of the barque Amazon, Capt. Lacy, of Tisbury, bound on a cruise, not to exceed two years in length, in the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. From New York, in company with several shipmates, I was quickly forwarded to our vessel, then lying at Holme's Hole, and only waiting for her complement of men. In a few days I was fairly at

sea.

"What has happened since then," continued the narrator, "I suppose Capt. Lacy has told you. Perhaps you may hardly think it possible that I could have preserved the secret of my sex during my four months in the Amazon's fo'castle; but I assure you I never had reason to suppose it suspected; and suspicion would have quickly led to detection. I want to say, too, that my difficulty with the second mate in the boat grew out of no dislike to him or unwillingness to do my duty. Nobody on the ship before that ever called me a shirk. But that was the first time I had ever been required to exert all my strength at the oar. To hide my sex, I had worn a tight bandage about my chest which greatly interfered with the free movement of my arms, and the putting forth of my full strength. It was almost before I was aware that I drew my knife against the officer when he struck me. I wish also to say that since the discovery of my sex, the captain has treated me very kindly and respectfully; and that I have for him, and all on board the Amazon, only the most grateful feelings."

Here ended the narrative of my woman before the mast. Not here, however, ends the story of her adventures. Hardly less surprising in fact is the supplement than the tale thus far.

Our Consul was not a little puzzled what to do. The elaborate "Manual" furnished him by the State Department on his appointment, and which had been diligently studied during a voyage of ninety days, was wholly silent in regard to such cases as this. Seeing, therefore, that there was no precedent, he would make a precedent. He forthwith removed the woman from the vessel, provided her with decent quarters, and, aided by a resident countrywoman, obtained for her an indispensable outfit, trusting to good fortune to enable him to send her home, or to put her in a way of supporting herself. A purse, made up by a few generous shipmasters and others at the port,

supplemented the outlay of the Consul, and furnished her with a respectable wardrobe. And there for a time all rested, if all were not thankful.

Lying in port at this time, and expecting to remain for some weeks, was the good ship Ranger, of Boston. And if the ship were a good vessel, her master, Capt. Bings, was a good master. He was nearly sixty years old, quiet but energetic, unpretentious but self-respectful, upright, manly, and, while wholly devoid of cant, sincerely and deeply religious. He had a family of two or three daughters at home, of whom he was fond of talking, and of whom he was not a little proud. It was two or three weeks after assuming charge of Georgy, as the young woman had now come to be called, that our Consul, seeing no other way of providing for her, resolved to appeal to the magnanimity of Capt. Bings to receive her on board his ship as stewardess. With this purpose he entered his office one morning, where, as usual, he soon received a call from the master of the Ranger. The customary salutations exchanged, and the scanty morning news discussed, the Consul said—

"Capt. Bings, do you know that you have a duty to yourself and to humanity here which you have not yet discharged?"

"And, pray, what may that be?" asked the captain.

"It is something," rejoined the Consul, "which a man of your years and character can afford to do, and which it seems to me you are under some obligation to do; but which a younger man of different temperament and less professional reputation cannot afford, and should not be expected to do."

"And what is it, I ask again?" said the captain.

"It is," answered the Consul," to receive Georgiana on board your ship in the capacity of stewardess, and so open the way for her to earn a livelihood, and, in due time, not only to return with you to America, but, if she will, to retrieve the past."

The worthy shipmaster was silent for a little, as though considering the suggestion. Then looking up, he said, in a grave and tender voice, "Will you believe me when I tell you that I lay awake in my berth last night for a long time, revolving the very thing you suggest? When it first occurred to me, I thought I could not have her on my

ship on any consideration. Then I asked myself if it were not my duty to give her a trial? Often as I put the idea aside, it returned to me again as a duty, until at length I began to regard the prospect of receiving her with some favour. Finally, I thought of my own daughters-the possibility that one of them might some time go astray, and need a helping hand. That decided me; and I came here this morning to make to you, on certain conditions, the precise proposal you have just made to me."

Under such circumstances it was not difficult for the Consul and the Captain to come to an understanding; and Georgy assenting, she was that very day transferred to the cabin of the Ranger.

Three weeks passed. In her new position, the quondam soldier and sailor conducted herself with so much propriety, and performed her duty with so much alacrity and skill, as greatly to please kind-hearted, Capt. Bings. His cabin now was always neatly swept and dusted; his table was always nicely spread; and to the appetizing dishes she devised for his delight there seemed no end. When guests were present, as they often were, compliments many and strong were showered upon the repast they were invited to share; until it began to be whispered around that quiet Capt. B. had secured, in his stewardess, a prize after its kind. At the end of this time, however, the Ranger's business in port was completed, and she set sail for Calcutta.

Two years elapsed. During that time tidings came to the Consul that good Capt. Bings had paid the debt of nature, cared for faithfully and tenderly to the last by his grateful stewardess, and had found in the Bay of Bengal a sailor's grave. One day entered the port again the good ship Ranger, under the command of her former mate, now her master. A few days later, a hardhanded, bronze-faced, but manly-looking fellow of twenty-five or twenty-eight years puts in an appearance at the consulate where our story opened, remarking—

you, and then tell me what I can do for you."

"I'll try," said the man, who was evidently a sailor. "My name is Philip Harrison. When in this port before, I was second officer of the Ranger. Now, since Capt. Bings is dead, and Mr. Hawes is captain, I am the ship's first officer. I remember very well your visits to the ship, and should have recognised you anywhere; though it can hardly be expected you should remember me. That is who I am. And now I will tell you what I want you should do for me. You surely remember whom you enrolled as one of our ship's company when we were last here. Well, Georgy has remained with the vessel ever since, as perhaps Capt. Hawes has told you. And, to come directly to the point, Mr. Consul, she and I have become very fond of each other, and have concluded to marry; and we want you to perform the ceremony. Will you do it?"

"But," answers the Consul, "you know, or you ought to know, that she is already married, and of course has no right to marry again."

"She was married," replies the would-be Benedick, "but is now a widow. Since we left here she has heard from home; and among other things, of her husband's death. In fact, he never left the hospital, where she last saw him, till he was carried out to his grave."

"And she has told you her story?" asks the Consul.

"Every word of it."

66

And you believe it?"

"I am as certain of its truth as of my

life."

"And you still desire to marry her?" "Most certainly, or I should not be here. Will you marry us?"

"But if you have determined to marry this woman, about whom neither you nor I know anything but what she says, why not wait till you return to America ? I am sure neither of you will regret-perhaps both will be very glad—if you do."

"Our return to the United States," rejoins the seaman, "is very uncertain. It may be within three months, but it is hardly likely to be within three years. Besides, we have made up our minds to be married now, if we can accomplish it; and I am on shore to-day to make the arrangements.

"But, my good fellow," responds the Consul, "it is not in my power to marry you. Neither American nor British law authorizes me to do any such thing. And while I say to you, as wise Mr. Punch said to the young man meditating matrimony, 'Don't;' yet if you will not have my advice, and are determined to perpetrate what, under the circumstances, seems so foolish an act, I can tell you what to do. Go to my friend Manson, the Bishop's chaplain, and he will tell you what legal formalities are to be complied with, and will tie the irrevocable knot for you. I will witness the marriage, and attest it under the seal of the consulate, which will be sufficient evidence of its validity in any court in America."

An introductory note was written to the chaplain, with which the ardent lover set forth on his errand.

Three days after, in the chaplain's little parlour, were assembled his own family and the Consul to witness the marriage of Georgy and the weather-stained, stalwart young sailor. That duly solemnized and certified, the happy couple set forth on no wedding journey about the little island, or through the tropic waters, but hied them

selves immediately on shipboard to their respective duties.

Two or three weeks later, having completed her business in that port, the good ship Ranger sailed out into the Indian Sea; and Georgiana W., cavalry soldier in the Union army, foremast sailor on a whaleship, accomplished stewardess on a merchant vessel, twice a wife, whether ever a widow or not, and still under twenty-five years of age, sailed out of the Consul's sight into the dim distance, and below his narrow horizon. Whither, and through what adventures, fortune subsequently led her is not known. Possibly she may still be wandering about the Orient. Possibly, too, she may have found her way back to the Monumental City, and be living there today, a fond wife, and the happy mother of happy children. If so, and if her eye ever fall on this over-true tale, among the mingled emotions stirred in her heart will be the grateful remembrance of a few who believed in her future possibilities, and held out to her a helping hand, when cast, friendless and destitute, upon a far-off tropic isle in the summer of 1863.

"One only adequate support
For the calamities of mortal life
Exists, one only, -an assured belief
That the procession of our fate, howe'er
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power,
Whose everlasting purposes embrace
All accidents, converting them to good."

"I

HAVE already but too plainly seen," says Goethe," that no one person understands another; that no one receives the same impressions as another from the very same words." Sir William Hamilton expresses the same truth when he says that "words are nothing more than hints; hints, likewise, which leave the principal part of the process of interpretation to be performed by the mind of the hearer." It is hardly possible, therefore, that minds which approach a subject from very different points of view, and look at it in very different lights, will be able so to interpret each other's "hints " as to avoid misunderstanding, which may thus be naturally expected in every controversy. The discussion on Prayer which has been carried on in these pages is no exception to this rule, and it is necessary, in presenting a final summary of the issue of the question in relation to recent objections, to try to remove some of the misconceptions which have unnecessarily complicated it.

One of these misconceptions it is necessary to clear away at the outset. Mr. Le Sueur, in his last reply, says that the answer of the present writer to his former article "purports to prove that it is the will of God to establish a connection between prayer and the bestowal of blessings." Now, the abovequoted words are not used in connection with proving this thesis, but as meeting the objection that it was presumptuous to hope to affect the Divine will by prayer-an objection which, it was said, "must fall to the ground if, as we believe, on good grounds, to be specified hereafter, it is the will of God

to establish a connection between prayer and the bestowal of blessings." Nothing is here said about proof; and in the introductory paragraph of the article, in which its object was distinctly stated, it is clearly enough shown that that object was not to prove the physical efficacy of prayer, inasmuch as from the nature of the case either proof or disproof is impossible ;—not even to clear away all difficulties which must needs encompass any question transcending human observation and experience, but only to suggest lines of thought which, patiently followed out, might meet these difficulties and show the reasonableness of prayer,— leading to the conclusion that "what reason cannot grasp, faith happily can." Here the very idea of proof-strictly speaking—is explicitly disclaimed, and more than once in the reply it is expressly said that the physical efficacy of prayer can never be demonstratively proved, and that "the results of prayer can never be tabulated in any form that will satisfy 'the world,'" or those who reject the evidence from the Christian revelation. But where the disproof is limited. solely to considerations of improbability, we do not need, in reply, to go farther than to show the inadequacy of such objections to disturb our well-grounded faith.

It is at least satisfactory that Mr. Le Sueur admits that there is "no necessity for calling in question the efficacy or value of prayer in the spiritual region." But every spiritual answer to prayer involves physical effects. While the mystery of the correspondence between physical effects and mental processes is as inexplicable as ever, it seems to be clearly enough established, that, as we are told by Professor Huxley, "some change in the condition of the brain is the invariable antecedent" of thought and emotion as well as of sensation. When, therefore, a sinful passion is subdued, or a feeling of hatred removed, in answer to prayer, a physical