before l am let off from that place. After, I
am bound to go to some cellar or singing
place to listen to 'Hail, smiling morn,'
'Mynheer Van Dunk,' 'The monks of old,'
'Happy land,' imitations of the London
actors, and to hear a whole canto of dreary
extempore verses. I must also smoke a dozen
of cigars, knowing—as in my present condition
I must know,—what they are made of.
The whole to end on each night with unlimited
brandy (British) and water, and eternal
intoxication. Oh, F. F., be warned! be warned!
Take my advice; keep up your resolution,
and don't do it again. When afloat, drink
nothing stronger than purser's tea. When
on shore be temperate in your pleasures;
don't turn night into day; don't exchange
wholesome amusements for rabid debauchery,
robust health for disease and—well, I won't
mention it. When afloat, study your
profession and don't get cashiered and cold-
shouldered as I was. Promise me—nay, you
must swear!"

'At this word I thought I heard a gurgling
sound in the water.

'"If I can get six solemn pledges before the
season's over, I'm only to go these horrid
rounds during the meeting of Parliament."

'"Will you swear?" again urged the voice,
with persuasive agony.

'I was just able to comply.

'"Ten thousand thanks!" were the next
words I heard; "I'm off, for there is an awful
pint of pale ale, a chop, and a glass of brandy
and water overdue yet, and I must devour
them at the Shades." (We were then close
to London Bridge.) "Don't let the waterman
pull to shore; I can get there without
troubling him."

'I remember no more. When sensation
returned, I was in bed, in this very house, a
shade worse than I had been from the previous
attack.'

'That,' said Philip, who had left his tumbler
untasted, 'must have been when you had
your head shaved for the second time.'

'Exactly so.'

'And you really believe it was Jovial
James's ghost,' inquired Fid, earnestly.

'Would it be rational to doubt it?'

Philip rose and paced the room in deep
thought for several minutes. He cast two or
three earnest looks at his brother, and a few
longing ones at his glass. In the course of
his cogitation, he groaned out more than once
an apostrophe to poor 'James Barber.' At
length he declared his mind was made up.

'Ferd!' he said, 'I told you awhile ago to
throw your lemonade over the side of the
Ship. Don't. Souse out my grog instead.'

The lieutenant did as he was bid.

'And now,' said Fid the elder, 'ring for
soda water; for one must drink something.'

Last year it was my own good fortune to
sail with Mr. Philip Fid in the 'Bombottle'
(74). He is not exactly a tee-totaller: but
he never drinks spirits, and will not touch
wine unmixed with water, for fear of its
interfering with his studies, at which he is, with
the assistance of the naval instructor (who is
also our chaplain), assiduous. He is our first
mate, and the smartest officer in the ship.
Seton is our surgeon.

One day, after a cheerful ward-room
dinner (of which Fid was a guest), while we
were at anchor in the bay of Cadiz, the
conversation happened to turn upon Jovial
Jemmy's apparition, which had become the
best authenticated ghost story in Her Majesty's
Naval service. On that occasion Seton
undertook to explain the mystery upon
medical principles.

'The fact is,' he said, 'what the commander
of the "Arrow" saw (Ferdinand had by this
time got commissioned in his old ship) was a
spectrum, produced by that morbid condition
of the brain, which is brought on by the
immoderate use of stimulants, and by dissipation;
we call it Transient Monomania. I could
show you dozens of such ghosts in the books,
if you only had patience while I turned them
up.'

Everybody declared that was unnecessary.
We would take the doctor's word for it;
though I feel convinced not a soul besides the
chaplain and myself had one iota of his faith
shaken in the real presence of Jovial Jemmy's
post-mortem appearance to Fid the younger.

Ghost or no ghost, however, the story had
had the effect of converting Philip Fid from
one of the most intemperate and inattentive to
one of the soberest and best of Her Majesty's
officers. May his promotion be speedy!

P. CLAY, LIEUT. R.M.

H. M. S. 'BOMBOTTLE.'

20th March, 1850.

THE TRUE STORY OF A COAL FIRE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER THE LAST.

THE air blew freshly over the bright waving
grass of a broad sloping field, on which the
morning dews were sparkling and glancing
in the sun. The clouds moved quickly over
head, in clear grey and golden tints on their
upper edges and foamy crests, with dark
billows beneath, and their shadows chased
each other down the green slopes of the field
in rapid succession. Swiftly following them
—now in the midst of them—now seeming to
lead them on, a fine bay horse with flying
mane, wild outspreading tail, and dilated
nostrils, dashed onward exulting in his liberty,
his strength, his speed, and all the early
associations and influences of nature around him!
He was a coal-mine horse, and had been just
brought up the shaft for a holiday.

All this Flashley saw very distinctly, having
been hastily landed at the top of the shaft, lifted
into a tram-cart, and trundled off, he knew
not by what enginery, till he was suddenly
shot out on the top of a green embankment,
and rolling down to the bottom, found himself