All desperate hazards courage do create,
  As he plays frankly who has least estate. 
  DRYDEN.

  It were all one,
  That I should love a bright particular star,
  And think to wed it. 
  SHAKESPEARE.

Seymour was soon weary of the endless noise and confusion to which he was subjected on board of the guard-ship, and he wrote to Captain M –­, requesting that he might be permitted to join some vessel on active service, until the period should arrive when the former would be enabled to resume the command of his ship.  The answer from his patron informed him, that the time of his renewal of his professional duties would be uncertain, not having hitherto derived much benefit from his return to England; that as the Aspasia was daily expected to arrive from the mission on which she had been despatched, and would then remain on Channel service, ready to be made over to him as soon as his health should be re-established, he would procure an order for him to join her as soon as she arrived.  He pointed out to him that he would be more comfortable on board a ship in which he had many old messmates and friends than in any other, to the officers of which he would be a perfect stranger.  That, in the meantime, he had procured leave of absence for him, and requested that he would pay him a visit at his cottage near Richmond, to the vicinity of which place he had removed, by the advice of his medical attendants.

Seymour gladly availed himself of this opportunity of seeing his protector, and after a sojourn of three weeks, returned to Portsmouth, to join the Aspasia, which had, for some days, been lying at Spithead.  Most of the commissioned, and many of the junior officers, who had served in the West Indies, were still on board of her anxiously waiting for the return of Captain M –­, whose value as a commanding officer was more appreciated for the change which had taken place.  Seymour was cordially greeted by his former shipmates, not only for his own sake, but from the idea that his having rejoined the frigate was but a precursor of the reappearance of Captain M –­ himself.

There is, perhaps, no quality in man partaking of such variety, and so difficult to analyse, as courage, whether it be physical or mental, both of which are not only innate, but to be acquired.  The former, and the most universal, is most capriciously bestowed; sometimes, although rarely, Nature has denied it altogether.  We have, therefore, in the latter instance, courage nil as a zero, courage negative, halfway up, and courage positive, at the top, which may be considered as “blood heat;” and upon this thermometrical scale the animal courage of every individual may be placed.  Courage nil or cowardice, needs no explanation.  Courage negative, which is the most common, is that degree of firmness which will enable a person to do his duty when danger comes to him; he will not avoid danger, but he will not exactly seek it.  Courage positive, when implanted in a man, will induce him to seek danger, and find opportunities of distinguishing himself where others can see none.  Courage negative is a passive feeling, and requires to be roused.  Courage positive is an active and restless feeling, always on the look-out.

An extreme susceptibility, and a phlegmatic indifference of disposition, although diametrically in opposition to each other, will produce the same results:  in the former, it is mental, in the latter, animal courage.  Paradoxical as it may appear, the most certain and most valuable description of courage is that which is acquired from the fear of shame.  Further, there is no talent which returns more fold than courage, when constantly in exercise:  for habit will soon raise the individual, whose index is near to zero, to the degree in the scale opposite to courage negative; and the possessor of courage negative will rise up to that of courage positive; although, from desuetude, they will again sink to their former position.

It is generally considered that men are naturally brave; but as, without some incentive, there would be no courage, I doubt the position.  I should rather say that we were naturally cowards.  Without incitement, courage of every description would gradually descend to the zero of the scale; the necessity of some incentive to produce it, proves that it is “against nature.”  As the ferocity of brutes is occasioned by hunger, so is that of man by “hungering” after the coveted enjoyments of life, and in proportion as this appetite is appeased, so is his courage decreased.  If you wish animals to fight, they must not be over-fed; and if a nation wishes to have good officers, it must swell their pride by decorations, and keep them poor.  There are few who do not recollect the answer of the soldier to his general, who had presented him with a purse of gold, in reward of a remarkable instance of gallantry, and who, a short time afterwards, requiring something extremely hazardous to be attempted, sent for the man, and expressed his wish that he would volunteer.  “General,” said he, “send a man who has NOT GOT a purse of gold.”

The strongest incitement to courage is withdrawn by the possession of wealth.  Other worldly possessions also affect it.  Lord St. Vincent, when he heard that any captain had married, used to observe, emphatically, “that he was damned for the service,” ­no compliment to the officer, but a very handsome one to the sex, as it implied that their attractions were so great, that we could not disengage ourselves from our thraldom, or, in fact, that there were no such things as bad or scolding wives.

Finally, this quality, which is considered as a virtue, and to entitle us to the rewards bestowed upon it by the fair sex, who value it above all others, is so wholly out of our control, that when suffering under sickness or disease, it deserts us; nay, for the time being, a violent stomach-ache will turn a hero into a poltroon.

So much for a dissertation on courage, which I should not have ventured to force upon the reader, had it not been to prepare him for the character which I am about to introduce; and when it is pointed out how many thousands of officers were employed during the last war, I trust it will not be considered an imputation upon the service, by asserting that there were some few who mistook their profession.

The acting captain of the Aspasia, during the early part of his career in the service (had there been such a thermometer as I have described, by which the heat of temperament in the party would have been precisely ascertained), on placing its bulb upon the palm of his hand, would have forced the mercury something between the zero and courage negative, towards the zero ­“more yes than no,” as the Italian said; but now that he was a married man, above fifty years of age, with a large family, he had descended in the scale to the absolute zero.

It may, then, be inquired, why he requested to be employed during the war?  Because he liked full pay and prize-money when it could be obtained without risk, and because his wife and family were living on shore in a very snug little cottage at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight, which cottage required nothing but furniture and a few other trifles to render it complete.  Marriage had not only subtracted from the courage of this worthy officer, but, moreover, a little from his honesty.  Captain Capperbar (for such was his name) should have been brought up as a missionary, for he could canvert anything, and expend more profusely than any Bible Society.  The name by which he had christened his domicile was probably given as a sort of salvo to his conscience.  He called it the “Ship;” and when he signed his name to the expense books of the different warrant officers, without specifying the exact use to which the materials were applied, the larger proportions were invariably expended, by the general term, for “Ship’s use.”  He came into harbour as often as he could, always had a demand for stores to complete, and a defect or two for the dockyard to make good, and the admiral, who was aware of Mr Capperbar being a near resident, made every reasonable allowance for his partiality to Spithead.  But we had better introduce the captain, sitting at his table in the fore-cabin, on the day of his arrival in port, the carpenter having obeyed his summons.

“Well, Mr Cheeks, what are the carpenters about?”

“Weston and Smallbridge are going on with the chairs ­the whole of them will be finished tomorrow.”

“Well?”

“Smith is about the chest of drawers, to match the one in my Lady Capperbar’s bed-room.”

“Very good.  And what is Hilton about?”

“He has finished the spare-leaf of the dining-table, sir; he is now about a little job for the second-lieutenant.”

“A job for the second-lieutenant, sir?  How often have I told you, Mr Cheeks, that the carpenters are not to be employed, except on ship’s duty, without my special permission.”

“His standing bed-place is broke, sir; he is only getting out a chock or two.”

“Mr Cheeks, you have disobeyed my most positive orders. ­By the bye, sir, I understand you were not sober last night.”

“Please your honour,” replied the carpenter, “I wasn’t drunk ­I was only a little fresh.”

“Take you care, Mr Cheeks.  Well, now, what are the rest of your crew about?”

“Why, Thompson and Waters are cutting out the pales for the garden, out of the jib-booms; I’ve saved the heel to return.”

“Very well, but there won’t be enough, will there?”

“No, sir, it will take a hand-mast to finish the whole.”

“Then we must expend one when we go out again.  We can carry away a topmast, and make a new one out of the hand-mast at sea.  In the meantime, if the sawyers have nothing to do, they may as well cut the palings at once.  And now, let me see ­oh! the painters must go on shore, to finish the attics.”

“Yes, sir, but my Lady Capperbar wishes the jealowsees to be painted vermilion:  she says, it will look more rural.”

“Mrs Capperbar ought to know enough about ship’s stores, by this time, to be aware that we are only allowed three colours.  She may choose or mix them as she pleases; but as for going to the expense of buying paint, I can’t afford it.  What are the rest of the men about?”

“Repairing, the second cutter, and making a new mast for the pinnace.”

“By the bye ­that puts me in mind of it ­have you expended any boat’s masts?”

“Only the one carried away, sir.”

“Then you must expend two more.  Mrs C –­ has just sent me off a list of a few things that she wishes made, while we are at anchor, and I see two poles for clothes-lines.  Saw off the sheave-holes, and put two pegs through at right angles ­you know how I mean.”

“Yes, sir.  What am I to do, sir, about the cucumber frame?  My Lady Capperbar says that she must have it, and I haven’t glass enough ­they grumbled at the yard last time.”

“Mrs C –­ must wait a little.  What are the armourers’ about?”

“They have been so busy with your work, sir, that the arms are in a very bad condition.  The first-lieutenant said yesterday that they were a disgrace to the ship.”

“Who dared say that?”

“The first-lieutenant, sir.”

“Well, then, let them rub up the arms, and let me know when they are done, and we’ll get the forge up.”

“The armourer has made six rakes, and six hoes, and the two little hoes for the children; but he says he can’t make a spade.”

“Then I’ll take his warrant away, by Heaven! since he does not know his duty.  That will do, Mr Cheeks.  I shall overlook your being in liquor, this time; but take care ­send the boatswain to me.”

“Yes sir,” and the carpenter quitted the cabin.

“Well, Mr Hurley,” said the Captain, as the boatswain stroked down his hair, as a mark of respect, when he entered the cabin, “are the cots all finished?”

“All finished, your honour, and slung, except the one for the babby.  Had not I better get a piece of duck for that?”

“No, no ­number seven will do as well; Mrs C –­ wants some fearnought, to put down in the entrance hall.”

“Yes, your honour.”

“And some cod-lines laid up for clothes-lines.”

“Yes, your honour.”

“Stop, let me look at my list ­`Knife-tray, meat-screen, leads for window-sashes,’ ­Ah! have you any hand-leads not on charge?”

“Yes, your honour, four or five.”

“Give them to my steward. ­`Small chair for Ellen ­canvas for veranda.’ ­Oh! here’s something else ­have you any painted canvas?”

“Only a waist-hammock-cloth, sir, ready fitted.”

“We must expend that; `no old on charge.’  Send it on shore to the cottage, and I shall want some pitch.”

“We’ve lots of that, your honour.”

“That will do, Mr Hurley; desire the sentry to tell my steward to come here.”

“Yes, your honour.” (Exit boatswain, and enter steward.)

This personage belonged to the party of marines, who had been drafted into the ship ­for Captain Capperbar’s economical propensities would not allow him to hire a servant brought up to the situation, who would have demanded wages independent of the ship’s pay.  Having been well drilled at barracks, he never answered any question put to him by an officer, without recovering himself from his usual “stand-at-ease” position ­ throwing shoulders back, his nose up in the air, his arms down his sides, and the palms of his hands flattened on his thighs.  His replies were given with all the brevity that the question would admit, or rapid articulation on his own part would enable him to confer.

“Thomas, are the sugar and cocoa ready to go on shore?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t forget to send that letter to Mr Gibson for the ten dozen port and sherry.”

“No, sir.”

“When it comes on board, you’ll bring it on shore a dozen at a time, in the hair trunk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mind you don’t let any of the hay peep outside.”

“No, sir.”

“Has the cooper finished the washing-tubs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the small kids?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you inquired among the ship’s company for a gardener?”

“Yes, sir; there’s a marine kept the garden of the major in the barracks.”

“Don’t forget to bring him on shore.”

“No, sir.”

“Recollect, too, that Mrs Capperbar wants some vinegar ­the boatswain’s is the best ­and a gallon or two of rum ­and you must corn some beef.  The harness cask may remain on shore, and the cooper must make me another.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Master Henry’s trousers ­are they finished yet?”

“No, sir; Spriggs is at them now.  Bailly and James are making Miss Ellen’s petticoats.”

“And the shoes for Master John ­are they finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Master Henry’s?”

“No, sir.  Wilson says that he has lost Master Henry’s measure.”

“Careless scoundrel! he shall have four-water grog for a week; and, steward, take three bags of bread on shore, and forty pounds of flour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s all.  Oh, no ­don’t forget to send some peas on shore for the pig.”

“No, sir,” and the steward departed to execute his variety of commissions.

The present first-lieutenant of the Aspasia, who, upon the promotion of the former, had been selected by Captain M –­ previous to his quitting the ship, was an excellent officer and a pleasant, light-hearted messmate, very superior in talent and information to the many.

The conduct of Captain Capperbar was a source of annoyance to him, as he frequently could not command the services of the different artificers when they were required for the ship.  He had, however, been long enough in the service to be aware that it was better to make the best of it than to create enemies by impeaching the conduct of his superior officer.  As the command of Captain Capperbar was but temporary, he allowed him to proceed without expostulation, contenting himself with turning his conduct into a source of conversation and amusement.

“Well, Prose, how do you like the new skipper?” inquired Seymour, soon after his arrival on board.

“Why ­I do declare, I can hardly tell.  He’s a very good-tempered man, but he don’t exactly treat us midshipmen as if we were officers or gentlemen; and as for his wife, she is really too bad.  I am sent every day on shore to the cottage, because I belong to the captain’s gig.  They never ask me to sit down, but set me to work somehow or another.  The other day he had a boat’s crew on shore digging up a piece of ground for planting potatoes, and he first showed me how to cut the eyes, and then gave me a knife, and ordered me to finish the whole bag which lay in the field, and to see that the men worked properly at the same time.  I never cut potatoes into little bits before, except at table after they were boiled.”

“Well, that was too bad; but however, you’ll know how to plant potatoes in future ­there’s nothing like knowledge.”

“And then he sends the nurse and children for an airing, as he calls it, on the water, and I am obliged to take them.  I don’t like pulling maid-servants about.”

“That’s quite a matter of taste, Prose; some midshipmen do.”

“What do you think Mrs Capperbar asked me to do the other day?”

“I’m sure I can’t guess.”

“Why, to shell peas.”

“Well, did you oblige her?”

“Why, yes, I did; but I did not like it, ­and the other day the captain sent me out to walk with the nurse and children, that I might carry Master Henry if he was tired.”

“They have observed the versatility of your genius.”

“She made me hunt the hedges for a whole morning after eggs because she was convinced that one of the hens laid astray.”

“Did you find any?”

“No; and when I came back to tell her so, she got into a rage, and threatened to make the captain flog me.”

“The devil she did!”

“A devil she is,” continued Prose.  “She runs about the house ­`Captain Capperbar’ this, ­`Captain Capperbar’ that ­`I will’ ­`I will not’ ­`I insist’ ­`I am determined.’  But,” continued Prose, “as you belonged to the captain’s gig before, you will of course take her again, and I shall be very glad to give the charge up to you.”

“Not for the world, my dear Prose:  what may insure your promotion would be my ruin.  I never nursed a child or shelled a pea in my life; the first I should certainly let fall, and the second I probably should eat for my trouble.  So pray continue at your post of honour, and I will go for the fresh beef every morning as you were accustomed to do when we we were last in port.”

Captain M –­ did not receive the immediate benefit which he had anticipated from a return to his native land.  Bath, Cheltenham, Devonshire, and other places were recommended one after the other by the physicians, until he was tired of moving from place to place.  It was nearly two years before he felt his health sufficiently re-established to resume the command of the Aspasia, during which period the patience of officers was nearly exhausted; and not only was all the furniture and fitting up of the cottage complete but Captain Capperbar had provided himself with a considerable stock of materials for repairs and alterations.  At last a letter from the captain to Macallan gave the welcome intelligence that he was to be down at Portsmouth in a few days, and that the ship was ordered to fit for foreign service.

We must not omit to mention here, that during these two years Seymour had been able to procure frequent leave of absence, which was invariably passed at the McElvinas; and that the terms of intimacy on which he was received at the hall and his constant intercourse with Emily, produced an effect which a more careful mother would have guarded against.  The youth of eighteen and the girl of sixteen had feelings very different from those which had actuated them on their first acquaintance; and Seymour, who was staying at the McElvinas when the expected arrival of Captain M –­ was announced, now felt what pain it would be to part with Emily.  The intelligence was communicated in a letter from Prose, when he was sitting alone with McElvina, and the bare idea of separation struck him to the heart.

McElvina, who had often expressed his opinion on the subject to his wife, had been anxious that our hero should be sent on a foreign station, before he had allowed a passion to take so deep a root in his heart that, to eradicate it, would be a task of great effort and greater pain.  Aware, from the flushed face of Seymour, of what was passing within, he quietly introduced the subject, by observing that in all probability, his favourite, Emily, would be married previous to his return ­pointing out that an heiress of so large a property would have a right to expect to unite herself with one in the highest rank of society.

Seymour covered his face with his hands, as he leant over the table.  He had no secrets from McElvina, and acknowledged the truth of the observation.  “I have brought up the subject, my dear boy,” continued McElvina, “because I have not been blind, and I am afraid that you will cherish a feeling which can only end in disappointment.  She is a sweet girl; but you must, if possible, forget her.  Reflect a moment.  You are an orphan, without money and without family, although not without friends, which you have secured by your own merit; and you have only your courage and your abilities to advance you in the service.  Can it, then, be expected, that her parents would consent to an union ­or would it be honourable in you to take any advantage of her youthful prepossession in your favour, and prevent her from reaping those advantages that her fortune and family entitle her to?”

Seymour felt bitterly the justice of the remark; a few tears trickled through his fingers, but his mind was resolved.  He had thought to have declared his love before his departure, and have obtained an acknowledgment on her part; but he now made a firm resolution to avoid and to forget her.  “I shall follow your advice, my dear sir, for it is that of a friend who is careful of my honour; but if you knew the state of mind that I am in! ­How foolish and inconsiderate have I been! ­I will not see her again.”

“Nay, that would be acting wrongly; it would be quite unpardonable, after the kindness which you have received from Mrs Rainscourt, not to call and wish them farewell.  You must do it, Seymour.  It will be an exertion, I acknowledge; but, if I mistake not his character, not too great a one for William Seymour.  Good night, my dear boy.”

On the ensuing morning, Seymour, who had fortified himself in his good resolutions, walked to the hall to announce his approaching departure on foreign service, and to take his farewell, his last farewell, of Emily.  He found the carriage at the door, and Mrs Rainscourt in her pelisse and bonnet, about to pay a visit at some distance.  She was sorry at the information, for Seymour was a great favourite, and delayed her departure for a quarter of an hour to converse with him; at the end of which, Emily, who had been walking, came into the library.  Communicating the intelligence to her daughter, Mrs Rainscourt then bade him farewell, and expressing many wishes for his health and happiness, was handed by him into the carriage, and drove off; leaving Seymour to return to the library, and find himself ­the very position he had wished to avoid ­alone with Emily.

Emily Rainscourt was, at this period, little more than sixteen years old; but it is well known that, in some families, as in some countries, the advance to maturity is much more rapid than in others.  Such was the case with our heroine, who, from her appearance, was generally supposed to be at least two years older than she really was, and in her mind she was even more advanced than in her person.

Seymour returned to the library, where he found Emily upon the sofa.  Her bonnet had been thrown off; and the tears that were coursing down her cheeks were hastily brushed away at his entrance.  He perceived it, and felt his case to be still more embarrassing.

“When do you go, William?” said Emily, first breaking silence.

“To-morrow morning.  I have called to return my thanks to your mother, and to you, for your kindness to me; ­I shall ever remember it with gratitude.”

Emily made no answer, but a deep sigh escaped.

“I shall,” continued Seymour, “be away perhaps for years, and it is doubtful if ever we meet again.  Our tracks in life are widely different.  I am an orphan, without name or connection ­or even home, except through the kindness of my friends:  they were right when, in my childhood, they christened me the `King’s Own,’ for I belong to nobody else.  You, Miss Rainscourt,” (Emily started, for it was the first time that he had ever called her so, after the first week of their acquaintance), “with every advantage which this world can afford, will soon be called into society, in which I never can have any pretence to enter.  You will, in all probability, form a splendid connection before (if ever) we meet again.  You have my prayers, and shall have them when seas divide us, for your happiness.”

Seymour was so choked by his feelings, that he could say no more ­and Emily burst into tears.

“Farewell, Emily!  God in Heaven bless you,” said Seymour, recovering his self-possession.

Emily, who could not speak, offered her hand.  Seymour could not control himself; he pressed her lips with fervour, and darted out of the room.  Emily watched him, until he disappeared at the winding of the avenue, and then sat down and wept bitterly.  She thought that he was unkind, when he ought to have been most fond ­on the eve of a protracted absence.  He might have stayed a little longer.  He had never behaved so before; and she retired to her room, with her heart panting with anguish and disappointment.  She felt how much she loved him, and the acknowledgment was embittered by the idea that this feeling was not reciprocal.

The next morning, when the hour had passed at which Seymour had stated that he was to leave the spot, Emily bent her steps to the cottage, that she might, by conversation with her friend Mrs McElvina, obtain, if possible, some clue to the motives which had induced our hero to behave as we have narrated.

Susan was equally anxious to know in what manner Seymour had conducted himself, and soon obtained from Emily the information which she required.  She then pointed out to her, as her husband had done to Seymour, the improbability, if not impossibility, of any happy result to their intimacy, and explained the honourable motives by which Seymour had been actuated, ­the more commendable, as his feelings on the subject were even more acute than her own.  The weeping girl felt the truth of her remarks, as far as the justification of Seymour was attempted.  Satisfied with the knowledge that he loved her, she paid little attention to the more prudent part of the advice, and made a resolution in his favour, which, as well as her attachment (unlike most others formed during the freshness of the heart), through time and circumstance, absence on his part, temptations on hers, continued stedfast and immovable to the last.