such cases, just as well out of the way, particularly one of my turbulent disposition: a man-of-war, therefore, like another piece of timber, has its uses. My father paid all the bills with great philosophy, and made me a liberal allowance, for my age.
The hour of departure drew near; my chest had been sent off by the Plymouth waggon, and a hackney-coach drew up to the door, to convey me to the White Horse Cellar. The letting down of the ratiling steps completely overthrew the small remains of fortitude which my dearest mother had reserved for our separation, and she threw her arms round my neck in a frenzy of grief. I beheld her emotions with a countenance as unmoved as the figure-head of aship; while she covered my stoic face with kisses, and washed it with her tears. I almost wondered what it all meant, and wished the scene was over.
My father helped me out of this dilemma; taking me firmly by the arm, he led me out of the
