“Bless your honour, shy a copper to Poor Jack, who’s lost his leg in the sarvice.  Thanky, your honour,” and he continued,

“It’s nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping, But they who can’t pity—­why I pities they.  Says the captain, says he; I shall never forget it, Of courage, you know, boys, the true from the sham,”

“Back your maintopsail, your worship, for half a minute, and just assist a poor dismantled craft, who has been riddled in the wars—­“’Tis a furious lion.’  Long life to your honour—­’In battle so let it—­’

“’Tis a furious lion, in battle so let it; But duty appeased—­but duty appeased—­

“Buy a song, young woman, to sing to your sweetheart, while you sit on his knee in the dog-watch—­

“But duty appeased’tis the heart of a lamb.”

I believe there are few people who do not take a strong interest in the English sailor, particularly in one who has been maimed in the defence of his country.  I always have, and as I heard the poor disabled fellow bawling out his ditty, certainly not with a very remarkable voice or execution, I pulled out the drawer behind the counter, and took out some halfpence to give him.  When I caught his eye I beckoned to him, and he entered the shop.  “Here, my good fellow,” said I, “although a man of peace myself, yet I feel for those who suffer in the wars;” and I put the money to him.

“May your honour never know a banyan day,” replied the sailor; “and a sickly season for you, into the bargain.”

“Nay, friend, that is not a kind wish to others,” replied I.

The sailor fixed his eyes earnestly upon me, as if in astonishment, for, until I had answered, he had not looked at me particularly.

“What are you looking at?” said I.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed he.  “It is—­yet it cannot be!”

“Cannot be! what, friend?”

He ran out of the door, and read the name over the shop, and then came in, and sank upon a chair outside of the counter.  “Japhet—­I have found you at last!” exclaimed he, faintly.

“Good Heaven! who are you?”

He threw off his hat, with false ringlets fastened to the inside of it, and I beheld Timothy.  In a moment I sprang over the counter, and was in his arms.  “Is it possible,” exclaimed I, after a short silence on both sides, “that I find you, Timothy, a disabled sailor?”

“Is it possible, Japhet,” replied Timothy, “that I find you a broad-brimmed Quaker?”

“Even so, Timothy.  I am really and truly one.”

“Then you are less disguised than I am,” replied Timothy, kicking off his wooden leg, and letting down his own, which had been tied up to his thigh, and concealed in his wide blue trousers.  “I am no more a sailor than you are, Japhet, and since you left me have never yet seen the salt water, which I talk and sing so much about.”

“Then thou hast been deceiving, Timothy, which I regret much.”