The simple, solemn fact, however, was before us in all its terrible significance.

The man who, a few moments before, stood on the deck of the Schooner Mary, strong, healthy, and in the meridian of life, was no longer with us.

He was removed without warning; buried in the depths of the ocean; cut off by some mysterious agency, "And sent to his account With all his imperfections on his head." Soon after this sad accident, when we had taken in the long-boat, trimmed the sails, and were pursuing our way towards Cape Hatteras, the captain, with a solemn look, called me to the helm and went into the cabin, where he undoubtedly found consolation in the embrace of an intimate but treacherous friend.

Indeed, on his return to the deck, a few minutes afterwards, I had olfactory demonstration that he and the brandy bottle had been in close communion! Captain Thompson had hardly spoken to me since we left the wharf in New York.

He had now got his "talking tacks" on board, and was sociable enough.
"Hawser," said he, with a sigh, "this is a serious and sad thing, this death of poor Pierce.