into
his bedroom, his needs had apparently been anticipated; for there, folded
up neatly upon the pillow, was a sleeping garment ready for use. He
appreciated the consideration; but having attired himself for bed, he
found himself enveloped in a frothy abundance of frills and fal-lals,
lace at the wrists, lace round the neck, with flutters of ribbon here and
there. When, at the breakfast table in the morning, he related how he had
been rigged, there was a shriek of laughter from the young ladies; the
simple explanation being that one of them had vacated her room to
accommodate the visitor, and had forgotten to remove her nightdress.

The visit had more important consequences. Captain Pasley very soon saw
that he had an exceptional lad before him, and at once put him on the
Alert. He was entered as "lieutenant's servant" on October 23rd, 1789. He
remained there for rather more than seven months, learning the practical
part of a sailor's business. On May 17th, 1790, he was able to present
himself to Captain Pasley on the Scipio at Chatham, as an aspirant of
more than ordinary efficiency; and remained under his command until the
next year, following him as a midshipman when he left the Scipio for the
Bellerophon in July, 1790.

This famous ship, which carried 74 guns, and was launched in 1786, is
chiefly known to history as the vessel upon which Napoleon surrendered to
Captain Maitland on July 15th, 1815, after the Waterloo debacle. She took
a prominent part in Nelson's great battles at the Nile and Trafalgar. But
her end was pitifully ignoble. After a glorious and proud career, she was
converted into a convict hulk and re-named the Captivity. A great prose
master has reminded us, in words that glow upon his impassioned page, of
the slight thought given by the practical English to the fate of another
line-of-battle ship that had flown their colours in the stress of war.
"Those sails that strained so full bent into the battle, that broad bow
that struck the surf aside, enlarging silently in steadfast haste full
front to the shot, those triple ports whose choirs of flame rang forth in
their courses, into the fierce avenging monotone, which, when it died
away, left no answering voice to rise any more upon the sea against the
strength of England, those sides that were wet with the long runlets of
English life-blood, like press-planks at vintage, gleaming goodly crimson
down to the cast and clash of the washing foam, those pale