I heard of the Yankees thrashing us by land and sea, of fierce and desperate fighting on the Canadian lakes, of the landing of the Prince of Orange in Holland, and of his being proclaimed King of the United Netherlands, of Murat proving a renegade and suing for peace with this country, of gallant seafights down Toulon way and in the Adriatic and elsewhere, of the investment of Bayonne by the British army, of the entry of the Allies into Paris, of peace between England and France, of Louis XVIII. in the room of Bonaparte, and--which almost took my breath away--of Bonaparte himself at Elba, dethroned, his talons pared, his teeth drawn, but with his head still on his shoulders, and in full possession of his bloody reason. “And so he was quietly shipped to Porto Ferraro,” said I, “in a comfortable thirty-eight gun British frigate, instead of being hanged at the yardarm of that same craft.” “He is too splendid a character to hang,” said my aunt mildly. “Junked if I wouldn’t make dog’s meat of him,” cried Uncle Joe. “They should have hanged him,” said I. “They have hanged a better man instead,” exclaimed my cousin Bess. “A king?” “No, Bill, he was not a king,” said my uncle, “he was the master of a ship and part owner, a young chap, too--a mighty pity. They had him up at Sandwich on a charge of casting the vessel away. He was found guilty and hanged, and he’s hanging now.” “Where does he hang?” said I. “Down on the Sandhills.” “A time will come, I hope,” said I, “when this beastly trick of beaconing the sea-coast, and the river’s bank, and the high-ways with gibbets will have been mended. Spalding was telling me that up in his part of the country traveling has grown twice as far as it used to be, by the gibbets forcing people to go out of their way to avoid the sight of them.” “I am sorry for the hanged man,” said my uncle, “but willfully casting a ship away, Bill, is a fearful thing--so fearful that the gibbet at which I’d dangle the fellow that did it should be as high as the royal mast head of the craft he foundered! What d’ye think of that drop of rum?” “Is that wind?” said my aunt. “Thunder,” said Uncle Joe. Bess went to the house door: I followed. We stood listening; the noise was thunder; there was not a breath of air, but all the stars were gone. A sort of film of storm had drawn over them, and I guessed I was in for a drenching walk to the beach. But Lord! rain to a man whose lifetime is spent in the eye of the weather! “Bess,” said I, “you’ve grown a fine girl, d’ye know.” “No compliments, William, dear. I am going to be married.” “If I had known that before!” said I, kissing her now for the first time, for congratulation. This was fresh news, and we talked about the coming son-in-law, who, to be sure, must be in the seafaring line too, for once inject salt water into the veins of a family, and it takes a power of posterity to flush the pipes clear.