Chapter VII: Part 7

Widow M’Carthy rented four or five acres of land, in a rural part of the county of Cork, in Ireland. She was a respectable, hard working, cleanly, honest, upright woman; and the landlord, seeing that she was likely to become quite as good a tenant as any one could be, and indeed, far better than most persons in her neighbourhood, allowed her to keep the little farm after her husband’s death. It was well in him to do so, for she managed the land properly, paid her rent, and every other debt, with punctuality and honour. The good widow had two daughters, the stay and comfort of her old age, the pride of the village, the pattern of all good and thrifty qualities to the neighbours. Their names were Betsey and Jill. They were young, good-looking, cheerful and industrious. Under their management the cottage became cleanly, neat and comfortable. The pigs and poultry were kept out of the house, in their proper places. The floors were regularly swept and scoured; the table, though it was only a deal table, was always so white, and clean, and sweet-looking, that positively it looked quite pretty. A neat Dutch clock stood over the dresser, among the shining crockery-ware; and click! click! click! it went, so cheerfully, that even the old hoary figure of Time with a scythe, which was painted on it, looked benignant and happy, as if well satisfied with his continual harvest of holy and profitable hours. Betsey, the elder of the two girls, was unfortunately lame, from an accident she had received in her babyhood. She could not, therefore, be so active as her sister, but she made up for it in the activity of her mind. She was wise and thoughtful, and her mother relied upon her much for advice and sympathy in times of difficulty. Jill, the younger, was the pride and joy of the neighbourhood. She was here, there, and everywhere, wherever there was work to be done. She milked the cow; she baked the bread, she could mend the thatch, and weed the garden. And then she had such a pretty face, such a neat little figure; her hair was always so clean and so nicely arranged. Many lads of the village were in love with her, and one among them was Jack Sullivan, the son of their nearest neighbour. He had known her for a great many years, without caring more about her than he did about other young maidens; but one day as he was passing the widow’s front garden, he saw Betsey leaning over the half-door of the cottage, and Jill mounted on a ladder, mending the thatch of the roof. There was a gentle breeze stirring, and it played and whispered about her little form very lovingly. The small check apron round her pretty waist, waved and fluttered about, and curled round behind, as if playing at hide-and seek with the morning breeze, and now and then a wavy movement of the neat stuff gown showed her well-turned ancles and little feet. The sunlight played upon her shining hair; her face was so rosy and full of smiles; her hands moved so nimbly at her work, and all the curves of her young figure were so graceful, that Jack stood still a long time to look at her. From that hour he fell in love. Jack himself was a good-looking fellow, very good-looking indeed. He had, besides, free, frank, good-natured ways, and was a great favourite in the village for his generosity, and his gay and lively manners. He could play the fiddle a little, sing a song with spirit, and dance as gaily as if all the blood within him were a current of joy. He became now a frequent visitor at the widow’s cottage. What he came for was soon plain enough to the mother and to Betsey, and indeed to any one that observed; but Jill—sly, blushing, little Jill—pretended not to know anything about it. One day, however, she knew all about it, because Jack told her; and oh! to see the little maiden then! It was well there was nobody by,—she could not have borne it. She lifted up that little apron of hers, and covered her pretty face with it, burning with blushes. Jack had put such an important question to her, that it was quite impossible she could answer it at once without consulting her mother; but the blushing brow, the sparkling eyes, the trembling little hand, were almost answer enough for him.

The mother shook her head when she heard of what had passed between Jack and her daughter. She loved him for his generosity and liveliness, but she knew well his defects of character. Jack was not a thrifty fellow. He loved his pleasures better than his business. His cottage and garden were both in sad disorder. His fences, too, were broken down; the weeds grew in his fields; and, altogether, his affairs were in anything but a prosperous condition. Of course, the good mother could not think of such a suitor to her thrifty little daughter, until he altered his habits and gave some promise of becoming a steady and industrious man. Jack was told this—and his conscience, besides, whispered to him that he had been careless and indolent, and that it was nothing more than right that Jill’s little hand should be denied him till he had shown some proofs of care and frugality. But with such a reward to encourage him and urge him on, he felt a new life at his heart; he made a manful beginning of improvement, and probably would have gone successfully on, but for an accident which brought sorrow to both families, and for a time disabled Jack altogether. There had been long drought in the summer; a drop of rain had not fallen for a fortnight; the ponds in the neighbourhood were dried up, and the wells gave but a very scanty supply. The best of these was at some distance from the village at the top of a hill, with a well-worn path on one side, but covered with grass and underwood on all the others. One day, Jill, wanting water for her cows and for household purposes, proposed to go up the hill to fetch some. Jack readily offered to help her. He obtained a donkey cart, and filled it with buckets, and drove to the foot of the hill, with Jill in company. They went up together, Jack holding her by the hand and helping her on. When they had reached the top and filled their pails, he proposed to go down the other side of the hill, the distance being a little shorter. It was steeper and more slippery it was true, but still he thought he could venture. He went first, with a full pail in his hand, and Jill followed behind him. They had not gone more than half-way down when Jack’s feet began to slide over the smooth, steep ground, and down he fell on his side, and rolled, over and over. Poor Jill screamed, leaned forward, and, in her turn, fell and rolled down the hill behind Jack. On they went, over and over down the hill, like a couple of cricket-balls, and nothing could stop them till they came to the bottom. The mere rolling down hill would not perhaps have have done them any great harm, for the ground at that part was soft and grassy; but the worst of it was that Jill’s pail—when it fell from her hand—struck Jack’s head, and it went bump! bump! all the way down-hill close to him, hitting him now and then on the ribs rather roughly. They were both picked up at the foot of the hill, and placed, carefully, side by side in a cart, with a truss of straw strewn over it to relieve the jolting. It was soon evident that Jill, though a good deal frightened, was not much hurt; but Jack’s fall was somewhat serious. His head was bleeding, and, when the Doctor examined him, he said, that two of his ribs were broken. A day or two’s nursing brought Jill round again, for there was nothing seriously the matter with her; but Jack’s illness kept him to his bed some weeks.

Stars shine in the night, and so love burns with peculiar fervour in the hours of affliction and sorrow. Jill and her mother waited upon their patient with tenderest care. His food and his medicine were given to him by their gentle hands; he sank into slumber at night with the echoes of their prayers in his ears; and when he awoke in the morning, the first eye-beams that met his own were theirs. The love in his heart strengthened, and grew under such influences. He made all sorts of generous resolves as to what he would do when he got well—how hard he would work! how prudent and careful he would be! Nothing was too hard to do or to endure, to gain such a wife as Jill.

With such excellent nursing, Jack recovered in due time, and came out of his illness quite well and cheerful, One evening, after his recovery, he was seated in the widow’s kitchen, talking to Jill and Betsey, while they arranged their garden-pots of flowers in the window, when the door opened, and Father M’Callagh, the parish priest, entered the room, holding a letter in his hand.

“Jack!” said the Father, “I have just called upon you; but not finding you at home, I guessed very naturally that you were here. While I was standing at your doorway, the village postman came with this letter; and as I knew pretty well where you were, I offered to deliver it to you. Do not stand upon any ceremony with me, but read your letter at once, while Mrs. M’Carthy, Betsey, and I, have a little quiet talk together.”

Jack opened the letter, and read it aloud to Jill. It was from a cousin of his, who had gone to America about ten years ago. He was now a small but substantial and thriving farmer in one of the Western States; and, as he wanted help in his farm, he had written to Jack, offering him a free passage out and good wages. The letter stated that the labour required would be constant and steady—now and then, perhaps, severe—but that the reward would be sweet and sure. It also enclosed an order, on an Irish Bank, for a small sum of money.

Jack looked at the maiden in silence. There were tears in her eyes. Then the letter was handed to Betsey and the mother, and they both read it; a solemn stillness came over the spirits of the family.

“What is to be done?” said Jack.

“Suppose we ask Father M’Callagh to advise us,” said Betsey.

The letter was instantly put into the good man’s hand. He looked over it, and then advancing to where Jack and Jill sat, he took the little hand of the maiden in one of his own, and laid the other in a friendly manner on Jack’s shoulder.

“My advice,” said he, in a firm and cheerful voice, “is—Go! Go! by all means.”

The young people looked up with distressed countenances, but spoke not a word.

“Jack, my friend!” said the old man, cheerfully, “you are at heart a good fellow; but you have some serious faults, which you are now striving bravely to amend. You have made a capital beginning, but as yet it is only a beginning. When we awaken to a sense of duty, we ought to accept opportunities which put our virtue to the proof. Inward resolutions must become outward life. Virtuous sentiments must speak out in virtuous habits; practice must prove theory. Now, Jack, my boy! shew a brave spirit. Accept this trial. Go to America! work! be thrifty! Put by what you can reasonably spare; and in about a twelvemonth, perhaps, you will be able to send for little Jill and make her your wife.”

Jack’s countenance brightened, and so did Jill’s a little, though her tears continued falling; but it was now the widow’s turn to be sorrowful. The thought of her daughter’s going away to marry in a foreign land was hard to bear; but Father M’Callagh comforted her. She came to see that the arrangement was natural and wise; and, after some little hesitation, she gave her consent.

On the following Sunday, the good old Father preached in the village chapel from this text:—“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me.” He attempted to shew, that wherever we go, in obedience to the voice of duty—whether upon burning sands or freezing snows—whether in the flowery meadows or on the stormy seas—the love, and mercy, and tenderness of heaven would hover over us still, making our happiness fruitful, and turning our sorrows into joy. It was a very comforting sermon for the family; and when the evening of that Sabbath came, it was one of the sweetest and calmest they had ever enjoyed. The stars that glittered in the skies seemed like the eyes of angels looking down upon them; and the cool breeze that touched their cheek and hair as it swept by, was like the kiss of an invisible spirit, stooping down from a higher world.

Time flew rapidly on, and the day for parting came. Jill went with her lover to the ship. She saw it leave the quay at Cork; she watched it from the sea-shore, as with outspread sails it glided on and on. She lingered on the beach till the shadows of evening fell, and the vessel containing her dearest friend faded away like a speck on the horizon. She wept a little—it was natural, she could not help it; but the tears were not altogether bitter. The night wind swept over the sea with a solemn sound; the waves broke upon the shore, and to the pious listener they seemed to say—“Fear not! we roll in the hollow of His hand.”

* * * * *

Among the old lovers of little Jill was one Laurence Doheney, the village postmaster’s son. She had never given him the slightest encouragement; but now that Jack had gone to America, he thought there was a chance for him, if he chose to persevere; and persevere he did, much to Jill’s annoyance. He would sit upon the garden railings, playing a few notes on an old cracked fiddle he had borrowed, and sing a rude verse of a song which some one had written for him:—

“My pretty Jill!
Have you I will!
I’ll be your constant lover.
When one’s away,
The wise would say,
‘Take comfort in another.’”

Such a rude verse as this was, of course, not at all likely to please so faithful a girl as Jill. It deeply offended her. She turned a deaf ear and a severe countenance to all that he had to say, and his foolish wooing was all in vain. Seeing that he could not succeed at all, and that he did not get even so much as a smile, his love (if, indeed, it ever was love) soured into vexation and anger. He took to teazing her about her tumble down-hill, and made rude jests about the droll figure she must have cut, when she came rolling over and over, like a snow-ball, with Jack before her. He even went so far as to bring a bell, one day, and ring it like a town-crier three times, while he cried out—“O yes! Lost, a pair of young lady’s garters, while tumbling down hill. Whoever will bring the same to Miss Jill McCarthy, will receive one shilling reward.” This foolish and vexatious nonsense went on for some time. Jill took but little notice of it; and she hoped that, ere long, Laurence himself would grow tired of his own unkindness and folly.

Meanwhile time flew on rapidly. The vessel which had taken Jack out to America returned to Cork; but, strange to say, no letter had yet been received by Jill. A sailor on board the ship, who had some relations in the village, reported that he had seen Jack leave the ship on her arrival, safe and sound, but that since that time he had neither heard nor seen anything of him. This information was satisfactory, as far as it went; but, of course, it was not enough, nor anything like enough, for a loving heart like Jill’s. It was strange she did not hear from him! What could be the matter? Five months—six months—seven months passed away, but no letter. Poor Jill! she went into secret places, and wept bitterly; she pined, lost her appetite, and grew pale. Her mother and sister comforted her to the best of their power; but her heart was deeply wounded, and it would not heal.

One day, when Father M’Callagh was visiting the cottage, and the deep grief and disappointment of poor Jill was being talked over, he suddenly fell into a deep silence, as if some thought had suddenly struck him. Presently, turning to the chair where Jill sat, he spoke to her,—

“My child! I have heard that Laurence Doheney, the postmaster’s son, has been troublesome to you since Jack’s departure, and that he has tried to get himself accepted as your suitor.”

“Yes, Father, he has annoyed me very much. Of course, I have had nothing to say to _him_; and now I hope he will have nothing to say to _me_.”

“Humph!” said the old Father. Then, after a long pause, he continued, “Jill, my child, I daresay you know when the next mail is due from America?”

“Yes,” she replied, drawing out a slip of newspaper from her pocket; “I study such things now. Here it is! To-morrow!”

“That is at Cork, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Then, the day after to-morrow the letters ought to be delivered in the village, if there be any. My child, you will probably see me on that day. Meanwhile, be patient and hopeful. I dare be sworn Jack is constant and true. I much fear that others——.” And here his countenance grew grave and sorrowful; but he checked himself, looked smilingly again, and bidding them all a gentle adieu, went his way.

* * * * *

On the day appointed for his again visiting the cottage, Father M’Callagh went into the post-office of the village. Holding out his hand to the postmaster, he began to inquire, in a friendly way, after his health and that of his family, and begged permission to be seated there a short time, as he was weary.

“As long as you please, Father—none more welcome!”

And then they began chatting together, the two old men, of the times when they were young—of men and things—of joys and sorrows long since past away. Laurence was in the room.

Presently, a horn was heard.

“Here comes the mail from Cork, father!” said Laurence, starting up, and taking in the bag at the doorway.

“Very well,” said his father, “untie the bag, and go on sorting. I will be ready presently.”

Father M’Callagh shifted his chair a little, so as to command a good view of the movements of Laurence, while seeming not to notice him. He entered into conversation again with the elder Doheney.

It was but a small packet of letters; and Laurence, who had long been used to help his father in such matters, very quickly divided them into their proper parcels. But there was one letter which, instead of putting on the table with the others, he snapped up with a rapid movement, and put into the side-pocket of his jacket.

But, quick as this was done, the watchful eye of Father M’Callagh saw it. He rose from his seat, went up to Laurence, laid his hand upon his shoulder, and, with a solemn voice and manner, said:—

“Laurence! Laurence! I pity you. I fear you have done a very wicked thing. I would lead you back to honour by the gentle means of mercy. Repent now, while there is time to do it, without public shame, or by-and-bye Justice may seize you with a rough hand. Give me, instantly, the letter that you have just concealed.” Laurence, pale and trembling, produced the letter. It was addressed to Jill M’Carthy.

“I have no doubt,” said the priest, clutching the letter, “that you have several others addressed to her in your possession. Give them all up!”

Laurence unlocked a little drawer of his own in a corner of the office, and, with downcast eyes, put into the old Father’s hands five or six letters addressed to Jill. The seals had not in any instance been broken.

“Oh, Laurence! Laurence!” said the old Father, with emotion, “is it needful for me to say, how mean and paltry, how malicious, how unkind, how cruel is such conduct towards any one? But towards such a girl as Jill!—Oh, Laurence! Come! Come! I see the tears of shame and sorrow in your eyes. You _do_ feel it.”

Yes! Laurence did feel it. He buried his face in his hands and wept. Foolish habits and evil companionship had done him much harm, but they had not destroyed all good. Here and there, in his neglected nature, were some spots where the beautiful still grew, like patches of verdure in a desert of sand. Now, the good within him awoke and stirred—the evil sank into silence and slumbered. Shame and sorrow fell upon his spirit, as summer rain upon withering flowers, and the true and the beautiful revived.

Father M’Callagh promised the distressed father and the repentant son that he would not speak of this discovery to any one in the world but Jill. Now that a gracious repentance had begun its work, they need not fear anything harsh or indelicate from those who knew the circumstances. Then, with a few words of solace and encouragement, the good old Priest shook hands with both father and son, and went away.

In a few minutes he arrived at the widow’s cottage. He asked to speak with Jill alone, and then he told her of the discovery he had just made; he spoke, too, of the sincere penitence of Laurence, and asked her to forgive him. Then, putting all the letters into her hands, he bade her adieu, and left her to go up into her little bed-chamber, and read over their happy and loving contents, with beating heart and tearful eyes.

One day, about a month after this incident, Jill was sitting at the window working, when Laurence opened the garden-gate, and came forward with a letter in his hand. It had just arrived, and he had requested his father to let him be the bearer of it. It was the first time he had ventured to shew himself to Jill since the affair of his dishonour towards her. She came forward into the garden to meet him, and took the letter from his hand. He blushed, and trembled a little as he delivered it to her; with a faltering voice, he asked if Father M’Callagh had told her how very sorry he was that—

“Yes—yes, Laurence! he told me all about it!” said Jill, interrupting him. “I know you are sorry, and that you would never do so again to any one.”

“Never! never!” said Laurence, with great emphasis. “Believe me—never!”

“Of course, you would not! therefore we will say no more about it. Now, Laurence, please let me go and read my letter. Good bye!” and she held out her hand so prettily, and pressed it into his so gently, yet so warmly, and looked into his face with so much simplicity and sweetness, that Laurence felt the tears starting to his eyes. These new touches of tenderness and mercy strengthened his virtue, and made his heart steady in the beautiful change upon which he had resolved.

Jill, as soon as she got to her room, opened the letter. Of course, it was from Jack. It contained an order for £12 on an Irish Bank, and a very earnest entreaty that she would come to America without delay, and be his wife. It stated that he was now bailiff and manager of a good farm, which his cousin had just bought—that he had saved a little money, and had now a comfortable home, which only wanted Jill to make it delightful. The £12 enclosed were for the expenses of her passage out.

Such a letter as this could not be received but with mixed feelings. There was joy in the prospect, but it could not be reached without much present pain. There was a blessed meeting to look forward to, but there was also a sorrowful separation to endure. So it is! Heaven’s beautiful affections are the means of dividing families, as well as of drawing them together. And so it will be, till all are “gathered together into one fold.”

And now the hours, as they rolled on, brought near the time of another parting—parting, the lot, sooner or later, of all meeting things in this world below. Many of the villagers went as far as Cork, to see the last of their dear little friend; and when the vessel left the harbour, amidst the tears and blessings of mother, and sister, and friends, several of them (Laurence and his father among the number) clustered on the sea-shore, and watched it, as it glided away with her whom they loved on board.

Sail gallantly, proud ship! Waft her gently on, ye winds! Roll, roll ye murmuring waters! Rejoice, ye waves, and smile! for Love, the most beautiful of all things, is now upon the sea!

The Two Middies; or, a Fearful Encounter with a Shark.

My young readers will recollect, that in my last volume I afforded them some curious particulars regarding the “shark family;” I am now about to relate to them a story“ concerning one, which I know to be true. It was the year, 1835, that the fine Indiaman, the ”Rajah,“ had crossed the line, and stood on her way to Madras. There were, on board of her, two brothers, named Palgrave; one had the baptismal designation of ”Edwin,“ and the other’s name was ”Arthur.“ They were twin brothers, and Arthur was only a few minutes older than Edwin.

Both these boys had been brought up together—they had the same nurse, the same tutor, the same education, the same pocket-money. They were the same in appearance, in countenance, in stature, and so like that one was often mistaken for the other.

They were, however, somewhat different in character and disposition. Edwin was gentle and retiring, Arthur was bold and resolute. Edwin was fond of books and the pen, and of the pencil. Arthur delighted in riding, fishing, shooting, and boating. Arthur wished to go to sea. Edwin wanted to be a clergyman.

At last the time came for each to make a choice of a profession. Arthur was determined to be a sailor, and his father took the requisite means to get him entered as a “middy” on board the “Rajah,” and everything was soon settled, and the little boy appeared, dressed in his “uniform,” to the great joy of all his brothers and sisters, except Edwin, who looked upon it as a sign that he was now to lose the society of his beloved brother for a long time—perhaps for ever.

This was more than he could endure, and he therefore implored his father, with tears in his eyes, to get him a “berth” in the same ship, and offered to give up his idea of becoming a clergyman, and to share all the perils of the deep, that he might not lose the companionship of his brother.

I need not say how pure and holy fraternal affection is; nor how pleasing it is in the sight of Him who would have all men to be Brothers. But I may say, that the love that existed between Edwin and Arthur has never been excelled in my experience.

The ship “Rajah” pursued her way with a fair wind and a calm sea, and as she neared the point of her destination the weather became hotter and hotter. At last, the Indiaman lay becalmed, the sun darting down its heat so furiously as to make the boards of the deck shrink and crack. All the passengers were in a “melting mood,” and the crew of the ship in little better than a fry. The sun was indeed so hot that you might almost cook a beef-steak on the flat of the locker.

The most rational thing to do—when a person is hot—is to devise some means of getting one’s-self cool. And among the various devices commonly practised to produce this effect, that of bathing is said to be a very good one.

Many, therefore were the “bathers” that dropped over the ship’s sides to take a “salt-water cure” for heat, and among the bathers was Edwin. A sail had been let down with a large “bulge” in it from the main and mizen-yard, and on this, which had about the depth of six feet of water in its lowest part, the young middies and some of the passengers found a very pleasant bath.

Several persons had taken their ablutions and came on deck again. But Edwin lingered about in company with another middy, amusing himself with various frolics in the water, when all at once the head of an enormous shark appeared for a moment at the margin of the extended sail. The monster turned up its mouth, shewed its treble row of saw-like teeth, and descended rapidly. Both the youths gave a fearful shriek, and the one nearest to the ship’s-side laid hold of a “dangling rope,” and leaped into the vessel. Not so with Edwin. This poor youth seemed suddenly paralyzed with fear. In a few seconds the shark appeared again, and, making a lurch, threw himself over one part of the sail, and nearly swept the unfortunate Edwin into the sea. The enormous weight of the creature so slackened the ropes that held the sail on one side that it tilted, and left Edwin clinging to the other side in great terror, not knowing what would come next.

Arthur was a witness of this dreadful state of things, and Edwin instinctively uttered his brother’s name. In a moment, with his dirk-knife unsheathed in his hand, Arthur was by the side of Edwin. The soft swell of the sea gave a lurch to the ship, and, as the sail dipped deeper into the sea, the horrid creature made a movement towards the lads, turned his mouth upwards, and gave a snap—and so close was his monstrous jaw to the boys, that the rope to which they clung was cut in two, and the monster darted down with a mouthful of sail and rope in his capacious jaws.

The sailors on board were endeavouring, with all their might, to haul the boys into the ship; but before this could be done the shark made another plunge above the edge of the sail, close to Edwin, who instinctively threw himself more into the water at this moment. Arthur made a spring—buried his long knife up to the hilt, close to the animal’s jaw, and, quickly withdrawing it, gave him a like “dig” in his throat, and the blood gushed out, making the sea and sail quite red. “Bravo—bravo!” said the sailors on board, “give it him again, middy.” Before, however, Arthur had the opportunity of so doing the shark drew off, and was seen savagely frisking about at a few yards from the side. Shortly after he made another attempt, and Arthur made a bold lurch at him; but, in doing this, he over-reached himself and fell into the sea. In an instant the shark turned upon him, but while it was in the act of throwing up its teeth, Arthur dexterously dived, and, rising beneath the monster, sent his knife into its most vital part.

Feeling the wound, the creature twisted downwards, while Arthur rose to the surface—one mass of blood. The shark rose, too, but evidently weaker, and before he could make another attack Arthur dealt another blow at him, amid the cheers of the spectators. The shark endeavoured to dive but was unable: made two or three convulsive twistings, and then turned and floated, belly upwards.

As soon as the shark gave signs of being among the defunct, Arthur sprang to his brother, and clasping him affectionately round the neck, held on by the remnant of the sail till both were drawn on board, amid the plaudits of the crew and passengers.

Such, young friends, is the story of the Shark and the Middies; and I hope you will be so far instructed by it as to be ready, at all times, to venture your life to save that of a brother. You may not be called upon to do it by fighting with sharks of the sea; but there are “land sharks” worse than sea sharks, in the various business matters of this world, which it may be necessary for you to combat to save a brother’s life, or, what is equally precious, his integrity or his honour.

Transcriber’s notes:

In the text version, italics are represented by _underscores_, and bold and black letter text by =equals= symbols.

This book contains a considerable number of unusual and inconsistent spellings. In some cases, research indicates that a spelling that appears incorrect in current times, was in use at the time that this book was printed, however a good number are probably typesetting errors or originate with the authors.

In the majority of cases, spelling has been left as printed but a small number of errors which obscure the meaning for the reader have been corrected.

Both uncorrected and corrected spellings are noted below.

Some incorrect puntuation has been silently corrected

Page
p7 exhilirating — left as printed.
p8 despatches — more common than dispatches pre 1900.
p9 pecularity — left as printed.
p9 jackall — occurs occasionally in this era.
p20 comsumptive — left as printed.
p21 our — corrected to cur.
p21 summersault — Both this and somersault were in use in 1850s.
p26 discernable — left as printed.
p33 massacreing — occurs occasionally in this era.
p37 cupfull —left as printed.
p38 titilation — occurs equally with titillation in this era
p38 wont — corrected
p39 undulterated — left as printed.
p39 St. Columb — St. Columba used elsewhere — left as printed.
p40 hostlery — left as printed.
p53 chesnuts — chesnut may be correct, it appears to be used in
this era.
p57 Mahommedans — occurs occasionally in this era.
p58 p145 p239 p245 ancles — occurs occasionally in this era.
p59 gipsies — a more common alternative in this era.
p62 througout — left as printed.
p62 spiritural — left as printed.
p63 immates — left as printed.
p63 superintendance — left as printed.
p67 sumptous — left as printed.
p68 effctually — left as printed.
p71 Mediteranean — left as printed.
p77 distinquishes — left as printed.
p82 sumptousness — left as printed.
p84 entrused — left as printed.
p85 suprised — left as printed.
p85 commision — left as printed.
p86 powerful — corrected, there is space at end which probably held
it.
p88 to night — should be to-night for consistency - left as printed.
p92 Moscow to St. Petersburg — Petersburgh elsewhere but left as
printed.
p99 embarassing — left as printed.
p106 Ballinm — left as printed.
p107 Govenor — left as printed.
p107 Castellain — left as printed.
p112 trowsers — this spelling reasonably common in this era.
p117 vallies — left as printed.
p123 confectionary — this spelling reasonably common in this era.
p137 portentious — left as printed.
p143 Pharoahs — left as printed.
p144 Shakspeare — left as printed.
p145 Pharoahs — left as printed.
p149 bitumenous — left as printed.
p150 diminsions — left as printed.
p152 blithsome — this spelling occurs occasionally in this era.
p164 one o — corrected to one of.
p175 exhilirating — left as printed.
p189 materiel — left as printed.
p222 accellerates — left as printed.
p222 fushion — left as printed.
p222 homogenous — left as printed.
p237 notions — corrected to motions.
p238 shaped liked a fish — corrected to like.
p257 eutreaty — corrected to entreaty.