Books and libraries not being so plentiful in those days, the only volume pertaining to the subject he could obtain was the "Life and Career of Whittington," who, from a poor friendless boy, became thrice Lord Mayor of London. This was sufficient for young Wightman; he had read enough; his resolution was unalterably taken; he would go to England and strive by every means in his power to reach the summit of his ambition.

Like all persons, man or boy, who are of a resolute, determined turn of mind, our hero was very reticent as to his future plans and purposes, concealing his high aims even from his nearest and dearest relations, unburthening his mind and the projects by which it was filled to none but himself and God. This is scarcely, however, literally correct. He had a "familiar," and that familiar was St Fergus' Well! Strange as it may seem, this ancient well and classical surroundings had from the first been the recipients of his thoughts, and with whom he had taken counsel as with animate intelligent beings. Not that the young aspirant was of a dreamy, poetical temperament. He had not the most infinitesimal particle of that in his composition. If he had had, he would never have achieved success as a plodding, moneymaking man of business.

Before advancing further in his career, his parents had now to be consulted. This he did with all the fervour of emotional feeling, yet with due respect and affection to those who had done well their part to him, and whom he most tenderly and reverentially loved. To his inexpressible delight, his father encouragingly approved of his plans, while his mother did not object, although it was apparent her negative consent was given reservedly and with great reluctance.

It having been arranged that Joe was to sail for London from Dundee, he paid his last visit to St Fergus' Well on the evening previous to his departure, to bid a final adieu to scenes which had become incorporated with his very nature. It was a beautiful summer evening, but Joe saw not its beauty; the

M

birds were twittering among the branches, but he heard them not; the bonnie burn was sweetly singing its low, quiet evensong, but he heeded it not. Sipping for the last time the cool, refreshing waters of the well, he vowed before high heaven he would not return to his native village until he was -Lord Mayor of London !

The next morning at early dawn, Joe, with his ash sapling in his hand and his little bundle o'er his arm, was ready for his journey. His father's farewell was tender and affecting; but the parting with his mother was, on her part, overwhelmingly sad. As she for the last time strained her favourite boy to her bosom, the only expression to which she could give utterance were these simple words " Dear Joe." "Farewell," responded Joe.

your boy will soon return."

"Weep not, my mother;

Footsore and weary with his journey, Joe arrived in Dundee in the afternoon, and proceeded at once to the office of the Dundee and London Shipping Company, where he engaged a berth in the steerage of the good smack Bridport, Captain Wishart. He then proceeded to the harbour, and deposited his bundle and stick in the little crib in the forecastle which he had selected as his berth. Finding the vessel was to sail, wind and weather permitting, at two o'clock on the following morning, Joe was permitted to remain on board, which saved him some expense, a matter of great importance to him in the then rather low state of his scanty exchequer.

These were the good old days of the trim sailing clipper smacks, which took from ten days to two or three weeks to make the passage-when there was no certain time for their sailing, far less any fixed period for their return.

So accustomed, however, had the voyageurs to and from the Metropolis become to this means of transit, that many of them, long after the steamers had commenced to run the passage with the greatest regularity, and in a twentieth part less of time, still preferred the "old way" in the trig sailing smacks. Major Guthrie, a well-known and highly respected

citizen of Dundee, took a trip once every year to London, but to the last he gave the preference to his favourite smack, the Sovereign, over the fast-sailing and splendidly equipped steamers then on the passage. When seriously asked the reason, one day, for this strange preference, he jocularly replied, “I always invest my money where I can get the best return !"

Captain Wishart, of the Bridport, was the real veritable type of the old "salt"-brusque, genial, kind-hearted, brave -always rough and ready for his work, and whose delight it was to encounter the tempest and the storm, and to guide his weather-beaten ship all safely and true amongst and over the roaring billows to her destined haven.

Long afterwards, when the Captain's son was appointed to the command of the steamship London, the late Lord Panmure was a passenger in that vessel in one of her trips from London to Dundee. The weather, after she had left the Thames, became very tempestuous and stormy, but so bravely and well did the Captain do his duty that the genial and appreciative peer proclaimed him to be "the prince of sailors," and, in the fulness of his gratitude, bestowed upon him a piece of ground at the West Ferry, on which be afterwards erected a cottage as a refuge from the storms of life, and which the old sailor very thankfully enjoyed when no longer able to contend with the warring elements on the sea, and from under the roof-tree of which his brave spirit at last departed in peace to the quiet haven of eternal rest.

Everything was strange and new to Joe, who had never seen the sea or a ship before. "A rough lot these sailors," said Joe to himself, "but I am determined to take nothing amiss, but to rough it with the best of them, deeming the performance of no duty menial or beneath me, if by the doing of it I can honestly and effectually advance my own interest," an axiom which afterwards proved to be the real cause of his success in life.

The tide was full, and the hour appointed for sailing had

arrived, but the wind had suddenly chopped round to the east, and Captain Wishart was reluctantly compelled to delay the ship's departure till the following tide. When the tide again was full the wind had become more favourable, and the impatient captain gave the expected fiat to make ready for

sea.

All now was bustle and excitement on board the good ship Bridport, the cabin passengers were all on deck, and the crew, all told, were running hither and thither, shouting " Aye, aye, sir," and unfurling the huge mainsail to the piping breeze, while the sonorous voice of the captain rose hoarsely and high above all in authoritative tones of high command, which to hear was to obey.

"Lend us a hand, young chap," jocularly cried one of the sailors to Joe, who, nothing loth, obeyed the summons with the utmost alacrity by pulling the ropes as the sailors pulled, and with a right good will otherwise assisting in their duties to the best of his ability.

"That's a good lad," encouragingly said the captain; "you'll be Lord Mayor of London yet."

Away down the beautiful river proud and swan-like the Bridport went, passing Broughty Castle and the Lights of Tay with a proud, majestic sweep, that bore her on triumphantly to the bar, o'er which the white-crested breakers ominously broke with a crashing, growling sound, which went to Joe's innermost heart of hearts, for the land of his fathers was fast receding from his view, and he now realised for the first time that he was literally and emphatically alone on life's dark and troubled sea, with none to guide the helm save He who alone can still the stormy wave, and bring the tempest-tossed voyager to the havens of earthly and everlasting rest.

The sailors prophesied it would be a "nasty" night, and Joe, feeling somewhat squeamish, and sick at heart to boot, retired below to his crib in the forecastle, ostensibly to sleep, but in reality to ruminate on the perilous future that lay in all its indistinctive outlines before him. The ship had now

cleared the Tay, and was tossing amongst the troubled billows of St Andrews Bay, her sails flapping in fitful thuds on the creaking masts, and her cordage, lashed by the roaring waves, groaning in agony like the vengeful demon of the brooding storm. Now down in the trough of the swelling sea, anon riding out the tempest on the crest of the mountain wave, with the sea-mews screaming ominously o'erhead, and the sleety rain falling in copious showers around, away went the little smack, right bravely clearing for herself a pathway safe and clear over the stormy deep.

Joe could not sleep; Joe could not think. Such was the fury of the storm, that for three long days and nights the hatches had to be fastened down, leaving the forecastle during all that dreary time in total darkness. Fortunately for our young hero, he was so miserably sea-sick all that terrible time, that he had ceased to think of life and its prospects at all, or if occasionally he did so, it was only to wish himself and all his ambitious hopes at the bottom of the sea.

"A rough beginning means a good ending," encouragingly shouted the captain, as young Wightman appeared on the deck on the morning of the fourth day, pale and sickly from recent illness, and ravenously hungry by reason of his long fast. The swell of the sea was still considerable, but the sun was shining bright and unclouded overhead, begemming the troubled waves with a silvery radiance very beautiful and exhilarating, coming after such a dark and fearful storm.

"That is Scarborough," kindly said our captain to Joe, as he leant over the vessel's side, evidently delighted he had seen the land and human habitations once more.

"When shall we reach London ?" responded Joe, apparently unheeding the remark of the captain.

"In three days at farthest," replied Captain Wishart; "but, dear me, my lad, he added, "your gills are as white as a well-bleached spelding. Come down and breakfast with me in the cabin, you require some nourishing food after your long fast."