The next morning I stated my wishes to the captain, not of quitting the service, but of going home in consequence of family arrangements.  This was about as necessary as that I should make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.  The captain had been told of the unpleasant news I had received, and having listened to all I had to say, he replied, that if I could make up my mind to remain with him it would be better for me.

“You are now,” said he, “accustomed to my ways—­you know your duty, and do your work well; indeed, I have made honourable mention of you to the Admiralty in my public letter:  you know your own business best” (here he was mistaken—­he ought not to have parted with me for the reasons which I offered); “but my advice to you is to stay.”

I thanked him—­but being bent and determined on going home, he acceded to my request; gave me my discharge, and added a very handsome certificate of good conduct, far beyond the usually prescribed form; he also told me that if I chose to return to him he would keep a vacancy for me.  I parted with the officers, my messmates, and the ship’s company with regret.  I had been more than three years with them; and my stormy commencement had settled down into a quiet and peaceful acknowledgment of my supremacy in the berth; my qualities were such as to make me a universal favourite, and I was followed down the ship’s side with the hearty good wishes of all.  I was pulled in the cutter on board of a ship of the line, in which I was ordered to take my passage to England.

Chapter IX

  How happy could I be with either,
  Were t’other dear charmer away!

  “Beggar’s Opera.”

Hell, they say, is paved with good intentions.  If so, it has a much better pavement than it deserves; for the “trail of the serpent is over us all.”  Then why send to hell the greatest proof of our perfection before the fall, and of weakness subsequent to it?  Honest and sincere professions of amendment must carry with them to the Throne of Grace a strong recommendation, even if we are again led astray by the allurements of sense and the snares of the world.  At least, our tears of contrition and repentance, our sorrow for the past, and our firm resolves for the future, must have given “joy in heaven,” and consequently cannot have been converted into pavement for the infernal regions.

Pleasure and pain, in youth, are, for the most part, transient impressions, whether they arise from possession or loss of worldly enjoyment, or from a sense of having done well or ill in our career.  The excitement, though strong, is not durable; and thus it was with me.  I had not been more than four days on board the ship of the line in which I took my passage to England, when I felt my spirits buoyant, and my levity almost amounting to delirium.  The hours of reflection were at first shortened, and then dismissed entirely.  The general mirth of my new shipmates at the thoughts