lying in a fresh green field. He enjoyed the
action, the spirit, and every motion of the
horse. It was the exact embodiment in
activity of his strongest present feelings and
impulses. He jumped up to run after the
horse, and mount him if he could, or if not,
scamper about the field with him in the same
fashion. But while he sought to advance, he
felt as if he were retreating—in fact, he was
sure of it;—the grass ran by him, instead of
his running over it—the hedges ran through
him, instead of his passing along them—the
trees sped away before him into the distance,
as he was carried backwards. He lost his
legs—he sank upon the air—he was still
carried backwards—all the landscape faded,
and with a loud splash he fell into the
sea!

Down he sank, and fancied he saw green
watery fields rolling on all sides, and over
him; and presently he heard a voice hoarsely
calling as if from some bank above. He
certainly had heard the voice before, and
recognised it with considerable awe, though the
words it uttered were homely and unromantic
enough. It shouted out 'Nancy, of Sunderland!
—boat ahoy!'

By some inexplicable process—though he
clearly distinguished a boat-hook in the
performance—Flashley was picked up from
beneath the waves, and lifted into a boat. It
was a little, dirty, black, thick-gunnelled jolly-
boat, rowed by two men in short black
overshirts and smutty canvas trousers. In the
stern sat the captain with his arms folded.
A broad-brimmed tarpaulin hat shaded his
face. They pulled alongside a ship as black
as death, but very lively; and a rope being
lowered from the side, it was passed under
Flashley's arms in a noose, and the next
moment he was hoisted on deck, and told to
attend to his duty.

'My duty!' ejaculated Flashley, 'Attend
to my duty! Oh, what is my duty?' His
eyes wandered round. Nothing but hard
black planks and timbers, and masts with
reefed sails, and rigging all covered with coal
dust, met his gaze. The sky, however, was
visible above him—that was a great comfort.

'Scrape these carrots and parsnips,' said
the Captain solemnly, 'very clean, d'ye mind!
—and take them to the cook in the galley,
who'll let you know what's next. When he
has done with you, clean my sea-boots, and
grease them with candle-ends; dry my pea-
jacket, pilot-coat, and dreadnoughts; clean
my pipe, and fill it—light, and take three
whiffs to start it; mix me a glass of grog, and
bring it with the lighted pipe; then, go and
lend a hand in tarring the weather-rigging,
and stand by, to go aloft and ease down the
fore-top-gallant mast when the mate wants
her on deck.'

'Oh, heavens!' thought Flashley, "are
these then my duties! This hideous black
ship must be a collier—and I am the cabin-
boy!'

A mixed impulse of equal curiosity and
apprehension (it certainly was from no anxiety
to commence his miscellaneous duties) caused
him to 'inquire his way' to the cook's galley.
He was presently taken to a square enclosure,
not unlike a great black rabbit-hutch, open at
both sides, in which he was received by a man
of large proportions, who was seated on an
inverted iron saucepan, smoking. The black
visage gave a grim smile and familiar wink.
It could not be the miner who had acted as
his guide and companion underground! And
yet—

Flashley stepped back hastily, and cast an
anxious look towards the after-part of the
deck. There stood the Captain. A short yet
very heavily-built figure,—a kind of stunted
giant. He was not an Indian, nor a Mulatto,
nor an African,—and yet his face was as black
as a coal, in which several large veins rose
prominently, and had a dull yellow tinge, as
if they had been run with gold, or some
metallic substance of that colour. Who could
he be? Some demon incog.? No, not that—
but some one whom Flashley held in equal
awe.

How long poor Flashley continued to
perform his multifarious duties on board the
'Nancy' he had no idea, but they appeared at
times very onerous, and he had to undergo
many hardships. This was especially the case
in the North Sea during the winter months,
which are often of the severest kind on the
coast between Sunderland and the mouth of
the Thames. The rigging was all frozen, so
that to lay hold of a rope seemed to take the
skin off his hand; the cold went to the bone,
and he hardly knew if his hands were struck
through with frost, or by a hot iron. The
decks were all slippery with ice, so were the
ladders down to the cabins, and the cook's
galley was garnished all round with large
icicles, from six inches to a foot and a half in
length, which kept up a continual drip, drip,
on all sides, by way of complimentary acknowledgment
of the caboose-fire inside. Sometimes
the wind burst the side-doors open—blew the
fire clean out of the caboose, and scattered the
live and dead coals all over the deck, or whirled
them into the sea. One night the galley
itself, with all its black and smutty paraphernalia,
was torn up and blown overboard. It
danced about on the tops of the waves—made
deep curtseys—swept up the side of a long
billow—was struck by a cross-wave, and
disappeared in a hundred black planks and
splinters. That same night Flashley was
called up from his berth to go aloft and lend
a hand to close-reef the main-topsail. The
sail was all frozen, and so stiff that he could
not raise it; but as he hauled on one of the
points, the point broke, and something
happened to him,—he did not know what, but he
thought he fell backwards, and the wind flew
away with him.

The next thing he remembered was that of
lying in his berth with a bandage round one