"No! it's a sacrifice, and a hecatomb!"

THE rising generation, just now beginning to reap its first crop of mustaches, can have only a melo-dramatic, T. P. Cooke sort of notion of the class of men which manned our privateers during the last grapple with France, and it may seem treason to suppose that they could have been more reckless than their brother tars of the Royal Navy, who so gallantly muzzled the Frenchman's ports, and kept the yelping of the dogs of war from disturbing our slumbers at home.

Yet it must be admitted, that it required a peculiar courage to adopt a service in which, sometimes, no quarter was given, and, moreover, it must be borne in mind, while estimating the hazards the privateersman had to encounter, that he was often as much an object of dislike to the British cruiser, as the foe whose trade he so completely destroyed. For "the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong," and the king's best frigates were often outwitted, as well as outsailed, by some of those "brass bottom sa sarpints," which frequently snapped up "a good tall ship," that otherwise might have added to the prize-money of the royal cruiser.

Notwithstanding these drawbacks, the fitting out of private ships for the purpose of destroying the enemy's trade, was very popular, the right or wrong of the question was but little heeded on shore, such trifling distinctions were disregarded during the feverish excitement of the war, or were drowned in the death-struggle for foreign mastery. Besides, it required no great effort to equip a vessel for this field of predatory warfare. Almost every port had its lively brig or clipperschooner, and the rough and ready populace of our maritime towns enjoyed the fun,-it was of the right sort, short cruises and plenty of prize-money, the privateer's cargo, provisions, powder, and shot, was soon shipped, and then, hurrah for a leading wind and a lucky cruising ground, and, with these blessings, it was little short of a miracle if Jack didn't cut pretty considerable large thongs out of the enemy's hide. Three weeks, nay, often three days, prowling "'twixt Ushant light and Cape La Hogue," easily supplied the funds for a month's debauch ashore, and when the money was gone, why, as the old song has it, "he went to sea again."

Among the many insignificant towns that sent these harassing vessels to sea, there is one down on the southern part of the coast of Devon, situated on a small and limpid stream, which, after dallying for many miles through a romantic region, discharges itself into the English Channel. The cluster of tempest-torn dwellings that disfigured the picturesque mouth of this pleasant river, was, during the war, the abiding place of a mixed population of pilots, fishermen, smugglers, and privateers. They were known as a bold and hardy race, and restless as the waters whereon they gained their daily bread.

As might be imagined, the orderly portion of this turbulent little town was that occupied by the pilots, but, in glaring opposition to this useful class, might have been seen the reckless privateers, ready to join any sea rover in quest of prey, while the aged remained at home, and employed themselves with deep-sea fishing; all, however, when occasion suited, had no scruples in going hotch-potch in a smuggling lay, and turning the wants of friend as well as foe to their mutual profit.

Thirty years of peace, if we may credit some of the old folks,—who still fondly cherish the remembrance of those glorious days,-have sadly altered this blissful state of things. For instance, a well organised coast-guard soon diverted the smuggler's gains into the national exchequer, and, of course, when the war ended, so did the rovings of the privateer. The peace brought security, and the old weather-worn dwellings gave place to handsome marine villas, showy-looking hotels, and lodging-houses, wherein the present race of would-be young smugglers and privateersmen levy black mail upon all who happen to be bewitched by the charms of nature into loitering for a few days amongst them.

Let us suppose that I had read all the novels in the marine library, seen all the conjurors, and found out all their tricks, smoked all the good cigars in the town, and cultivated an acquaintance with every boatman on the beach, and at last found one, who, having nothing else to do, no difficult task, by the by,-was willing to spin a yarn about the good old times above alluded to.

The object which introduced his dearly cherished luxury of privateering to our particular notice, was the skeleton of a vessel that had been at some distant day hauled high and dry upon the shingle beach. The old craft had apparently been used as a dwelling upon the land, after her voyages on the sea had ended, for the remains of a roof still partially covered her rotten decks. Her ports had also been fitted with sash windows, but the glass had all disappeared, and there was an air of desolation about her that denoted she had been deserted to the fury of the winds for a long period.

"Ah!" said my companion, giving at the same time a severe turn to his quid, "there's a queer yarn spun about that old brig."

"Indeed," said I, enquiringly.

"I b❜lieve ye. Old Rattery Brown, what liv'd an' died aboard her, wos the rum'ist lookin' chap you ever sot eye on; he wos as thin as a shotten herrin', and his toggs hung about him like a purser's shirt on a handspic, then, he carried his head all of a hoo, chin toppin' to port, he'd lost his larboard eye, and t'other look'd as mi'st as a bil'd gooseberry."

By the time he had sketched this fanciful portrait, we had arrived at the old brig, and as it was sunny loitering weather, we sheltered ourselves under her shady quarter, when he thus went on:

"Well, you must first of all know, it 'is exyactly,-let's see,—yes, exyactly two-and-thirty year come next Piffany twel'month, that, one jolly fine evening, while I was down here to 'conitre, as the French calls it, a brig and a ship hove in sight, somewhere here-a-way to the west'ard. I 'members the time well, there was just enough wind to fan the duck of a dandy's yacht, and the sea was as smooth as Doll Coppice's tongue, and the moon as bright as her eye.

⚫ Epiphany.

"Well, you see I wos always counted summat 'cute in dissarnment, and so I soon diskiver'd that though the vessels wos a sailin' in company, it warn't by their mutual consent, for they look'd to a seamer about as lovin' as a couple of pet devils. Well, what with the tide and the light whifflin' cats' paws, they cum up hand over fist and reported themselves; one wos this here old brig, then as smart a privateer as ever swum, and t'other wos a rich French Ingee-man, wot Rattery Brown had captivated in a most winnin' way, after a hard fight, when all but under the guns of St. Malo.

"Lor' a massy on us, what a nitty followed a'ter they fetch'd into port. Every chap in The Sea Hawk,' that wos the name of the privateer, when he'd took his share o' the prize, wos as fickle as a flaw o' wind in the horse latitudes. One day, p'r'aps, you'd see 'em togg'd in a pair o' gaff to'sail boots, and breeks a taunto, and then the next, they'd ship a long-tail'd coat, and one o' your flush-built weskits, and a broad brim'd sky-scraper over all."

"And the captain's share was enough to build a church or found a hospital, I suppose."

"Well, I don't know, for old Rattery wosn't exzactly the feller to let everybody into his secrets, but it must a pretty well fill'd his lockers, for he wos a hungry dog, and it so mollified him, that he never went to sea again."

"Perhaps, as the war had ceased, he had no opportunity of taking any more prizes."

"Well, sartinly, that did put a stopper over all, and so, d'ye see, he hauled the 'See Hawk' into this here berth, where her old bones are now rottin', detarmined, as he said, to die as he had liv'd, on the deck of the craft where he made his fortin."

66

Besides, he saved rent and taxes by this novel arrangement," said I.

"Rent and taxes be damn'd; he needn't 'a minded rent and taxes, no, nor cesses, nor work'us rates either; no, he didn't jam the Sea Hawk' in this here no-man's-land sort of a place, for they,-no, no, that had nothin' to do with it, there wos a screw loose about the prize, the rights o' which was never logg'd; 'twas whisper'd she wos took a'ter the peace was sign'd, and though the lawyers settled it all the right way for the captors, yet summut stuck in old Rattery's gizzard, for the rhino never did him no good whatsumever."

"How so?"

"How so?" my maritime friend went on spouting like a whale, "why just unravel me this if you can: afore he grappled with the Frenchman, he wos as fine hearted a feller as ever chipp'd a biskit, but a'ter he'd finger'd their gold a bit, dam'me if it didn't transmogrify 'n into a timid, gripin', sour, old miser; took to lendin' money at interest; had a reg'lar built lawyer chap always danglin' in his wake, who soon convart'd the Sea Hawk' into a sort of marine pawn shop, I tell ye."

"And all this time the Captain lived aboard the brig?" said I.

"Liv'd, no; I didn't say liv'd; he starv'd in her, if you like, for though he'd got the writin's o' half the town in his clutches, and plenty of ready to boot, yet he mess'd about as well as a rat in a ballast-lighter. Howsomever, 'twas n't banyan day with old Rattery always, one day in the year he treated hisself to a good blow out, anyhow."

"His birth-day," said I, hazarding a conjecture.

"No, no, not his birth-day; don't suppose he'd got one, or, what's the same thing, 'twasn't logg'd in his mem'ry. No, it was on the anne-wersary of his baggin' the French Ingee-man; then he did have a glorious shindy surely; dinner was reg'larly set out for a round

dozen."

"A sort of sea-Waterloo banquet to some of his companions in arms,” I suppose.

"Yes, they wos his companions in arms with a wengeance," replied old Sindbad, with a peculiar grin; "but, Lor' bless ye," he continued, "they wasn't human kreturs wot dined with old Rattery.” "Pray, who were his guests then?"

"The rum'ist you ever yeard on, p'r'aps. What d'ye think o' dining with twelve old eighteen-pounder guns for messmates?" "Rather ironical companions, certainly."

"Well, old Rattery on that day always gave a grand feast to the twelve guns, that sarv'd his turn in winnin' the fight ag'in the French Ingee-man."

Ah, I understand," said I; "the guns were always on board, and

"

"I means to say," said the old tar, interrupting, "that he'd a reg'lar built table made out o' the mainmast of the Frenchman, shipp'd fore and aft along his quarter-deck, flush up to which his guns was ranged chock-a-block, with their great black muzzles a frownin' and yawnin' over the crockery, as if they meant to bolt every thing afore 'em. Right under their mouths was piled on platters the sort o' shot best kalkilated for the nature of each partic'lar gun. The long eighteens had round, bar, and chain, as best suited to their digestive organs, and the carronades tickled their gums with langridge, grape, and cannister; lighted port-fires fizz'd and smok'd away at their breechin's, 'sides which there wos a dubble allowance o' powder sarv'd out on the centre of the table, and fire-buckets full o' water to slake the burnin' throats o' the guns, wos plac'd alongside of their side tackles, while fightin' lanthorns, wads, ramrods, and sponges, wos spread about, just for all the world as if the signal for battle wos flyin' at the main. Well, then, by way of makin' all ship shape and brister fashun, the Union Jack was h'isted to a staff, as a sort o' vice-president to mad old Rattery, who sot at the head o' the table, with a spankin' bowl o' smoking hot punch, 'ticing enough to make a feller wish his throat wos a mile long, and every inch on it palate, right afore him ; and then he'd stick a queer outlandish mundungo built pipe in his mouth, and puff away like a limekiln, I tell ye."

"What an eccentric fancy," said I.

"Centric fancy, I b'lieve ye; but avast a bit, the queerest strand in the yard is yet unlaid. Well, in course, the guns had large mouths, and, as they'd been invited out to dinner, why, in course, they must be fed on summat 'sides their common fare, so, what d'ye think he cram'd into their iron jaws, by way of a treat?

"Can't say," said I, "hav'n't the least idea."

"

"No, nor nobody else 'cept Old Rattery; why the fusty, musty yaller parchments wot sarv'd as duplicates for the money he'd lent for half the town was pawn'd to him-Lor' bless us how the old feller used to grin at the notion of making his trusty guns first win the gold and then do duty as iron safes, and fire-proof deed boxes."

"Well, thus surrounded by his blazin' bullies he'd larf an' talk to them, and be as happy as if he wos in the midst of his rovin' old seadogs of his young days. It wos as good as a reg'lar-built play to see the waiter at the hotel yonder-who always attended on these occasions-mimic the old miser when the punch had set his head-sails a shiverin' three sheets in the wind. For then Old Rattery would rise on his hind legs as solemn as a judge, and, a'ter makin' a grand salaam to the union jack, as in duty bound, he'd turn to his guns and begin with, 'Here's a bumper to you, Old Bone Crusher,' for you must know," said my companion," that Old Rattery had christened his guns after a fashion of his own."

"Here's a bumper to you, Old Bone Crusher,' says he, 'I ve not forgot how you sarv'd out your grape and canister. Hurrah! here's a full bumper to you.'

"Here's to you, Old Sudden Death, ah! ah!' and the miser always giggled at the remembrance of a desolatin' shot from this gun, fired with his own hand, which scatter'd a bunch o' chatterin' Frenchmen to the winds.

"Here's to you, my twin beauties, Slaughtering Bess and Tormenting Sue. Your sweet voices, loaded with weighty arguments, help'd to quicken the slow wits of the rascally Frenchmen. Here's bumper to you. Hurrah! hurrah!

"And here's to you, Old Growler, think not you're forgotten; nor you, Old Spitfire, nor you, Old Smasher, nor you, Old Blood and Thunder. No, no, you 're all faithfully logg'd here,' laying his hand his heart, hurrah! hurrah! here's bumpers to you all.' "The heartless old viper!" said I.

upon

6

""Twas a little skeery like, wasn't it? Well, the day a'ter his anne-wersary carousal Old Rattery always treated his self to another lark. Early in the morning he used to go out for a ride in a reg'larbuilt chaise and pair, always coming back to the hotel yonder, where he'd try to pass his self off for a stranger, and sham to know nobody. Well, of course, everybody humoured him, and, a'ter dinner, he'd stick hisself at the winder and pick his teeth, and loom as large as a pass'd midshipman about to dine with an admiral. Who lives there?' says he."

Meaning this old brig," said I.

"Sartingly. Well, you might as well 'a clapp'd a blister on a wooden leg as try to thwart him, and so the landlord larfs in his sleeve, and says it belongs to one Rattery Broun."

"Rattery Broun,' ses he, appearing to overhaul his mem'ry. 'What! does my old shipmate hang his flag out there?' Up goes the winder, and he begins a hailin', 'Broun-Rattery-Old Broun, I say,' in course nobody answers. 'Well,' ses he, the old boy never would forgive me if I don't give him a hail,' so he takes his hat and stick, opens his own door, and goes on a starvin' for another year."

"And what became of this mad old privateersman," said I, anxious to hear why he left his brig

"Handsomely there," said my companion; "small helm, no yawing, get on a wrong course if I don't mind. Well, you see, we'd a larky sprightly feller here, one Tom Collins by name, he'd been captain of the fo'ksle of the Sea Hawk when the Ingee-man struck to her sides, which he an' Rattery had sail'd together bye and large, man and boy for years, until I'm blow'd what with being summat alike at startin'