I now got things straight as regards my pension, for the hurt received on board the Constellation. It was no great matter, only three dollars a month, being one of the small pensions; and the clerks, when they came to hear about the hurt, for which Dr. Foltz had operated, advised me to get evidence and procure a pension for _that_. I saw the Secretary, Mr. Paulding, on this subject, and the gentlemen were so kind as to overhaul their papers, in order to ascertain who could be found as a witness. They wrote to Captain Deacon, the officer who commanded the Growler; but he knew nothing of me, as I never was on board his schooner. This gentleman, however, wrote me a letter, himself, inviting me to come and see him, which I had it not in my power to do. I understand he is now dead. Mr. Trant had been dead many years, and, as for Mr. Bogardus, I never knew what became of him. He was not in the line of promotion, and probably left the navy at the peace. In overhauling the books, however, the pension-clerk came across the name of Lemuel Bryant. This man received a pension for the wound he got at Little York, and was one of those I had hauled into the boat when the Scourge went down. He was then living at Portland, in Maine, his native State. Mr. Paulding advised me to get his certificate, for all hands in the Department seemed anxious I should not go away without something better than the three dollars a month. I promised to go on, and see Lemuel Bryant, and obtain his testimony. Quitting Washington, I went to Alexandria and got on board a brig, called the Isabella, bound to New York, at which port we arrived in due time. Here I obtained the rest of my money, and kept myself pretty steady, more on account of my wounds, I fear, than anything else. Still I drank too much; and by way of putting a check on myself, I went to the Sailor's Retreat, Staten Island, and of course got out of the reach of liquor. Here I staid eight or ten days, until my wounds healed. While at the Retreat, the last day I remained there indeed, which was a Sunday, the physician came in, and told me that a clergyman of the Dutch Reformed Church, of the name of Miller, was about to have service down stairs, and that I had better go down and be present. To this request, not only civilly but kindly made, I answered that I had seen enough of the acts of religious men to satisfy me, and that I believed a story I was then reading in a Magazine, would do me as much good as a sermon. The physician said a little in the way of reproof and admonition, and left me. As soon as his back was turned, some of my companions began to applaud the spirit I had shown, and the answer I had given the doctor. But I was not satisfied with myself. I had more secret respect for such things than I was willing to own, and conscience upbraided me for the manner in which I had slighted so well-meaning a request. Suddenly telling those around me that my mind was