On the occasion of a rejoicing for one of our great victories, being hand-and-glove with all the skippers and mates of the vessels belonging to the concern, I smuggled up to our house on Everton Terrace, unknown to my uncle, two boat guns, six-pounder carronades, and a lot of fire-works, by bribing the brewer's man to carry them for me in his cart. Having achieved this part of my plan, with the aid of two young tars, I contrived to mount the guns in the summer-house, immediately beneath the dining-room window; and having loaded them, I set fire to slow matches, fitted to the touch-holes, just as the dinner bell rang; and then calmly took my place at table, facing mine uncle. The old gentleman was rather a quiet-going codger, and during meals seldom annoyed his neighbours with too much conversation--in the present case, he had eaten his soup, his bit of fish, and was just raising his first glass of wine to his lips--when bang went one of my carronades, and smash fell the glass--the madeira flowing all down his lap. He had not recovered his equanimity, when bang went gun No. 2, and up shot a whole constellation of rockets and Roman candles, from the garden, whereat he fairly sprang off his chair, as if the explosion had taken place in the cushion of it, or he had been hoisted out of his socket by some sort of catamaran. His first impulse was to run to the open window; whiz! a _live_ rocket, or large squib, I forget which, flew in over his shoulder, and nearly popped down the throat of the old serving-man, who stood like a statue open mouthed before the sideboard, petrified with astonishment; as it was, it scorched the powdered curl over his left ear, missing his head by a mere hair's breadth.