SIR PATRICK’S GOLD CHAIN. 17 
of us were sorry to find ourselves in port on such a 
night, instead of tossing on the wild Atlantic,—though 
we little knew that even then, the destroying angel was 
busy with the fleet of fishing-boats which had put to 
sea so gallantly on the evening of our arrival. By 
morning the neck of the gale was broken, and the sun 
shone brightly on the white rollers as they chased each 
other to the shore; but a Queen’s ship was steaming 
into the bay, with sad news of ruin out to seaward, 
—towing behind her—boats, water-logged, or bottom 
upward,—while a silent crowd of women on the quay 
were waiting to learn on what homes among them the 
bolt had fallen. 
About twelve o’clock the Glasgow packet came in, 
and a few minutes afterwards I had the honour of 
receiving on my quarter-deck a gentleman who seemed 
a cross between the German student, and swell commer¬ 
cial gent. On his head he wore a queer kind of smoking 
cap, with the peak cocked over his left ear; then came 
a green shooting jacket, and flashy silk tartan waist- 
coaty set off by a gold chain, hung about in innumerable 
festoons,—while light trowsers and knotty Wellington 
boots completed his costume, and made the wearer 
c 
