had given him. He was no longer a First Lord—he was a Monument of Pathetic Imbecility.

"To your cabin, Sir," said he, trembling with emotion, "and consider yourself under the strictest arrest."

"Sir Joseph," said Captain Corcoran, "pray hear me—"

"To your cabin, Sir!"

And a couple of marines marched him off under the command of the smallest midshipman in the ship.

Sir Joseph had by this time somewhat recovered his composure

"Now tell me, my fine fellow," said he, addressing Ralph Rackshaw, "How came your Captain so far to forget himself?"

"Please your honour," said Ralph, pulling respectfully at his forelock, "it was thus wise. You see I'm only a topman—a mere fore-mast hand—"

"Don't be ashamed of that," said Sir Joseph, "a topman is necessarily at the top of everything."

This, of course, was not the case, but Sir Joseph, having been a solicitor, did not know any better.

"Well, your honour," said Ralph, "love burns as brightly on the forecastle as it does on the quarter-