The great advantage of being the fool of the family—My destiny is decided, and I am consigned to a stockbroker as part of his Majesty’s sea-stock—Unfortunately for me Mr Handycock is a bear, and I get very little dinner.

Fitting out on the shortest notice—Fortunately for me this day Mr Handycock is not a bear, and I fare very well—I set off for Portsmouth—Behind the coach I meet a man before the mast—He is disguised with liquor, but is not the only disguise I fall in with in my journey.

I am made to look very blue at the Blue Posts—Find wild spirits around, and, soon after, hot spirits within me; at length my spirits overcome me—Call to pay my respects to the Captain, and find that I had had the pleasure of meeting him before—No sooner out of one scrape than into another.

I am taught on a cold morning, before breakfast, how to stand fire, and thus prove my courage—After breakfast I also prove my gallantry—My proof meets reproof—Women at the bottom of all mischief—By one I lose my liberty, and, by another, my money.

I am introduced to the quarter-deck, and first lieutenant, who pronounces me very clever—Trotted below to Mrs Trotter—Connubial bliss in a cock-pit—Mrs Trotter takes me in, as a messmate.

Puzzled with very common words—Mrs Trotter takes care of my wardrobe—A matrimonial duet, ending “con strepito.”

‘Scandalum magnatum’ clearly proved—I prove to the captain that I consider him a gentleman, although I had told him the contrary, and I prove to the midshipmen that I am a gentleman myself—they prove their gratitude by practising upon me, because practice makes perfect.

My messmates show me the folly of running in debt—the episode of Sholto McFoy.

We post up to Portsdown Fair—Consequence of disturbing a lady at supper—Spontaneous combustion at Ranelagh Gardens—Pastry versus piety—Many are bid to the feast; but not the halt, the lame, or the blind.

A press-gang beaten off by one woman—Dangers at “Spithead” and “Point”—A treat for both parties, of “pulled chicken,” at my expense—Also gin for twenty—I am made a prisoner: escape and rejoin my ship.

O’Brien takes me under his protection—The ship’s company are paid, so are the bumboat-women, the Jews, and the emancipationist after a fashion—We go to sea—“Doctor” O’Brien’s cure for sea-sickness—One pill of the doctor’s more than a dose.

New theory of Mr Muddle remarkable for having no end to it—Novel practice of Mr Chucks—O’Brien commences his history—I bring up the master’s night-glass.

The first lieutenant prescribes for one of his patients, his prescriptions consisting of “draughts” only—O’Brien finishes the history of his life, in which the proverb of “the more the merrier” is sadly disproved—“Shipping” a new pair of boots causes the “unshipping” of their owner—Walking home after a ball; O’Brien meets with an accident.

The first lieutenant has more patients—Mr Chucks the boatswain lets me into the secret of his gentility.

I go on service, and am made prisoner by an old lady, who, not able to obtain my hand, takes part of my finger as a token—O’Brien rescues me—A lee shore and narrow escape.

News from home—A “fatigue” party employed at Gibraltar—more particulars in the life of Mr Chucks—A brush with the enemy—a court-martial and a lasting impression.

Mr Chucks’ opinion of proper names—He finishes his Spanish talk—March of intellect among the warrant officers.

I go away on service, am wounded and taken prisoner with O’Brien—Diamond cut diamond between the O’Briens—Get into comfortable quarters—My first interview with Celeste.

We remove to very unpleasant quarters—Birds of a feather won’t always flock together—O’Brien cuts a cutter midshipman, and gets a taste of french steel—Altogether “flat” work.

O’Brien fights a duel with a French officer, and proves that the great art of fencing is knowing nothing about it—We arrive at our new quarters, which we find very secure.

O’Brien receives his commission as lieutenant and then we take french leave of Givet.

Grave consequences of gravitation—O’Brien enlists himself as a gendarme, and takes charge of me—We are discovered, and obliged to run for it—The pleasures of a winter bivouac.

Exalted with our success, we march through France without touching the ground—I become feminine—We are voluntary conscripts.

What occurred at Flushing, and what occurred when we got out of Flushing.

O’Brien parts company to hunt for provisions, and I have other company in consequence of another hunt—O’Brien pathetically mourns my death and finds me alive—We escape.

Adventures at home—I am introduced to my grandfather—he obtains employment for O’Brien and myself, and we join a frigate.

Captain and Mrs To—Pork—We go to Plymouth and fall in with our old captain.

We get rid of the pigs and pianoforte—the last boat on shore before sailing—the first lieutenant too hasty, and the consequences to me.

A long conversation with Mr Chucks—The advantages of having a prayer-book in your pocket—We run down the trades—Swinburne, the quarter-master, and his yarns—the captain falls sick.

Death of Captain Savage—His funeral—Specimen of true Barbadian born—“Sucking the monkey”—Effects of a hurricane.

Captain Kearney—The Dignity ball.

I am claimed by Captain Kearney as a relation—Trial of skill between first lieutenant and captain with the long bow—The shark, the pug dog, and the will—A quarter-deck picture.

Another set-to between the captain and first lieutenant—Cutting-out expedition—Mr Chucks mistaken—He dies like a gentleman—Swinburne begins his account of the battle of St. Vincent.

O’Brien’s good advice—Captain Kearney again deals in the marvellous.

Swinburne continues his narrative of the battle off Cape St. Vincent.

A letter from Father McGrath, who diplomatises—When priest meets priest, then comes the tug of war—Father O’Toole not to be made a tool of.

Captain Kearney’s illness—He makes his will and devises sundry “chateaux en espagne,” for the benefit of those concerned—The legacy duty in this instance not ruinous—He signs, seals, and dies.

Captain Horton—Gloomy news from home—Get over head and ears in the water, and find myself afterwards growing one way, and my clothes another—Though neither as rich as a Jew, or as large as a camel, I pass through my examination, which my brother candidates think passing strange.

Is a chapter of plots—Catholic casuistry in a new cassock—Plotting promotes promotion—A peasant’s love, and a peer’s peevishness—Prospects of prosperity.

O’Brien and myself take a step each, “pari passu”—A family reunion, productive of anything but unity—My uncle, not always the best friend.

Pompous obsequies—The reading of the will, not exactly after Wilkie—I am left a legacy—What becomes of it—My father, very warm, writes a sermon to cool himself—I join O’Brien’s brig, and fall in with Swinburne.

We sail for the West Indies—A volunteer for the ship refused and sent on shore again, for reasons which the chapter will satisfactorily explain to the reader.

Description of the coast of Martinique—Popped at for peeping—No heroism in making oneself a target—Board a miniature Noah’s ark, under Yankee colours—Capture a French slaver—Parrot soup in lieu of mock turtle.

Money can purchase anything in the new country—American information not always to be depended upon—A night attack; we are beaten off—It proves a “cut up,” instead of a “cut out”—After all, we save something out of the fire.

Some remarkable occurrences take place in the letter of marque—Old friends with improved faces—The captor a captive; but not carried away, though the captive is, by the ship’s boat—The whole chapter a mixture of love, war, and merchandise.

O’Brien tells his crew that one Englishman is as good as three Frenchmen on salt water—They prove it—We fall in with an old acquaintance, although she could not be considered as a friend.

I am sent away after prizes and meet with a hurricane—Am driven on shore, with the loss of more than half my men—Where is the “Rattlesnake?”

The devastations of the hurricane—Peter makes friends—At destroying or saving, nothing like British seamen—Peter meets with General O’Brien much to his satisfaction—Has another meeting still more so—A great deal of pressing of hands, “and all that,” as Pope says.

Broken ribs not likely to produce broken hearts—O’Brien makes something like a declaration of peace—Peter Simple actually makes a declaration of love—Rash proceedings on all sides.

Peter Simple first takes a command, then three West Indiamen, and twenty prisoners—One good turn deserves another—The prisoners endeavour to take him, but are themselves taken in.

Peter turned out of his command by his vessel turning bottom up—A cruise on a main-boom, with sharks “en attendant”—self and crew, with several flying fish, taken on board a negro boat—Peter regenerates by putting on a new outward man.

Good sense in Swinburne—No man a hero to his “valet de chambre,” or a prophet in his own country—O’Brien takes a step by strategy—O’Brien parts with his friend, and Peter’s star is no longer in the ascendant.

I am pleased with my new captain—Obtain leave to go home—Find my father afflicted with a very strange disease, and prove myself a very good doctor, although the disorder always breaks out in a fresh place.

We receive our sailing orders, and orders of every description—A quarter-deck conversation—Listeners never hear any good of themselves.

We encounter a Dutch brig of war—Captain Hawkins very contemplative near the capstan—Hard knocks, and no thanks for it—Who’s afraid?—Men will talk—The brig goes about on the wrong tack.

Consequences of the action—A ship without a fighting captain is like a thing without a head—So do the sailors think—A mutiny, and the loss of our famous ship’s company.

News from home not very agreeable, although the reader may laugh—We arrive at Portsmouth, where I fall in with my old acquaintance, Mrs Trotter—We sail with a convoy for the Baltic.

How we passed the Sound, and what passed in the Sound—the captain overhears again a conversation between Swinburne and me.

The dead man attends at the auction of his own effects, and bids the sale to stop—One more than was wanted—Peter steps into his own shoes again—Captain Hawkins takes a friendly interest in Peter’s papers—Riga balsam sternly refused to be admitted for the relief of the ship’s company.

An old friend in a new case—Heart of oak in Swedish fir—A man’s a man, all the world over, and something more in many parts of it—Peter gets reprimanded for being dilatory, but proves a title to a defence-allowed.

Bad news from home, and worse on board—Notwithstanding his previous trials, Peter forced to prepare for another—Mrs Trotter again; improves as she grows old—Captain Hawkins and his twelve charges.

A good defence not always good against a bad accusation—Peter wins the hearts of his judges, yet loses his cause, and is dismissed his ship.

Peter looks upon his loss as something gained—Goes on board the “Rattlesnake” to pack up, and is ordered to pack off—Polite leave-taking between relations—Mrs Trotter better and better—Goes to London, and afterwards falls into all manner of misfortunes by the hands of robbers, and of his own uncle.

As O’Brien said, it’s a long lane that has no turning—I am rescued, and happiness pours in upon me as fast as misery before overwhelmed me.

It never rains but it pours, whether it be good or bad news—I succeed in everything, and to everything, my wife, my title, and estate—And “all’s well that ends well.”