anchor,
declare them, all three, to be officers in the service of that great
maritime government that has so long held undisputed possession of the
sea,--midshipmen of the British navy. Rather should we say, had been.
They have lost this proud position, along with the frigate to which they
had been attached; and they now only share authority upon a dismasted
spar, over which they are exerting some control, since, with their
bodies bent downwards, and their hands beating the water, they are
propelling it in the direction of the sand-spit.

In the countenances of the three castaways thus introduced, I have
admitted a dissimilitude something more than casual,--something more,
even, than what might be termed provincial. Each presented a type that
could have been referred to that wider distinction known as a
nationality.

The three "middies" astride of that topsail-yard were of course
castaways from the same ship, in the service of the same government,
though each was of a different nationality from the other two. They were
the respective representatives of Jack, Paddy, and Sandy,--or, to speak
more poetically, of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle,--and had the three
kingdoms from which they came been searched throughout their whole
extent, there could scarcely have been discovered purer representative
types of each, than the three reefers on that spar, drifting towards the
sand-spit between Bojador and Blanco.

Their names were Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, and Colin Macpherson.

The fourth individual--who shared with them their frail
embarkation--differed from all three in almost every respect, but more
especially in years. The ages of all three united would not have
numbered his: and their wrinkles, if collected together, would scarce
have made so many as could have been counted in the crowsfeet indelibly
imprinted in the corners of his eyes.

It would have required a very learned ethnologist to have told to which
of his three companions he was compatriot; though there could be no
doubt about his being either English, Irish, or Scotch.

Strange to say, his tongue did not aid in the identification of his
nationality. It was not often heard; but even when it was, its utterance
would have defied the most accomplished linguistic ear; and neither from
that, nor other circumstance known to them, could any one of his three
companions lay claim to him as a countryman. When he spoke,--a rare
occurrence already hinted,--it