouldn’t a done it; besides, I own to your honour, I had a drop too much.”

The good-natured baronet dismissed her with a little suitable advice, which no doubt the good woman treated as she did that relative to the mutton-broth.

My acquaintance with Sir Hurricane had commenced at Plymouth, when he kicked my ship to sea in a gale of wind, for fear we should ground on our beef bones.  I never forgave him for that.  My father had shown him great civility, and had introduced me to him.  When at Halifax, we resided in the same house with a mutual friend, who had always received me as his own son.  He had a son of my own age, with whom I had long been on terms of warm friendship, and Ned and I confederated against Sir Hurricane.  Having paid a few visits en passant, as I landed at the King’s Wharf, shook hands with a few pretty girls, and received their congratulations on my safe return, I went to the house of my friend, and, without ceremony, walked into the drawing-room.

“Do you know, Sir,” said the footman, “that Sir Hurricane is in his room? but he is very busy,” added the man, with a smile.

“Busy or not,” said I, “I am sure he will see me,” so in I walked.