During my visit to Deadman's Bay, I had become acquainted with a Scotch
gentleman, who was employed on the medical staff of the U.S. army, I
believe, as a supernumerary, or candidate for a commission as a surgeon.
He was a most agreeable companion, of good natural parts, fluent in
conversation, intelligent in remark, free from egotism, and well
educated, I believe, at Cambridge, in England. We soon became attached
to each other. He accompanied me in my rambles, and we were almost
inseparable companions during my stay. He was one of those beings, in
fine, who seem to be sent at times to cheer the darkened highway of
existence under gloomy circumstances; and I fondly hoped to enjoy with
him a lengthened period of virtuous intimacy, and close, unalloyed
friendship, on more propitious soil.
But the decrees of Providence are inscrutable, and "his ways," indeed,
"past finding out." This was certainly strikingly exemplified by the
catastrophe I am about to relate, which deprived me for ever of my
friend.
When at the bay, he expressed a wish to visit St.
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