“I must own I was not over-pleased with John Railton, who seemed a sulky sort of man, and too much given to liquor.  But I saw little of him after he brought my box from the ‘One and All.’  His wife waited upon me—­a singularly sweet woman, though sorely vexed, as I could perceive, with her husband’s infirmity.  She loved him nevertheless, as a woman will sometimes love a brute, and was sorry to lose him.  Indeed, when I noticed that evening that her eyes were red with weeping, and said a word about her husband’s departure, she stared at me for a moment in amazement, and could not guess how I came to hear of it, ‘for,’ said she, ’the resolution had been so suddenly taken that even she could scarce account for it.’  She admitted, however, that it was for the best, and added that ’Jack was a good seaman, and she always expected that he would leave her some day.’  Her chief anxiety was for her little daughter, aged seven, whom it was hard to have exposed to the rough language and manners of a public-house.  I comforted her as best I could, and doubt not she has found her husband’s absence a less misfortune than she anticipated.

“The Golden Wave weighed anchor on the 6th of February, and reached Bombay after a tedious voyage of 103 days, on the 21st of May, having been detained by contrary winds in doubling the Cape.  I saw little of Simon Colliver before starting, though he came twice, as I heard, to the ‘Welcome Home’ to inquire for me, and each time found me absent.  On board, however, being the only other passenger, I was naturally thrown much into his society, and confess that I found him a most diverting companion.  Often of a clear moonlight night would we pace the deck together, or watch in a darker sky the innumerable stars, on which Colliver had an amazing amount of information.  Sometimes, too, he would sing—­quaint songs which I had never heard before, to airs which I suspect, without well knowing why, were of his own composition.  His voice was of large compass—­a silvery tenor of surpassing’ purity and sweetness, inasmuch as I have seen the sailors stand spellbound, and even with tears in their eyes, at some sweet song of love and home.  Often, again, the words would be weird and mysterious, but the voice was always delicious whether he spoke or sang.  I asked him once why with such a gift he had not tried his fortune on the stage.  At which he laughed, and replied that he could never be bound by rules of art, or forced to sing, whatever his humour, to an audience for which he cared nothing.  I do not know why I dwell so long upon this extraordinary man.  His path of life has chanced to run side by side with my own for a short space, and the two have now branched off, nor in all likelihood will ever meet again.  My life has been a quiet one, and has not lain much in the way of extraordinary men, but I doubt if many such as Simon Colliver exist.  He is a perfect enigma to me.  That such a man, with such attainments