OR, THE LIFE OF A "Eyes right! my jolly field - boys, To teach your foes to yield, boys, Th' artillery's fire's like hell, boys, IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: J. F. FLOOK, CHARLOTTE STREET, FITZROY SQUARE. MDCCCXXXVIII. HAVERHILL. CHAPTER I. ONCE! twice the third knock brought my "Who is there?" he demanded. father. "An old friend," I answered; while it seemed as if my heart would jump out at my mouth. I had faced battle with as little trepidation as any mortal man ever did, but now I stood trembling like the veriest coward, lest the next word of my aged parent should reveal some afflicting tidings from the few who yet remained to me of a numerous band of brothers and sisters. VOL. III. B "I know of no old friend that speaks with that voice;" said he. "Is it you, Jack? and if it is you, and if it is not you, what do you want here at this time of night, when you know that the hand of the Lord is upon me. When you know that, for all this, His anger is not turned away, but his hand is stretched out still,' how can you find it in your heart to disturb me-a brokenhearted man—at this time of night?" I supposed that the affliction to which he alluded was the loss of my brothers, and said "I want a lodging for the night, if you will be so good." "The hand of Death is upon my house; had you not better go a mile further on to Mr. Meshack Peabody's? He lodges folks who are benighted, and victuals them, too, and very well, it is said." "I would rather lodge here than in a palace.” My beds are very hard." "I have slept many a night upon them." "My food is very coarse." "I have eaten it for years." "Who are you ?" And he undid the door with a trembling hand. "Your son." "Who did you say?" "Lynn." 66 Lynn! He is in his grave: the worms have eaten him you mock me." "Not so; he stands before you. Father! my father! my dear father!" I held out my arms,but it was to receive him lifeless into them. The shock was too much for him, broken down as he was by years, infirmity, and sorrow. He uttered a shriek, and fell, fainting, on my breast, which never received a more precious burthen. His cry brought to my assistance the two persons whom I had seen in the apartment, and whom I now recognised as neighbours, and also brought little Michael from his bed, but, when they caught a glimpse of my face, they all retreated, leaving me to support him alone. I carried him into the room, sat him down on a chair, and busied myself in endeavouring to restore him. For some minutes I was so exclusively occupied with my father, and with means to revive him from his swoon, that I took no note of the |