starting him endways like seven bells half-struck. The Count scratched his indecencies and run along the quarter-deck, with old Troubridge belabouring him, and hollaing out, ‘D-- his eyes, first a brig, then a frigate, and next a line-of-battle ship; and now he won’t fight arter all!’ So the Count jumped into his boat, the brig was recalled, and the French kept possession till the army retreated, and then they capitulated.” “Ay, that was a sweet ship,” said an aged pensioner, “that ould Culloden. Did you know Bill Buntline, as was captain of her fore-top?” “Why, to be sure I do,” replied the other; “we were messmates for three years, and a worthy soul Bill was, too. He could spin a yarn that would last the whole look-out; and then, like some of your magazines, he continued it in the next. He was brave, too; but I fear we shall never muster many such as he again.” “’Cause why?” said my old chaperon, “they don’t steer the right course to gain the point: who’d live burning under the line with only half allowance of grog? or in regard of the matter o’ that, what heart could go boldly into action that was swamped in tea-water? The parsons may say what they please, but they arn’t more fond of the kettle nor other folks, unless they takes it warm with a couple o’ lumps o’ sugar. But most of our tars are now in foreign sarvices, and teaching their art to our enemies.” “Ay, it is so, ould shipmate,” rejoined the pensioner; “I reads of ’em sometimes when they used to be with Cochrane in South America, and I glories in the whacking the Portuguese fleet have just napped from Napier. It makes my ould heart bound with joy when I thinks of it.” “But, mayhap,” said the boatswain’s-mate, “there’ll be some whistling to get ’em back again, in case of another war; but I hardly think a British tar would battle the watch against his country.”