Banks of Newfoundland, July 16th, 1846.
Little did you think, dear Bennie, while sleeping last night quietly at Bellisle, that your poor cousin Pidgie was in danger of being drowned. But so it was. The storm, of which Brown Tom had warned me, came on with tremendous force, and our poor little schooner was tossed about like a feather on the angry waves. I was so sick, however, from the roughness of the sea, that I feared little, and realized less, of our critical situation.
Clarendon says that Captain Cobb showed himself a brave man, and David was more active than the oldest of the sailors. As for brother himself, he did wonders. Old Jack told me this morning, that, when we came on hoard, he thought Clarendon was such a good-for-nothing that his life was scarcely worth saving; but there was not a man on board who showed more presence of mind and energetic courage. He really looks better this morning for his exertions.
Sick as I felt last night, there was one thing struck me forcibly, and that was, that those who had sworn the loudest, and appeared the boldest in wickedness since we started, were most frightened, and prayed most heartily to that Being whose existence they were before hardly willing to acknowledge. I can give you no better description of the scene than is found in the Psalm, which is so often quoted by those who are at sea; for the ship did indeed "reel to and fro like a drunken man."
Old Jack was perfectly composed. And well he may be; for he says that he always thinks in a storm that he may arrive shortly at a better port than he otherwise could reach in many years. He has been telling us this morning how he came at this happy state of mind, and several of the sailors were made serious enough, by the perils of last night, to listen patiently to his story, and perhaps you may do the same.
Before it was considered possible for a sea-faring man to be perfectly temperate, Jack took more than his share of grog; and, when on shore, spent all his time in dissipation. Luckily, he had no wife to be made miserable by his errors, though perhaps a good woman might have had an excellent influence on him. As he had no home of his own, his time when in port was spent at some miserable tavern by the water-side, where he could meet the crews of vessels from all quarters of the world, and join with them in folly and vice.
Two years ago, he had returned from a long voyage to the East Indies, and landed at New York. One Sunday evening, when staggering along by the docks and looking at the different ships, trying to meet with some of his old messmates, he noticed what seemed to him a most curious-looking vessel, and called out to a sailor near him,—"What in the name of sense is that odd-looking craft, without sail or steam, good for?"
"Have you never before seen the floating chapel?" asked the trim-looking tar whom he accosted. "Come aboard, and you will be never the worse. It's a church, man! Don't stare your eyes out, but walk inside and hear good plain doctrine."
"No, no," replied Jack; "I can't be pressed into that service. I am in no rig either for going into such a concern; and, besides, it's ten long years since I have been inside a church, and I should act so strangely that they would throw me overboard. There's never a word in the gabbling one hears at such places that I can understand."
"But this preaching is meant for sailors," continued Jack's new acquaintance, "and there is nobody else there; so you will be rigged as well as any of the congregation. Come along! let's board her right off."
Jack had a great deal of curiosity, and, after a little more parley, consented to go into the floating chapel. I wish I could repeat to you the sermon which he heard there, with the simple eloquence with which he delivered it to us. The text was,—"The sea shall give up its dead." The clergyman imagined the millions who should rise, on this momentous occasion, from the recesses of the vast ocean, and as he pictured the probable characters of many who should then come forth to judgment, and their unfitness to stand before that holy tribunal, Jack felt as if he were describing some of his own friends whom he had seen ingulfed by the waters. When thus summoned, as they must be, before long, to appear, with the same tempers and dispositions which they had displayed in life, would they be found prepared for a heaven of purity? Then came a vivid picture of the perils of a sailor's life, and the probability that its termination might be equally sudden. The sermon closed with an earnest exhortation to each one then present to live every moment in such a state, that, if death should surprise them, they might rise again to life eternal; and Jack, as he listened to the concluding words, felt as if the warning were the last which would ever fall on his ears. He might have soon banished the seriousness occasioned by this visit to the chapel, among his jovial companions, had he not met with a loss, which he now considers a most providential occurrence.
On returning to his boarding-house, Jack went to his room, and, on going to his chest, found to his dismay that it had been opened during his absence, and all that remained of his wages for the last cruise stolen. He rushed down to the landlord in great distress, but obtained little satisfaction; and there was something in his manner which made the poor sailor think that he had known of the theft. Jack left the house in despair, not knowing which way to turn, when he met the same sailor who had induced him to go to church, and who now offered to show him a more comfortable lodging-place.
"Don't talk to me of lodging!" Jack exclaimed. "I have not a penny in the world, and must ship myself in the first vessel that goes."
Jack's companion, with seaman-like generosity, offered him half of all he owned in the world, and was certain, that, if he would go to the Sailor's Home, he would find friends who would assist him in recovering his stolen treasure. Jack allowed himself to be led by his companion, and soon reached the comfortable building which had been erected by one of those benevolent associations which are an honor to the Northern cities.
The poor wanderer felt a greater sense of comfort than he had experienced for years, as he entered a pleasant little chamber in this truly homelike abode. When he had made the acquaintance of the kind-hearted landlady, he found her willing to let him remain, even after he had told her of his destitute condition; and she promised that every effort should be made to restore to him his hard earnings.
On going back to his snug quarters, after this conversation, there was something like thankfulness to the Giver of all good in Jack's heart. By his bedside he found a Bible, a volume which he had not seen since the one his mother gave him was lost, five years before, when he was wrecked upon the coast of Africa. He thought of the sermon which he had heard that afternoon, and took up the book to look for the text,—"The sea shall give up its dead." The first words upon which his eye fell were,—"For this my son was lost and is found." The beautiful story of the Prodigal Son, as he had heard it in childhood, came full into his mind, and he remembered how often he had read it at his mother's knee. The tears rolled down his cheek, as, sitting down beside the little pine table, he read again that touching picture of God's love for his wandering children; and when he came to the confession of the penitent son, it burst forth from his own heart.
From that hour Jack has been a changed man. Some of the benevolent persons in the city of New York, who have the welfare of mariners so much at heart, procured him a new situation, favorable to his improvement in character; and the next ship in which he sailed was commanded by a pious captain, who was a good friend to every man on board. When he returned from this cruise, he felt too old for another long voyage, and for the future was going to try and content himself with being out for two or three months on expeditions like that in which he is at present engaged.
Perhaps, dear Bennie, I have tired you by repeating this long story, which cannot be as interesting to you as it was to me from Jack's own lips, in the morning after a night of such excitement, with the sailors standing around, listening attentively to every word of it. Even brother Clarendon was touched by the earnest exhortations to them with which the narrative closed; and it seems as if being out of society had made him more serious than he ever was before. He laughs at me now very often, and says I was cut out for a Methodist preacher; but on Sunday he did not read any of the novels he brought with him, and though that does not seem a proof of much goodness, yet in him it shows improvement. If he should get his health, and become a pious man, what a comfort he would be to 'ma; for she thinks he is almost perfect now.
We have just "come to" in a fine shoal of mackerel, so I must quit writing and go to fishing; for David and I have a great strife which will catch the most on the voyage.
Love, as usual, to every body, from yours,
Nowhere in particular, July 22d.
I was almost in despair, dear Bennie, of ever getting a chance to send you the nice long letters I had written. Though we had been nearly three weeks from home, we had not stopped at any port, or spoken a single vessel. Yesterday evening, Clarendon was amusing himself with a spy-glass which he brought with him, and David and I were wondering whether it could make something out of nothing,—for there was no land in sight, or any thing else to spy at, that we could perceive. Brother's eyes, however, were better than ours; for he saw a speck in the distance, which he found to be a vessel of large size, and he called the captain to take a look at it. Captain Cobb pronounced it forthwith, from its peculiar form and the day of the month, to be one of the British steamers, which had got a little to the north, on its way to Halifax. He soon found that his conjectures were right; and as she appeared to be at rest, and the wind was fair, we made towards her with all possible speed.
It is a marvel to me how such a great, unwieldy thing can float on the water, especially as there is so much iron about it. After all, I like our old fishing-smack better than being within continual hearing of that monstrous engine; and then the smell of smoke and steam would, I am sure, take away my appetite, so that I could not even enjoy one of their splendid dinners.
But you have no idea, Bennie, what elegant style every thing is in on board these steamers. Two or three turns on the long, shining deck would be quite a morning walk, and the immense dining-room appears larger still, from the mirrors on every side. I had heard so much of the state-rooms, that I expected more than was reasonable; and when I saw them, the idea of passing night after night in such little closets was not agreeable. The pantry presented a beautiful assortment of glass and china; but every tumbler and cup had to be fastened to the wall by hooks, or, in case of rough weather, there would be fatal smashing. The castors, too, looked so droll, suspended over the table like hanging lamps!
The ladies appeared quite as much at home in their delightful saloons as in the most luxurious apartments in the city, and few Virginian drawing-rooms could make such a display of Wilton carpets, velvet lounges, and splendid mirrors.
These steamers must be nice things for women and children, for it cannot seem at all as if they were at sea when the weather is pleasant, and they are so used to spending their time in reading and working that it does not much matter where they are, if they keep on with these occupations. I suppose these ladies would have been miserable on such an old schooner as ours,—and some of the men, too, who looked almost as effeminate. I think Clarendon himself would very much prefer one of these nice little state-rooms, where he could make his toilet so comfortably, to his straw-bed in the old Go-Ahead. I am sure a dinner on board the steamer would be much more to his taste than biscuit and water, even with such nice fish as we caught this morning for a relish. He pulled up a whole barrel full of them himself, and that gave him a most excellent appetite.
At first, Clarendon declared that he could not go on board the steamer in his sailor rigging; but he had no other with him, and at length the desire to see what he called "civilized people" once more carried him over. You should have seen some pretty ladies, who were sitting in the dining-room, stare at him.
"That is a remarkably genteel-looking man for one in his condition," remarked the oldest of the group. "What kind of a vessel did he come from?"
"I heard one of the gentlemen say, as it approached us, that it was a Yankee fishing-smack," observed her daughter.
"He walks about as if he had been quite used to elegance," observed a third, "and does not stare around like that plump little fellow beside him, who is too fair to have been long on the water."
You may be sure that "the plump little fellow who stared about" was your cousin Pidgie, for David never looks astonished at any thing, and has so often visited all kinds of vessels that he is quite at home in any of them. He was able to explain all the machinery to brother and myself, pointing out the improvements which have been recently made in steam navigation with a clearness that I never could equal. I don't believe, though, that Clarendon heard a word of this explanation; for the remarks of the ladies in the dining-room had reached his ear, and he was terribly discomfited at being taken for a Down East fisherman.
David really seems to have more independence than my proud brother, for he don't care what people take him for, so there is nothing disgraceful about it, and verily believes that there is not a situation in the world which he could not do honor to, or make honorable.
Captain Cobb did not go on board himself, but deputed David to deliver a message to the captain about some fish, and no man could have discharged his commission with more quiet indifference. You could see at a glance that the son of the owner of the fishing-smack Go-Ahead considered himself quite equal to the captain of the royal steamer.
"Have you had good luck in fishing this season, my fine fellow?" said an English gentleman to Clarendon, who was standing with his back towards him.
I would have liked to have seen brother's face at being thus addressed; for I knew that there was a pint, at least, of the best old Virginia blood in his cheeks and forehead. The moment that he turned round, there was something in his air which showed the man of the world his mistake.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," he said quickly. "Your dress made me mistake you for one of the sailors; but I see from your complexion that you have not been long on the sea."
Clarendon received the apology very graciously, and now became interested in conversing with the stranger. Before parting with the acquaintance made thus unceremoniously, they had exchanged names,—for cards they had none at hand,—and the English gentleman partly promised to visit Clarendon Beverley at his own plantation of Altamac, which brother is to superintend on his return home.
There was a young Italian girl on board, as nurse to one of the ladies, who reminded me of a poor little fellow that recently died at Boston. David told me about him, and said that his face was the saddest that he ever saw. He earned a scanty support in a strange land by exhibiting two little white mice, which he carried in a small wooden cage hung around his neck. He offered to show them without asking for money, and when they ran up and down his arms, and over his hands, he would look upon them with the most mournful affection, as if they were the only friends he had on earth. Every one who saw him longed to know his history; but he could speak but little English, and shrank from the notice of strangers. He was taken sick and carried to the Massachusetts Hospital, where his gentleness won him many friends. But they could not stop the progress of his disease, or comfort his poor, lonely heart. The night before he died, no one near him could sleep for his piteous moaning and sad cries,—"I am afraid to die; I want my mother."
O Bennie! if we had seen this poor little fellow, so unprotected and sorrowful, with no means of support but exhibiting those poor little white mice, we should, I am sure, have felt that we could not be too thankful for all the comforts of our dear home. Yet, when I heard this story, the contrast with my own favored lot did not at first make me happier; for I began to realize how many miserable beings there are in the world, whose suffering we cannot relieve, and may never know. I could not eat a mouthful that day, for thinking of the melancholy little Italian boy. I wonder if that was his sister on board the steamer! How could his mother let him go so far away from her? Perhaps, though, she was starving at home, and had heard of America as a land of plenty.
I don't think that I shall ever want to go abroad myself; for they say that in foreign countries one sees so many poor, miserable children; and that would make me so unhappy that I should not enjoy any thing. I said so to David; but he talks like a young philosopher. He seems to have a way of keeping himself from feeling badly about others, though he has a very good heart, and, if he gave way to it, could make himself as unhappy about others as I sometimes do. He says he could enjoy looking at St. Peter's quite as much if there were a few beggars around it. I was sure, for my part, that I could take no pleasure in looking at the most beautiful building, if I saw any one who was suffering at the same time.
Clarendon laughed when he heard me make this remark, and said that I was too chicken-hearted for a boy, and ought to have been a girl. He need not smile at me, for he feels himself more quickly than the New-Englanders, though, after they have weighed any case of suffering in their own minds, they would do quite as much to relieve it. I can never think them cold-hearted, after visiting Boston and seeing their hospitals and schools. While I was there, there was a tremendous fire in the neighbourhood, by which a great many poor people lost their all. But the intelligence was hardly received before thousands of dollars were subscribed for their relief. They certainly have a great deal of real feeling and generosity, and if they would only express a little more of it in manner and words, every body would allow them to be, what I know they are, the kindest people in the world, always excepting the dear old Virginians. They speak, act, think, and feel just as they ought to do. You will perceive, from this last remark, that I am not turning traitor to the Old Dominion. We have been so successful in our fishing that I hope ere long to see it once more; and, till then, shall remain affectionately yours,
Schooner Go-Ahead, August 1st, 1846.
You will think from my last letters, dear Bennie, that I have lost all interest in Moody Dick; and to be sure I did forget his story in the excitement of our visit to the Cunard steamer.
The evening after that great event was so pleasant, that David and I, who in general are great sleepy-heads, had no desire to rest; perhaps from having seen so much that was new during the day. The sailors are too used to such visits to think any thing about them; and, besides, they are a mighty independent set of men, and care as little for the world as the world for them. Clarendon sat on one end of the schooner reading some English papers by the moonlight, which was intensely bright, while at the other end Brown Tom and some of his friends were regaling themselves with a smoke and a long yarn. I had not seen Dick since morning to notice him, but could not help observing him now, as he walked about with the air of a man who is trying to free himself from some melancholy thought. I did not interrupt him, when he passed the place where I was sitting with David, but two or three times he halted as he came by us. My Yankee friend was giving me a lively description of a clam-bake at Swampscot, in return for a picture I had drawn of life on a plantation in Virginia; but though it was most amusing, I could not help pitying Dick. By and by he stopped near us, and stood looking earnestly at something which he had taken from his bosom. A sudden wave struck the vessel, which gave it a tilt, and in preserving his footing Dick dropped a small locket on the edge of the deck, which David caught fast as it was slipping into the water.
As he handed the trinket to its owner, I could not help seeing that it held the miniature of a lovely child, not more than four years old. The hair was very light, and curled so sweetly, that the eyes were like Lily Carrol's, only a little sadder; but the mouth seemed as ready to smile as hers always is. The face was not at all like Dick's, but yet it reminded me of what his might have been when a child.
"O, how beautiful!" I exclaimed involuntarily, as David placed it in Dick's hand.
"Do you think so?" he asked, earnestly. "Look again at this merry face, and tell me if it ever ought to have been saddened by sorrow."
"But, you know, 'by the sorrow of the countenance the heart is made better,'" I replied, wishing to soothe the grief which he evidently felt, as he held the miniature for me to look at it again.
"Better!" repeated Dick, sternly. "There could not be a better heart than my sweet sister Louisa always had. That picture gives only a faint idea of her lovely face, for it represents its least pleasing expression, and she had not then reached the height of her beauty. Yet it is very like," he added, gazing sadly upon it. "Even now I seem to hear those rosy lips utter their first sweet lisp,—'Dear brother.'"
"No wonder that you loved her, if she was even prettier than this!" I exclaimed; "for I could lay down my life for such a sister."
"I did not love her," he answered, to our great surprise. "You are astonished at the confession; but I am not sure that, affectionate as you boys both seem, you either of you know what true love is. I was proud of Louisa. When she was an infant I liked to hear her praises; and as she grew more and more beautiful, and began to pour out the first woman feelings of her guileless heart upon me, I received them with gratitude, and really believed she was, what I called her, 'my heart's treasure.'"
"Then why do you say that you did not love her?" I inquired, hesitatingly.
"Because years have convinced me," he replied, "that I was even then, what I have ever since been, one mass of selfishness. I never gave up a single wish for her pleasure, or made one effort to add to her happiness. Never say, my boys, that you love any one, till you find your own will giving way to the desire to please them, and that you can cheerfully renounce your most cherished plans for their sake."
As he said this, Bennie, I asked myself whether it could be true that I did not even love my mother, and tried to think whether I had ever made the least sacrifice of my will to her comfort. O, how many acts recurred to my mind of selfish imposition upon her yielding gentleness! I am afraid that we boys all take the kindness of our parents too much as a matter of course, and do not often enough question ourselves whether we are making any return for their love.
But I am getting to scribble away my own thoughts quite too freely. Yet it is only a year since I could think of no other commencement to a letter than "As this is composition day, I thought that I would write to you."
As Dick thus spake of his own want of consideration for the feelings of his little sister, he became exceedingly agitated and was unable to proceed. Clarendon, who had finished reading his papers, came to the side of the boat where we were sitting, and told me that he was going to turn in, and that it was quite time for me to be asleep too. I was very reluctant to go, but when brother was out of hearing, Dick said,—"It is as well. I find I have not self-command enough to go over the sad story of my own folly. If you will give me a pencil and some paper, to-morrow I will write such portions of it as I think may interest or be of service to you. Do not criticize the expressions, for it is many years since I have done any thing of the kind, and the life I have led has about destroyed all traces of my early education."
Of course, David and I were obliged to accept this promise in lieu of the evening's entertainment which we had expected, and marched off to our berths.
The next day we came upon a fine shoal of mackerel; so every one was busy, and it was not till nearly a week afterwards that Dick handed us two closely-written sheets of paper, with a caution not to show them to any one else. David and I read them with much interest, and I copied them to send to you. Here they are, and you must take care that I have them safe on my return.
"It was not from pride that I was unable to go on with the history of my own early years; but I find that I had not the fortitude to bear the sad recollection of my own selfishness and ingratitude. My little sister's image rose before me with such sweetness and purity that I could not utter another word.
"I will pass over the years of my infantine tyranny till, when at the age of fourteen, I became possessed with a strong desire to be sent to a public school. My father was sitting in his large arm-chair, in the porch, after tea, when I made this request, which, at first, he refused to grant.
"'I shall never be any thing but a baby,' I exclaimed angrily, 'brought up with nobody but a mere child, and that a girl, too, for my playmate. Do send me where I can make a man, and be a match for other boys of my age.'
"My old father looked very sadly at this outbreak of passion, but did not reprove my disrespectful tone. 'Where do you wish to go?' he asked, soothingly. 'Can you find any one who will love you better than your sweet little sister and I do? She would be very unhappy if I were to send her dear brother away.'
"'And so,' I said, 'I must be tied to Miss Louisa's apron-string all my life, for fear the little baby will cry for me! If my interest is always to lend to her pleasure, I might as well give up all hope of ever being any thing now.'
"At this moment, Louisa, who sat swinging on the garden gate, fanning her fair cheek with the little round hat which she had just been trimming with roses, caught the sound of my angry voice; and never did a cloud more quickly obscure the sweet star of evening than the shadow fell on her young face. She dropped her hat beside her on the grass, and the ever-ready tear rose to her dark hazel eye; but she dashed it away, knowing that I was always angry with her instead of myself when I made her weep. She left her seat, and, coming up the walk with a timid air, stole to my father's side and whispered,—'O, don't cross Richard, father! If he wants to go away from us, let him. He will be happier where there are boys of his own age.'
"'And what will you do, my sweet pet?' asked my father, fondly, as he drew her to his knee. 'Will you stay alone with your old father, and try and comfort him.'
"'O, yes indeed!' she answered earnestly, as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. 'We shall get along so nicely together, and be so happy when we have pleasant letters from Dick, telling us how he is improving in every thing.'
"Hers was love; for she cared nothing for her own loneliness in comparison with the gratification of my wishes.
"So I left our quiet country home, with all its holy influences, for the turmoil and heartlessness of a large school, where I soon became the ringleader in all sorts of mischief. Before long, accounts of my evil doing reached my father; but Louisa, incredulous of evil, as the pure ever are, persuaded him that her brother had been misunderstood, and not treated with sufficient gentleness. 'His spirit has been imprudently roused,' she said, 'and that makes him perverse and forgetful of his better self. But all will soon be well again.'
"By being more cunning in my wicked exploits, I contrived to hide them from my teacher, and consequently was allowed to remain at school for several years, till considered ready to enter college. During this time I had made very short visits at home, and almost dreaded the long vacation before entering the Sophomore class at Harvard University.
"It is possible that in some respects I might have improved in appearance during my residence at school; but evil tempers and evil habits will leave their traces on the countenance, and my excellent parent sighed as he looked upon the hardened face of his only son. Louisa, also, found something unpleasant in the change, but said that no alteration would have pleased her which made me differ from the dear little brother with whom she had passed so many happy hours. I could not say the same of her; for, though my baby sister had seemed perfect, the tall girl of fifteen, who stood at the garden gate to welcome me, was lovelier still. The responsibility of presiding over her father's household and her anxiety for me had infused a shade of thoughtfulness into her otherwise lively countenance, which might have made it seem too full of care for one so young, had not the sweeter Christian principle changed it to an expression of quiet peacefulness.
"When I told of my school follies at home, Louisa would sometimes sigh; and then I would be angry at what I named her 'daring to dictate to me.' But I never could frighten her into approving what was wrong. I was not happy in her society, for much of my time of late years had been spent in a manner of which she could not fail to disapprove, and her whole life was at variance with mine. I do believe, now, in spite of her unwearied affection, that it was a relief to her when the vacation was over, and she had no longer the annoying presence of her wicked, wayward brother.
"Sometimes Louisa would allude to the way in which we had been educated, entirely unconscious that I not only had given up all religious observances, but even dared to make them a matter of sport. I was half ashamed, and quite as much provoked, when at parting she handed me a book of 'Private Devotions,' with a mark, worked in her own hair, at a prayer for absent friends.
"'You had better keep this book for yourself, little Methodist,' I exclaimed, trying to laugh off my vexation. 'Students have no need of such text-books, I can tell you.'
"'But students need the protection of an Almighty Creator,' she replied, seriously, 'and their absent friends, also, are only safe under his keeping. I always pray for you, my dear brother, as our mother taught me to do; and I had hoped that you had not given up the petition for your sister which you also used to say at her knee.'
"This remark brought before me the image of our departed mother, as she looked the last time I remembered to have seen her, seated in an easy chair which she rivalled in whiteness, so mild and calm, with the little curly head of my baby-sister in her lap, while she dictated to her the simple form of prayer,—'God bless my dear brother!'
"As the stage-coach rolled away from my father's door, I could not banish the vision called up by Louisa's parting words, and I then resolved to try and become what my mother would have wished. Vain resolution! Six weeks saw me immersed in all the dissipation that the city afforded, and in three months I had an empty purse, enfeebled health, and a hardness of heart which would have taken some men years to acquire.
"To pay my 'honorable debts,' as I called my gambling ones, I wrote to Louisa, requesting her to ask my father to send me a fresh supply of money. She sent me a moderate sum in a purse of her own knitting, which she playfully observed, 'would not part with its treasures unless they were to be worthily employed.'
"The funds so easily obtained were soon scattered to the winds, and I sent a repetition of my former request to Louisa, couched in the most affectionate language, adding many words of endearment, without once thinking of the meanness of thus employing her affection to pander to my own selfish gratification.
"But I was mistaken in Louisa! While she thought that she could benefit me, there was no limit to her kindness; but her principles were too firm for weak indulgence. She replied to my demand kindly, but decidedly. Her conscience would not allow her to impose on the generosity of our excellent parent, and to take from him that which was necessary for the comfort of his old age, for the sake of indulging me in my vicious pursuits. She begged me to give him an honest statement of my affairs, and to assure him of my resolution to renounce the follies in which I had become thus entangled, cautioning me against endeavouring to warp his judgment by expressions of affection, while my whole conduct showed such utter disregard of his happiness.
"These were the first words of severity which I had ever heard from Louisa, and only her devotion to our father could have called them forth. I was in a perfect rage at the receipt of her letter, and determined to do something which should make my sister repent of her boldness.
"That night my effects were all packed up, excepting a few valuables, of which I disposed at any price, to pay off my debts to my reckless companions, and the next day saw me on my way to New York.
"When I arrived at that city, I wrote a few lines to Louisa, but not a word to my father. I remember them as plainly as if they were now before me, for they haunted me for years. These were the cruel words with which I took leave of the sweetest of human beings:—'Since you think, Miss Louisa, that my father is too poor to support me, I will no longer tax his kindness. I can take care of myself, and be free from your reproaches. I am going to sea in the first vessel that sails from this port. I care not where it is bound, so that it bears me away from those that once loved me, but who have now cast me off from them for ever.'
"The first ship which I could find was just starting for a long whaling voyage; and, careless of consequences, I entered it as a common sailor, little aware of the trials I was about to endure. A fit of sea-sickness made me soon repent of the rash step that I had taken; but it was too late to return; the vessel kept mercilessly on its course, carrying me away from my only true friends. The tyranny of the coarse captain brought painfully to my remembrance the indulgence I had always received from my kind parent, whose only weakness was the readiness with which he yielded to my wishes.
"At first I refused to have any thing to say to my messmates, many of whom were morally better than myself; but I was naturally social, and, soon forgetting my refined education, began to enjoy their conversation. I became quite a hero among them, and led them into mischief in every port at which we stopped. Many of our pranks would have brought us before the civil authority, had we not sailed away before their authorship was ascertained.
"After an absence of three years I returned to New York, with nothing in the world which I could call my own but my sailor's clothes and my last month's wages. As soon as we were discharged I repaired to a low tavern near the dock, with some of the most unworthy of the crew, determined that my family should never hear of my arrival in the country. On taking up a paper one day, I saw, to my surprise, among the advertised letters one to myself, which was speedily procured for me by a messmate, as I was anxious not to be seen in the more frequented part of the city.
"The letter was from Louisa. I have it still, but it is too sacred to meet any eyes but my own. It contained all that Christian principle and sisterly affection could dictate to recall a wanderer home, and it went to my heart. Inclosed was a large sum of money, the fruit of her own labor during my absence; and she informed me that another letter containing a similar inclosure was in the post-office at Boston. After much inquiry, my father had discovered the name of the ship in which I had sailed, and the probable length of its cruise, and therefore Louisa had expected my return to one of these ports during the summer, if I was still alive. Our dear parent, she informed me, was ready to receive me with open arms; and, for herself, her affection had undergone no change.
"You will of course conclude that I did not delay one moment, after the receipt of this letter, returning to a home where such an angelic being waited to receive me. It seems impossible to me, now, that I could have done otherwise. Yet so it was. Pride, my besetting sin, made me inflict still deeper wounds on that gentle heart.
"I had determined, as soon as I could procure suitable clothing, to go directly to Charlottesville, for that was the name of our village; and for this purpose I walked for the first time toward the business quarter of the city. As I was going up Broadway, in my ragged sailor's dress, keeping close to the inside of the walk to escape observation, I saw a pale, slender girl coming towards me, accompanied by two gentlemen, one of whom was a fine-looking officer, in a naval uniform. The lady was engaged in animated discourse, and, by the pleasant countenance of the gentlemen, very agreeable, for one laughed aloud, apparently at some remark which had dropped from her lips.
"In an instant I recognized my sister, and was ready to fall on my knees before her; but then I remembered my own shabby appearance, and deferred our meeting till I could execute my present design, and make myself more respectable.
"As I passed I saw her face grow sad, for she caught a glimpse of my dress, and though the glance was too hasty for her to recognize me, yet I doubt not that it brought her poor brother to her mind, for I heard her sigh deeply.
"As I went on my way, my mind was full of bitterness. Whenever I had done wrong myself, I always began to imagine that others had injured me; and now I tried to persuade myself that Louisa was indifferent to my welfare, and had only sent me money for fear that I should disgrace her by appearing again at home. 'Proud girl!' I exclaimed, 'you need not fear that such a miserable wretch will claim your relationship, or disturb your enjoyment of congenial society.'
"When Satan can find entrance into the soul for such wicked thoughts, they soon drive out all better ones; and, before I had reached the tailor's shop to which I was going, I had determined never to return home.
"Without taking any notice of the letter I had received from Louisa, I secured a berth immediately in a vessel bound for the Pacific, and for three years again deserted my native land.
"About eighteen months after this ship sailed, we fell in with a man-of-war, and I went on board. The moment that I saw the captain I recognized in him the officer whom I had seen with my sister in New York. For once the love of home was stronger than my pride, and I asked anxiously if he could tell me any thing of Miss Louisa Colman.
"The instant that I made this inquiry, the captain gave me a keen, scrutinizing glance, and then replied quickly,—'You are the brother Richard, I presume, of whose fate Miss Colman has been so long uncertain?'
"I was taken too much by surprise to deny this fact, and Captain Hall continued,—'I had the pleasure of becoming intimate in Dr. Colman's family, and my wife is devotedly attached to your sweet sister. Through her I heard of your absence from home, and the grief it had given to all who loved you. My belonging to the navy seemed to give me an interest in Miss Louisa's eyes, and shortly before I sailed, she implored me to make inquiry of every ship which came in my way, to discover, if possible, whether you were still among the living.'
"'I saw her in New York,' I remarked very coldly, as the scene in Broadway recurred to my mind; 'and though it was only for a moment, I perceived that she was in excellent spirits.'
"'Miss Louisa Colman can never be long unhappy,' he replied, sternly, 'while she leans on Heaven and employs her whole time in doing good to others. Misery is their lot alone, who, to gratify their own selfish whims, will trample on the happiness even of their dearest friends.'
"I felt the reproof contained in these words, but was too proud to show any emotion, even when Captain Hall gave me a description of the scene at home, after my first departure became known. In her grief, Louisa never forgot what was due to her father, and the cheerfulness which she managed to maintain, notwithstanding her affliction, was all that supported his broken spirit. Captain Hall then informed me that the old man's health was failing, and his last letters from America had spoken of his increased weakness.
"This information was a dreadful blow, but it did not make me a better man. I tried to drown sorrow in intoxication, and almost obliterated the remembrance of home, excepting when, in the silence of night, it would come over me with irresistible power.
"When, after the lapse of three years, I once more approached my native land, I was much more unworthy of being recognized by my friends than in returning from my previous voyage. Still I proceeded directly to Charlottesville, and stopped at the old mansion, which I had not seen for six long years. Alas! it was tenanted by strangers. A new tombstone was in the village grave-yard, and on one side of it the name of my father, and the other bore my own. I asked the sexton, who was just opening the church for an evening lecture, when Richard Colman died. He replied very readily,—'O, about a year since. The old gentleman heard of the loss of the vessel in which he sailed, and dropped away himself very suddenly.'
"I dared not inquire after Louisa, for I felt that she must look upon me as the destroyer of our father. I hastened to Boston, and had determined on leaving the country for ever, when, by accident, I had tidings of my sweet sister.
"After the melancholy information I obtained at Charlottesville, I had become a temperance man, and took up my abode at the Sailor's Home. While there, a poor man, who had been ill for months, and finally was obliged to have his leg amputated, spoke often of the goodness of a young lady who had been often to see him, and whom he considered almost an angel. My curiosity was excited, and I inquired of the excellent landlady the name of his friend, and was answered by a warm tribute of praise to my own sister. I found that she was living in the family of an aunt, and was devoted to benevolent objects of all kinds, but chiefly interested in schemes for improving the temporal and spiritual condition of seamen. O, my poor Louisa! I knew, at that moment, that love for her miserable brother's memory had dictated these exertions.
"Yet even then I did not seek to see her. 'I will leave her in peace,' I said to myself, 'for she thinks I am dead, and it would be better for her if I really were.' Still, now that she was alone, I could not bear to go so far from her again, and therefore made up my mind to enter the fishing-service, that I might not long be absent from the city.
"You may remember the day that Captain Peck brought the Bibles on board, which had been left for distribution by a lady of Boston. That lady was my sister, and I trust that the bread which she thus cast upon the waters may indeed be returned to her before many days. I have read that Bible daily, first, because it was her gift, and then because I found that it could give me more peace than I had ever known before in my whole life. I shall go to my sister as soon as we return, and I feel that she will not cast me away. I have so impaired my constitution, that only a few years may remain to me; but whatever time I am spared shall be spent in repaying as far as possible her unwearied affection.
"I have written this story with great reluctance, but my heart was almost breaking from so long repressing its emotions. You are still boys. Try, then, while it is in your power, to make those who love you happy, instead of laying up years of remorse and misery by selfish indulgence of your own wishes, at the expense of their comfort and peace. Read now the book which I have so lately learned to prize, and you will not have to look back upon the grave of a father whom you never honored, and the counsels of a mother so long despised."