land wind fanned us out of the harbor, and with a
white silver moon, we began our dreary march towards Cape Horn.

The following night the ship was dashing over the seas eleven miles the
hour. The bell had just struck eight, watch set, and the topmen came
dancing gaily down the rigging, here and there one, with a pea jacket
snugly tied up and held by the teeth, preparatory to a four hours'
snooze in the hammocks, when a moment after the cry, "Look out,
Bill!--Overboard!--Man overboard!" was cried from the main rigging, and
amid the bustle that ensued, the voice of the poor drowning wretch was
heard in broken exclamations of agony, as the frigate swept swiftly by.
Down went the helm, and sails were taken in as she came up to the wind,
but by the strangest fatality, both life buoys were with difficulty cast
adrift, and even then the blue lights did not ignite. A boat was soon
lowered, and sent in the vessel's wake. An hour passed in the search,
without hearing or seeing ought but the rude winds and breaking waves;
and this is the last ever known of poor Bill de Conick.

He struck the channels from a fall of twenty feet up the rigging, and
was probably either encumbered by heavy clothing, or too much injured to
be able to reach the buoys.

Friday, too, the day of all others in our superstitious calendar for
those "who go down to the sea in ships:" even amid a large crew, where
many, if not all, are utterly reckless of life, an incident of this
nature sheds a momentary gloom around, and serves to make many reflect,
that the same unlucky accident might have wrapped any other in the same
chilling shroud. There are few more painful sights in the world than to
behold the imploring looks, with outstretched hands, of a fellow being,

--"When peril has numbed the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still--"

silently invoking help, when all human aid is unavailing--before the
angry waves press him below the surface, to a sailor's grave. Aye, there
can be no more dreadful scenes to make the strong man shudder than
these. Yet it seems a wise ordination in our natures, that the sharp
remembrance of these painful incidents is so rapidly dispelled. This
very characteristic of the sailor, his heedless indifference to the
future, in a great degree makes up his measure of contentment in all the
toils and dangers that beset his course, unconscious that time,

"Like muffled drums, are beating