"But who amongst 'em was it that wanted to fight? just think of that, Matthew," rejoined Paul, very earnestly. "You and I had no quarrel with the French, or the Dutch, or the Spaniard, you know. And what poor foreigners, think you, had any quarrel with the people here? No, no, depend on it, Matthew, the poor never made these wars, nor ever thought of fighting, or wished to fight, on either side: it was the rich—'our betters,' as they are called—who began the quarrel, and then pushed us, or dragged us, into it, to lose our limbs, or shed our blood, or escape if we could." "'Pon my word," said Matthew, shaking his wig, very significantly, "I've had some such thoughts as these now and then,—and you're making a strong yarn on't, Paul, I confess,—but what's the use of muddling one's old brains with such things? You know what I always say, Paul,—'Butter your shirt——" "Nay, but avast a bit, Mat," said Paul, looking invincibly serious; "we are getting fast into our last port, as I said before; and, if we have been unthinking fools all our lives, I don't see why we should not open our eyes and look about us a bit, before we step on the last shore. Times are harder now than ever you and I knew 'em; and, as much fuss as there used to be made about an old seaman, all that sort of thing is gone. I question if you and I live a few years longer, and grow cranky,—and, God knows, I begin to feel queer, night and morning,—but folks will grow weary of waiting on us, and the parish wolves will haul us away to the workhouse, and pocket our little pensions." "God Almighty forbid!" ejaculated Matthew, very fervently. "But 'tis very likely to come to pass, however, let me tell you," rejoined Paul; "you knew Jerry Simpson: he was berthsman with us, if you remember, and lost an arm at Trafalgar. He wouldn't go into Greenwich college, but went and settled in Shoreditch, with his old sister. She died two twelvemonths ago, and poor old Jerry soon grew helpless—so they took him into the parish poor-house, pocketing his pension, and he died there, of sheer grief, about six months ago. That was a rum reward for fighting for his country so bravely as Jerry did——" "By G—d it was!" exclaimed old Matthew, involuntarily—for the fine old fellow had not uttered an oath for years before: "the Lord ha' mercy upon me for swearing, poor old sinner that I am!" he continued:—"but you don't say that that's true about Jerry Simpson, do you, Paul? why he used to rush into a gun-boat like a ravenous wolf! Shiver my old timbers! but a braver sailor than Jerry never stepped upon deck!" "'Pon the word of a sailor, what I have said is true," replied Paul, "for I saw it with my own sorrowful eyes. But now don't you perceive, Matthew," resumed Paul, eager to take advantage of the impression this fact had made, "that the change in the state of things is owing to the heavy taxes caused by the war, and——"