After his departure, poor Tom received one letter from his mother before he sailed. It inculcated all the moral and religious duties; requested him to peruse his bible, and near the close were the following lines, which he committed to memory; and in after years, when an infant sitting on his knee, he repeated them to me so often, that they became deeply impressed upon my mind:-- TO MY SAILOR BOY. “When sailing on the ocean, In foreign climes you roam, Oh, think with fond emotion, upon your distant home; And never strive to smother, But treasure up with joy, Remembrance of a mother, Who loves her Sailor Boy. When thunders loud are roaring, And vivid lightning flies, The rain in torrents pouring, Sleep will depart my eyes; Tears will bedew my pillow, You all my thoughts employ, Tossed on the angry billow A little Sailor Boy. Kind Providence protect you, And bring you back again; Your mother will expect you, Safe from the troubled main. No, Heaven will not distress me, The widow’s hope destroy; Return once more to bless me, My little Sailor Boy.” In the course of a few years, Tom became mate of a fine ship in the merchants’ service, and his efforts seemed crowned with success. He enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of seeing his mother comfortably situated, and his heart whispered it was the reward of virtue. But who can arraign the will of Heaven, or say to Omnipotence, “What doest thou?” War with all its attendant horrors broke out, and the cruel system of impressment was adopted for the purpose of manning our fleets. At this critical juncture, Tom received information that his parent was rapidly hastening to the mansions of immortality,--“where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He had recently arrived in England full of joyous anticipation; but he found the silver cord of existence was loosened, and the golden bowl dashed from his lips:--he reached his home just time enough to receive the last farewell benediction of his dying mother. Before the earth had closed over the remains of his parent,--before she had become mingled with the clods of the valley, the press-gangs were actively on the alert, and poor Tom fell into their hands. No time was allowed to lay his mother in the silent grave;--he kissed the clay-cold bosom on which he had hung in infancy, and with stern serenity yielded himself a prisoner. He loved his country, and would not have shrunk from its service in the hour of battle; but at such a moment to be forced away!--it was draining the cup of anguish to the very dregs. At this period I had commenced my career as a sailor, and was then lying in a ship of war at Plymouth under sailing-orders for a foreign station, but waiting for a full complement of hands;--indeed, men were so scarce, that some of the ablest felons had been selected from the jails to make up the crews.