“For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,
Despite these titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self—­”

and here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his state-room, “And by Jove,” said Phillips, “we did not see him for two months again.  And I had to make up some beggarly story to that English surgeon why I did not return his Walter Scott to him.”

That story shows about the time when Nolan’s braggadocio must have broken down.  At first, they said, he took a very high tone, considered his imprisonment a mere farce, affected to enjoy the voyage, and all that; but Phillips said that after he came out of his state-room he never was the same man again.  He never read aloud again unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of.  But it was not that merely.  He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again.  He was always shy afterwards, when I knew him—­very seldom spoke, unless he was spoken to, except to a very few friends.  He lighted up occasionally—­I remember late in his life hearing him fairly eloquent on something which had been suggested to him by one of Flechier’s sermons—­but generally he had the nervous, tired look of a heart-wounded man.

When Captain Shaw was coming home—­if, as I say, it was Shaw—­rather to the surprise of everybody they made one of the Windward Islands, and lay off and on for nearly a week.  The boys said the officers were sick of salt-junk, and meant to have turtle-soup before they came home.  But after several days the Warren came to the same rendezvous; they exchanged signals; she sent to Phillips and these homeward-bound men letters and papers, and told them she was outward-bound, perhaps to the Mediterranean, and took poor Nolan and his traps on the boat back to try his second cruise.  He looked very blank when he was told to get ready to join her.  He had known enough of the signs of the sky to know that till that moment he was going “home.”  But this was a distinct evidence of something he had not thought of, perhaps—­that there was no going home for him, even to a prison.  And this was the first of some twenty such transfers, which brought him sooner or later into half our best vessels, but which kept him all his life at least some hundred miles from the country he had hoped he might never hear of again.

It may have been on that second cruise—­it was once when he was up the Mediterranean,—­that Mrs. Graff, the celebrated Southern beauty of those days, danced with him.  They had been lying a long time in the Bay of Naples, and the officers were very intimate in the English fleet, and there had been great festivities, and our men thought they must give a great ball on board the ship.  How they ever did it on board the Warren I am sure I do not