Chantry House. Yonge Charlotte Mary

through Europe, and were only half welcome to the conquerors; but in our household it is connected with a terrible recollection.  Though more than half a century has rolled by, I shrink from dwelling on the shock that fell on us when my father returned from Somerset House with such a countenance that we thought our sailor had fallen; but my mother could brook the fact far less than if her son had died a gallant death.  The Clotho was on her way home, and Midshipman William Clarence Winslow was to be tried by court-martial for insubordination, disobedience, and drunkenness.  My mother was like one turned to stone.  She would hardly go out of doors; she could scarcely bring herself to go to church; she would have had my father give up his situation if there had been any other means of livelihood.  She could not talk; only when my father sighed, ‘We should never have put him into the Navy,’ she hotly replied,

      ‘How was I to suppose that a son of mine would be like that?’

      Emily cried all day and all night.  Some others would have felt it a relief to have cried too.  In more furious language than parents in those days tolerated, Griff wrote to me his utter disbelief, and how he had punched the heads of fellows who presumed to doubt that it was not all a rascally, villainous plot.

      When the time came my father went down by the night mail to Portsmouth.  He could scarcely bear to face the matter; but, as he said, he could not have it on his conscience if the boy did anything desperate for want of some one to look after him.  Besides, there might be some explanation.

      ‘Explanation,’ said my mother bitterly.  ‘That there always is!’

      The ‘explanation’ was this—I have put together what came out in evidence, what my father and the Admiral heard from commiserating officers, and what at different times I learned from Clarence himself.  Captain Brydone was one of the rough old description of naval men, good sailors and stern disciplinarians, but wanting in any sense of moral duties towards their ship’s company.  His lieutenant was of the same class, soured, moreover, by tardy promotion, and prejudiced against a gentleman-like, fair-faced lad, understood to have interest, and bearing a name that implied it.  Of the other two midshipmen, one was a dull lad of low stamp, the other a youth of twenty, a born bully, with evil as well as tyrannical propensities;—the crew conforming to severe discipline on board, but otherwise wild and lawless.  In such a ship a youth with good habits, sensitive conscience, and lack of moral or physical courage, could not but lead a life of misery, losing every day more of his self-respect and spirit as he was driven to the evil he loathed, dreading the consequences, temporal and eternal, with all his soul, yet without resolution or courage to resist.

      As every one knows, the battle of Navarino came on suddenly, almost by mistake; and though it is perhaps no excuse, the hurly-burly and horror burst upon him at unawares.  Though the English loss was comparatively very small, the Clotho was a good deal exposed, and two men were killed—one so close to Clarence that his clothes were splashed with blood.  This entirely unnerved him; he did not even know what he did, but he was not to be found when required to carry an order, and was discovered hidden away below, shuddering, in his berth, and then made some shallow excuse about misunderstanding orders.  Whether this would have been brought up against him under other circumstances, or whether it would have been remembered that great men, including Charles V. and Henri IV., have had their moment de peur, I cannot tell; but there were other charges.  I cannot give date or details.  There is no record among the papers before me; and I can only vaguely recall what could hardly be read for the sense of agony, was never discussed, and was driven into the most oblivious recesses of the soul fifty years ago.  There was a story about having let a boat’s crew, of which he was in charge, get drunk and over-stay their time.  One of them deserted; and apparently prevarication ran to the bounds of perjury, if it did not overpass them.  (N.B.—Seeing seamen flogged was one of the sickening horrors that haunted Clarence in the Clotho.)  Also, when on shore at Malta with the young man whose name I will not record—his evil genius—he was beguiled or bullied into a wine-shop, and while not himself was made the cat’s-paw of some insolent practical joke on the lieutenant; and when called to account, was so bewildered and excited as to use unpardonable language.

      Whatever it might have been in detail, so much was proved against him that he was dismissed his ship, and his father was recommended to withdraw him from the service, as being disqualified by want of nerve.  Also, it was added more privately, that such vicious tendencies needed home restraint.  The big bully, his corrupter, bore witness against him, but did not escape scot free, for one of the captains spoke to him in scathing tones of censure.

      Whenever my mother was in trouble, she always re-arranged the furniture, and a family crisis was always heralded by a revolution of chairs, tables, and sofas.  She could not sit still under suspense, and, during these terrible days the entire house underwent a setting to rights.  Emily attended upon her, and I sat and dusted books.  No doubt it was much better for us than sitting still.  My father’s letter came by the morning mail, telling us of the sentence, and that he and our poor culprit, as he said, would come home by the Portsmouth coach in the evening.

      One room was already in order when Sir John Griffith kindly came to see whether he could bring any comfort to a spirit which would infinitely have preferred death to dishonour, and was, above all, shocked at the lack of physical courage.  Never had I liked our old Admiral so well as when I heard how his chief anger was directed against the general mismanagement, and the cruelty of blighting a poor lad’s life when not yet seventeen.  His father might have been warned to remove him without the public scandal of a court-martial and dismissal.

      ‘The guilt and shame would have been all the same to us,’ said my mother.

      ‘Come, Mary, don’t be hard on the poor fellow.  In quiet times like these a poor boy can’t look over the wall where one might have stolen a horse, ay, or a dozen horses, when there was something else to think about!’

      ‘You would not have forgiven such a thing, sir.’

      ‘It never would have happened under me, or in any decently commanded ship!’ he thundered.  ‘There wasn’t a fault to be found with him in the Calypso.  What possessed Winslow to let him sail with Brydone?  But the service is going,’ etc. etc., he ran on—forgetting that it was he himself who had been unwilling, perhaps rightly, to press the Duke of Clarence for an appointment to a crack frigate for his namesake.  However, when he took leave he repeated, as he kissed my mother, ‘Mind, Mary, don’t be set against the lad.  That’s the way to make ’em desperate, and he is a mere boy, after all.’

      Poor mother, it was not so much hardness as a wounded spirit that made her look so rigid.  It might have been better if the return could have been delayed so as to make her yearn after her son, but there was nowhere for him to go, and the coach was already on its way.  How strange it was to feel the wonted glow at Clarence’s return coupled with a frightful sense of disgrace and depression.

      The time was far on in October, and it was thus quite dark when the travellers arrived, having walked from Charing Cross, where the coach set them down.  My father came in first, and my mother clung to him as if he had been absent for weeks, while all the joy of contact with my brother swept over me, even though his hand hung limp in mine, and was icy cold like his cheeks.  My father turned to him with one of the little set speeches of those days.  ‘Here is our son, Mary, who has promised me to do his utmost to retrieve his character, as far as may be possible, and happily he is still young.’

      My mother’s embrace was in a sort of mechanical obedience to her husband’s gesture, and her voice was not perhaps meant to be so severe as it sounded when she said, ‘You are very cold—come and warm yourself.’

      They made room for him by the fire, and my father stood up in front of it, giving particulars of the journey.  Emily and Martyn were at tea in the nursery, in a certain awe that hindered them from coming down; indeed, Martyn seems to have expected to see some strange transformation in his brother.  Indeed, there was alteration in the absence of the blue and gold, and, still more, in the loss of the lightsome, hopeful expression from the young face.

      There is a picture of Ary Scheffer’s of an old knight, whose son had fled from the battle, cutting the tablecloth in two between himself and the unhappy youth.  Like that stern