“Mr. Rivers is still living,--and there he is, your honour,” said the veteran, pointing to an active man in lieutenant’s uniform, who flourished his wooden pin as he descended the stone steps; “there he is, for he’s now lieutenant of the college, and has a fine family just over the way there in the square. They ought to have made him a commander, at any rate, for I’ve seen him unbuckle his wooden leg and go aloft as quick as any topman in the ship; and there was but few could beat him at dancing, for it was quite delightful to see how he handled his timber support, and how the ladies and gemmen sheered out of his way for fear of their toes. Ah, there he goes agen, all life and spirit,--spinning his tough yarns and cracking his jokes, as full of fun as ever;--he’s much prized by the governors, because he takes all the trouble off their hands.” “Is the portrait of Nelson considered a good likeness?” I inquired. “My sight gets rather dim, sir,” replied the veteran; “but before they put it up, when I could see it closer, I did not think it very like. Lord Collingwood’s is by far the best.” At this moment I felt somewhat of a mischievous inclination to try the old man’s temper, and therefore remarked, “Ay, he looks stern and scowling. Nelson was a brave man, no doubt, but then he was tyrannical and cruel.” The hoary tar turned round and stared me full in the face: a storm was gathering in his heart, or rather, like a vessel taken aback in a sudden squall, he stood perplexed as to which tack he should stand on. But it was only for a moment, and as his features relaxed their sternness he replied, “No matter, your honour,--no matter. You have been generous and kind, and I’m no dog to bite the hand that deals out bounty.” This seemed to be uttered with the mingling emotions of defiance and melancholy, and to urge him further, I continued,--“But, my friend, what can you say of the treatment poor Caraccioli experienced? You remember that, I suppose?” “I do, indeed,” he replied. “Poor old man! how earnestly he pleaded for the few short days which nature at the utmost would have allowed him! But, sir,” added he, grasping my arm, “do you know what it is to have a fiend at the helm, who when Humanity cries ‘port!’ will clap it hard a-starboard in spite of you?--one who in loveliness and fascination is like an angel of light, but whose heart resembles an infernal machine, ready to explode whenever passion touches the secret spring of vengeance?” I had merely put the question to him by way of joke, little expecting the result; but I had to listen to a tale of horror. “You give a pretty picture, truly, old friend,” said I; “and pray who may this fiend be?”