of once more revisiting their dear native land—­the anticipation of indulging in the sensual worship of Bacchus and Venus, the constant theme of discourse among the midshipmen; the loud and senseless applause bestowed on the coarsest ribaldry—­these all had their share in destroying that religious frame of mind in which I had parted with my first captain, and seemed to awaken me to a sense of the folly I had been guilty of in quitting a ship, where I was not only at the head of my mess, but in a fair way for promotion.  I considered that I had acted the part of a madman, and had again begun to renew my career of sin and of folly, a little, and but a little, sobered by the recent event.

We arrived in England after the usual passage from the Rock.  I consented to pass two days at Portsmouth, with my new companions, to revisit our old haunts, and to commit those excesses which fools and knaves applauded and partook of, at my expense, leaving me full leisure to repent, after we separated.  I, however, did muster resolution enough to pack my trunk; and, after an extravagant supper at the Fountain, retired to bed intoxicated, and the next morning, with an aching head, threw myself into the coach and drove off for London.  A day of much hilarity is generally succeeded by one of depression.  This is fair and natural; we draw too largely on our stock, and squander our enjoyment like our money, leaving us the next day with low spirits and a lower purse.

A stupid dejection succeeded the boisterous mirth of the overnight.  I slumbered in a corner of the coach till about one o’clock, when we reached Godalming, where I alighted, took a slight refreshment, and resumed my seat.  As we drove along, I had more leisure, and was in a fitter frame of mind to review my past conduct since I had quitted my ship at Gibraltar.  My self-examination, as usual, produced no satisfactory results.  I perceived that the example of bad company had swept away every trace of good resolution which I had made on the death of my mother.  I saw, with grief, that I had no dependence on myself; I had forgotten all my good intentions, and the firm vows of amendment with which I had bound myself, and had yielded to the first temptation which came in my way.

In vain did I call up every black and threatening cloud of domestic sorrow, which was to meet me on my return home—­the dreadful vacuum occasioned by my mother’s death—­the grief of my father—­my brother and my sisters in deep mourning, and the couch on which I had left the best of parents, when I turned away my thoughtless head from her in the anguish of her grief.  I renewed my promise of amendment, and felt some secret consolation in doing so.

When I arrived at my father’s door, the servant who let me in, greeted me with a loud and hearty welcome.  I ran into the drawing-room, where I found that my brother and sisters had a party of children to spend the evening with them.  They were dancing to the music of a piano, played on by my aunt, while my father sat in his arm-chair, in high good-humour.