worst I would have changed places with any body who had a fair chance of landing in heaven."

While this conversation was going on, Clarendon bit his lips with displeasure, and the next day he told me that I might as well say my prayers after I got into my berth. I was surprised that my proud brother, who scorns the idea of being influenced by the opinion of any one, should want to have me ashamed of worshipping God before those whom he pretends to despise. Though I love him dearly, I did not follow his advice, and when the second night I did the same thing, no one laughed at me.

The next day, David Cobb shook hands heartily with me, and said I ought to have been a Yankee boy; for though he had not been brought up to say his prayers himself, if he had, there was not that man living who should laugh him out of it. I shall try and persuade David to do right himself, as well as to approve it in others, for I remember mother's saying,—"Even a boy has his share of influence, and it is a talent for which he must account."

I will tell you more about Old Jack and Moody Dick when I next feel like writing. I do not know when I shall have a chance to send a letter, but I shall try and have one ready all the while. Give my love to all the children, and don't forget to remember me to the servants, especially old Aunt Molly.

Your absent but loving cousin,

LETTER IV.

Banks of Newfoundland, July 15th, 1846.

I begin to feel, dear Bennie, very much as if I should like to hear from you, and sometimes I am a little homesick, when I think how pleasantly Bellisle is looking, and how happy you all must be. Then what would I not give for your pet bookcase with its treasures, the nice Rollo books and Marco Paul's adventures, and dear old Robinson Crusoe! I am tired, too, of looking at men, and fairly long to see some one who will remind me of mother, or my sweet sister Nannie, or of the "Queen of Flowers,"—you know who I mean.

I suspect that brother Clarendon has something of the same feeling, for yesterday I saw him take a miniature out of what I had always thought before was a watch-case, and it was such a pretty face that I don't wonder that he sighed when he looked at it.

But in spite of sighing and groaning, and hard fare and hard work, Clarendon is getting better very fast, and some of the sailors, who at first laughed at his affectation, are beginning to have a profound respect for him, and he in his turn seems to look much more benevolently upon mankind in general, and to be able to interest himself in the rough characters around him. I think he cut the greatest figure washing out his red-flannel shirt yesterday, and he laughed himself at the idea of some of his fashionable friends catching a glimpse of him while thus employed.

I do not like Captain Cobb much, though he is very shrewd, and sometimes tells David and me such funny stories; but he seems to have no principle, and has brought up David to think that if he can ever be a great man it is no matter whether he is a good one.

Yesterday, David and I were having one of our long talks, for we pass a great deal of time in chatting when the weather is not favorable for fishing, and I think we shall soon know pretty well the history of each other's lives. He was telling me about the Latin High School in Boston, and, from what he says of it, I am sure if a boy don't learn there it must be his own fault.

One day we were discussing our favorite characters in history, just as you and I used to do at Bellisle, and David was very much amused when I told him that those I most admired were Aristides, St. Paul, and General Washington. His favorites are Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Washington. So we agree about one of them, but differ widely as to the other two. David absolutely laughed when I mentioned St. Paul with Aristides, and seemed to think that I only named him because I had been taught that it was right to do so. I asked if he had ever read the life of Paul with attention, and this question appeared to amuse him still more; and then he told me he had been through the Book of Acts in Sunday school, and had learned several chapters in it by heart; but for all that he had never thought of St. Paul as a hero.

I asked him what made a hero,—if it was not courage in the time of danger.

"Yes," he said, "but it must be in action, not in words."

I reminded him then of some of the Grecian orators, who made themselves immortal by their speeches, when their country was in danger, and asked if their words were not considered heroic.

This question puzzled him a little, and he was not willing to own that it was a similar case, but I defied him to find a Greek or Roman who had hazarded his life more freely for the good of others than St. Paul. Then I turned to the chapter containing Paul's speech before Agrippa, and asked him where he could match its eloquence. Then I read over the account of the sufferings of this brave Apostle, and demanded of David whether any other man could give a catalogue of so many and great evils so manfully borne. Finally, we reviewed the story of Paul's shipwreck at Melita, and David was forced to avow that my hero showed a calmness and self-possession in that hour of danger which few mariners display.

If I only had had you to help me argue the point, I should have made him own that Paul was very far superior to Alexander the Great.

You must not think, from what I say of David, that New England boys are not as piously brought up as the Virginians; for I believe the generality of them are much better instructed; but you know we have had peculiar advantages, and David has been but little at home with his mother, and his father cannot teach him what he does not himself know. David will be a good man one of these days, and would be better now if he had not the idea that there was something manly in being wicked. I am so glad that I was not brought up to think the same, for I begin to see how true it is, that, the older we grow, the more difficult it is for us to change our course.

There is poor Moody Dick! I really believe he would like to be a better man. They say that he is not more than twenty-five, but I thought that he was over thirty, for his face is wrinkled already, and there are gray hairs around his temples.

Yesterday, David and I were talking about our sisters. I told him all about Nannie, and that I thought she was the prettiest girl in the whole State of Virginia, and that was saying a great deal for her.

He allowed that this might be true, but he had a sister of his own who was a match for her, and began describing her quite like a poet, and then quoted some pretty lines from a piece addressed to a sister, by Mr. Everett, I believe.

The words seemed to touch Moody Dick, who was pacing the deck near us, for he stopped and listened to them with that same distressed expression of countenance which I had noticed before, and when they were finished he said, half unconsciously,—"A sister! I have a sister. There is none like her."

"Have you seen her lately?" I asked. "It must be hard to be so much away from her."

"I have not seen her for many years; but what is that to you?" he replied, almost angrily.

My question might have been injudicious, and I immediately made an apology for it, which appeased Dick. He walked up and down the deck two or three times, as if debating some point in his own mind, and then, returning, said, in a very sad tone,—"My life has been a useless one, but I wish to make what is left of some service to others. You two boys are still young, and may be saved from the errors into which I have fallen. Come with me to the end of the vessel, where there are no listeners, and I will tell you the story of my life, and you will then know better how to appreciate