PART XV.

The screams of rage, the groan, the strife,

The blow, the grasp, the horrid cry,

The panting, throttled prayer for life,

The dying's heaving sigh,

The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still glare,

And fear's and death's cold sweat--they all are there.

MATTHEW LEE.

It was high time that Capt. Spike should arrive when his foot touched

the bottom of the yawl. The men were getting impatient and anxious to

the last degree, and the power of Señor Montefalderon to control them

was lessening each instant. They heard the rending of timber, and the

grinding on the coral, even more distinctly than the captain himself,

and feared that the brig would break up while they lay alongside of

her, and crush them amid the ruins. Then the spray of the seas that

broke over the weather side of the brig, fell like rain upon them; and

every body in the boat was already as wet as if exposed to a violent

shower. It was well, therefore, for Spike that he descended into the

boat as he did, for another minute's delay might have brought about

his own destruction.

Spike felt a chill at his heart when he looked about him and saw the

condition of the yawl. So crowded were the stern-sheets into which he

had descended, that it was with difficulty he found room to place his

feet; it being his intention to steer, Jack was ordered to get into

the eyes of the boat, in order to give him a seat. The thwarts were

crowded, and three or four of the people had placed themselves in the

very bottom of the little craft, in order to be as much as possible

out of the way, as well as in readiness to bail out water. So

seriously, indeed, were all the seamen impressed with the gravity of

this last duty, that nearly every man had taken with him some vessel

fit for such a purpose. Rowing was entirely out of the question, there

being no space for the movement of the arms. The yawl was too low in

the water, moreover, for such an operation in so heavy a sea. In all,

eighteen persons were squeezed into a little craft that would have

been sufficiently loaded, for moderate weather at sea, with its four

oarsmen and as many sitters in the stern-sheets, with, perhaps, one in

the eyes to bring her more on an even keel. In other words, she had

just twice the weight in her, in living freight, that it would have

been thought prudent to receive in so small a craft, in an ordinary

time, in or out of a port. In addition to the human beings enumerated,

there was a good deal of baggage, nearly every individual having had

the forethought to provide a few clothes for a change. The food and

water did not amount to much, no more having been provided than enough

for the purposes of the captain, together with the four men with whom

it had been his intention to abandon the brig. The effect of all this

cargo was to bring the yawl quite low in the water; and every

seafaring man in her had the greatest apprehensions about her being

able to float at all when she got out from under the lee of the Swash,

or into the troubled water. Try it she must, however, and Spike, in a

reluctant and hesitating manner, gave the final order to "Shove off!"

The yawl carried a lugg, as is usually the case with boats at sea, and

the first blast of the breeze upon it satisfied Spike that his present

enterprise was one of the most dangerous of any in which he had ever

been engaged. The puffs of wind were quite as much as the boat would

bear; but this he did not mind, as he was running off before it, and

there was little danger of the yawl capsizing with such a weight in

her. It was also an advantage to have swift way on, to prevent the

combing waves from shooting into the boat, though the wind itself

scarce outstrips the send of the sea in a stiff blow. As the yawl

cleared the brig and began to feel the united power of the wind and

waves, the following short dialogue occurred between the boatswain and

Spike.

"I dare not keep my eyes off the breakers ahead," the captain

commenced, "and must trust to you, Strand, to report what is going on

among the man-of-war's men. What is the ship about?"

"Reefing her top-sails just now, sir. All three are on the caps, and

the vessel is laying-too, in a manner."

"And her boats?"

"I see none, sir--ay, ay, there they come from alongside of her in a

little fleet! There are four of them, sir, and all are coming down

before the wind, wing and wing, carrying their luggs reefed."

"Ours ought to be reefed by rights, too, but we dare not stop to do

it; and these infernal combing seas seem ready to glance aboard us

with all the way we can gather. Stand by to bail, men; we must pass

through a strip of white water--there is no help for it. God send that

we go clear of the rocks!"

All this was fearfully true. The adventurers were not yet more than a

cable's length from the brig, and they found themselves so completely

environed with the breakers as to be compelled to go through them. No

man in his senses would ever have come into such a place at all,

except in the most unavoidable circumstances; and it was with a

species of despair that the seamen of the yawl now saw their little

craft go plunging into the foam.

But Spike neglected no precaution that experience or skill could

suggest. He had chosen his spot with coolness and judgment. As the

boat rose on the seas he looked eagerly ahead, and by giving it a

timely sheer, he hit a sort of channel, where there was sufficient

water to carry them clear of the rock, and where the breakers were

less dangerous than in the shoaler places. The passage lasted about a

minute; and so serious was it, that scarce an individual breathed

until it was effected. No human skill could prevent the water from

combing in over the gunwales; and when the danger was passed, the yawl

was a third filled with water. There was no time or place to pause,

but on the little craft was dragged almost gunwale to, the breeze

coming against the lugg in puffs that threatened to take the mast out

of her. All hands were bailing; and even Biddy used her hands to aid

in throwing out the water.

"This is no time to hesitate, men," said Spike, sternly. "Every thing

must go overboard but the food and water. Away with them at once, and

with a will."

It was a proof how completely all hands were alarmed by this, the

first experiment in the breakers, that not a man stayed his hand a

single moment, but each threw into the sea, without an instant of

hesitation, every article he had brought with him and had hoped to

save. Biddy parted with the carpet-bag, and Señor Montefalderon,

feeling the importance of example, committed to the deep a small

writing-desk that he had placed on his knees. The doubloons alone

remained, safe in a little locker where Spike had deposited them along

with his own.

"What news astern, boatswain?" demanded the captain, as soon as this

imminent danger was passed, absolutely afraid to turn his eyes off the

dangers ahead for a single instant. "How come on the man-of-war's

men?"

"They are running down in a body toward the wreck, though one of their

boats does seem to be sheering out of the line, as if getting into our

wake. It is hard to say, sir, for they are still a good bit to

windward of the wreck."

"And the Molly, Strand?"

"Why, sir, the Molly seems to be breaking up fast; as well as I can

see, she has broke in two just abaft the fore-chains, and cannot hold

together in any shape at all many minutes longer."

This information drew a deep groan from Spike, and the eye of every

seaman in the boat was turned in melancholy on the object they were

so fast leaving behind them. The yawl could not be said to be sailing

very rapidly, considering the power of the wind, which was a little

gale, for she was much too deep for that; but she left the wreck so

fast as already to render objects on board her indistinct. Everybody

saw that, like an overburthened steed, she had more to get along with

than she could well bear; and, dependent as seamen usually are on the

judgment and orders of their superiors, even in the direst

emergencies, the least experienced man in her saw that their chances

of final escape from drowning were of the most doubtful nature. The

men looked at each other in a way to express their feelings; and the

moment seemed favorable to Spike to confer with his confidential

sea-dogs in private; but more white water was also ahead, and it was

necessary to pass through it, since no opening was visible by which to

avoid it. He deferred his purpose, consequently, until this danger was

escaped.

On this occasion Spike saw but little opportunity to select a place to

get through the breakers, though the spot, as a whole, was not of the

most dangerous kind. The reader will understand that the preservation

of the boat at all, in white water, was owing to the circumstance that

the rocks all around it lay so near the surface of the sea as to

prevent the possibility of agitating the element very seriously, and

to the fact that she was near the lee side of the reef. Had the

breakers been of the magnitude of those which are seen where the deep

rolling billows of the ocean first meet the weather side of shoals or

rocks, a craft of that size, and so loaded, could not possibly have

passed the first line of white water without filling. As it was,

however, the breakers she had to contend with were sufficiently

formidable, and they brought with them the certainty that the boat was

in imminent danger of striking the bottom at any moment. Places like

those in which Mulford had waded on the reef, while it was calm, would

now have proved fatal to the strongest frame, since human powers were

insufficient long to withstand the force of such waves as did glance

over even these shallows.

"Look out!" cried Spike, as the boat again plunged in among the white

water. "Keep bailing, men--keep bailing."

The men did bail, and the danger was over almost as soon as

encountered. Something like a cheer burst out of the chest of Spike,

when he saw deeper water around him, and fancied he could now trace a

channel that would carry him quite beyond the extent of the reef. It

was arrested, only half uttered, however, by a communication from the

boatswain, who sat on a midship thwart, his arms folded, and his eye

on the brig and the boats.

"There goes the Molly's masts, sir! Both have gone together; and as

good sticks was they, before them bomb-shells passed through our

rigging, as was ever stepped in a keelson."

The cheer was changed to something like a groan, while a murmur of

regret passed through the boat.

"What news from the man-of-war's men, boatswain? Do they still stand

down on a mere wreck?"

"No, sir; they seem to give it up, and are getting out their oars to

pull back to their ship. A pretty time they'll have of it, too. The

cutter that gets to windward half a mile in an hour, ag'in such a sea,

and such a breeze, must be well pulled and better steered. One chap,

however, sir, seems to hold on."

Spike now ventured to look behind him, commanding an experienced hand

to take the helm. In order to do this he was obliged to change places

with the man he had selected to come aft, which brought him on a

thwart alongside of the boatswain and one or two other of his

confidents. Here a whispered conference took place, which lasted

several minutes, Spike appearing to be giving instructions to the men.

By this time the yawl was more than a mile from the wreck, all the

man-of-war boats but one had lowered their sails, and were pulling

slowly and with great labor back toward the ship, the cutter that kept

on, evidently laying her course after the yawl, instead of standing on

toward the wreck. The brig was breaking up fast, with every

probability that nothing would be left of her in a few more minutes.

As for the yawl, while clear of the white water, it got along without

receiving many seas aboard, though the men in its bottom were kept

bailing without intermission. It appeared to Spike that so long as

they remained on the reef, and could keep clear of breakers--a most

difficult thing, however--they should fare better than if in deeper

water, where the swell of the sea, and the combing of the waves,

menaced so small and so deep-loaded a craft with serious danger. As it

was, two or three men could barely keep the boat clear, working

incessantly, and much of the time with a foot or two of water in her.

Josh and Simon had taken their seats, side by side, with that sort of

dependence and submission that causes the American black to abstain

from mingling with the whites more than might appear seemly. They were

squeezed on to one end of the thwart by a couple of robust old

sea-dogs, who were two of the very men with whom Spike had been in

consultation. Beneath that very thwart was stowed another confident,

to whom communications had also been made. These men had sailed long

in the Swash, and having been picked up in various ports, from time to

time, as the brig had wanted hands, they were of nearly as many

different nations as they were persons. Spike had obtained a great

ascendency over them by habit and authority, and his suggestions were

now received as a sort of law. As soon as the conference was ended,

the captain returned to the helm.

A minute more passed, during which the captain was anxiously surveying

the reef ahead, and the state of things astern. Ahead was more white

water--the last before they should get clear of the reef; and astern

it was now settled that the cutter that held on through the dangers of

the place, was in chase of the yawl. That Mulford was in her Spike

made no doubt; and the thought embittered even his present calamities.

But the moment had arrived for something decided. The white water

ahead was much more formidable than any they had passed; and the

boldest seaman there gazed at it with dread. Spike made a sign to the

boatswain, and commenced the execution of his dire project.

"I say, you Josh," called out the captain, in the authoritative tones

that are so familiar to all on board a ship, "pull in that fender that

is dragging alongside."

Josh leaned over the gunwale, and reported that there was no fender

out. A malediction followed, also so familiar to those acquainted with

ships, and the black was told to look again. This time, as had been

expected, the negro leaned with his head and body far over the side of

the yawl, to look for that which had no existence, when two of the men

beneath the thwart shoved _his_ legs after them. Josh screamed, as he

found himself going into the water, with a sort of confused

consciousness of the truth; and Spike called out to Simon to "catch

hold of his brother-nigger." The cook bent forward to obey, when a

similar assault on _his_ legs from beneath the thwart, sent him

headlong after Josh. One of the younger seamen, who was not in the

secret, sprang up to rescue Simon, who grasped his extended hand, when

the too generous fellow was pitched headlong from the boat.

All this occurred in less than ten seconds of time, and so

unexpectedly and naturally, that not a soul beyond those who were in

the secret, had the least suspicion it was any thing but an accident.

Some water was shipped, of necessity, but the boat was soon bailed

free. As for the victims of this vile conspiracy, they disappeared

amid the troubled waters of the reef, struggling with each other. Each

and all met the common fate so much the sooner, from the manner in

which they impeded their own efforts.

The yawl was now relieved from about five hundred pounds of the weight

it had carried--Simon weighing two hundred alone, and the youngish

seaman being large and full. So intense does human selfishness get to

be, in moments of great emergency, that it is to be feared most of

those who remained, secretly rejoiced that they were so far benefitted

by the loss of their fellows. The Señor Montefalderon was seated on

the aftermost thwart, with his legs in the stern-sheets, and

consequently with his back toward the negroes, and he fully believed

that what had happened was purely accidental.

"Let us lower our sail, Don Esteban," he cried, eagerly, "and save the

poor fellows."

Something very like a sneer gleamed on the dark countenance of the

captain, but it suddenly changed to a look of assent.

"Good!" he said, hastily--"spring forward, Don Wan, and lower the

sail--stand by the oars, men!"

Without pausing to reflect, the generous-hearted Mexican stepped on a

thwart, and began to walk rapidly forward, steadying himself by

placing his hands on the heads of the men. He was suffered to get as

far as the second thwart, or past most of the conspirators, when his

legs were seized from behind. The truth now flashed on him, and

grasping two of the men in his front, who knew nothing of Spike's dire

scheme, he endeavored to save himself by holding to their jackets.

Thus assailed, those men seized others with like intent, and an awful

struggle filled all that part of the craft. At this dread instant the

boat glanced into the white water, shipping so much of the element as

nearly to swamp her, and taking so wild a sheer as nearly to

broach-to. This last circumstance probably saved her, fearful as was

the danger for the moment. Everybody in the middle of the yawl was

rendered desperate by the amount and nature of the danger incurred,

and the men from the bottom rose in their might, underneath the

combatants, when a common plunge was made by all who stood erect, one

dragging overboard another, each a good deal hastened by the assault

from beneath, until no less than five were gone. Spike got his helm

up, the boat fell off, and away from the spot it flew, clearing the

breakers, and reaching the northern wall-like margin of the reef at

the next instant. There was now a moment when those who remained could

breathe, and dared to look behind them.

The great plunge had been made in water so shoal, that the boat had

barely escaped being dashed to pieces on the coral. Had it not been so

suddenly relieved from the pressure of near a thousand pounds in

weight, it is probable that this calamity would have befallen it, the

water received on board contributing so much to weigh it down. The

struggle between these victims ceased, however, the moment they went

over. Finding bottom for their feet, they released each other, in a

desperate hope of prolonging life by wading. Two or three held out

their arms, and shouted to Spike to return and pick them up. This

dreadful scene lasted but a single instant, for the waves dashed one

after another from his feet, continually forcing them all, as they

occasionally regained their footing, toward the margin of the reef,

and finally washing them off it into deep water. No human power could

enable a man to swim back to the rocks, once to leeward of them, in

the face of such seas, and so heavy a blow; and the miserable wretches

disappeared in succession, as their strength became exhausted, in the

depths of the gulf.

Not a word had been uttered while this terrific scene was in the

course of occurrence; not a word was uttered for some time afterward.

Gleams of grim satisfaction had been seen on the countenances of the

boatswain, and his associates, when the success of their nefarious

project was first assured; but they soon disappeared in looks of

horror, as they witnessed the struggles of the drowning men.

Nevertheless, human selfishness was strong within them all, and none

there was so ignorant as not to perceive how much better were the

chances of the yawl now than it had been on quitting the wreck. The

weight of a large ox had been taken from it, counting that of all the

eight men drowned; and as for the water shipped, it was soon bailed

back again into the sea. Not only, therefore, was the yawl in a better

condition to resist the waves, but it sailed materially faster than it

had done before. Ten persons still remained in it, however, which

brought it down in the water below its proper load-line; and the speed

of a craft so small was necessarily a good deal lessened by the least

deviation from its best sailing, or rowing trim. But Spike's projects

were not yet completed.

All this time the man-of-war's cutter had been rushing as madly

through the breakers, in chase, as the yawl had done in the attempt to

escape. Mulford was, in fact, on board it; and his now fast friend,

Wallace, was in command. The latter wished to seize a traitor, the

former to save the aunt of his weeping bride. Both believed that they

might follow wherever Spike dared to lead. This reasoning was more

bold than judicious notwithstanding, since the cutter was much larger,

and drew twice as much water as the yawl. On it came, nevertheless,

faring much better in the white water than the little craft it

pursued, but necessarily running a much more considerable risk of

hitting the coral, over which it was glancing almost as swiftly as the

waves themselves; still it had thus far escaped--and little did any in

it think of the danger. This cutter pulled ten oars; was an excellent

sea boat; had four armed marines in it, in addition to its crew, but

carried all through the breakers, receiving scarcely a drop of water

on board, on account of the height of its wash-boards, and the general

qualities of the craft. It may be well to add here, that the

Poughkeepsie had shaken out her reefs, and was betraying the

impatience of Capt. Mull to make sail in chase, by firing signal guns

to his boats to bear a hand and return. These signals the three boats

under their oars were endeavoring to obey, but Wallace had got so far

to leeward as now to render the course he was pursuing the wisest.

Mrs. Budd and Biddy had seen the struggle in which the Señor

Montefalderon had been lost, in a sort of stupid horror. Both had

screamed, as was their wont, though neither probably suspected the

truth. But the fell designs of Spike extended to them, as well as to

those whom he had already destroyed. Now the boat was in deep water,

running along the margin of the reef, the waves were much increased in

magnitude, and the comb of the sea was far more menacing to the boat.

This would not have been the case had the rocks formed a lee; but they

did not, running too near the direction of the trades to prevent the

billows that got up a mile or so in the offing, from sending their

swell quite home to the reef. It was this swell, indeed, which caused

the line of white water along the northern margin of the coral,

washing on the rocks by a sort of lateral effort, and breaking, as a

matter of course. In many places no boat could have lived to pass

through it.

Another consideration influenced Spike to persevere. The cutter had

been overhauling him, hand over hand, but since the yawl was relieved

of the weight of no less than eight men, the difference in the rate of

sailing was manifestly diminished. The man-of-war's boat drew nearer,

but by no means as fast as it had previously done. A point was now

reached in the trim of the yawl, when a very few hundreds in weight

might make the most important change in her favor; and this change the

captain was determined to produce. By this time the cutter was in deep

water, as well as himself, safe through all the dangers of the reef,

and she was less than a quarter of a mile astern. On the whole, she

was gaining, though so slowly as to require the most experienced eye

to ascertain the fact.

"Madame Budd," said Spike, in a hypocritical tone, "we are in great

danger, and I shall have to ask you to change your seat. The boat is

too much by the starn, now we've got into deep water, and your weight

amidships would be a great relief to us. Just give your hand to the

boatswain, and he will help you to step from thwart to thwart, until

you reach the right place, when Biddy shall follow."

Now Mrs. Budd had witnessed the tremendous struggle in which so many

had gone overboard, but so dull was she of apprehension, and so little

disposed to suspect any thing one-half so monstrous as the truth, that

she did not hesitate to comply. She was profoundly awed by the horrors

of the scene through which she was passing, the raging billows of the

gulf, as seen from so small a craft, producing a deep impression on

her; still a lingering of her most inveterate affectation was to be

found in her air and language, which presented a strange medley of

besetting weakness, and strong, natural, womanly affection.

"Certainly, Capt. Spike," she answered, rising. "A craft should never

go astern, and I am quite willing to ballast the boat. We have seen

such terrible accidents to-day, that all should lend their aid in

endeavoring to get under way, and in averting all possible hamper.

Only take me to my poor, dear Rosy, Capt. Spike, and every thing shall

be forgotten that has passed between us. This is not a moment to bear

malice; and I freely pardon you all and every thing. The fate of our

unfortunate friend, Mr. Montefalderon, should teach us charity, and

cause us to prepare for untimely ends."

All the time the good widow was making this speech, which she uttered

in a solemn and oracular sort of manner, she was moving slowly toward

the seat the men had prepared for her, in the middle of the boat,

assisted with the greatest care and attention by the boatswain and

another of Spike's confidents. When on the second thwart from aft, and

about to take her seat, the boatswain cast a look behind him, and

Spike put the helm down. The boat luffed and lurched, of course, and

Mrs. Budd would probably have gone overboard to leeward, by so sudden

and violent a change, had not the impetus thus received been aided by

the arms of the men who held her two hands. The plunge she made into

the water was deep, for she was a woman of great weight for her

stature. Still, she was not immediately gotten rid of. Even at that

dread instant, it is probable that the miserable woman did not suspect

the truth, for she grasped the hand of the boatswain with the tenacity

of a vice, and, thus dragged on the surface of the boiling surges, she

screamed aloud for Spike to save her. Of all who had yet been

sacrificed to the captain's selfish wish to save himself, this was the

first instance in which any had been heard to utter a sound, after

falling into the sea. The appeal shocked even the rude beings around

her, and Biddy chiming in with a powerful appeal to "save the missus!"

added to the piteous nature of the scene.

"Cast off her hand," said Spike reproachfully, "she'll swamp the boat

by her struggles--get rid of her at once! Cut her fingers off if she

wont let go."

The instant these brutal orders were given, and that in a fierce,

impatient tone, the voice of Biddy was heard no more. The truth forced

itself on her dull imagination, and she sat a witness of the terrible

scene, in mute despair. The struggle did not last long. The boatswain

drew his knife across the wrist of the hand that grasped his own, one

shriek was heard, and the boat plunged into the trough of a sea,

leaving the form of poor Mrs. Budd struggling with the wave on its

summit, and amid the foam of its crest. This was the last that was

ever seen of the unfortunate relict.

"The boat has gained a good deal by that last discharge of cargo,"

said Spike to the boatswain, a minute after they had gotten rid of the

struggling woman--"she is much more lively, and is getting nearer to

her load-line. If we can bring her to _that_, I shall have no fear of

the man-of-war's men; for this yawl is one of the fastest boats that

ever floated."

"A very little _now_, sir, would bring us to our true trim."

"Ay, we must get rid of more cargo. Come, good woman," turning to

Biddy, with whom he did not think it worth his while to use much

circumlocution, "_your_ turn is next. It's the maid's duty to follow

her mistress."

"I know'd it _must_ come," said Biddy, meekly. "If there was no mercy

for the missus, little could I look for. But ye'll not take the life

of a Christian woman widout giving her so much as one minute to say

her prayers?"

"Ay, pray away," answered Spike, his throat becoming dry and husky,

for, strange to say, the submissive quiet of the Irish woman, so

different from the struggle he had anticipated with _her_, rendered

him more reluctant to proceed than he had hitherto been in all of that

terrible day. As Biddy kneeled in the bottom of the stern-sheets,

Spike looked behind him, for the double purpose of escaping the

painful spectacle at his feet, and that of ascertaining how his

pursuers came on. The last still gained, though very slowly, and

doubts began to come over the captain's mind whether he could escape

such enemies at all. He was too deeply committed, however, to recede,

and it was most desirable to get rid of poor Biddy, if it were for no

other motive than to shut her mouth. Spike even fancied that some idea

of what had passed was entertained by those in the cutter. There was

evidently a stir in that boat, and two forms that he had no

difficulty, now, in recognizing as those of Wallace and Mulford, were

standing on the grating in the eyes of the cutter, or forward of the

foresail. The former appeared to have a musket in his hand, and the

other a glass. The last circumstance admonished him that all that was

now done would be done before dangerous witnesses. It was too late to

draw back, however, and the captain turned to look for the Irish

woman.

Biddy arose from her knees, just as Spike withdrew his eyes from his

pursuers. The boatswain and another confident were in readiness to

cast the poor creature into the sea, the moment their leader gave the

signal. The intended victim saw and understood the arrangement, and

she spoke earnestly and piteously to her murderers.

"It's not wanting will be violence," said Biddy, in a quiet tone, but

with a saddened countenance. "I know it's my turn, and I will save yer

sowls from a part of the burden of this great sin. God, and His Divine

Son, and the Blessed Mother of Jesus have mercy on me if it be wrong;

but I would far radder jump into the saa widout having the rude hands

of man on me, than have the dreadful sight of the missus done over

ag'in. It's a fearful thing is wather, and sometimes we have too

little of it, and sometimes more than we want--"

"Bear a hand, bear a hand, good woman," interrupted the boatswain,

impatiently. "We must clear the boat of you, and the sooner it is done

the better it will be for all of us."

"Don't grudge a poor morthal half a minute of life, at the last

moment," answered Biddy. "It's not long that I'll throuble ye, and so

no more need be said."

The poor creature then got on the quarter of the boat, without any

one's touching her; there she placed herself with her legs outboard,

while she sat on the gunwale. She gave one moment to the thought of

arranging her clothes with womanly decency, and then she paused to

gaze with a fixed eye, and pallid cheek, on the foaming wake that

marked the rapid course of the boat. The troughs of the sea seemed

less terrible to her than their combing crests, and she waited for the

boat to descend into the next.

"God forgive ye all, this deed, as I do!" said Biddy, earnestly, and

bending her person forward, she fell, as it might be "without hands,"

into the gulf of eternity. Though all strained their eyes, none of the

men, Jack Tier excepted, ever saw more of Biddy Noon. Nor did Jack see

much. He got a frightful glimpse of an arm, however, on the summit of

a wave, but the motion of the boat was too swift, and the surface of

the ocean too troubled, to admit of aught else.

A long pause succeeded this event. Biddy's quiet submission to her

fate had produced more impression on her murderers than the desperate,

but unavailing, struggles of those who had preceded her. Thus it is

ever with men. When opposed, the demon within blinds them to

consequences as well as to their duties; but, unresisted, the silent

influence of the image of God makes itself felt, and a better spirit

begins to prevail. There was not one in that boat who did not, for a

brief space, wish that poor Biddy had been spared. With most that

feeling, the last of human kindness they ever knew, lingered until the

occurrence of the dread catastrophe which, so shortly after, closed

the scene of this state of being on their eyes.

"Jack Tier," called out Spike, some five minutes after Biddy was

drowned, but not until another observation had made it plainly

apparent to him that the man-of-war's men still continued to draw

nearer, being now not more than fair musket shot astern.

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Jack, coming quietly out of his hole, from

forward of the mast, and moving aft as if indifferent to the danger,

by stepping lightly from thwart to thwart, until he reached the

stern-sheets.

"It is your turn, little Jack," said Spike, as if in a sort of

sorrowful submission to a necessity that knew no law, "we cannot spare

you the room."

"I have expected this, and am ready. Let me have my own way, and I

will cause you no trouble. Poor Biddy has taught me how to die. Before

I go, however, Stephen Spike, I must leave you this letter. It is

written by myself, and addressed to you. When I am gone, read it, and

think well of what it contains. And now, may a merciful God pardon the

sins of both, through love for his Divine Son. I forgive you, Stephen;

and should you live to escape from those who are now bent on hunting

you to the death, let this day cause you no grief on my account. Give

me but a moment of time, and I will cause you no trouble."

Jack now stood upon the seat of the stern-sheets, balancing himself

with one foot on the stern of the boat. He waited until the yawl had

risen to the summit of a wave, when he looked eagerly for the

man-of-war's cutter. At that moment she was lost to view in the trough

of the sea. Instead of springing overboard, as all expected, he asked

another instant of delay. The yawl sunk into the trough itself, and

rose on the succeeding billow. Then he saw the cutter, and Wallace and

Mulford standing in its bows. He waved his hat to them, and sprang

high into the air, with the intent to make himself seen; when he came

down, the boat had shot her length away from the place, leaving him to

buffet with the waves. Jack now managed admirably, swimming lightly

and easily, but keeping his eyes on the crests of the waves, with a

view to meet the cutter. Spike now saw this well planned project to

avoid death, and regretted his own remissness in not making sure of

Jack. Everybody in the yawl was eagerly looking after the form of

Tier.

"There he is on the comb of that sea, rolling over like a keg!" cried

the boatswain.

"He's through it," answered Spike, "and swimming with great strength

and coolness."

Several of the men started up involuntarily and simultaneously to

look, hitting their shoulders and bodies together. Distrust was at its

most painful height; and bull-dogs do not spring at the ox's muzzle

more fiercely than those six men throttled each other. Oaths, curses,

and appeals for help, succeeded; each man endeavoring, in his frenzied

efforts, to throw all the others overboard, as the only means of

saving himself. Plunge succeeded plunge; and when that combat of

demons ended, no one remained of them all but the boatswain. Spike had

taken no share in the struggle, looking on in grim satisfaction, as

the Father of Lies may be supposed to regard all human strife, hoping

good to himself, let the result be what it might to others. Of the

five men who thus went overboard, not one escaped. They drowned each

other by continuing their maddened conflict in an element unsuited to

their natures.

Not so with Jack Tier. His leap had been seen, and a dozen eyes in the

cutter watched for his person, as that boat came foaming down before

the wind. A shout of "There he is!" from Mulford succeeded; and the

little fellow was caught by the hair, secured, and then hauled into

the boat by the second lieutenant of the Poughkeepsie and our young

mate.

Others in the cutter had noted the incident of the hellish fight. The

fact was communicated to Wallace, and Mulford said, "That yawl will

outsail this loaded cutter, with only two men in it."

"Then it is time to try what virtue there is in lead," answered

Wallace. "Marines, come forward, and give the rascal a volley."

The volley was fired; one ball passed through the head of the

boatswain, killing him dead on the spot. Another went through the

body of Spike. The captain fell in the stern-sheets, and the boat

instantly broached to.

The water that came on board apprised Spike fully of the state in

which he was now placed, and by a desperate effort, he clutched the

tiller, and got the yawl again before the wind. This could not last,

however. Little by little, his hold relaxed, until his hand

relinquished its grasp altogether, and the wounded man sunk into the

bottom of the stern-sheets, unable to raise even his head. Again the

boat broached-to. Every sea now sent its water aboard, and the yawl

would soon have filled, had not the cutter come glancing down past it,

and rounding-to under its lee, secured the prize.

[_To be continued._

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams,

With steeps that hang in the twilight sky,

And weltering oceans and trailing streams

That gleam where the dusky valleys lie.

But over its shadowy border flow

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn,

And the nearer mountains catch the glow,

And flowers in the nearer fields are born.

The souls of the happy dead repair,

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land,

And walk in the fainter glory there,

With the souls of the living, hand in hand.

One calm sweet smile in that shadowy sphere,

From eyes that open on earth no more--

One warning word from a voice once dear--

How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er!

Far off from those hills that shine with day,

And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales,

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away

To dimmer mountains and darker vales.

There lie the chambers of guilty delight,

There walk the spectres of guilty fear,

And soft low voices that float through the night

Are whispering sin in the helpless ear.

Dear maids, in thy girlhood's opening flower,

Scarce weaned from the love of childish play!

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower

That freshens the early blooms of May!

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow

Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams,

And I know, by the moving lips, that now

Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams.

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet!

Oh keep where that beam of Paradise falls;

And only wander where thou may'st meet

The blessed ones from its shining walls.

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams,

With love and peace, to this world of strife;

And the light that over that border streams

Shall lie on the path of thy daily life.

SONNET--TO S. D. A.

BY "THE SQUIRE."

When the young Morning, like a new-drest bride,

With pearls of dew fresh glistening in her hair,

Walks through the east in early summer-tide.

Her robe loose floating on the scented air,

The laughing hours assembled at her side

Or circling round her--then is she less fair

Than, in my heart, the picture, sweet and rare,

Thy presence left.--My books go unperused,

Old friends are shunned, and time flies by unused,

While I, grown idle, nothing do but dream;

Gazing upon that picture till I seem

_Thyself_, again, before my eyes to see,

And not the ideal show: so that to me

The semblance turns to sweet reality.

[Illustration

_Engraved by T. S. WELCH. FOR GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE_

_FROM AN ORIGINAL DAGUERREOTYPE_]

_Entered according to act of Congress in the Year 1847 by G.R. Graham

in the Clerks Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of

P^a._

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

OF GENERAL WILLIAM O. BUTLER.

BY FRANCIS P. BLAIR.

In memoirs of individuals of distinction it is usual to look back to

their ancestry. The feeling is universal which prompts us to learn

something of even an ordinary acquaintance in whom interest is felt.

It will indulge, therefore, only a necessary and proper curiosity to

introduce the subject of this notice by a short account of a family

whose striking traits survive in him so remarkably. General Butler's

grandfather, Thomas Butler, was born 6th April, 1720, in Kilkenny,

Ireland. He married there in 1742. Three of his five sons who attained

manhood, Richard, William and Thomas, were born abroad. Pierce, the

father of General William O. Butler, and Edward, the youngest son,

were born in Pennsylvania. It is remarkable that all these men, and

all their immediate male descendants, with a single exception, (who

was a judge,) were engaged in the military service of this country.

The eldest, Richard, was Lieut. Col. of Morgan's celebrated

rifle-regiment, and to him it owed much of the high character that

gave it a fame of its own, apart from the other corps of the

Revolution. The cool, disciplined valor which gave steady and deadly

direction to the rifles of this regiment, was derived principally from

this officer, who devoted himself to the drill of his men. He was

promoted to the full command of his regiment sometime during the war,

(when Morgan's great merit and services had raised him to the rank of

general,) and in that capacity had commanded Wayne's left in the

attack on Stony Point. About the year 1790, he was appointed

major-general. On the 4th of November, 1791, he was killed in St.

Clair's bloody battle with the Indians. His combat with the Indians,

after he was shot, gave such a peculiar interest to his fate that a

representation of himself and the group surrounding him was exhibited

throughout the Union in wax figures. Notices of this accomplished

soldier will be found in Marshall's Life of Washington, pages 290,

311, 420. In Gen. St. Clair's report, in the American Museum, volume

xi. page 44, Appendix.

William Butler, the second son, was an officer throughout the

revolutionary war; rose to the rank of colonel, and was in many of the

severest battles. He was the favorite of the family, and was boasted

of by this race of heroes as the coolest and boldest man in battle

they had ever known. When the army was greatly reduced in rank and

file, and there were many superfluous officers, they organized

themselves into a separate corps, and elected him to the command.

General Washington declined receiving this novel corps of

commissioned soldiers, but in a proud testimonial did honor to their

devoted patriotism.

Of Thomas Butler, the third son, we glean the following facts from the

American Biographical Dictionary. In the year 1776, whilst he was a

student of law in the office of the eminent Judge Wilson of

Philadelphia, he left his pursuit and joined the army as a subaltern.

He soon obtained the command of a company, in which he continued to

the close of the revolutionary war. He was in almost every action

fought in the Middle States during the war. At the battle of

Brandywine he received the thanks of Washington on the field of

battle, through his aid-de-camp Gen. Hamilton, for his intrepid

conduct in rallying a detachment of retreating troops, and giving the

enemy a severe fire. At the battle of Monmouth he received the thanks

of Gen. Wayne for defending a defile, in the face of a severe fire

from the enemy, while Col. Richard Butler's regiment made good its

retreat. At the close of the war he retired into private life, as a

farmer, and continued in the enjoyment of rural and domestic happiness

until the year 1791, when he again took the field to meet the savage

foe that menaced our western frontier. He commanded a battalion in the

disastrous battle of Nov. 4, 1791, in which his brother fell. Orders

were given by Gen. St. Clair to charge with the bayonet, and Major

Butler, though his leg had been broken by a ball, yet on horseback,

led his battalion to the charge. It was with difficulty his surviving

brother, Capt. Edward Butler, removed him from the field. In 1792 he

was continued in the establishment as major, and in 1794 he was

promoted to the rank of lieutenant-colonel commandant of the 4th

sub-legion. He commanded in this year Fort Fayette, at Pittsburg, and

prevented the deluded insurgents from taking it, more by his name than

by his forces, for he had but few troops. The close of his life was

embittered with trouble. In 1803 he was arrested by the commanding

general--Wilkinson--at Fort Adams, on the Mississippi, and sent to

Maryland, where he was tried by a court-martial, and acquitted of all

the charges, save that of _wearing his hair_. He was then ordered to

New Orleans, where he arrived, to take command of the troops, October

20th. He was again arrested next month; but the court did not sit

until July of the next year, and their decision is not known. Col.

Butler died Sept. 7, 1805. Out of the arrest and persecution of this

sturdy veteran, Washington Irving (Knickerbocker) has worked up a fine

piece of burlesque, in which Gen. Wilkinson's character is inimitably

delineated in that of the vain and pompous Gen. Von Poffenburg.

Percival Butler, the fourth son, father of General Wm. O. Butler, was

born at Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in 1760. He entered the army as a

lieutenant at the age of eighteen; was with Washington at Valley

Forge; was in the battle of Monmouth, and at the taking of

Yorktown--being through the whole series of struggles in the Middle

States, with the troops under the commander-in-chief, except for a

short period when he was attached to a light corps commanded by La

Fayette, who presented him a sword. Near the close of the war he went

to the South with the Pennsylvania brigade, where peace found him. He

emigrated to Kentucky in 1784. He was the last of the old stock left

when the war of 1812 commenced. He was made adjutant-general when

Kentucky became a State, and in that capacity joined one of the armies

sent out by Kentucky during the war.

Edward Butler, the youngest of the five brothers, was too young to

enter the army in the first stages of the Revolution, but joined it

near the close, and had risen to a captaincy when Gen. St. Clair took

the command, and led it to that disastrous defeat in which so many of

the best soldiers of the country perished. He there evinced the

highest courage and strongest fraternal affection, in carrying his

wounded brother out of the massacre, which was continued for miles

along the route of the retreating army, and from which so few escaped,

even of those who fled unencumbered. He subsequently became

adjutant-general in Wayne's army.

Of these five brothers four had sons--all of whom, with one exception,

were engaged in the military or naval service of the country during

the last war.

1st. General Richard Butler's son, William, died a lieutenant in the

navy, early in the last war. His son, Captain James Butler, was at the

head of the Pittsburg Blues, which company he commanded in the

campaigns of the Northwest, and was particularly distinguished in the

battle of Massissinnawa.

2d. Colonel William Butler, also of the revolutionary army, had two

sons, one died in the navy, the other a subaltern in Wayne's army. He

was in the battle with the Indians in 1794.

3d. Lieut. Col. Thomas Butler, of the old stock, had three sons, the

eldest a judge. The second, Col. Robert Butler, was at the head of

Gen. Jackson's staff throughout the last war. The third, William E.

Butler, also served in the army of Gen. Jackson.

4th. Percival Butler, captain in the revolutionary war, and

adjutant-general of Kentucky during the last war, had four sons:

first, Thomas, who was a captain, and aid to Gen. Jackson at New

Orleans. Next, Gen. William O. Butler, the subject of this notice.

Third, Richard, who was assistant adjutant-general in the campaigns of

the war of 1812. Percival Butler, the youngest son, now a

distinguished lawyer, was not of an age to bear arms in the last war.

Of this second generation of the Butler's, there are nine certainly,

and probably more, engaged in the present war.

This glance at the family shows the character of the race. An

anecdote, derived from a letter of an old Pennsylvania friend to the

parents, who transplanted it from Ireland, shows that its military

instinct was an inheritance. "While the five sons," says the letter,

"were absent from home in the service of the country, the old father

took it in his head to go also. The neighbors collected to remonstrate

against it; but his wife said, 'Let him go! I can get along without

him, and raise something to feed the army in the bargain; and the

country wants every man who can shoulder a musket.'" It was doubtless

this extraordinary zeal of the Butler family which induced Gen.

Washington to give the toast--"The Butlers, and their five sons," at

his own table, whilst surrounded by a large party of officers. This

anecdote rests on the authority of the late Gen. Findlay, of

Cincinnati. A similar tribute of respect was paid to this devoted

house of soldiers by Gen. La Fayette, in a letter now extant, and in

the possession of a lady connected with them by marriage. La Fayette

says, "_When I wanted a thing well done, I ordered a Butler to do

it._"

From this retrospect it will be seen that in all the wars of the

country, in the revolutionary war, in the Indian war, in the last

British war, and the present Mexican war, the blood of almost every

Butler able to bear arms has been freely shed in the public cause.

Maj. Gen. William O. Butler is now among the highest in the military

service of his country; and he has attained this grade from the

ranks--the position of a private being the only one he ever sought. At

the opening of the war of 1812, he had just graduated in the

Transylvania University, and was looking to the law as a profession.

The surrender of Detroit, and the army by Hull, aroused the patriotism

and the valor of Kentucky--and young Butler, yet in his minority, was

among the first to volunteer. He gave up his books, and the enjoyments

of the gay and polished society of Lexington, where he lived among a

circle of fond and partial relations--the hope to gratify their

ambition in shining at the bar, or in the political forum of the

state--to join Capt. Hart's company of infantry as a private soldier.

Before the march to join the northwestern army, he was elected a

corporal. In this grade he marched to the relief of Fort Wayne, which

was invested by hostile Indians. These were driven before the Kentucky

volunteers to their towns on the Wabash, which were destroyed, and the

troops then returned to the Miami of the lakes, where they made a

winter encampment. Here an ensign's commission in the second regiment

of United States infantry was tendered to the volunteer corporal,

which he declined, unless permitted to remain with the northwestern

army, which he had entered to share in the effort of the Kentucky

militia to wipe out the disgrace of Hull's surrender by the recapture

of Detroit. His proposition was assented to, and he received an

ensign's appointment in the seventeenth infantry, then a part of the

northwestern army, under the command of Gen. Winchester. After

enduring every privation in a winter encampment, in the wildernesses

and frozen marshes of the lake country, awaiting in vain the expected

support of additional forces, the Kentucky volunteers, led by Lewis,

Allen, and Madison, with Well's regiment, (17th U. S.) advanced to

encounter the force of British and Indians which defended Detroit. On

leaving Kentucky the volunteers had pledged themselves to drive the

British invaders from our soil. These men and their leaders were held

in such estimation at home, that the expectation formed of them

exceeded their promises; and these volunteers, though disappointed in

every succor which they had reason to anticipate--wanting in

provision, clothes, cannon, in every thing--resolved, rather than lose

reputation, to press on to the enterprise, and to endeavor to draw on

to them, by entering into action, the troops behind. It is not proper

here to enter into explanations of the causes of the disaster at the

River Raisin, the consequence of this movement, nor to give the

particulars of the battle. The incidents which signalized the

character of the subject of this memoir alone are proper here.

There were two battles at the River Raisin, one on the 18th, the other

on the 22d of January. In the first, the whole body of Indian

warriors, drawn together from all the lake tribes, for the defence of

Upper Canada against the approaching Kentuckians, were encountered. In

moving to the attack of this formidable force of the fiercest, and

bravest, and most expert warriors on the continent, a strong party of

them were descried from the line with which Ensign Butler advanced,

running forward to reach a fence, and hold it as a cover from which to

ply their rifles. Butler instantly proposed, and was permitted, to

anticipate them. Calling upon some of the most alert and active men of

the company, he ran directly to meet the Indians at the fence. He and

his comrades out-stripped the enemy, and getting possession of the

fence, kept the advantage of the position for their advancing friends.

This incident, of however little importance as to results, is worth

remembrance in giving the traits of a young soldier's character. It is

said that the hardiest veteran, at the opening of the fire in battle,

feels, for the moment, somewhat appalled. And Gen. Wolfe, one of the

bravest of men, declared that the "horrid yell of the Indian strikes

the boldest heart with affright." The strippling student, who, for the

first time, beheld a field of battle on the snows of the River Raisin,

presenting in bold relief long files of those terrible enemies, whose

massacres had filled his native State with tales of horror, must have

felt some stirring sensations. But the crack of the Indian rifle, and

his savage yell, awoke in him the chivalric instincts of his nature;

and the promptitude with which he communicated his enthusiasm to a few

comrades around, and rushed forward to meet danger in its most

appalling form, risking himself to save others, and secure a triumph

which he could scarcely hope to share, gave earnest of the military

talent, the self-sacrificing courage, and the soldierly sympathies

which have drawn to him the nation's esteem. The close of the battle

of the 18th gave another instance in which these latter traits of Gen.

Butler's character were still more strikingly illustrated. The

Indians, driven from the defences around the town on the River Raisin,

retired fighting into the thick woods beyond it. The contest of

sharp-shooting from tree to tree was here continued--the Kentuckians

pressing forward, and the Indians retreating, until night closed in,

when the Kentuckians were recalled to the encampment in the village.

The Indians advanced as their opposers withdrew, and kept up the fire

until the Kentuckians emerged from the woods into the open ground.

Just as the column to which Ensign Butler belonged reached the verge

of the dark forest, the voice of a wounded man, who had been left some

distance behind, was heard calling out most piteously for help. Butler

induced three of his company to go back in the woods with him to bring

him off. He was found, and they fought their way back--one of the men,

Jeremiah Walker, receiving a shot, of which he subsequently died.

In the second sanguinary battle of the River Raisin, on the 22d of

January, with the British and Indians, another act of self-devotion

was performed by Butler. After the rout and massacre of the right

wing, belonging to Wells' command, the whole force of the British and

Indians was concentrated against the small body of troops under Major

Madison, that maintained their ground within the picketed gardens. A

double barn, commanding the plot of ground on which the Kentuckians

stood, was approached on one side by the Indians, under the cover of

an orchard and fence; the British, on the other side, being so posted

as to command the space between it and the pickets. A party in the

rear of the barn were discovered advancing to take possession of it.

All saw the fatal consequences of the secure lodgment of the enemy at

a place which would present every man within the pickets at close

rifle-shot to the aim of their marksmen. Major Madison inquired if

there was no one who would volunteer to run the gauntlet of the fire

of the British and Indian lines, and put a torch to the combustibles

within the barn, to save the remnant of the little army from

sacrifice. Butler, without a moment's delay, took some blazing slicks

from a fire at hand, leaped the pickets, and running at his utmost

speed, thrust the fire into the straw within the barn. One who was an

anxious spectator of the event we narrate, says, "that although volley

upon volley was fired at him, Butler, after making some steps on his

way back, turned to see if the fire had taken, and not being

satisfied, returned to the barn and set it in a blaze. As the

conflagration grew, the enemy was seen retreating from the rear of the

building, which they had entered at one end, as the flame ascended in

the other. Soon after reaching the pickets in safety, amid the shouts

of his friends, he was struck by a ball in his breast. Believing from

the pain he felt that it had penetrated his chest, turning to Adjutant

(now Gen.) McCalla, one of his Lexington comrades, and pressing his

hand to the spot, he said, "I fear this shot is mortal, but while I am

able to move, I will do my duty." To the anxious inquiries of this

friend, who met him soon afterward, he opened his vest, with a smile,

and showed him that the ball had spent itself on the thick wadding of

his coat and on his breast bone. He suffered, however, for many

weeks.

The little band within the pickets, which Winchester had surrendered,

after being carried himself a prisoner into Proctor's camp, denied his

powers. They continued to hold the enemy at bay until they were

enabled to capitulate on honorable terms, which, nevertheless, Proctor

shamefully violated, by leaving the sick and wounded who were unable

to walk to the tomahawk of his allies. Butler, who was among the few

of the wounded who escaped the massacre, was marched through Canada to

Fort Niagara--suffering under his wound, and every privation--oppressed

with grief, hunger, fatigue, and the inclement cold of that desolate

region. Even here he forgot himself, and his mind wandered back to the

last night scene which he surveyed on the bloody shores of the River

Raisin. He gave up the heroic part and became the schoolboy again, and

commemorated his sorrows for his lost friends in verse, like some

passionate, heart-broken lover. These elegiac strains were never

intended for any but the eye of mutual friends, whose sympathies, like

his own, poured out tears with their plaints over the dead. We give

some of these lines of his boyhood, to show that the heroic youth had

a bosom not less kind than brave.

THE FIELD OF RAISIN.

The battle's o'er! the din is past,

Night's mantle on the field is cast;

The Indian yell is heard no more,

An silence broods o'er Erie's shore.

At this lone hour I go to tread

The field where valor vainly bled--

To raise the wounded warrior's crest,

Or warm with tears his icy breast;

To treasure up his last command,

And bear it to his native land.

It may one pulse of joy impart

To a fond mother's bleeding heart;

Or for a moment it may dry

The tear-drop in the widow's eye.

Vain hope, away! The widow ne'er

Her warrior's dying wish shall hear.

The passing zephyr bears no sigh,

No wounded warrior meets the eye--

Death is his sleep by Erie's wave,

Of Raisin's snow we heap his grave!

How many hopes lie murdered here--

The mother's joy, the father's pride,

The country's boast, the foeman's fear,

In wilder'd havoc, side by side.

Lend me, thou silent queen of night,

Lend me awhile thy waning light,

That I may see each well-loved form,

That sunk beneath the morning storm.

These lines are introductory to what may be considered a succession of

epitaphs on the personal friends whose bodies he found upon the field.

It would extend the extract too far to insert them. We can only add

the close of the poem, where he takes leave of a group of his young

comrades in Hart's company, who had fallen together.

And here I see that youthful band,

That loved to move at Hart's command;

I saw them for the battle dressed,

And still where danger thickest pressed,

I marked their crimson plumage wave.

How many filled this bloody grave!

Their pillow and their winding-sheet

The virgin snow--a shroud most meet!

But wherefore do I linger here?

Why drop the unavailing tear?

Where'er I turn, some youthful form,

Like floweret broken by the storm,

Appeals to me in sad array,

And bids me yet a moment stay.

Till I could fondly lay me down

And sleep with him on the cold, cold ground.

For thee, thou dread and solemn plain,

I ne'er shall look on thee again;

And Spring, with her effacing showers,

Shall come, and Summer's mantling flowers;

And each succeeding Winter throw

On thy red breast new robes of snow;

Yet I will wear thee in my heart,

All dark and gory as thou art.

Shortly after his return from Canada. Ensign Butler was promoted to a

captaincy in the regiment to which he belonged. But as this promotion

was irregular, being made over the heads of senior officers in that

regiment, a captaincy was given him in the 44th, a new raised

regiment. When free from parole, by exchange, in 1814, he instantly

entered on active duty, with a company which he had recruited at

Nashville, Tennessee. His regiment was ordered to join General Jackson

in the South, but Captain Butler finding its movements too tardy,

pushed on, and effected that junction with his company alone. Gen.

Call, at that time an officer in Capt. Butler's company, (since Gov.

of Florida,) in a letter addressed to Mr. Tanner of Kentucky,

presents, as an eye-witness, so graphically, the share which Capt.

Butler had in the campaign which followed, that it may well supersede

any narrative at second hand.

"_Tallehasse, April_ 3, 1844.

"SIR,--I avail myself of the earliest leisure I

have had since the receipt of your letter of the

18th of February, to give you a reply.

"A difference of political sentiments will not

induce me to withhold the narrative you have

requested, of the military services of Col. Wm. O.

Butler, during the late war with Great Britain,

while attached to the army of the South. My

intimate association with him, in camp, on the

march, and in the field, has perhaps made me as

well acquainted with his merits, as a gentleman and

a soldier, as any other man living. And although we

are now standing in opposite ranks, I cannot forget

the days and nights we have stood side by side,

facing the common enemy of our country, sharing the

same fatigues, dangers, and privations, and

participating in the same pleasures and enjoyments.

The feelings and sympathies springing from such

associations in the days of our youth can never be

removed or impaired by a difference of opinion with

regard to men or measures, when each may well

believe the other equally sincere as himself, and

where the most ardent desire of both is to sustain

the honor, the happiness and prosperity of our

country.

"Soon after my appointment in the army of the

United States, as a lieutenant, in the fall of

1814, I was ordered to join the company of Capt.

Butler, of the 44th regiment of infantry, then at

Nashville, Tennessee. When I arrived, and reported

myself, I found the company under orders to join

our regiment in the South. The march, mostly

through an unsettled wilderness, was conducted by

Capt. Butler with his usual promptitude and energy,

and by forced and rapid movements we arrived at

Fort Montgomery, the headquarters of Gen. Jackson,

a short distance above the Florida line, just in

time to follow our beloved general in his bold

enterprise to drive the enemy from his strong

position in a neutral territory. The van-guard of

the army destined for the invasion of Louisiana had

made Pensacola its headquarters, and the British

navy in the Gulf of Mexico had rendezvoused in that

beautiful bay.

"The penetrating sagacity of Gen. Jackson

discovered the advantage of the position assumed by

the British forces, and with a decision and energy

which never faltered, he resolved to find his

enemy, even under the flag of a neutral power. This

was done by a prompt and rapid march, surprising

and cutting off all the advanced pickets, until we

arrived within gun-shot of the fort at Pensacola.

The army of Gen. Jackson was then so inconsiderable

as to render a reinforcement of a single company,

commanded by such an officer as Capt. Butler, an

important acquisition. And although there were

several companies of regular troops ordered to

march from Tennessee at the same time, Capt.

Butler's, by his extraordinary energy and

promptitude, was the only one which arrived in time

to join this expedition. His company formed a part

of the centre column of attack at Pensacola. The

street we entered was defended by a battery in

front, which fired on us incessantly, while several

strong block-houses, on our flanks, discharged upon

us small arms and artillery. But a gallant and

rapid charge soon carried the guns in front, and

the town immediately surrendered.

"In this fight Capt. Butler led on his company with

his usual intrepidity. He had one officer, Lieut.

Flournoy, severely wounded, and several

non-commissioned officers and privates killed and

wounded.

"From Pensacola, after the object of the expedition

was completed, by another prompt and rapid

movement, we arrived at New Orleans a few weeks

before the appearance of the enemy.

"On the 23d of December the signal-gun announced

the approach of the enemy. The previous night they

had surprised and captured one of our pickets; had

ascended a bayou, disembarked, and had taken

possession of the left bank of the Mississippi,

within six miles of New Orleans. The energy of

every officer was put in requisition, to

concentrate our forces in time to meet the enemy.

Capt. Butler was one of the first to arrive at the

general's quarters, and ask instructions; they were

received and promptly executed. Our regiment,

stationed on the opposite side, was transported

across the river. All the available forces of our

army, not much exceeding fifteen hundred men, were

concentrated in the city; and while the sun went

down the line of battle was formed; and every

officer took the station assigned him in the fight.

The infantry formed on the open square, in front of

the Cathedral, waiting in anxious expectation for

the order to move. During this momentary pause,

while the enemy was expected to enter the city, a

scene of deep and thrilling interest was presented.

Every gallery, porch and window around the square

were filled with the fair forms of beauty, in

silent anxiety and alarm, waving their

handkerchiefs to the gallant and devoted band which

stood before them, prepared to die, or defend them

from the rude intrusion of a foreign soldiery. It

was a scene calculated to awaken emotions never to

be forgotten. It appealed to the chivalry and

patriotism of every officer and soldier--it

inspired every heart, and nerved every arm for

battle. From this impressive scene the army marched

to meet the enemy, and about eight o'clock at night

they were surprised in their encampment,

immediately on the banks of the Mississippi.

Undiscovered, our line was formed in silence within

a short distance of the enemy; a rapid charge was

made into their camp, and a desperate conflict

ensued. After a determined resistance the enemy

gave way, but disputing every inch of ground we

gained. In advancing over ditches and fences in the

night, rendered still more dark by the smoke of the

battle, much confusion necessarily ensued, and many

officers became separated from their commands. It

more than once occurred during the fight that some

of our officers, through mistake, entered the

enemy's lines; and the British officers in like

manner entered ours. The meritorious officer in

command of our regiment, at the commencement of the

battle, lost his position in the darkness and

confusion, and was unable to regain it until the

action was over. In this manner, for a short time,

the regiment was without a commander, and its

movements were regulated by the platoon officers,

which increased the confusion and irregularity of

the advance. In this critical situation, and in the

heat of the battle, Capt. Butler, as the senior

officer present, assumed command of the regiment,

and led it on most gallantly to repeated and

successful charges, until the fight ended in the

complete rout of the enemy. We were still pressing

on their rear, when an officer of the general's

staff rode up and ordered the pursuit discontinued.

Captain Butler urged its continuance, and expressed

the confident belief of his ability to take many

prisoners, if permitted to advance. But the order

was promptly repeated, under the well-founded

apprehension that our troops might come in

collision with each other, an event which had

unhappily occurred at a previous hour of the fight.

No corps on that field was more bravely led to

battle than the regiment commanded by Capt. Butler,

and no officer of any rank, save the

commander-in-chief, was entitled to higher credit

for the achievement of that glorious night.

"A short time before the battle of the 8th of

January, Capt. Butler was detailed to command the

guard in front of the encampment. A house standing

near the bridge, in advance of his position, had

been taken possession of by the light troops of the

enemy, from whence they annoyed our guard. Capt.

Butler determined to dislodge them and burn the

house. He accordingly marched to the attack at the

head of his command, but the enemy retired before

him. Seeing them retreat, he halted his guard, and

advanced himself, accompanied by two or three men

only, for the purpose of burning the house. It was

an old frame building, weather-boarded, without

ceiling or plaster in the inside, with a single

door opening to the British camp. On entering the

house he found a soldier of the enemy concealed in

one corner, whom he captured, and sent to the rear

with his men, remaining alone in the house. While

he was in the act of kindling a fire, a detachment

of the enemy, unperceived, occupied the only door.

The first impulse was to force, with his single

arm, a passage through them, but he was instantly

seized in a violent manner by two or three stout

fellows, who pushed him back against the wall with

such force as to burst off the weather-boarding

from the wall, and he fell through the opening thus

made. In an instant he recovered himself, and under

a heavy fire from the enemy, he retreated until

supported by the guard, which he immediately led on

to the attack, drove the British light troops from

their strong position, and burnt the house in the

presence of the two armies.

"I witnessed on that field many deeds of daring

courage, but none of which more excited my

admiration than this.

"Capt. Butler was soon after in the battle of the

8th of January, where he sustained his previously

high and well earned reputation for bravery and

usefulness. But that battle, which, from its

important results, has eclipsed those which

preceded it, was but a slaughter of the enemy, with

trivial loss on our part, and presenting few

instances of individual distinction.

"Capt. Butler received the brevet rank of major for

his gallant services during that eventful campaign,

and the reward of merit was never more worthily

bestowed. Soon after the close of the war, he was

appointed aid-de-camp to Gen. Jackson, in which

station he remained until he retired from the army.

Since that period I have seldom had the pleasure of

meeting with my valued friend and companion in

arms, and I know but little of his career in civil

life. But in camp, his elevated principles, his

intelligence and generous feelings, won for him the

respect and confidence of all who knew him; and

where he is best known, I will venture to say, he

is still most highly appreciated for every

attribute which constitutes the gentleman and the

soldier.

"I am, sir, very respectfully,

"R. K. CALL."

"MR. WILLIAM TANNER."

General Jackson's sense of the services of Butler, in this memorable

campaign, was strongly expressed in the following letter to a member

of the Kentucky Legislature:

"_Hermitage, Feb._ 20, 1844.

"MY DEAR SIR,--You ask me to give you my opinion of

the military services of the then Captain, now

Colonel, Wm. O. Butler, of Kentucky, during the

investment of New Orleans by the British forces in

1814 and 1815. I wish I had sufficient strength to

speak fully of the merit of the services of Col.

Butler on that occasion; this strength I have not:

Suffice it to say, that on all occasions he

displayed that heroic chivalry, and calmness of

judgment in the midst of danger, which distinguish

the valuable officer in the hour of battle. In a

conspicuous manner were those noble qualities

displayed by him on the night of the 23d December,

1814, and on the 8th of January, 1815, as well as

at all times during the presence of the British

army at New Orleans. In short, he was to be found

at all points where duty called. I hazard nothing

in saying that should our country again be engaged

in war during the active age of Col. Butler, he

would be one of the very best selections that could

be made to command our army, and lead the Eagles of

our country on to victory and renown. He has

sufficient energy to assume all responsibility

necessary to success, and for his country's good.

"ANDREW JACKSON."

Gen. Jackson gave earlier proof of the high estimation in which he

held the young soldier who had identified himself with his own glory

at New Orleans. He made him his aid-de-camp in 1816--which station he

retained on the peace establishment, with the rank of colonel. But,

like his illustrious patron, he soon felt that military station and

distinction had no charms for him when unattended with the dangers,

duties, and patriotic achievements of war. He resigned, therefore,

even the association with his veteran chief, of which he was so proud,

and retired in 1817 to private life. He resumed his study of the

profession that was interrupted by the war, married, and settled down

on his patrimonial possession at the confluence of the Kentucky and

Ohio rivers, in the noiseless but arduous vocations of civil life. The

abode which he had chosen made it peculiarly so with him. The region

around him was wild and romantic, sparsely settled, and by pastoral

people. There are no populous towns. The high, rolling, and yet rich

lands--the precipitous cliffs of the Kentucky, of Eagle, Tavern and

other tributaries which pour into it near the mouth--make this section

of the State still, to some extent a wilderness of thickets--and the

tangled pea-vine, the grape-vine and nut-bearing trees, which rendered

all Kentucky, until the intrusion of the whites, one great Indian

park. The whole luxuriant domain was preserved by the Indians as a

pasture for buffalo, deer, elk, and other animals--their enjoyment

alike as a chase and a subsistence--by excluding every tribe from

fixing a habitation in it. Its name consecrated it as the dark and

bloody ground; and war pursued every foot that trod it. In the midst

of this region, in April, 1791, Wm. O. Butler was born, in Jessamine

county, on the Kentucky River. His father had married, in Lexington,

soon after his arrival in Kentucky, 1782, Miss Howkins, a

sister-in-law of Col. Todd, who commanded and perished in the battle

of the Blue-Licks. Following the instincts of his family, which seemed

ever to court danger, Gen. Pierce Butler, as neighborhood encroached

around him, removed, not long after the birth of his son William, to

the mouth of the Kentucky River. Through this section the Indian

warpath into the heart of Kentucky passed. Until the peace of 1794,

there was scarcely a day that some hostile Savage did not prowl

through the tangled forests, and the labyrinths of hills, streams and

cliffs, which adapted this region to their lurking warfare. From it

they emerged when they made their last formidable incursion, and

pushed their foray to the environs of Frankfort, the capital of the

State. General Pierce Butler had on one side of him the Ohio, on the

farther shore of which the savage hordes still held the mastery, and

on the other the romantic region through which they hunted and pressed

their war enterprises. And here, amid the scenes of border warfare,

his son William had that spirit, which has animated him through life,

educated by the legends of the Indian-fighting hunters of Kentucky.

To the feelings and taste inspired by the peculiarities of the place

and circumstances adverted to, must be attributed the return of Col.

Butler to his father's home, to enter on his profession as a lawyer.

There were no great causes or rich clients to attract him--no dense

population to lift him to the political honors of the State. The

eloquence and learning, the industry and integrity which he gave to

adjust the controversies of Gallatin and the surrounding counties,

would have crowned him with wealth and professional distinction, if

exhibited at Louisville or Lexington. But he coveted neither.

Independence, the affections of his early associates, the love of a

family circle, and the charm which the recollection of a happy boyhood

gave to the scenes in which he was reared, were all he sought. And he

found them all in the romantic dells and woodland heights of Kentucky,

and on the sides of the far spreading, gently flowing, beautiful Ohio.

The feeling which his sincere and sensitive nature had imbibed here

was as strong as that of the Switzer for his bright lakes, lofty

mountains, and deep valleys. The wild airs of the boat horn, which

have resounded for so many years from arks descending the Ohio and

Kentucky, floating along the current and recurring in echoes from the

hollows of the hills, like its eddies, became as dear to him as the

famous Rans de Vache to the native of Switzerland. We insert, as

characteristic alike of the poetical talent and temperament of Butler,

some verses which the sound of this rude instrument evoked when he

returned home, resigning with rapture "the ear piercing fife and

spirit stirring drum" for the wooden horn, which can only compass in

its simple melody such airs as that to which Burns has set his

beautiful words--

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And many a widow mourning;

I left the lines and tented field.

The music of this song made the burden of the "Boatman's Horn," and

always announced the approaching ark to the river villages.

The sentiments of the poet, as well as the sweet and deep tones which

wafted the plaintive air over the wide expanse of the Ohio, may have

contributed to awaken the feeling which pervade these lines.

THE BOAT HORN.

O, boatman! wind that horn again,

For never did the list'ning air

Upon its lambent bosom bear

So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain--

What though thy notes are sad, and few,

By every simple boatman blown,

Yet is each pulse to nature true,

And melody in every tone.

How oft in boyhood's joyous day,

Unmindful of the lapsing hours,

I've loitered on my homeward way

By wild Ohio's brink of flowers,

While some lone boatman, from the deck,

Poured his soft numbers to that tide,

As if to charm from storm and wreck

The boat where all his fortunes ride!

Delighted Nature drank the sound,

Enchanted--Echo bore it round

In whispers soft, and softer still,

From hill to plain, and plain to hill,

Till e'en the thoughtless, frolick boy,

Elate with hope, and wild with joy,

Who gamboled by the river's side,

And sported with the fretting tide,

Feels something new pervade his breast,

Chain his light step, repress his jest,

Bends o'er the flood his eager ear

To catch the sounds far off yet dear--

Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why

The tear of rapture fills his eye

And can he now, to manhood grown,

Tell why those notes, simple and lone,

As on the ravished ear they fall,

Bind every sense in magic spell?

There is a tide of feeling given

To all on earth, its fountain Heaven.

Beginning with the dewy flower,

Just oped in Flora's vernal bower--

Rising creation's orders through

With louder murmur, brighter hue--

That _tide_ is sympathy! its ebb and flow

Give life its hues of joy and wo.

Music, the master-spirit that can move

Its waves to war, or lull them into love--

Can cheer the sinking sailor mid the wave,

And bid the soldier on! nor fear the grave--

Inspire the fainting pilgrim on his road,

And elevate his soul to claim his God.

Then, boatman! wind that horn again!

Though much of sorrow mark its strain,

Yet are its notes to sorrow dear;

What though they wake fond memory's tear!

Tears are sad memory's sacred feast,

And rapture oft her chosen guest.

This retirement, which may almost be considered seclusion, was enjoyed

by Col. Butler nearly twenty-five years, when he was called out by the

Democratic party to redeem by his personal popularity the

congressional district in which he lived. It was supposed that no one

else could save it from the Whigs. Like all the rest of his family,

none of whom had made their military service a passport to the honors

and emoluments of civil stations, he was averse to relinquish the

attitude he occupied to enter on a party struggle. The importunity of

friends prevailed; and he was elected to two successive terms in

Congress, absolutely refusing to be a candidate a third time. He spoke

seldom in Congress, but in two or three fine speeches which appear in

the debates, a power will readily be detected which could not have

failed to conduct to the highest distinction in that body. Taste,

judgment, and eloquence, characterized all his efforts in Congress. A

fine manner, an agreeable voice, and the high consideration accorded

to him by the members of all parties, gave him, what it is the good

fortune of few to obtain, an attentive and gratified audience.

In 1844 the same experiment was made with Butler's popularity to carry

the state for the Democracy, as had succeeded in his congressional

district. He was nominated as the Democratic candidate for governor by

the 8th of January Convention; and there is good ground to believe

that he would have been chosen over his estimable Whig competitor,

Governor Owsley, but for the universal conviction throughout the state

that the defeat of Mr. Clay's party, by the choice of a Democratic

governor in August, would have operated to injure Mr. Clay's prospects

throughout the Union, in the presidential election which followed

immediately after in November. With Mr. Clay's popularity, and the

activity of all his friends--with the state pride so long exalted by

the aspiration of giving a President to the Union--more eagerly than

ever enlisted against the Democracy, Col. Butler diminished the Whig

majority from twenty thousand to less than five thousand.

The late military events with which Maj. Gen. Butler has been

connected--in consequence of his elevation to that grade in 1846, with

the view to the command of the volunteers raised to support Gen.

Taylor in his invasion of Mexico--are so well known to the country

that minute recital is not necessary. He acted a very conspicuous part

in the severe conflict at Monterey, and had, as second in command

under Gen. Taylor, his full share in the arduous duties and

responsibilities incurred in that important movement. The narrative of

Major Thomas, senior assistant adjutant-general of the army in Mexico,

and hence assigned by Gen. Taylor to the staff of Gen. Butler, reports

so plainly and modestly the part which Gen. Butler performed in

subjecting the city, that it may well stand for history. This passage

is taken from it.

"The army arrived at their camp in the vicinity of

Monterey about noon September 19th. That afternoon

the general endeavored by personal observation to

get information of the enemy's position. He, like

Gen. Taylor, saw the importance of gaining the road

to Saltillo, and fully favored the movement of Gen.

Worth's division to turn their left, &c. Worth

marched Sunday, September 20th, for this purpose,

thus leaving Twiggs' and Butler's divisions with

Gen. Taylor. Gen. Butler was also in favor of

throwing his division across the St. John's river,

and approaching the town from the east, which was

at first determined upon. This was changed, as it

would leave but one, and perhaps the smallest

division, to guard the camp, and attack in front.

The 20th the general also reconnoitered the enemy's

position. Early the morning of the 21st the force

was ordered out to create a diversion in favor of

Worth, that he might gain his position; and before

our division came within long range of the enemy's

principal battery, the foot of Twiggs' division had

been ordered down to the northeast side of the

town, to make an armed reconnoisance of the

advanced battery, and to take it if it could be

done without great loss. The volunteer division was

scarcely formed in rear of our howitzer and mortar

battery, established the night previous under cover

of a rise of ground, before the infantry sent down

to the northeast side of the town became closely

and hotly engaged, the batteries of that division

were sent down, _and we were then ordered to

support the attack._ Leaving the Kentucky regiment

to support the mortar and howitzer battery, the

general rapidly put in march, by a flank movement,

the other three regiments, moving for some one and

a half or two miles under a heavy fire of round

shot. As further ordered, the Ohio regiment was

detached from Quitman's brigade, and led by the

general (at this time accompanied by Gen. Taylor)

into the town. Quitman carried his brigade directly

on the battery first attacked, and gallantly

carried it. Before this, however, as we entered the

suburbs, the chief engineer came up and advised us

to withdraw, as the object of the attack had

failed, and if we moved on we must meet with great

loss. The general was loath to fall back without

consulting with Gen. Taylor, which he did do--the

general being but a short distance off. As we were

withdrawing, news came that Quitman had carried the

battery, and Gen. Butler led the Ohio regiment back

to the town at a different point. In the street we

became exposed to a line of batteries on the

opposite side of a small stream, and also from a

_tête de pont_ (bridge-head) which enfiladed us.

Our men fell rapidly as we moved up the street to

get a position to charge the battery across the

stream. Coming to a cross-street, the general

reconnoitered the position, and determining to

charge from that point, sent me back a short

distance to stop the firing, and advance the

regiment with the bayonet. I had just left him,

when he was struck in the leg, being on foot, and

was obliged to leave the field."

"On entering the town, the general and his troops

became at once hotly engaged at short musket range.

He had to make his reconnoisances under heavy fire.

This he did unflinchingly, and by exposing his

person--on one occasion passing through a large

gateway into a yard which was entirely open to the

enemy. When he was wounded, at the intersection of

the two streets, he was exposed to a cross-fire of

musketry and grape."

"In battle the general's bearing was truly that of

a soldier; and those under him felt the influence

of his presence. He had the entire confidence of

his men."

The narrative of Major Thomas continues:

"When Gen. Taylor went on his expedition to

Victoria, in December, he placed Gen. Butler in

command of the troops left on the Rio Grande, and

at the stations from the river on to

Saltillo--Worth's small division of regulars being

at the latter place. Gen. Wool's column had by this

time reached Parras, one hundred or more miles west

of Saltillo. General Butler had so far recovered

from his wound as to walk a little and take

exercise on horseback, though with pain to his

limb. One night, (about the 19th December,) an

express came from Gen. Worth at Saltillo, stating

that the Mexican forces were advancing in large

numbers from San Luis de Potosi, and that he

expected to be attacked in two days. His division,

all told, did not exceed 1500 men, if so many, and

he asked reinforcements. The general remained up

during the balance of the night, sent off the

necessary couriers to the rear for reinforcements,

and had the 1st Kentuckey, and the 1st Ohio foot,

then encamped three miles from town, in the place

by daylight; and these two regiments, with

Webster's battery, were encamped that night ten

miles on the road to Saltillo. This promptness

enabled the general to make his second day's march

of twenty-two miles in good season, and to hold the

celebrated pass of Los Muertos, and check the enemy

should he have attacked Gen. Worth on that day, and

obliged him to evacuate the town. Whilst on the

next, and last day's march, the general received

notice that the reported advance of the enemy was

untrue. Arriving at the camp-ground, the general

suffered intense pain from his wound, and slept not

during the night. This journey, over a rugged,

mountainous road, and the exercise he took in

examining the country for twenty miles in advance

of Saltillo, caused the great increase of pain now

experienced."

The major's account then goes on to relate Gen. Butler's proceedings

while in command of all the forces after the junction of Generals

Worth and Wool--his dispositions to meet the threatened attack of

Santa Anna--the defences created by him at Saltillo, and used during

the attack at Buena Vista in dispersing Miñon's forces--his just

treatment of the people of Saltillo, with the prudent and effectual

precautions taken to make them passive in the event of Santa Anna's

approach. It concludes by stating that all apprehensions of Santa

Anna's advance subsiding, Gen. Butler returned to meet Gen. Taylor at

Monterey, to report the condition of affairs; and the latter, having

taken the command at Saltillo, transmitted a leave of absence to Gen.

Butler, to afford opportunity for the cure of his wound.

This paper affords evidence of the kind feeling which subsisted

between the two generals during the campaign, and this sentiment was

strongly evinced by Gen. Butler, on his arrival in Washington, where

he spoke in the most exalted terms of the leader under whom he served.

In person Gen. Butler is tall, straight, and handsomely formed,

exceedingly active and alert--his mien is inviting--his manners

graceful--his gait and air military--his countenance frank and

pleasing--the outline of his features of the aquiline cast, thin and

pointed in expression--the general contour of his head is Roman.

The character of Gen. Butler in private life is in fine keeping with

that exhibited in his public career. In the domestic circle, care,

kindness, assiduous activity in anticipating the wants of all around

him--readiness to forego his own gratifications to gratify others,

have become habits growing out of his affections. His love makes

perpetual sunshine at his home. Among his neighbors, liberality,

affability, and active sympathy mark his social intercourse, and

unbending integrity and justice all his dealings. His home is one of

unpretending simplicity. It is too much the habit in Kentucky, with

stern and fierce men, to carry their personal and political ends with

a high hand. Gen. Butler, with all the masculine strength, courage,

and reputation to give success to attempts of this sort, never evinced

the slightest disposition to indulge the power, whilst his well-known

firmness always forbade such attempts on him. His life has been one of

peace with all men, except the enemies of his country.

MATHEW MIZZLE,

OF THE INQUIRING MIND.

BY THE LATE JOSEPH C. NEAL.

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