there was one pale-faced lad, with a countenance full of intellectual expression, whom I shall never forget. He sat by himself, with a small writing desk before him, and on it lay a letter, the writer of which, not satisfied with filling up each page with black ink, had crossed the lines with red, and this letter he was endeavouring to answer. The noise had disturbed him, for sheet after sheet had been torn up, and lay in a pile by his side. He looked at the combatants, and a gentle murmur escaped him; he turned to the musicians, and a smile lighted up his features; he cast his eyes towards the youth whose thoughts were with the pole-star of his affections, and a shade of melancholy sat upon his brow. At this moment he caught sight of me, as I stood at the door, undetermined whether to advance or recede, and his hand was instantly extended. He closed his desk, remarking that “his sister must wait another day,” and--but why need I recount every particular?--from that hour we were friends. Ay, how often when the pale moon at midnight has thrown her silver beams upon the bosom of the wave, or when the star-gemmed canopy of heaven has glistened with its myriads of glories, have we two stood together holding sweet converse on the past, and picturing bright scenes of future fame. Yes! hand in hand, we have stood like brothers talking of those sweet spots, endeared by every tie of fond regard, where first we revelled in our infancy. Yet, oh God!--the vision is even now before me--when I beheld that pale-faced youth struggling in the agonies of death,--those features full of mild benevolence, still more deadly in their hue and hideous in convulsive writhings,--the hand that I had so often pressed with real unabated friendship, dyed in the lifestream from his heart, as he worked his fingers in the deep wound that dismissed his noble spirit! It was in action, when rage and vengeance lashed the passions into fury. Yes! there he fell, and the ocean was his grave. But to return to my introduction. Almost at the same moment that I entered the berth, a quarter-master came down and inquired if Mr. Moriarty was below. A fine handsome young man, about two-and-twenty, immediately answered in the affirmative. “Here’s a letter for you, sir,” said the quarter-master, “with the Admiralty seal on the back, and a direction full of sheep-shanks and long splices on the face of it.” “Ay! ay! Johnson,” replied the young officer, “the old story I suppose:--‘the door of promotion is shut,’ and by and by I dare say they will send me word that the key’s lost. But let us see, you old sea-dragon, and don’t stand turning it over and over there, like a Lapland witch at her incantations!”