ere now. This time he makes
the overland journey; and his passage is to Alexandria, taken in one of
the noble ships of the Peninsular and Oriental Company. His kit is as
simple as a subaltern's; I believe, but for Clive's friendly compulsion,
he would have carried back no other than the old uniform which has
served him for so many years. Clive and his father travelled to
Southampton together by themselves. F. B. and I took the Southampton
coach: we had asked leave to see the last of him, and say a "God bless
you" to our dear old friend. So the day came when the vessel was to
sail. We saw his cabin, and witnessed all the bustle and stir on board
the good ship on a day of departure. Our thoughts, however, were fixed
but on one person--the case, no doubt, with hundreds more on such a
day. There was many a group of friends closing wistfully together on
the sunny deck, and saying the last words of blessing and farewell. The
bustle of the ship passes dimly round about them; the hurrying noise of
crew and officers running on their duty; the tramp and song of the men
at the capstan-bars; the bells ringing, as the hour for departure comes
nearer and nearer, as mother and son, father and daughter, husband and
wife, hold hands yet for a little while. We saw Clive and his father
talking together by the wheel. Then they went below; and a passenger,
her husband, asked me to give my arm to an almost fainting lady, and to
lead her off the ship. Bayham followed us, carrying their two children
in his arms, as the husband turned away and walked aft. The last bell
was ringing, and they were crying, "Now for the shore." The whole ship
had begun to throb ere this, and its great wheels to beat the water, and
the chimneys had flung out their black signals for sailing. We were as
yet close on the dock, and we saw Clive coming up from below, looking
very pale; the plank was drawn after him as he stepped on land.

Then, with three great cheers from the dock, and from the crew in
the bows, and from the passengers on the quarter-deck, the noble ship
strikes the first stroke of her destined race, and swims away towards
the ocean. "There he is, there he is," shouts Fred Bayham, waving his
hat. "God bless him, God bless him!" I scarce perceived at the ship's
side, beckoning an adieu, our dear old friend, when the lady, whose
husband had bidden me to lead her away from the ship, fainted in my
arms. Poor soul! Her, too, has fate stricken. Ah, pangs of he