"Well—I don't know—one got used to it—it was nothing but splash, splash, all day long—first one, then another. There was one Martin on board, I remember, with a wife and nine children—one of those as sold his pension: he had fought in Spain with the Duke of Wellington. Well, first his wife died, and they threw her into the sea; and then he died, and they threw him into the sea; and then the children, one after t'other, till only two were left alive; the eldest, a girl about thirteen, who had nursed them all, one after another, and seen them die—well, she died, and then there was only the little fellow left."
"And what became of him?"
"He went back, as I heard, in the same ship with the captain."
"And did you not think sometimes it might be your turn next."
"No—I didn't; and then I was down with the fever."
"What do you mean by the fever?"
"Why, you see, I was looking at some fish that was going by the ship in shoals, as they call it. It was very pretty, and I never saw anything like it, and I stood watching over the ship's side all day long. It poured rain, and I was wet through and through, and felt very cold, and I went into my berth and pulled the blanket round me, and fell asleep. After that I had the fever very bad. I didn't know when we landed at Quebec, and after that I didn't know where we were for five weeks, nor nothing."
I assured him that this was only a natural and necessary consequence of his own conduct, and took the opportunity to explain to him some of those simple laws by which he held both health and existence, to all which he listened with an intelligent look, and thanked me cordially, adding,—
"Then I wonder I didn't die! and it was a great mercy I didn't."
"I hope you will live to think so, and be thankful to Heaven. And so you were detained at Quebec?"