by it, and is ashamed that he should have
allowed his generous friend to accept it for such
a large debt as that which was due to him;
at the date of the transaction Captain Jorgey
knew it was a large debt, though he did
not quite know how much, for there had
never been an account between them, and
he was not a good hand at figures if there
had been one.

The fact is, that when Captain Jorgey's
olive trees would obstinately persist in bearing
no fruit in the most favourable seasons;
when his grapes seemed all gathered before
they had grown; and when his figs did not
appear to grow at all; when he returned
home and found his house burnt down, and
ruin staring him in the face; Kyrios Ozlan
proposed to him a very notable scheme for
redeeming his fortunes. This was to lend
money at a high rate of interest, to a trader
in the town, who had not hitherto borne a
very good reputation for strict exactness in
his accounts. Captain Jorgey, indeed,
ventured to make an observation to this effect at
the time; but his kind friend only smiled in
a peculiar way he had, and told Captain
Jorgey that he did not understand those kind
of affairs—which, indeed, was true. So the
honest sailor left everything to his friend, and
commenced another voyage. Not, however, till
he had given a mortgage on his property for
a considerable sum of money, which had been
placed out at such famous interest in his
name, and which had been lent by Kyrios
Ozlan with the most disinterested generosity.
But fresh troubles awaited him. He seemed
born to ill-luck. When he returned, the trader
had left the country, and had taken Captain
Jorgey's money with him. The stout seaman,
however, was not half so much
distressed at this, as at the loss sustained by his
kind friend, after all his efforts on his behalf
which were detailed to him with such
scrupulous minuteness. There was of course
but one thing to do—to give up the
olive garden; and, although it had, by that
time, begun to bear all sorts of produce, in
a very remarkable manner considering its
former sterility, yet the Captain was quite
surprised that his patron should accept it
for such a considerable debt. To be sure
he held Captain Jorgey's bond for the
balance, but what was the use of that? he
could put him in prison at any time; but he
was far too good to do it, which was another
reason for gratitude, and another reason
—so thought the honest sailor—why he
should try, by every means in his power, to
repay the immense debt of generosity and
forbearance which he owed his benefactor. I
am almost sure that Captain Jorgey would
have thought it nothing but his duty to die,
or go into slavery uncomplaining, for that
most cold and heartless scoundrel.

It is a touching and cruel thing to see
them together, and to see the humble respect
and gratitude of the brave sailor, in his worn
clothes so carefully brushed: the perspiration
pouring down his furrowed cheeks from
unremunerated toil: his anxious glance to
catch the eye of his patron, as that estimable
creature sits in state, in his gold chain, upon
an easy chair in his country house. It moves
one's very heart to see the sailor, so willing
and earnest, so untiring and contented, under
a rod of iron.

O Captain Jorgey, good, honest, noble-
hearted sailor! Little dost thou dream how
infinitely better and greater thou art, in the
eyes of Him who sees all things, than the
bedizened rogue who has robbed thee. Little
dost thou think how the hands of many
honest men would be stretched out to grasp
those shy, awkward fists of yours, who would
not deign to touch the white and jewelled
fingers of that amazing scamp for an earldom.
Little does thy modest fancy picture
what bright kind eyes of noble women would
smile on you, which would turn with, infinite
disgust from him.

Thine is a true story, Captain Jorgey.
Let it engraft in our hearts, a deeper
contempt for ill-gotten riches, and a profounder
respect for faith and honesty. I do not envy
the man who, if he had to choose, would not
immeasurably rather be the dupe than the
duper. Strait is the gate and narrow is the
way by which thou travellest, gentle Captain;
but it will conduct thee to thy high reward!

HOME-SICKNESS.

WHERE I am, the halls are gilded,
  Stored with pictures bright and rare;
Strains of deep melodious music
  Float upon the perfumed air:—
Nothing stirs the dreary silence
  Save the melancholy sea,
Near the poor and humble cottage,
  Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the sun is shining,
  And the purple windows glow,
Till their rich armorial shadows
  Stain the marble floor below:—
Faded Autumn leaves are trembling,
  On the withered jasmine tree,
Creeping round the little casement,
  Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the days are passing
  O'er a pathway strewn with flowers;
Song and joy and starry pleasures
  Crown the happy smiling hours:—
Slowly, heavily, and sadly,
  Time with weary wings must flee,
Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow,
  Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the great and noble,
  Tell me of renown and  fame,
And the red wine sparkles highest,
  To do honour to my name:—
Far away a place is vacant,
  By a humble hearth for me,
Dying embers dimly show it
  Where I fain would be!