Between the liquor we had drunk, and what we had heard and seen, we were in high spirits, and went out to perambulate the town; but, going up the main street, towards the head inn, I met my father full in the face. He had just arrived from Glasgow in search of us. I thought I would have sunk into the earth. Confounded and ashamed, I stood like a felon caught in some depredation. Tom ran off, and left William and I to manage affairs as we could. My father was the first who broke silence.— ‘Well, Joseph,’ said he, ‘will you tell me the meaning of this jaunt you have taken? But I am going to Mr C——’s, and you had better come with me, and we shall talk over the matter there.’ We followed him without saying a word, and when we were seated in Mr C——’s, he again asked my motive for leaving home. I looked in William’s face, and saw he was determined. I then said we were resolved on going to sea, and that we had come to Greenock for that purpose. Mr C. and my father said every thing they could to dissuade us from our foolish resolution, but to little purpose. The idea of the ridicule we would have to bear from our acquaintance if we returned, and Tom’s exaggerated description of the pleasures of a sea life, had confirmed us in our determination. ‘Well,’ said my father (after he had reasoned the matter with me, and painted what a sailor’s life was in reality, with little effect,) ‘I might exert the right I have over you, as a parent, in forcing you to return, but I will not. If you have so far forgot your duty to me, and to yourself, after all that I have done for you, as to throw yourself away as a common ship-boy, where you can have no opportunity of learning any thing but wickedness, you may do it, but remember my words—_you will repent it_, when you will perhaps have no father to question the propriety of your conduct. Indeed, after the dishonest action you have been guilty of at home, I don’t know but your presence would be more disagreeable to me than your absence, unless you altered much for the better; and if I have any very anxious wish that you would return, it is more on your poor mother’s account than my own. Oh, how could you leave us in the manner you did, without a cause?—The first night you were absent from home, your mother was frantic. She wandered from place to place in search of you—and was sure you were not in life—that some accident had befallen you. When she knows the truth, how cruel must she think you?—O! Joseph, after all our care and attention, I am afraid you will bring down our gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.’ Here the tears came into my father’s eyes, and his voice became choked. I could bear it no longer, and burst into tears. My first impulse was to throw myself at his feet, and beg forgiveness; but the obstacles which were in the way of my return before, again recurring to my mind, prevented me, and I only wept in sullen silence.