It was one of those beautiful evenings in June, when the setting sun upon the verge of the horizon tinges the whole expanse of ocean with its golden brightness, that I stood upon the forecastle contemplating the glories of creation, and presumptuously arraigning Divine Providence for what I foolishly deemed an unequal distribution of good and ill. The seamen were formed in groupes along the gangway and waist, and the officers were pacing the larboard side of the quarter-deck, leaving the starboard side to the captain, who walked sullenly and alone. The lieutenant of the watch stood on the gangway, and did not join him; and there he strode, pale discontent upon his cheek and keen mistrust in the restless glancing of his eye. The evening was indeed lovely, and calculated to calm the raging passions of the soul. The sea was beautifully smooth, the sails slept deep and still, and though scarcely a breath was felt, yet the breeze upon the quarter was carrying the vessel almost imperceptibly at the rate of five knots[7] an hour. I was but a boy,--a mere child, and whilst looking at the mild blue sky I thought of my home and of my mother. Poor Tom, too, he whose arms had cradled me in infancy! but what could I do? Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, a marine with his drawn bayonet appeared ascending the fore-ladder; close behind came poor Tom Brookes, and every tongue was hushed. The captain caught sight of him and stopped; the officers continued their walk, but their eager gaze alternately changed from the captain to the suffering victim of his austerity; but no voice gave utterance to thought. [7] Five miles. Poor Tom, I think I see him now! Ah! well do I remember the ghastly dolor of his look as he approached me; his eyes cast down, and his whole thoughts apparently rivetted on one object alone,--but it is impossible to describe it. I touched his arm, for nature spoke within me, and I could not help it. He paused for one moment, and a roseate flush suffused his cheeks; he seized my hand, and I felt that his was burning. I looked in his face, it was lightened up by a smile--but such a smile! It struck me he was thinking of his mother. “Henry,” he said, whilst grasping my hand, “Henry, your parents! Do me justice, I ask no more.” He drew his hand away, passed it over my face as he was wont to do when I was an infant, and as his features contracted with a long convulsive sob he added, “Henry, your mother! Be good, be kind, be dutiful!” and turning round, he walked forward to the bows.[8] [8] The head of a ship.