Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Richard Galbraith, Mariner Life among the Kaffirs By Emma Watts Phillips Illustrations by Vauteille; engraver Delangle Published by Dean & Son, London. Richard Galbraith, Mariner, by Emma Watts Phillips. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ RICHARD GALBRAITH, MARINER, BY EMMA WATTS PHILLIPS. CHAPTER ONE. A WORD ABOUT MYSELF AND HOME. I was born, as near as I can calculate, in the year 1801, at the time of the Equinoctial gales, a fact which made the old fisherwives present at my birth declare that I was marked out by the finger of Providence for a sailor. To confirm them, as it seemed, on this point, when the winds, with a whirling rush, used to shriek around my parent's cottage, that clung, limpet like to the face of the rocks which sheltered the little Cornish fishing village, I, baby as I was, used to shriek in unison, not from fear or pain, but unmitigated delight at, and sympathy with, its rough, boisterous turmoil. Certainly as I look back to my early days and what I have heard related of them, the Breton saying, which in my voyages I have come across, "_Il a de l'eau de mer autour du coeur_," appeared most true in my case, for the rough shingly beach was my home in stormy weather or fine. [He has the sea water about his heart.] During the former I would perch on some rocky crag and, only partly sheltered from the cutting, drifting rain, cling curlew-fashion to its rugged surface, and silently, but with infinite enjoyment, watch the mountain waves, with their white dancing crests flung into myriads of flashing particles by the wind, break with a roar like thunder on the beach beneath, adding their contribution of spray to the rain which drenched me to the skin. When the weather was fine, especially if it were warm, I used to tumble, paddle, and roll in the clear pools left by the receding tide, like some amphibious little imp of creation, often getting within dangerous proximity to the fingers of death, and being saved by a miracle, till the inmates of the fishing hamlet had some reason for their reiterated remark that I assuredly was not born to be drowned. Assuredly not, nor to be burned, boiled, nor served up for the supper of some dark-skinned Indian chief and family neither, though in due course of my adventurous life I have often fancied myself on the point of one of these pleasant finales to existence.