the fervid heat of the torrid sun; but he returned to endure life, not to enjoy it.  He told me, he had left England at the early age of fourteen.  He had, as it were, out grown his young friendships.  Eastern habits and associations had usurped the place of those domestic feelings, which his early banishment had not allowed to take root, we might question if the seeds were even sown in his young breast, for he was an orphan, with no other patrimony than the interest of connexions, which procured him a cadetcy in the East India Company’s Service.  On his departure, he earned no parent’s blessing for him, no anxious father sighed, no fond indulgent mother wept and prayed.  As I stood musing on the scene, a gentleman, a seeming idler, like myself, joined me, and after many judicious remarks on what was passing around, informed me he was there to meet a widowed sister, who only three years before, had gone out in the very ship in which she now returned, to join her husband,—­the long affianced of her early choice.  For a short period, she had enjoyed all earthly happiness, but it was only for a brief space; for soon, alas! was she taught in the school of sorrow, that this world is not our abiding place.

But the Blue Peter,[1] gently floating in the scarcely perceptible breeze, betokened the vessel from which it streamed, destined for a far different purpose.  It told not of restoring the fond husband to his wife, the father to his children, or the lover to his mistress; it was, in this instance, to sever, for a time, all these endearing ties; for very soon would the father, the husband, and the lover be borne many miles on the trackless ocean, far, very far, from all they hold dear, and some with feelings so deep and true, that for a time, not all the brilliant prospects of wealth or glory, will restore their spirits to their wonted tone.

    [1] A flag hoisted always when a ship is preparing to sail.

There was one detachment which greatly struck me; it consisted of about one hundred and fifty fine athletic young men, who though only recruits, were particularly soldier-like in appearance.  There was throughout, a sort of determined firmness in their countenances, which seemed to say, “Away with private feelings! we go on glory’s errand, and at her imperious bidding, and of her alone we think!” Yet to fancy’s eye, might be read an interesting tale in every face.  We might trace, in all, some scarcely perceptible relaxation of muscle, that would say, “With the deportment of the hero, we have the feelings of the man.  One young officer was there, belonging to a different regiment, who, certainly, seemed to have none of those amiable weaknesses, none of those home feelings, which characterize the husband or the father.  He had not even pains of the lover to contend with.  Glory was indeed his mistress, the all absorbing ruling passion of his mind; he dreamt not, talked not of, thought not of aught, but glory!”