Sept. Ah, the story of the shipwreck. No, sir: I am not his son by birth; but he has been a true father to me, and I love him as though he were my own.
Ray. Have you no recollection of a mother?
Sept. None: I was an infant when found upon the shore.
Ray. This rough fishing life,—do you like it?
Sept. Like it! to be sure I do; for I have known no other. I was lulled to sleep in infancy by the dash of the waves upon the rocks, the whistling of the breeze among the shingles of the old house; and, winter and summer, I have been rocked upon the bosom of the only mother I know,—the ocean.
Ray. Oh! but there’s danger in it.
Sept. Yes, there is danger; but who, with a true heart and a stout arm, cares for danger! Ah, that’s the sport of it! To be upon the sea when the winds are roaring, and the waves are seething in anger; to hear along shore the dash of the sea upon the rocks, and to know you have a stout plank beneath you and a light bark obedient to your command, braving the fury of the tempest,—ah, that’s glorious!
Ray. But it is mere drudgery. You have read some, I know. Have you never longed for other scenes,—other occupations?
Sept. To be sure I have. As I have read of great generals and their campaigns, of merchant princes,—their thrift and industry,—I have longed to be among them, to bear a hand in the battle, to test my brain, or strain my sinews with the best.