THE LOST MIDSHIPMAN .
A STORY O F MADRAS .
HARRY BROUGHTON was one of the noblest and most generous of his sex. I well recollect the first day I saw him. We were just about to leave Hampton Roads on the cruise from which Harry never returned, when the Captain's gig dashed alongside, and with the old skipper came a slight, girlish, fair-haired boy, apparently a mere child, dressed in the uniform at that time worn by the midshipmen of our navy. The poor little fellow had been sent to sea to learn an honorable profession, because his father since his bankruptcy could not educate his son at home as became his former station. He stood uncertain for a while on the quarter deck, alone, neglected, abashed, until the Captain suddenly recollecting himself turned round, and introducing him to us, ended by committing Henry Broughton to my oversight as the eldest midshipman on board. We were soon on intimate terms, if I may call that intimacy which subsists between a youth of nineteen and one like him. But Broughton had a mind above his years, he was besides so frank, so gentle, so winning in his manners that you could not, for the life of you, escape loving the bold and generous little fellow. He soon became a favorite with all on board. Even the rugged old tars would do any thing to please him, and the severity of the first lieutenant himself often relaxed itself when little Harry Broughton, as we all called him, had offended against some paltry rule of discipline. Always the first to turn out in a gale ; never to be found skulking like some of the other youngsters, from his watch,—but at all times ready and eager to volunteer on any extra duty, he had gradually wound himself into the heart of every one on board, from the land lubbers in the waist to the Captain in his after cabin. If we went on shore, Harry Broughton was sure to be one of our company, for he was such a favorite with strangers on account of his beauty and youth, that we were always better welcomed if he was along. Besides he was so generally beloved, and was such a merry little companion that few were willing to forego his company. He was sick once for a few days, and there was as much anxiety in the ship while he was dangerous, as if the Captain himself had been laying at the point of death. "Poor little boy," said the kindhearted doctor to me, as his patient lay tossing in the delirium of a fever, murmuring every now and then his mother's or his sister's name, "he may never live to see the ones he loves so well again"-and he never did live to see them, though his death did not happen as the tender-hearted surgeon supposed.
We had been out nearly three years, cruizing on the Pacific station, when we were ordered home,-and glad were we all to hear the news, which was to restore us to a sight of the dear faces we had left behind. We stretched across the Pacific under a favorable wind that seemed to partake of our eagerness. Every thing on board was joy. The long, beautiful moonlight nights came and went like the sound of music, and a hundred gallant fellows danced away the evening watches to the rude sound of their violin. I remember one of those evenings in particular. We were bowling along under an easy sail through the beautiful waters of the Pacific, gliding by little fairy islands that seemed to start like green Edens from the water, and stealing amid the reefs of coral rock that rose around us in every direction. It had been a sultry day, but now the night had come, and the cool breeze deliciously fanned our cheeks, while the moon floated in liquid beauty above, flooding the heavens in a sea of light, and silvering the crests of the long waves as they rolled lazily up from the darkness below. Far away the horizon seemed gradually to become less boldly defined, rising and sinking in thin tissue-like clouds, and then softly melting away into the heavens above. No sound came over the solitary seas, and only the faint ripple of the waves was heard as they dashed against our sides. The men were forward dancing, and amid the shuffle of feet and the rough but merry laughter, came up the lively notes of the violin. I was standing near the side talking with young Harry Broughton, and insensibly our thoughts reverted to the happy homes we had left behind us in America. Poor little fellow, how eagerly he longed to see that sweet mother and lovely sister of his once more. He could, for nearly an hour talk of nothing else, and as he dwelt upon them his young heart became more agitated with thronging recollections, until at last I saw in the moonlight the hot tears running, one by one, down his young cheeks. He saw I observed him, and looking up said,
"Indeed, Mr. Seyton, you musn't think wrong of me for this, I can't always stand thinking of mother and Fanny, when I recollect how many thousand miles are between us, and that perhaps I will never live to see them again. Indeed, Sir," and he wiped away the tears hastily, " one cannot always command his feelings." “ Harry,” said I, " you need not fear any one would think less of you for loving your mother and sister. God knows I would be too glad to shed tears if I only had a mother to shed them for!" " Oh ! Sir, I'm sure you would, I never knew how I cared for her till I left her, and now I often think of all she used to say and do, and wish I had loved her more when I was at home." "Ah ! you are right, Harry. I once had a mother, but I've lost her now, and I would have given worlds when she lay dead in the room, if I could have called her back only to tell her how I loved her, and to ask her forgiveness for all the anguish I had caused her in my reckless youth."
