‘Brig _Black Watch_, at sea. February the 24th, 1815. This is the last will and testament of me, Michael Greaves, master of the above brig--at the time of signing this in full command of my senses. I hereby bequeath all the money I have in the world to the Church of England, in memory of my mother; and I desire that the money I thus bequeath may be devoted to a memorial that shall forever perpetuate the love I bear to the memory of my mother, whose soul is with God.’ It was the best form of will I could devise, knowing little of such matters; but since it was his wish that the money should be dedicated to God, most reasonable was it that I, as an Englishman, should wish to see it bequeathed to the Church of my own and of his country. And I was the warmer in this desire in that the money was Spanish; by which I mean that nothing could be more proper than that the dollars of the most bigoted people in all creation, in religious matters, should go to the support of the purest, the most liberal, the very noblest of all churches. Bear ye in mind, it was the year 1815; when our esteem of the foreigner and his faith was not as it is. “What have you written?” said he. I read aloud. “It will do,” he exclaimed; “read it again.” I did so. “Will not thirty thousand pounds build a church?” said he. “It will build a ship,” said I. “I know nothing of the cost of building a church.” “Write down that I want a church built,” said he. This I did. “Write down,” said he, “that I leave one thousand pounds to you, for having saved my life.” I hesitated and looked at him, and then said, “My dear friend, I thank you, but you have put enough in my way.” “Write it down, write it down,” he cried. I wrote as he dictated. “Now,” said he, “can I sign?” and he lifted his hand as though feeling for strength to control a pen. I opened the door and called to Jimmy, who was putting wine and biscuit on the table. I asked the lad if he could write. He answered, “No.” I put a pen into Greaves’ hand, and he scratched his signature under the three clauses I had written down. His vision was dim, and he saw with difficulty when it came to his writing, but on my directing the point of the pen in his hand to the paper he wrote with some vigor. I bade Jimmy take notice of what I was about to read, and when I had read I signed my name, and the lad made his mark, which I witnessed. All this was very innocent. I was a sailor, with no more knowledge of the law than a ship’s figurehead, and little dreamed that I was rendering my interest in poor Greaves’ will worthless by attesting it. But, as things turned out, it mattered nothing, as you shall read. Jimmy went into the cabin to wait on the lady. “Will you, or shall I keep this will?” said I. “You,” he answered. “I give you Galloon,” said he after a pause, and now speaking with the faintness I had observed in him when I first arrived. “You’ll love him, Fielding.”