first opportunity
that should offer for so doing. He one day gave me a sharp and, as I
thought, unmerited rebuke, and ended by striking me a blow. That blow
caused me to form the decision of leaving him at once, and that very
night I left Philadelphia. I made my way to the city of New York, where
I managed to live for a time by selling newspapers; but my profits were
so small that I soon became disgusted with the employment, and I
obtained the situation of waiter in a large hotel, where I remained for
some time. I often thought of writing to my brother; but I was aware
that the knowledge of my employment would be painful to him, for he was
of a proud and sensitive nature. Time passed on, and I at length sailed
as cabin-boy in a vessel bound for Liverpool, in England. I followed the
sea for many years; and, in the bustle and turmoil of a sailor's life, I
almost forgot my brother, from whom I had been so long separated. Yet
sometimes, in the lonely hours of my night-watch on deck, when out in
mid-ocean, would my thoughts turn to that once-loved brother, and tears
would dim my eyes as memory recalled the days of our early childhood.

"I rose in my profession till I arrived at the position of second mate.
It was at this time that, during a stay of some weeks duration in an
English port, I met with one who won my affections; and, one year after,
we were married. My wife resided with her friends in England, while I
continued to follow the sea. My wife was to me an object of almost
idolatrous attachment. Each time I visited England, I found it the
harder to bid farewell to my wife, and again embark on the ocean. We had
one child, a beautiful boy. I named him Henry, after my brother. When we
had been two years married, I made a voyage to the Indies, and was
absent nearly two years. When I returned, I learned that my wife and
child had both been for some time dead. When I learned the sad truth I
was like one bereft of reason. I could not reconcile myself to the
thought that, in this world, I could never again behold my beloved wife
and child. The very darkness of despair settled on my mind. I had not
then, as I have since done, looked heavenward for consolation amid the
sorrows of life.

"I can dwell no longer upon this dark period of my life, but hasten
onward to the close of my story. I continued to follow the life of a
sailor for some years after my bereavement. The hurry and bustle
attendant upon my calling served in some