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for two days and nights without rest, and with little or no food. The boat itself had been badly stove while alongside with the last load of passengers. She was so much knocked to pieces as to be really unserviceable, nor could she have held another person. Still those brave seamen, inspired by the conduct and true to the trust imposed in them by their Captain, did not hesitate to leave the brig again, and pull back through the dark for miles, across an angry sea, that they might join him in his sinking ship, and take their chances with the rest.

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As one of the last boats was about to leave the ship, her commander gave his watch to a passenger with the request that it might be delivered to his wife. He wished to charge him with a message for her also, but his utterance was choked. "Tell her Unable to proceed, he bent down his head and buried his face in his hands for a moment as if in prayer, for he was a devout man and a Christian.


In that moment, brief as it was, he endured the great agony; but it was over now. He had resolved


go down with his ship. Calm and collected, he rose up from that mighty struggle with renewed vigour, and went with encouraging looks about the duties of the ship as before.

After the boat which bore Mr. Payne-to whom Herndon had entrusted his watch-had shoved off, the Captain went to his state-room and put on his uniform;

then walking out, he took his stand on the wheel-house, holding on to the iron railing with his left hand. A rocket was sent off, the ship fetched her last lurch, and as she went down he uncovered.

Just before the steamer went down, a row-boat was heard approaching. Herndon hailed her; it was the boatswain's boat, rowed by "hard hands and gentle hearts," returning


from on board the brig to report her disabled condition. she came alongside she would be engulfed with the sinking ship. Herndon ordered her to keep off. She did so, and was saved. This, as far as I have been able to learn, was his last order. Forgetful of self, mindful of others, his life was beautiful to the last, and in his death he has added a new glory to the annals of the sea.

[A handsome monument to his memory stands in the Parade-ground of the Naval School at Annapolis.]



WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS was born and reared in Charleston, South Carolina. His early education was limited; he was for a while clerk in a drug-store and then he studied law. But his decided taste for letters soon induced him to devote his entire time and attention to their cultivation. He wrote rapidly and voluminously, and produced poems, novels, dramas, histories, biographies, book-reviews, editorials, in short, all kinds of writing. He was editor of various journals at different times, and did all he could to inspire and foster a literary taste in his generation. His style shows the effect of haste and overwork.

His novels dealing with Colonial and Revolutionary subjects are his best work. They give us graphic pictures of the struggles that our forefathers in the South had with the wild beasts, swamps, forests, and Indians in Colonial times, and with these and the British in the Revolutionary period. They should be read in connection with our early history, especially the following: Yemassee, (1714, Colonial times); Partisan, Mellichampe, and Katharine Walton, (forming the

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Revolutionary Trilogy); Eutaw; Scout; Forayers; Woodcraft, (1775–1783); Wigwam and Cabin (a collection of short stories).

Some of his poems are well worth reading, especially the legends of Indian and Colonial life; and the Spirits' songs in "Atalantis" are very dainty and musical.

He was the friend and helper of his younger fellow-workers in literature, among whom were notably Paul Hamilton Hayne and Henry Timrod. At his country home "Woodlands" and in Charleston, he dispensed a generous and delightful hospitality and made welcome his many friends from North, South, and West. The last few years of his life were darkened by distress and poverty, in common with his brethren all over the South; and his heroic struggle against them reminds us of that of Sir Walter Scott, though far more dire and pathetic.

A fine bust of him by Ward adorns the Battery in his native and much-loved city. See Life, by William P. Trent.

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Upon the Poet's soul they flash forever,

In evening shades, these glimpses strange and sweet;
They fill his heart betimes,—they leave him never,
And haunt his steps with sounds of falling feet;
He walks beside a mystery night and day;

Still wanders where the sacred spring is hidden;
Yet, would he take the seal from the forbidden,
Then must he work and watch as well as pray!
How work? How watch? Beside him-in his way,-
Springs without check the flow'r by whose choice spell,-
More potent than "herb moly," he can tell

Where the stream rises, and the waters play!-
Ah! spirits call'd avail not!
On his eyes,
Sealed up with stubborn clay, the darkness lies.


(From Yemassee.)

[Occonestoga, the degenerate son of the Yemassee chief Sanutee, has been condemned, for befriending the whites, to a fate worse than death. The totem of his tribe, an arrow branded upon the shoulder, is to be cut and burnt out by the executioner, Malatchie, and he is to be declared accursed from his tribe and from their paradise forever, "a slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," the evil spirit.]

Occonestoga's head sank in despair, as he beheld the unchanging look of stern resolve with which the unbending sire regarded him. For a moment he was unmanned; until a loud shout of derision from the crowd as they beheld the

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