By the mother
      who bore you—for the love of Heaven—by your hope of salvation, I
      implore you to put back for the box!”

      The captain, for a moment, seemed touched by the earnest appeal
      of the artist, but he regained his stern composure, and merely
      said:

      “Mr. Wyatt, you are mad. I cannot listen to you. Sit down, I say,
      or you will swamp the boat. Stay—hold him—seize him!—he is about
      to spring overboard! There—I knew it—he is over!”

      As the captain said this, Mr. Wyatt, in fact, sprang from the
      boat, and, as we were yet in the lee of the wreck, succeeded, by
      almost superhuman exertion, in getting hold of a rope which hung
      from the fore-chains. In another moment he was on board, and
      rushing frantically down into the cabin. In the meantime, we had been swept astern of the ship, and being
      quite out of her lee, were at the mercy of the tremendous sea
      which was still running. We made a determined effort to put back,
      but our little boat was like a feather in the breath of the
      tempest. We saw at a glance that the doom of the unfortunate
      artist was sealed. As our distance from the wreck rapidly increased, the madman (for
      as such only could we regard him) was seen to emerge from the
      companion—way, up which by dint of strength that appeared
      gigantic, he dragged, bodily, the oblong box. While we gazed in
      the extremity of astonishment, he passed, rapidly, several turns
      of a three-inch rope, first around the box and then around his
      body. In another instant both body and box were in the
      sea—disappearing suddenly, at once and forever. We lingered awhile sadly upon our oars, with our eyes riveted
      upon the spot. At length we pulled away. The silence remained
      unbroken for an hour. Finally, I hazarded a remark. “Did you observe, captain, how suddenly they sank? Was not that
      an exceedingly singular thing? I confess that I entertained some
      feeble hope of his final deliverance, when I saw him lash himself
      to the box, and commit himself to the sea.”

      “They sank as a matter of course,” replied the captain, “and that
      like a shot. They will soon rise again, however—but not till the
      salt melts.”

      “The salt!” I ejaculated. “Hush!” said the captain, pointing to the wife and sisters of the
      deceased. “We must talk of these things at some more appropriate
      time.”

      We suffered much, and made a narrow escape; but fortune
      befriended us, as well as our mates in the long-boat. We landed,
      in fine, more dead than alive, after four days of intense
      distress, upon the beach opposite Roanoke Island. We remained
      here a week, were not ill-treated by the wreckers, and at length
      obtained a passage to New York. About a month after the loss of the “Independence,” I happened to
      meet Captain Hardy in Broadway. Our conversation turned,
      naturally, upon the disaster, and especially upon the sad fate of
      poor Wyatt. I thus learned the following particulars. The artist had engaged passage for himself, wife, two sisters and
      a servant. His wife was, indeed, as she had been represented, a
      most lovely, and most accomplished woman. On the morning of the
      fourteenth of June (the day in which I first visited the ship),
      the lady suddenly sickened and died. The young husband was
      frantic with grief—but circumstances imperatively forbade the
      deferring his voyage to New York. It was necessary to take to her
      mother the corpse of his adored wife, and, on the other hand, the
      universal prejudice which would prevent his doing so openly was
      well known. Nine-tenths of the passengers would have abandoned
      the ship rather than take passage with a dead body. In this dilemma, Captain Hardy arranged that the corpse, being
      first partially embalmed, and packed, with a large quantity of
      salt, in a box of suitable dimensions, should be conveyed on
      board as merchandise. Nothing was to be said of the lady’s
      decease; and, as it was well understood that Mr. Wyatt had
      engaged passage for his wife, it became necessary that some
      person should personate her during the voyage. This the deceased
      lady’s-maid was easily prevailed on to do. The extra state-room,
      originally engaged for this girl during her mistress’ life, was
      now merely retained. In this state-room the pseudo-wife, slept,
      of course, every night. In the daytime she performed, to the best
      of her ability, the part of her mistress—whose person, it had
      been carefully ascertained, was unknown to any of the passengers
      on board. My own mistake arose, naturally enough, through too careless, too
      inquisitive, and too impulsive a temperament. But of late, it is
      a rare thing that I sleep soundly at night. There is a
      countenance which haunts me, turn as I will. There is an
      hysterical laugh which will forever ring within my ears. LOSS OF BREATH


O breathe not, etc. —Moore’s _Melodies_

      The most notorious ill-fortune must in the end yield to the
      untiring courage of philosophy—as the most stubborn city to the
      ceaseless vigilance of an enemy. Shalmanezer, as we have it in
      holy writings, lay three years before Samaria; yet it fell. Sardanapalus—see Diodorus—maintained himself seven in Nineveh;
      but to no purpose. Troy expired at the close of the second
      lustrum; and Azoth, as Aristaeus declares upon his honour as a
      gentleman, opened at last her gates to Psammetichus, after having
      barred them for the fifth part of a century....

      “Thou wretch!—thou vixen!—thou shrew!” said I to my wife on the
      morning after our wedding; “thou witch!—thou hag!—thou
      whippersnapper—thou sink of iniquity!—thou fiery-faced
      quintessence of all that is abominable!—thou—thou—” here standing
      upon tiptoe, seizing her by the throat, and placing my mouth
      close to her ear, I was preparing to launch forth a new and more
      decided epithet of opprobrium, which should not fail, if
      ejaculated, to convince her of her insignificance, when to my
      extreme horror and astonishment I discovered that I had lost my
      breath. The phrases “I am out of breath,” “I have lost my breath,” etc.,
      are often enough repeated in common conversation; but it had
      never occurred to me that the terrible accident of which I speak
      could _bona fide_ and actually happen! Imagine—that is if you
      have a fanciful turn—imagine, I say, my wonder—my
      consternation—my despair! There is a good genius, however, which has never entirely
      deserted me.