Edward Burton

Two weeks after Burton’s arrival at home, he received the following letter:

Burton’s three weeks at home passed very quickly, but he responded to Tapley’s invitation in time, so that the cruise would not be delayed on his account. His rustication among the mountains had produced a marked improvement in his appearance, all paleness and feebleness having been replaced by a nut-brown complexion and a robust, muscular development. His friend received him most cordially, and the warm, genial hospitality of the whole household soon made him feel like one of the family.

Colonel Rufus Tapley was a gentleman of large fortune, and distinguished for his cultivated tastes and philanthropic impulses. He had retired from active business ten years previous, since which time many charitable and educational institutions had received from him not only important pecuniary aid, but also personal interest and valuable service in their guidance and management. Most of his vacation each summer was spent on his yacht, and no other recreation was so enjoyable as a “down-East” cruise. The Sea-Foam was a craft, not only of fine sailing qualities, but of comfortable and even luxurious appointments. She was ninety feet in length, carried a large spread of canvas, and the heavy brass mountings about her deck and stairways gave her a rich and attractive appearance. Captain Brown, with six stalwart sailors in becoming costumes, constituted the crew, and the commissary department also was well organized and complete. Preparations were finished, and promptly on the morning of the day appointed, the Sea-Foam set sail, with bright skies and a favoring breeze.

Burton was duly presented to Lord Percival and to Dr. Frustadt, and the whole party formed an interested group, as Tapley pointed out the various objects of interest which were passed in sailing down the harbor.

Lord Percival was a fine specimen of the typical Englishman of the aristocratic class, and had but recently arrived in America on his first visit. With a fine physique and personal presence he combined agreeable manners and an easy, cosmopolitan air, such as characterizes the best of his class.

Dr. Frustadt, who formerly had been a Heidelberg professor, was short of stature, with black hair, long mustache, and rather florid complexion. He had two long scars on his right cheek, the result of class duels in early life, while a student in the University. His devotion to pipe and beer was unremitting. He was somewhat accomplished as a violinist, and possessed a powerful baritone voice. His long hair, green glasses, and large meerschaum pipe, which was his constant companion, gave him a marked appearance.

The graceful yacht cut her way through the green waves like “a thing of life,” and the whole party sat in the shade of the mainsail, drinking in the delicious, bracing air, and enjoying the passing panorama. The shimmering waves reflected back in endless repetition the golden rays of the morning sun, and the spirits and anticipations of the party were correspondingly bright, as the cruise began so auspiciously.

The beaches, towns, and headlands on the “North shore” presented a varying and picturesque series of views, as the yacht gracefully glided on, till at length dinner was announced, and with keen appetites the party descended to the dining-saloon. Percival and the doctor, who were seated respectively on the right and left of Colonel Tapley, resumed a discussion regarding American institutions which had been begun on deck.

“I think,” remarked the doctor, “that State Socialism is the only remedy for the present monopolies, oppressions, and wrongs which prevail, and that the government should take the initiative by radical measures of reform. The labor organizations of America are our schools for the dissemination of socialistic principles, and in a few years, when we become a majority, there will be important changes. Although I am a German, we are international in our aims and principles.”

“May I suggest,” observed Colonel Tapley, “that I think you take an unwarranted pessimistic view of our institutions and their needs. As Americans, we are not conscious that any such severe remedies are required as many of your writers seem to think necessary. Evils certainly exist, but we have full confidence in the inherent self-regulative power of moral and patriotic forces.”

“In my opinion,” said Lord Percival, addressing Colonel Tapley, “your danger lies in the enormous extension of suffrage among the ignorant and vicious. Your political leaders, in their anxiety to catch the vote of these people, outbid each other in demagogic inducements, and you quite lack any hereditary conservative element to act as a regulator. Education and a property qualification should be requisites for suffrage. Our hereditary sovereign and nobility constitute a framework by the solidity of which governmental institutions are rendered strong and permanent. Republicanism in America lacks such a framework, and for that reason is structurally weak. Under a centralized system, abuses can be reached much more quickly and efficiently. Even the evils of despotism can be definitely measured and understood, and, in any case, relief from them is not hopeless and not always difficult. But in putting democracy on the throne, we have a possible monster, but yet so intangible that it cannot be successfully attacked. Who can curb such a giant when he fully realizes his strength? and where will his resistless march be stayed? A successful republic can only be permanently assured by a condition of universal intelligence and morality, such as are found wanting even in America.”

Dr. Frustadt showed symptoms of being an impatient listener, and replied rather positively, “I beg your lordship’s pardon, but there are evidences of an irresistible drift which will sweep away kings, dynasties, and even republics,—as at present organized,—and the outcome will be a new social order. When all monopolies have been absorbed by the State, all privileged classes levelled, all land nationalized, and all private accumulations of wealth made impossible, then poverty will be a thing of the past, and the ‘Golden Age’ will be ushered in. The hours of labor will be reduced to three or even less per day, and those who reach the age of forty-five will not labor at all. People then will have leisure to cultivate their minds, enjoy their recreations, and get the most out of life. How does that strike you, Mr. Burton?”

“Some might regard it as an attractive picture, as you paint it,” replied Burton, “but I fail to see any logical connection between your premises and conclusions, and I think that your remedy would be immeasurably worse than the disease. In the first place, labor, in the sense of work or occupation, is a blessing; not a curse. Without necessity for work, human genius, skill, talent, energy, and capacity would wither and fail of development. With no work there would be no recreation, and, finally, no amusement.

“The State, which you assume to be so perfect and omnipresent, would be as corrupt as the elements of which it is composed. Its natural functions only embrace that which is necessarily beyond the scope of individual enterprise. I can imagine no worse slavery than would result from the crushing out of individual ambition, energy, and enterprise. Socialism, even on a small scale, and with choice and selected voluntary elements, has never been successful; but the results of a compulsory, universal communism would be most fitly illustrated by turning loose a great menagerie. A practical object-lesson is furnished by a review of the condition of Paris while ruled by the Commune at the time of the French Revolution. As Byron expresses it,—

“‘In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.’”

“I fancy you are quite right,” observed his lordship. “The devotees of socialism utterly ignore the natural constitution of man; but, somehow, they expect to find men to fit their abstractions. Making over an institution does not make over human nature.”

It was evident to all that Dr. Frustadt was angry, but he strove to remain outwardly calm. The long scars on his right cheek were of a deep scarlet hue, but he pulled himself together and retorted with some show of deliberation: “The world is filled with injustice and oppression. Ill-gotten wealth rides rough-shod over suffering humanity, and class distinctions and favoritism rob the masses of their just rights and privileges. The ‘bitter cry’ of the outcast millions of East London falls on the deaf ears of lordly aristocrats who own all the land and nearly all the buildings of Old England. Such are the fruits of your boasted system of Church and State, of your combination of aristocracy and ecclesiasticism.”

Lord Percival looked bored, and Colonel Tapley, seeing that the argument was getting warm, especially on the part of his German guest, wisely planned a diversion. He gave Burton a slight nod, which the young man understood, and to which he promptly responded.

“It may be well,” suggested Burton, “to make an effort to find some common ground, so that, if possible, the truth may be evolved free from bias or prejudice. I think,” he continued, “that we all have the same aim, but we see different aspects of social and economic problems because they are colored by the various mediums through which we view them. Even error is truth distorted by a false standpoint. Let us take a brief survey, which, superficially observed, will seem pessimistic. Pessimism is unwholesome and abnormal, but it is inseparable from a low point of observation. As we leave the valley and climb the mountain-side, the fogs and mists which enveloped us, and covered our whole horizon, are left behind, and the clear, sharp mountain-peaks of truth stand out in bold relief. The peaks were always there, but our plane of observation was too low. Taking the standpoint of the valley, we see that although the developments of science, invention, and improvement have been so marvellous, they have not lightened the load of human woe. Science may add much to man’s physical accomplishments, but nothing to his real happiness. The cravings of his spirit are no better satisfied when he travels in the limited express than when ten miles an hour was the maximum. The gigantic armies and navies of the world, all in readiness to ‘let slip the dogs of war’ at a moment’s notice, show that all the developments of science have not diminished the animalism of the race. The daily press, with its thousandfold multiplied issues, pours forth a flood of mental pabulum which, in the main, is unwholesome and corrupting. We have a literature which, under a plea of ‘realism’ and ‘devotion to art,’ panders and appeals to all the baser passions of the lower nature. The love of country is displaced by the greed for office; devotion to the general good, by self-seeking and pecuniary advantage. Realism! low realism, everywhere! Nothing idealistic in the whole horizon.

“A greatly broadened scale of material comforts only increases and intensifies man’s sullen discontent with his lot. Remedial legislation piled mountain high complicates the relations, and increases the frictions of classes and ranks artificially held apart. Even education, in the ordinary sense, is powerless to lift men from the sensuous or animal plane. The intellect is cultivated and the tastes refined to the utmost without, in the least, quickening the moral pulse, or lifting man, as a spiritual being, into a higher and more harmonious environment. Natural and ethical laws, older than the Decalogue, are declared faulty or obsolete, and the prevailing current is towards a chaos of Artificialism. Men close their eyes to dangers in front and stop their ears to the noise of the breakers before them. The spectres of Anarchism and Communism, with their barbaric hopelessness and despair, loom up in the perspective. The mental horizon of the vast majority is practically limited by the boundary of the sensuous, seen, and the material. The rush for power, place, wealth, fashion, display, position, is impetuous and almost universal. All these form but a partial catalogue of the shadows which darken the horizon as seen from the materialistic or valley standpoint. What can dispel the gloom and roll away the heavy threatening clouds?

“No development of science, aërial navigation, perfected phonographs, nor telephones, technical education, improved legislation, sanitation, medication, nor all combined, can enhance human happiness or produce harmony. No changes in external forms of government, from monarchy to republic, or republic to monarchy, can cure the ills of society, which, on the contrary, multiply with the successive developments of material, scientific progress. The world is full of discords, its instruments are out of tune.

“As Shakespeare observes,—

“All the forces so implicitly relied upon, and all the instrumentalities that are visible to material sense, are utterly powerless to vitalize and purify the tainted life-currents of human society.

“Now let us turn our backs upon that view, and climb the mountain-side for a new standpoint. We have left the sweat, and grind, and rage for material gains, and the horizon of fog and mist which seemed so solid, and now, around and above, stand out the veritable bold headlands of spiritual achievement, glistening in the sunlight of truth. The things in the valley which were so permanent and valuable, and for which we so earnestly strove, were but toys, or at most panoramic views, already passed. The whole realm of truth, above and below, in itself is unchanged; but to us, with a new point of view, it has been transformed. Who shall teach mankind that the material is immaterial, and the immaterial material? The individual must be lifted to the recognition of the divine qualities of love, truth, life, purity, harmony, and joy, as real, natural, logical, scientific, and attainable verities. A corresponding cognition of sensuous and material things as shadowy and unreal, causes them to fall into line where they normally belong. As one writer well expresses it,—‘Matter is never in its right place till it vanishes, leaving only the sweet odors of spirit.’

“All this because man is primarily a spiritual being; he is material only in a secondary and external sense. A correction of this inverted, this wrong-side-up life of humanity, would bring harmony out of discord, order out of chaos, and would transform the chilly, diseased, morgue-like atmosphere of the world into the warm aroma of a perennial flower-garden.”

The attention of all had been fixed upon Burton during his argument. Dr. Frustadt seemed to have been listening to a dialect which to him was hardly intelligible. His crimson scars had lost their fiery glow, and his defiant gaze, which before had been riveted upon Lord Percival, was downcast and tame. His lordship seemed thoughtful, and all the rest much interested. Tapley was delighted that his friend had so exactly expressed his own views, even better than he himself could have done.

At length, Lord Percival resumed,—

“Perhaps I do not perfectly comprehend the drift of your argument, but I infer that you turn to religion as the only remedy for the social, economic, and moral wrongs of society. Have we not had the Church, with all its services, ordinances, sacraments, and institutions, in full operation for centuries? Its ecclesiastics are able and conscientious men, its missionary, charitable, benevolent, and remedial institutions were never so active and numerous as now, yet the tide of wretchedness, crime, and discord appears stronger than ever before. If religion is the antidote, why, with its full and long application, do disorders increase?”

“Religion, if defined as a recognition of God, as the object of love and worship, is the sovereign remedy,” said Burton; “but even the very significance of the word has become modified. The Church is a good institution; and it is practically useful in just the degree that it spiritualizes mankind. Unfortunately, with some, religion means the conscientious observance of a ritual; with others, the intellectual acceptance of a particular creed or system, or the observance of certain ordinances; in other cases, the external regard, as a duty, of the moral code. All these, in various combinations, mainly make up the religious ideal of mankind. Religion is usually presented as something supernatural or unnatural, in the light of an abnormal necessity or duty, and for these reasons it is unattractive to the human family, who really are suffering for it. What is needed is more emphasis upon its spirituality, less upon its history; more upon its union with an immanent God, less of doctrine and scholasticism; more of a consciousness of the Holy Spirit as a practical force and continuous revelation, and less institutionalism, literalism, and dogmatism; more naturalness and attractiveness, and less of the speculative and supernatural. With such a religion, its enemies would be disarmed, and the world would seek it as a thirsty traveller craves a cooling draught. Systems of theology have placed God at a distance, and have delineated Him in such a light that the affections of men have not responded. It is just to admit that, in general, Church theory regarding spiritual verities is correct; but, practically, to the vast majority, religion means the things before enumerated. The clergy are earnest, honest, and conscientious, but, by the very nature of their education, they are moulded in fixed systems. Their standpoint has been already provided, and they cannot erect an independent one without making great sacrifices and breaking strong ties. Scholastic and artificial accretions have overlaid and obscured the simple abounding love, faith, and hope of the primitive Church, when men lived in the Unseen, face to face with God.

“You will pardon me for drifting into what you may call theology, while discussing social and political economy, but all Truth is one.

“Dryden well observes,—

“Science, falsely so called, has shut out of view all but the lower or material part of truth. Such a view has given it an incomplete and distorted appearance. A materialistic theology has also partitioned off a supposed supernatural realm, putting it beyond the reign of orderly law and sequence. Truth, being a unit, cannot be divided by any hard and sharp lines. Natural law, which is only another name for divine method, pervades and unifies the entire cosmos, spiritual and material. The general recognition of the spiritual nature of man, and the growth of a spiritual consciousness in him, is the sovereign and only remedy for human ills, whether moral, political, social, or physical.”

Burton completed his argument just as dinner was finished, and all arose from the table and went outside to enjoy the delicious air and views. Colonel Tapley and Lord Percival lighted their cigars, and Frustadt filled his meerschaum, and poured forth such clouds of smoke that Tapley quietly suggested that the Sea-Foam might be mistaken for a steamer.

“What city is that?” inquired Lord Percival, as he glanced along the North shore, and pointed to a place of evident importance.

“That is Salem,” replied Tapley. “It is a quaint and interesting old town.”

“Ah! I fancy that I have somewhere read that they burned witches there,” observed his lordship. “Beastly, cruel business! If I am not mistaken, it has not been practised during the present century. Am I correct?”

“Quite so,” replied Tapley. “Whatever there was of Salem witchcraft occurred long before the present century.”

“I am not well up in American history,” replied his lordship. “Can you tell me what there was in it? How do you account for the manifestations, and what was their nature?”

“Undoubtedly, they were the result of some form of animal magnetism,” said Tapley. “The natural laws relating to hypnotic influences were not then understood, and the peculiar phenomena were at once attributed to demoniacal dictation and possession. In the past, when any unusual or strange manifestations have appeared, instead of any search for the laws which govern them, they were at once attributed to special, supernatural agency. Any general idea of the universality of law is a conception of recent times.”

“Do you think animal magnetism harmful if properly employed?” said Percival.

“I think its name is significant,” replied Tapley; “its province is in the lower nature, and its animus is antagonistic to spirituality. Its manifestations all belong to the sensuous realm. Its forces are all contained in the ‘mind of the flesh,’ and therefore are ephemeral, among the things that perish. It is not strange that in times when all malign influences were directly attributed to a personal Devil, he was credited with these demonstrations.”

“They were all linked in with religious superstitions,” said Frustadt. “Wherever you find churches, there you find bigotry and superstition. From the number of spires that I notice along your ‘North shore,’ I am not surprised at a prevailing belief in witchcraft, or any other delusion.”

“The Church, with all its deficiencies, is infinitely to be preferred to a coarse, desolate materialism,” replied Tapley. “Your ideal man at most would be but a highly refined animal.”

“Well, I should even then be satisfied with him, provided he had no strain of ‘blue blood’ or ecclesiasticism in his veins,” replied Frustadt in an undertone, glancing at Lord Percival.

Tapley wisely planned a diversion, and, turning to Captain Brown, said: “Are we not on good fishing-ground, Captain? Let us have a little sport! A prize for the first fish.”

Captain Brown said that the chances for “a catch” were fair, and the tackle was put in order, and the sails adjusted so that the yacht would slowly drift while they were fishing.

Lord Percival got the first line out, and before it had reached the bottom the bait was seized by a good-sized fish. He gave a vigorous pull, and hauled in, hand over hand, finally landing a fifteen-pound cod on deck. “’Pon my word, that’s a beauty,” said Percival: “I fancy the beast will weigh thirty or forty pounds.”

“Not an ounce over ten,” said Frustadt. “The fish looks rather slippery, and evidently belongs to the higher class.”

Though there was a perceptible bit of sarcasm in the tones, Percival smiled at the hit and retorted,—

“Well, Doctor, if my fish is slippery, your first catch will have, pardon me, a very scaly character.”

“I will presently show you what fishing is,” confidently replied Frustadt; whereupon he dropped in his line and awaited developments. He did not wait long for a bite, and pulled away with all his might. He landed his fish, which proved to be a sculpin, which perhaps would weigh ten ounces. This caused some amusement, in which he joined with a forced laugh, but a close observer would have noticed that the scars in his face flamed out, as had been the case before. During the next half-hour several cod and haddock of good size were caught by the party, all of whom took a hand at the sport, except Colonel Tapley, who remained below to finish some correspondence. At length, Burton felt a tug on his line, so heavy that he fancied that his hook must have caught upon the bottom. In a moment more, as the line began to slip through his hands, he became aware that a big fish had been hooked.

“I’ve got a whale, or a sea-monster of some sort,” exclaimed Burton.

“Hang on to him,” cried Tapley, who hastily pulled in his own line, to be free to render any assistance possible. In spite of a strong though not unyielding resistance which Burton made, the line was taken out with great rapidity.

“I think that same fish bit my hook a few moments ago, but did not hang on,” said Frustadt.

“It must be the sea-serpent,” observed Tapley; “it’s just Burton’s luck, his bait bears a charm.”

Burton kept a steady pressure on the fish, and at length resistance ceased, and the line began to slacken; but steady pulling kept it taut, so that the fish did not get the advantage; but soon again it went out with a rush. After a series of struggles the captive was brought to the surface.

“A halibut! A halibut!” cried Captain Brown. The great fish gave a flop, and again shot away with lightning speed, having plenty of line under a steady but yielding pressure. After several desperate attempts to escape, it was evident that the contest was nearly over, and that the halibut must succumb. A small dory was lowered, and Captain Brown and Tapley, each with gaff in hand, jumped in, with Burton between them, who kept an increasing pressure on the now tired and yielding fish. At length he was brought alongside, and, by the aid of the gaffs, was rolled into the dory. He doubled himself up and gave a vigorous flop, which landed Tapley on the seat at the stern, and which came near sending Burton overboard. By the quick turn of an oar, Captain Brown gave the fish a sharp blow upon the head, which put a quietus to his flopping.

“A two-hundred-pounder, and not an ounce less,” exclaimed Captain Brown.

The fish was hoisted on board the Sea-Foam, and Burton received the congratulations of the whole party. Lord Percival suggested that Burton’s skill in handling a big fish was only equalled by his ability to discuss ethics and sociology. The whole party gathered around the halibut, as it lay on deck, to make a thorough inspection. Frustadt engaged in a critical examination of the mouth, when with a final gasp the fish closed his jaws, and one finger received a severe nip.

“How very awkward,” exclaimed Percival. “An example of muscular contraction, doctor.”

The scars were very red, but Frustadt made no reply.

The fishing was ended, the sails again were set, and, under the influence of a free, southerly breeze, the Sea-Foam sped eastward. While the gentlemen were engaged in reading and light games on the deck, Miss Tapley sent up a succession of melodies from the piano in the cabin below. Late in the afternoon the breeze slackened, and at length became so light that they were nearly becalmed; but, as the yacht was not far off Gloucester, they slowly came in to the harbor and anchored for the night. After tea, as the evening was pleasant, the whole party remained outside, and, by invitation, Dr. Frustadt sang quite a number of solos, playing an accompaniment on the mandolin. The air was balmy and tranquil, the moon full and clear, and the scattered lights of the old fishing town lent their aid in making the whole scene full of romance and beauty. Robust baritone melodies reverberated over the waves, so that groups of skippers and fishermen lingered on the wharves to catch the music which floated out from the Sea-Foam. Percival suggested to Captain Brown that in case a fog should be encountered, could he induce Frustadt to sing solos on deck, horns would be quite unnecessary. At length the evening wore away, and all retired except Colonel Tapley and the young men, who lingered, reluctant to lose the inspiration of the moonlit waves.

“Father,” said Tapley, “what is your opinion of your German guest?”

“I confess I cannot quite make him out,” replied the colonel; “he is somewhat of an enigma. My friend Radbourne, when in Switzerland, gave him a very cordial letter of introduction, and I thought we could show him pleasant attention by inviting him to join us on this cruise.”

“Have you carefully examined the letter, and are you quite sure of its genuineness?” asked the young man.

“I have been perfectly familiar with my friend’s writing for years, William, and do not think I can be deceived in that respect.”

“Well, father, if Frustadt is not a ‘black sheep,’ Burton and I are greatly at fault. We can feel him. We have a mutual and positive conviction that there is a hidden mystery about him, and that he is playing a part.”

“I will re-examine carefully Radbourne’s letter, William, and also will write him for fuller particulars; but, meanwhile, we shall be obliged to assume that Frustadt is Frustadt,” said the colonel.

“Certainly, we will treat him kindly,” replied the son. “There is no difficulty about that, but how about introducing him to our friends and to society? There is where we shall feel embarrassment.”

“I would send Radbourne a ‘cable’ for particulars,” observed the colonel, “but unfortunately I do not know his present address.”

“Well, there is no way but for Dr. Mystery to remain our guest for the present,” replied the young man; “but I believe some unpleasant development is liable to come. Have you noticed his sullen manner towards Percival?”

“To some extent,” replied the father, “but I attributed it to his socialistic crankiness. In Percival he sees an embodiment of the aristocratic idea, which is his bête-noir. While I have great confidence in your judgment, especially when supplemented by Burton’s, I am forced to believe that in this matter you may be mistaken.”

Thus ended the first day of the cruise.

Three days passed quickly. The winds generally were favorable, and the weather continued fine, with the exception of a single foggy forenoon. Stops were made at Portland and Rockland, for the foreign guests, as they went along, wished to see something of the country and the native population. Discussions of social and political economy were tabooed, and, with reading, music, story-telling, fishing, and the enjoyment of the scenery, the time was fully occupied.

On the fourth day of leisurely sailing, they approached the south end of Mount Desert Island. As they came near, its beautiful mountains gradually rose out of the water, and exclamations of surprise and delight broke forth from every one. Beautiful! Grand! Delightful! were among the exclamations which were heard on every hand. As the Sea-Foam glided past the Cranberry Islands, and neared the shore, picturesque details began to unfold themselves, and the mountain-range resolved itself into distinct peaks of varying shapes and profiles. Though very diminutive in bulk, when compared with the Alps, the Rockies, and even many of the White Mountains, they have a unique and ravishing beauty peculiar in its variety. Mere bigness is but one of the more unimportant elements of beauty. Variety, color, pose, proximity to the sea—these are among the qualities that are combined to a remarkable degree in this famed locality.

The great green waves in vain hurl themselves against the perpendicular wall of Otter Cliff, but the caves, the crevices, the ragged indentations, and the débris are evidences that, in the long combat, the more solid element has gradually yielded, thus illustrating the power of persistent energy in spite of unequal conditions. The warning tones of the Otter Cliff bell-buoy, and the rumble and roar of Thunder Cave soon are left behind, and the Sea-Foam glides successively by Great Head, Anemone Cave, Schooner Head, and Spouting Horn, when those unique and precipitous islands known as the “Porcupines” rise up as sentinels to guard the approach to Frenchman’s Bay.

The wind freshened as the Sea-Foam sped on towards the bay, its course lying near the “Thrumbcap” on the left, with Egg Rock to the right, and presently some of the fair and stately cottages of Bar Harbor gradually came into view. All were delighted with the shifting panorama, and in a half-hour they would be at anchor in the harbor, the outward part of the cruise at an end.

As they reached a point a little to the west of “Round” Porcupine, Captain Brown noticed a neat little schooner-rigged yacht, apparently about thirty feet long, and not far away, lying directly in his course. As he drew nearer, it was evident from the actions of those on board that something had occurred to produce the most intense excitement. Screams of terror, cries of “Help! help!” female figures flitting to and fro, a waving of arms, and general dire confusion were observable from the deck of the Sea-Foam. Captain Brown steered directly for the little yacht, anxious to render any assistance that might be possible. Every one upon the Sea-Foam was straining eyes and ears to catch the significance of the distress. The minutes seemed like hours to Burton and Tapley until they might get near enough to unravel the mystery, and render such aid as might be within their power.

“Oh, help! help! he’s drowned! he’s drowned!” were now among the exclamations distinctly audible. Wild gestures were seen, and incoherent wails and moans filled the air.

“Oh, my God! my God! he’s gone! he’s gone!” rang out distinctly in feminine tones as they drew near.

“What’s the matter? who is drowned? and where did it happen?” asked Captain Brown, all in the same breath.

“Our Tom! Oh, he’s gone down! he’s gone down! help! help!”

By this time the Sea-Foam was close alongside of the demoralized yacht. Three young ladies, in gay yachting costumes, were visible. Two of them were pacing the deck, wringing their hands and uttering almost hysterical cries for help, while the third, much more self-possessed, at once responded to Captain Brown’s inquiries. Two young men were seen, one just climbing on board the yacht, and the other, perhaps ten rods away, swimming towards it, both evidently much exhausted from their unsuccessful search after the missing person. They were unable to utter a word, and so could give no information.

“Oh! sir, my brother Tom was knocked overboard by the boom and has gone down, and we have drifted away from him.”

“Quick, tell me where he went under,” said Captain Brown.

“About twenty rods just in that direction,” she replied, pointing to the windward, to a place from which the yacht evidently had drifted.

While this conversation was taking place, Burton and Tapley had instantly divined the situation, and, with the assistance of two sailors, already had lowered the dory, into which they jumped, followed by Captain Brown, in readiness to act the moment the information was complete. By this time the second young man was climbing on board the yacht, and as no one at hand seemed to need immediate assistance, Captain Brown at once ordered two sailors to row to the windward, keeping his eye as nearly as possible on the spot before pointed out.

“Are you young gentlemen accustomed to diving?” asked Captain Brown. “The water cannot be very deep here, probably not more than fifteen feet.”

“We are quite at home in the water,” replied Tapley, “and will do our best to get hold of him.”

“This is about the spot,” said the captain.

Meanwhile, Burton and Tapley had hastily divested themselves of coats, hats, vests, and shoes, and they instantly dived, one on each side of the dory. After remaining on the bottom as long as possible, both came up, but they had met with no success. The dory had slightly changed position, and after a few moments of rest and recovery of breath, they again plunged in, but with the same result as before. This was continued with a little change of position each time, when, during the seventh descent, Burton saw a dark object, and made a grasp to get it, but failed. Again he went down, and, getting a slight hold, he slowly rose to the surface bringing it with him. The dark object proved to be the body of a lad, apparently ten or twelve years of age, whose jacket Burton had grasped with his left hand. It was the work of but two or three minutes to tenderly raise the body into the dory, and row back to the Sea-Foam.

“We have found the darling boy and think he can be resuscitated, so keep up good courage,” said Burton to the stricken party.

“How long since he went down?” asked Captain Brown.

“Oh, I don’t know! It must be as much as ten minutes, and, besides, he received a blow in his back from the main boom,” replied the young lady who before had given all the information.

“Oh, sir, can you save him? He is the darling and pet of our family.”

Without waiting a moment, Burton and Tapley carefully bore him below and went to work vigorously to coax the spirit to remain in him if it had not already taken its final departure. First they held him up, face downwards, to drain the water from his lungs, and then, while Burton tried to produce artificial respiration, Tapley chafed the limbs, and made an effort to again start into action the suspended circulation. Mrs. Tapley and her daughter, also, were untiring in their efforts, bringing out stimulants, warm blankets, and every appliance which could be of possible service. The lad’s short curly locks were but slightly disarranged, his face was bright and handsome, and a winning smile played around his mouth, and, from appearances, he might have been taking a nap. His body, however, was puny, his spine seemed not quite regular, and one leg a trifle shorter than its companion. While Burton and Tapley were devoting their best energies to the restoration of the boy, Colonel Tapley and Captain Brown were doing everything possible for the rest of the party. They were all taken on board the Sea-Foam, and Colonel Tapley directed Captain Brown to take the little yacht in tow while they came up to the harbor. The stricken party at once went below to see how it was with the dear boy. Was it possible to bring him back? and what means should be used? When they saw what vigorous and systematic efforts the young men were already putting forth, they began to have some hope. Colonel Tapley furnished the strangers with dry clothing, and was untiring in his efforts to promote their comfort. Percival performed many kind offices, and even Frustadt seemed anxious to make himself useful. Mrs. Tapley, in her sweet, motherly way, did all that was possible to calm and relieve the young ladies, and to inspire them with hope and courage.

Some fifteen minutes had elapsed since the recovery of the body, when Burton, who had closely watched every indication, detected a slight gasp.

In five minutes more signs of life became quite pronounced, and natural though feeble respiration and heart-action had begun. Soon consciousness returned. The lad opened his eyes, and seemed greatly surprised at the surroundings. He said that he had had a beautiful dream, but that they had rudely interrupted it.

The grief of stricken hearts, which had found expression in moans and sighs, at once gave place to demonstrations of gladness. The young lady who all along had been the medium of communication now noticed that Burton and Tapley were still in their dripping clothing, though they had forgotten the fact.

“Please let me watch my brother while you change your clothing,” said she.

Neither, however, would leave the boy until he was fully restored, beyond all question.

“God bless you both!” she exclaimed; “we can never reward you.”

“We are already many times rewarded,” said Burton. “The privilege of being on this spot, and of serving you in this emergency, is in itself happiness.”

The excitement was past, and the strange young lady desired to know her benefactors. Addressing Colonel Tapley, she said,—

“May I inquire to whom we owe such thanks that we can never hope to give them expression?”

“My name is Tapley,” replied the colonel, “and these young men are Mr. Burton and my son; and to whom has it been our privilege to render this service?”

“I am Miss Bonbright,” she replied, “and the saved boy is my young brother Tom. This is my sister Miss Rosamond, and Miss Jenness, and Mr. Van Roden, and my brother Adelbert,” said she, presenting each in turn.

“Is your father Edmund Bonbright of Boston?”

“He is.”

“I know him well,” observed the colonel, who then presented his wife, daughter, and the foreign guests to each of the relieved party.

“I think we may well call this ‘a surprise party,’” said the colonel, and while greetings and congratulations were going on, the Sea-Foam sped on towards her anchorage in the harbor.