CHAPTER V.

Produced by David T. Jones, Juliet Sutherland and the

Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at

http://www.pgdpcanada.net

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, APRIL, 1848. NO. 4.

JACOB JONES.

OR THE MAN WHO COULDN'T GET ALONG IN THE WORLD.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

Jacob Jones was clerk in a commission store at a salary of five

hundred dollars a year. He was just twenty-two, and had been receiving

this salary for two years. Jacob had no one to care for but himself;

but, somehow or other, it happened that he did not lay up any money,

but, instead, usually had from fifty to one hundred dollars standing

against him on the books of his tailors.

"How much money have you laid by, Jacob?" said one day the merchant

who employed him. This question came upon Jacob rather suddenly; and

coming from the source that it did, was not an agreeable one--for the

merchant was a very careful and economical man.

"I havn't laid by any thing yet," replied Jacob, with a slight air of

embarrassment.

"You havn't!" said the merchant, in surprise. "Why what have you done

with your money?"

"I've spent it, somehow or other."

"It must have been somehow or other, I should think, or somehow else,"

returned the employer, half seriously, and half playfully. "But

really, Jacob, you are a very thoughtless young man to waste your

money."

"I don't think I _waste_ my money," said Jacob.

"What, then, have you done with it?" asked the merchant.

"It costs me the whole amount of my salary to live."

The merchant shook his head.

Then you live extravagantly for a young man of your age and condition.

How much do you pay for boarding?"

"Four dollars a week."

"Too much by from fifty cents to a dollar. But, even paying that sum,

four more dollars per week ought to meet fully all your other

expenses, and leave you what would amount to nearly one hundred

dollars per annum to lay by. I saved nearly two hundred dollars a year

on a salary no larger than you receive."

"I should like very much to know how you did it. I can't save a cent;

in fact, I hardly ever have ten dollars in my pocket."

"Where does your money go, Jacob? In what way do you spend a hundred

dollars a year more than is necessary?"

"They are spent, I know; and that is pretty much all I can tell about

it," replied Jacob.

"You can certainly tell by your private account book."

"I don't keep any private account, sir."

"You don't?" in surprise.

"No, sir. What's the use? My salary is five hundred dollars a year,

and wouldn't be any more nor less if I kept an account of every half

cent of it."

"Humph!"

The merchant said no more. His mind was made up about his clerk. The

fact that he spent five hundred dollars a year, and kept no

private account, was enough for him.

"He'll never be any good to himself nor anybody else. Spend his whole

salary--humph! Keep no private account--humph!"

This was the opinion held of Jacob Jones by his employer from that

day. The reason why he had inquired as to how much money he had saved,

was this. He had a nephew, a poor young man, who, like Jacob, was a

clerk, and showed a good deal of ability for business. His salary was

rather more than what Jacob received, and, like Jacob, he spent it

all; but not on himself. He supported, mainly, his mother and a

younger brother and sister. A good chance for a small, but safe

beginning, was seen by the uncle, which would require only about a

thousand dollars as an investment. In his opinion it would be just

the thing for Jacob and the nephew. Supposing that Jacob had four or

five hundred dollars laid by, it was his intention, if he approved of

the thing, to furnish his nephew with a like sum, in order to join him

and enter into business. But the acknowledgment of Jacob that he had

not saved a dollar, and that he kept no private account, settled the

matter in the merchant's mind, as far as he was concerned.

About a month afterward, Jacob met his employer's nephew, who said,

"I am going into business."

"You are?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?"

"Open a commission store."

"Ah! Can you get any good consignments?"

"I am to have the agency for a new mill, which has just commenced

operations, beside consignments of goods from several small concerns

at the East."

"You will have to make advances."

"To no great extent. My uncle has secured the agency of the new mill

here without any advance being required, and eight hundred or a

thousand dollars will be as much as I shall need to secure as many

goods as I can sell from the other establishments of which I speak."

"But where will the eight hundred or a thousand come from?"

"My uncle has placed a thousand dollars at my disposal. Indeed, the

whole thing is the result of his recommendation."

"Your uncle! You are a lucky dog. I wish I had a rich uncle. But there

is no such good fortune for me."

This was the conclusion of Jacob Jones, who made himself quite unhappy

for some weeks, brooding over the matter. He never once dreamed of the

real cause of his not having had an equal share in his young friend's

good fortune. He had not the most distant idea that his employer felt

nearly as much regard for him as for his nephew, and would have

promoted his interests as quickly, if he had felt justified in doing

so.

"It's my luck, I suppose," was the final conclusion of his mind; "and

it's no use to cry about it. Any how, it isn't every man with a rich

uncle, and a thousand dollars advanced, who succeeds in business, nor

every man who starts without capital that is unsuccessful. I

understand as much about business as the old man's nephew, any day;

and can get consignments as well as he can."

Three or four months after this, Jacob notified the merchant that he

was going to start for himself, and asked his interest as far as he

could give it, without interfering with his own business. His employer

did not speak very encouragingly about the matter, which offended

Jacob.

"He's afraid I'll injure his nephew," he said to himself. "But he

needn't be uneasy--the world is wide enough for us all, the old

hunks!"

Jacob borrowed a couple of hundred dollars, took a store at five

hundred dollars a year rent, and employed a clerk and porter. He then

sent his circulars to a number of manufactories at the East,

announcing the fact of his having opened a new commission house, and

soliciting consignments. His next move was, to leave his

boarding-house, where he had been paying four dollars a week, and take

lodgings at a hotel at seven dollars a week.

Notwithstanding Jacob went regularly to the post office twice every

day, few letters came to hand, and but few of them contained bills of

lading and invoices. The result of the first year's business was an

income from commission on sales of seven hundred dollars. Against this

were the items of one thousand dollars for personal expenses, five

hundred dollars for store-rent, seven hundred dollars for clerk and

porter, and for petty and contingent expenses, two hundred dollars;

leaving the uncomfortable deficit of seventeen hundred dollars, which

stood against him in the form of bills payable for sales effected, and

small notes of accommodation borrowed from his friends.

The result of the first year's business of his old employer's nephew

was very different. The gross profits were three thousand dollars, and

the expenses as follows: personal expense, seven hundred dollars--just

what the young man's salary had previously been, and out of which he

supported his mother and her family--store-rent, three hundred

dollars; porter, two hundred and fifty, petty expenses one hundred

dollars--in all, thirteen hundred and fifty dollars, leaving a net

profit of sixteen hundred and fifty dollars. It will be seen that he

did not go to the expense of a clerk during the first year. He

preferred working a little harder, and keeping his own books, by which

an important saving was effected.

At the end of the second year, notwithstanding Jacob Jones' business

more than doubled itself, he was compelled to wind up, and found

himself twenty-five hundred dollars worse than nothing. Several of his

unpaid bills to eastern houses were placed in suit, and as he lived in

a state where imprisonment for debt still existed, he was compelled to

go through the forms required by the insolvent laws, to keep clear of

durance vile.

At the very period when he was driven under by adverse gales, his

young friend, who had gone into business about the same time, found

himself under the necessity of employing a clerk. He offered Jones a

salary of four hundred dollars, the most he believed himself yet

justified in paying. This was accepted, and Jacob found himself once

more standing upon _terra firma_, although the portion upon which his

feet rested was very small, still it was _terra firma_--and that was

something.

The real causes of his ill success never for a moment occurred to the

mind of Jacob. He considered himself an "unlucky dog."

"Every thing that some people touch turns to money," he would

sometimes say. "But I wasn't born under a lucky star."

Instead of rigidly bringing down his expenses, as he ought to have

done, to four hundred dollars, if he had had to live in a garret and

cook his own food, Jacob went back to his old boarding-house, and

paid four dollars a week. All his other expenses required at least

eight dollars more to meet them. He was perfectly aware that he was

living beyond his income--the exact excess he did not stop to

ascertain--but he expected an increase of salary before long, as a

matter of course, either in his present situation or in a new one. But

no increase took place for two years, and then he was between three

and four hundred dollars in debt to tailors, boot-makers, his

landlady, and to sundry friends, to whom he applied for small sums of

money in cases of emergency.

One day about this time, two men were conversing together quite

earnestly, as they walked leisurely along one of the principal streets

of the city where Jacob resided. One was past the prime of life, and

the other about twenty-two. They were father and son, and the subject

of conversation related to the wish of the latter to enter into

business. The father did not think the young man was possessed of

sufficient knowledge of business, or experience, and was, therefore,

desirous of associating some one with him who could make up these

deficiencies. If he could find just the person that pleased him, he

was ready to advance capital and credit to an amount somewhere within

the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars. For some months he had

been thinking of Jacob, who was a first-rate salesman, had a good

address, and was believed by him to possess business habits eminently

conducive to success. The fact that he had once failed, was something

of a drawback in his mind, but he had asked Jacob the reason of his

ill-success, which was so plausibly explained, that he considered the

young man as simply unfortunate in not having capital, and nothing

else.

"I think Mr. Jones just the right man for you," the father said, as

they walked along.

"I don't know of any one with whom I had rather form a business

connection. He is a man of good address, business habits, and, as far

as I know, good principles."

"Suppose you mention the subject to him this afternoon."

This was agreed to. The two men then entered the shop of a fashionable

tailor, for the purpose of ordering some clothes. While there, a man,

having the appearance of a collector, came in, and drew the tailor

aside. Their conversation was brief but earnest, and concluded by the

tailor's saying, so loud that he could be heard by all who were

standing near,

"It's no use to waste your time with him any longer. Just hand over

the account to Simpson, and let him take care of it."

The collector turned away, and the tailor came back to his customers.

"It is too bad," he said, "the way some of these young fellows do

serve us. I have now several thousand dollars on my books against

clerks who receive salaries large enough to support them handsomely,

and I can't collect a dollar of it. There is Jacob Jones, whose

account I have just ordered to be placed in the hands of a lawyer, he

owes me nearly two hundred dollars, and I can't get a cent out of

him. I call him little better than a scamp."

The father and son exchanged glances of significance, but said

nothing. The fate of Jacob Jones was sealed.

"If that is the case," said the father, as they stepped into the

street, "the less we have to do with him the better."

To this the son assented. Another more prudent young man was selected,

whose fortune was made.

"When Jacob received lawyer Simpson's note, threatening a suit if the

tailor's bill were not paid, he was greatly disturbed.

"Am I not the most unfortunate man in the world?" he said to himself,

by way of consolation. "After having paid him so much money, to be

served like this. It is too bad. But this is the way of the world. Let

a poor devil once get a little under the weather, and every one must

have a kick at him."

In this dilemma poor Jacob had to call upon the tailor and beg him for

further time. This was humiliating, especially as the tailor was

considerably out of humor, and disposed to be hard with him. A threat

to apply for the benefit of the insolvent law again, if a suit was

pressed to an issue, finally induced the tailor to waive legal

proceedings for the present, and Jacob had the immediate terrors of

the law taken from before his eyes.

This event set Jacob to thinking and calculating, what he had never

before deemed necessary in his private affairs. The result did not

make him feel any happier. To his astonishment he ascertained that he

owed more than the whole of his next year's salary would pay, while

that was not in itself sufficient to meet his current expenses.

For some weeks after this discovery of the real state of his affairs,

Jacob was very unhappy. He applied for an increase of salary, and

obtained the addition of one hundred dollars per annum. This was

something, which was about all that could be said. If he could live on

four hundred dollars a year, which he had never yet been able to do,

the addition to his salary would not pay his tailor's bill within two

years; and what was he to do with boot-maker, landlady, and others?

It happened about this time that a clerk in the bank where his old

employer was a director, died. His salary had been one thousand

dollars. For the vacant place Jacob made immediate application, and

was so fortunate as to secure it.

Under other circumstances, Jacob would have refused a salary of

fifteen hundred dollars in a bank against five hundred in a

counting-room, and for the reason that a bank, or office clerk, has

little or no hope beyond his salary all his life, while a

counting-house clerk, if he have any aptness for trade, stands a fair

chance of getting into business sooner or later, and making his

fortune as a merchant. But a debt of four hundred dollars hanging over

his head, was an argument in favor of a clerkship in the bank, at a

salary of a thousand dollars a year, not to be resisted.

"I'll keep it until I get even with the world again," he consoled

himself by saying, "and then I'll go back into a counting-room. I've

an ambition above being a bank clerk all my life."

Painful experience had made Jacob a little wiser. For the first time

in his life he commenced keeping an account of his personal expenses.

This acted as a salutary check upon his bad habit of spending money

for every little thing that happened to strike his fancy, and enabled

him to clear off his whole debt within the first year. Unwisely,

however, he had, during this time, promised to pay some old debts,

from which the law had released him. The persons holding these claims,

finding him in the receipt of a higher salary, made an appeal to his

honor, which, like an honest, but not a prudent man, he responded to

by a promise of payment as soon as it was in his power. But little

time elapsed after these promises were made, before he found himself

in the hands of constables and magistrates, and was only saved from

imprisonment by getting friends to go his bail for six and nine

months. In order to secure them, he had to give an order in advance

for his salary. To get these burdens off of his shoulders, it took

twelve months longer, and then he was nearly thirty years of age.

"Thirty years old!" he said, to himself on his thirtieth birth-day.

"Can it be possible? Long before this I ought to have been doing a

flourishing business, and here I am, nothing but a bank clerk, with

the prospect of never rising a step higher as long as I live. I don't

know how it is that some people get along so well in the world. I am

sure I am as industrious, and can do business as well as any man; but

here I am still at the point from which I started twenty years ago. I

can't understand it. I'm afraid there's more in luck than I'm willing

to believe."

From this time Jacob set himself to work to obtain a situation in some

store or counting-room, and finally, after looking about for nearly a

year, was fortunate enough to obtain a good place, as book-keeper and

salesman, with a wholesale grocer and commission merchant. Seven

hundred dollars was to be his salary. His friends called him a fool

for giving up an easy place at one thousand a year, for a hard one at

seven hundred. But the act was a much wiser one than many others of

his life.

Instead of saving money during the third year of his receipt of one

thousand dollars, he spent the whole of his salary, without paying off

a single old debt. His private account-keeping had continued through a

year and a half. After that it was abandoned. Had it been continued,

it might have saved him three or four hundred dollars, which were now

all gone, and nothing to show for them. Poor Jacob! experience did not

make him much wiser.

Two years passed, and at least half a dozen young men here and there

around our friend Jacob, went into business, either as partners in

some old houses, or under the auspices of relatives or interested

friends. But there appeared no opening for him. He did not know, that

many times during that period, he had been the subject of conversation

between parties, one or both of which were looking out for a man of

thorough business qualifications against which capital would be

placed; nor the fact, that either his first failure, his improvidence,

or something else personal to himself, had caused him to be set aside

for some other one not near so capable.

He was lamenting his ill-luck one day, when a young man with whom he

was very well acquainted, and who was clerk in a neighboring store,

called in and said that he wanted to have some talk with him about a

matter of interest to both.

"First of all, Mr. Jones," said the young man, after they were alone,

"how much capital could you raise by a strong effort?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied Jacob, not in a very cheerful tone.

"I never was lucky in having friends ready to assist me."

"Well! perhaps there will be no need of that. You have had a good

salary for four or five years--how much have you saved? Enough,

probably, to answer every purpose--that is, if you are willing to join

me in taking advantage of one of the best openings for business that

has offered for a long time. I have a thousand dollars in the savings

bank. You have as much, or more, I presume?"

"I am sorry to say I have not," was poor Jacob's reply, in a

desponding voice. "I was unfortunate in business some years ago, and

my old debts have drained away from me every dollar I could earn."

"Indeed! that is very unfortunate. I was in hopes you could furnish a

thousand dollars."

"I might borrow it, perhaps, if the chance is a very good one."

"Well, if you could do that, it would be as well, I suppose," returned

the young man. "But you must see about it immediately. If you cannot

join me at once, I must find some one who will, for the chance is too

good to be lost."

Jacob got a full statement of the business proposed, its nature and

prospects, and then laid the matter before the three merchants with

whom he had at different times lived in the capacity of clerk, and

begged them to advance him the required capital. The subject was taken

up by them and seriously considered. They all liked Jacob, and felt

willing to promote his interests, but had little or no confidence in

his ultimate success, on account of his want of economy in personal

matters. It was very justly remarked by one of them, that this want of

economy, and the judicious use of money in personal matters, would go

with him in business, and mar all his prospects. Still, as they had

great confidence in the other man, they agreed to advance, jointly,

the sum needed.

In the meantime, the young man who had made the proposition to Jacob,

when he learned that he had once failed in business, was still in

debt, and liable to have claims pushed against him, (this he inferred

from Jacob's having stretched the truth, by saying that his old debts

drained away from him every dollar, when the fact was he was freed

from them by the provisions of the insolvent law of the state,) came

to the conclusion that a business connection with him was a thing to

be avoided rather than sought after. He accordingly turned his

thoughts in another quarter, and when Jones called to inform him that

he had raised the capital needed, he was coolly told that it was too

late, he having an hour before closed a partnership arrangement with

another person, under the belief that Jones could not advance the

money required.

This was a bitter disappointment, and soured the mind of Jacob against

his fellow man, and against the fates also, which he alledged were all

combined against him. His own share in the matter was a thing

undreamed of. He believed himself far better qualified for business

than the one who had been preferred before him, and he had the

thousand dollars to advance. It must be his luck that was against him,

nothing else; he could come to no other conclusion. Other people could

get along in the world, but he couldn't. That was the great mystery of

his life.

For two years Jacob had been waiting to get married. He had not wished

to take this step before entering into business, and having a fair

prospect before him. But years were creeping on him apace, and the

fair object of his affections seemed weary of delay.

"It is no use to wait any longer," he said, after this dashing of his

cup to the earth. "Luck is against me. I shall never be any thing but

a poor devil of a clerk. If Clara is willing to share my humble lot,

we might as well be married first as last."

Clara was not unwilling, and Jacob Jones entered into the estate

connubial, and took upon him the cares of a family, with a salary of

seven hundred dollars a year to sustain the new relation. Instead of

taking cheap boarding, or renting a couple of rooms, and commencing

housekeeping in a small way, Jacob saw but one course before him, and

that was to rent a genteel house, go in debt for genteel furniture,

and keep two servants. Two years was the longest that he could bear up

under this state of things, when he was sold out by the sheriff, and

forced "to go through the mill again," as taking the benefit of the

insolvent law was facetiously called.

"Poor fellow! he has a hard time of it. I wonder why it is that he

gets along so badly. He is an industrious man, and regular in his

habits. It is strange. But some men seem born to ill-luck."

So said some of his pitying friends. Others understood the matter

better.

Ten years have passed, and Jacob is still a clerk, but not in a store.

Hopeless of getting into business, he applied for a vacancy that

occurred in an insurance company, and received the appointment, which

he still holds, at a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. After

being sold out three times by the sheriff, and having the deep

mortification of seeing her husband brought down to the humiliating

necessity of applying as often for the benefit of the insolvent law,

Mrs. Jones took affairs, by consent of her husband, into her own

hands, and managed them with such prudence and economy that,

notwithstanding they have five children, the expenses, all told, are

not over eight hundred dollars a year, and half of the surplus, four

hundred dollars, is appropriated to the liquidation of debts

contracted since their marriage, and the other half deposited in the

savings' bank, as a fund for the education of their children in the

higher branches, when they reach a more advanced age.

To this day it is a matter of wonder to Jacob Jones why he could never

get along in the world like some people; and he has come to the

settled conviction that it is his "luck."

THE DARLING.

BY BLANCHE BENNAIRDE.

When first we saw her face, so dimpled o'er

With smiles of sweetest charm, we said within

Our inmost heart, that ne'er on earth before

Had so much passing beauty ever been:

So full of sweetest grace, so fair to see--

This treasure bright our babe in infancy.

Like blush of roses was the tint of health

O'erspread her lovely cheeks; and they might vie

In beauty with the fairest flower--nor wealth,

Though told in countless millions, e'er could buy

The radiance of this gem, than aught more bright

Which lies in hidden mine, or saw the light.

The dawn of life was fair; so was its morn;

For with each day new beauties met our view,

And well we deemed that she, the dear first-born,

Might early fade, like flowers that earth bestrew

With all their cherished beauty, leaving naught

But faded leaves where once their forms were sought.

She smiled upon us, and her spirit fled

To taste the pleasures of that fairer land,

Where angels ever dwell--she is not dead;

But there with them her beauteous form doth stand,

Arrayed in flowing light, before the throne

Of Him whose name is Love--the Holy One.

She was our choicest bud, our precious flower;

But now she blooms in that celestial place,

Where naught can spoil the pleasure of an hour,

Nor from its beauty one bright line efface--

Where all is one perpetual scene of bliss,

Unmixed with sin; all perfect happiness.

The darling then is safe, secure from ill;

Why should we mourn that she hath left this earth,

When in that brighter land she bloometh still,

A flower more perfect, of celestial birth?

Let us submit, and own His righteous care

Who doeth well; striving to meet her there.

BATTLE OF FORT MOULTRIE.[1]

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

When the news of the battle of Lexington reached Charleston, South

Carolina rose in commotion. The provincial Congress, which had

adjourned, immediately re-assembled. Two regiments of foot and one of

horse were ordered to be raised; measures were taken to procure

powder; and every preparation made for the war which was now seen to

be inevitable. A danger of a vital character speedily threatened the

colony. This was its invasion by the British; a project which had long

been entertained by the royal generals. To provide in time for

defeating it, Congress had dispatched General Lee to the South. It was

not until the beginning of the summer of 1776, however, that the

enemy's armament set sail from New York, consisting of a large fleet

of transports with a competent land force, commanded by Sir Henry

Clinton, and attended by a squadron of nine men-of-war, led by Sir

Peter Parker. On the arrival of this expedition off the coast, all was

terror and confusion among the South Carolinians. Energetic measures

were, however, adopted to repel the attack.

To defend their capital the inhabitants constructed on Sullivan's

Island, near the entrance of their harbor, and about four miles from

the city, a rude fort of palmetto logs, the command of which was given

to Col. Moultrie. Never, perhaps, was a more inartificial defence

relied on in so great an emergency. The form of the fort was square,

with a bastion at each angle; it was built of logs based on each other

in parallel rows, at a distance of sixteen feet. Other logs were bound

together at frequent intervals with timber dove-tailed and bolted into

them. The spaces between were filled up with sand. The merlons were

faced with palmetto logs. All the industry of the Carolinians,

however, was insufficient to complete the fort in time; and when the

British fleet entered the harbor, the defences were little more than a

single front facing the water. The whole force of Col. Moultrie was

four hundred and thirty-five, rank and file; his armament consisted of

nine French twenty-sixes, fourteen English eighteens, nine twelve and

seven nine pounders. Finding the fort could be easily enfiladed, Gen.

Lee advised abandoning it; but the governor refused, telling Moultrie

to keep his post, until he himself ordered the retreat. Moultrie, on

his part, required no urging to adopt this more heroic course. A

spectator happening to say, that in half an hour the enemy would knock

the fort to pieces. "Then," replied Moultrie, undauntedly, "we will

lie behind the ruins, and prevent their men from landing." Lee with

many fears left the island, and repairing to his camp on the main

land, prepared to cover the retreat of the garrison, which he

considered inevitable.

[Footnote 1: From a work now in press, and shortly to be published,

entitled "_The Military Heroes of the United States. By C. J.

Peterson. 2 vols. 8vo. 500 pp._"]

There was, perhaps, more of bravado than of sound military policy in

attacking this fort at all, since the English fleet might easily have

run the gauntlet of it, as was done a few years later. But Fort

Moultrie was destined to be to the navy what Bunker Hill had been to

the army. It was in consequence of excess of scorn for his enemy, that

Sir Peter Parker, disdaining to leave such a place in his rear,

resolved on its total demolition. He had no doubt but that, in an hour

at the utmost, he could make the unpracticed Carolinians glad to sue

for peace on any terms. Accordingly on the 28th of June, 1776, he

entered the harbor, in all the parade of his proud ships, nine in

number, and drawing up abreast the fort, let go his anchors with

springs upon his cables, and began a furious cannonade. Meanwhile

terror reigned in Charleston. As the sound of the first gun went

booming over the waters toward the town, the trembling inhabitants who

had been crowding the wharves and lining the house-tops since early

morning, turned pale with ominous forebodings. Nor were the feelings

of the defenders of the fort less anxious. Looking off, over the low

island intervening between them and the city, they could see the

gleaming walls of their distant homes; and their imaginations conjured

up the picture of those dear habitations given to the flames, as

another Charlestown had been, a twelve-month before, and the still

dearer wives that inhabited them, cast houseless upon the world. As

they turned from this spectacle, and watched the haughty approach of

the enemy, at every motion betraying confidence of success, their eyes

kindled with indignant feelings, and they silently swore to make good

the words of their leader, by perishing, if need were, under the ruins

of the fort.

One by one the British men-of-war gallantly approached the stations

assigned them, Sir Peter Parker, in the Bristol, leading the van. The

Experiment, another fifty gun ship, came close after, and both dropped

their anchors in succession directly abreast the fort. The other

frigates followed, and ranged themselves as supports. The remaining

vessels were still working up to their stations, when the first gun

was fired, and instantly the battle begun. The quantity of powder on

the island being small, five thousand pounds in all, there was an

absolute necessity that there should be no waste. Accordingly, the

field-officers pointed the pieces in person, and the words "look to

the commodore--look to the two-deckers!" passed along the line. The

conflict soon grew terrific. The balls whistled above the heads of

the defenders, and bombs fell thick and fast within the fort; yet, in

the excitement of the moment, the men seemed totally unconscious of

danger. Occasionally a shot from one of their cannon, striking the

hull of the flag-ship, would send the splinters flying into the air;

and then a loud huzza would burst from those who worked the guns; but,

except in instances like this, the patriots fought in stern and solemn

silence. Once, when it was seen that the three men-of-war working up

to join the conflict, had become entangled among the shoals, and would

not probably be enabled to join in the fight, a general and prolonged

cheer went down the line, and taken up a second and third time, rose,

like an exulting strain, over all the uproar of the strife.

The incessant cannonade soon darkened the prospect, the smoke lying

packed along the surface of the water; while a thousand fiery tongues,

as from some hundred-headed monster, shot out incessantly, and licking

the air a moment, were gone forever. Occasionally this thick, cloudy

veil concealed all but the spars of the enemy from sight, and then the

tall masts seemed rising, by some potent spell, out of nothing;

occasionally the terrific explosions would rend and tear asunder the

curtain, and, for an instant, the black hulls would loom out

threateningly, and then disappear. The roar of three hundred guns

shook the island and fort unremittingly: the water that washed the

sand-beach, gasped with a quick ebb and flow, under the concussions.

Higher and higher, the sun mounted to the zenith, yet still the battle

continued. The heat was excessive; but casting aside their coats, the

men breathed themselves a minute, and returned to the fight. The city

was now hidden from view, by low banks of smoke, which extending right

and left along the water, bounded the horizon on two sides. Yet the

defenders of the fort still thought of the thousands anxiously

watching them from Charleston, or of the wives and mothers, trembling

at every explosion for the lives of those they loved. One of their

number soon fell mortally wounded. Gasping and in agony, he was

carried by. "Do not give up," he had still strength to say; "you are

fighting for liberty and country." Who that heard these words could

think of surrender?

Noon came and went, yet still the awful struggle continued. Suddenly a

shot struck the flag-staff, and the banner, which had waved in that

lurid atmosphere all day, fell on the beach outside the fort. For a

moment there was a pause, as if at a presage of disaster. Then a

grenadier, the brave and immortal Serjeant Jasper, sprang upon the

parapet, leaped down to the beach, and passing along nearly the whole

front of the fort, exposed to the full fire of the enemy, deliberately

cut off the bunting from the shattered mast, called for a sponge staff

to be thrown to him, and tying the flag to this, clambered up the

ramparts and replaced the banner, amid the cheers of his companions.

Far away, in the city, there had been those who saw, through their

telescopes, the fall of that flag; and, as the news went around, a

chill of horror froze every heart, for it was thought the place had

surrendered. But soon a slight staff was seen uplifted at one of the

angles: it bore, clinging to it, something like bunting: the breeze

struck it, the bundle unrolled, it was the flag of America! Hope

danced again through every heart. Some burst into tears; some laughed

hysterically; some gave way to outcries and huzzas of delight. As the

hours wore on, however, new causes for apprehension arose. The fire of

the fort was perceived to slacken. Could it be that its brave

defenders, after such a glorious struggle, had at last given in? Again

hope yielded to doubt, almost to despair; the feeling was the more

terrible from the late exhilaration. Already, in fancy, the enemy was

seen approaching the city. Wives began trembling for their husbands,

who had rendered themselves conspicuous on the patriotic side: mothers

clasped their infants, whose sires, they thought, had perished in the

fight, and, in silent agony, prayed God to protect the fatherless.

Thus passed an hour of the wildest anxiety and alarm. At last

intelligence was brought that the fire had slackened only for want of

powder; that a supply had since been secured; and that the cannonade

would soon be resumed. In a short time these predictions were

verified, and the air again shook with distant concussions. Thus the

afternoon passed. Sunset approached, yet the fight raged. Slowly the

great luminary of day sank in the west, and twilight, cold and calm,

threw its shadows across the waters; yet still the fight raged. The

stars came out, twinkling sharp and clear, in that half tropical sky:

yet still the fight raged. The hum of the day had now subsided, and

the cicada was heard trilling its note on the night-air: all was quiet

and serene in the city: yet still the fight raged. The dull, heavy

reports of the distant artillery boomed louder across the water, and

the dark curtain of smoke that nearly concealed the ships and fort,

grew luminous with incessant flashes. The fight still raged. At last

the frequency of the discharges perceptibly lessened, and gradually,

toward ten o'clock, ceased altogether. The ships of the enemy were now

seen moving from their position, and making their way slowly, as if

crippled and weary, out of the harbor: and, at that sight, most of the

population, losing their anxiety, returned to their dwellings; though

crowds still lined some of the wharves, waiting for authentic

messengers from the fight, and peering into the gathering gloom, to

detect the approach of the first boat.

The loss of the enemy had been excessive. The flag-ship, the Bristol,

had forty-four men killed, and thirty wounded: the Experiment, another

fifty gun ship, fifty-seven killed, and thirty wounded. All the ships

were much cut up: the two-deckers terribly so; and one of the

frigates, the Acteon, running aground, was burnt. The last shot fired

from the fort entered the cabin of Sir Peter Parker's ship, cut down

two young officers who were drinking there, and passing forward,

killed three sailors on the main-deck, then passed out and buried

itself in the sea. The loss on the American side was inconsiderable:

twelve killed, and about twenty-five wounded. During the battle, the

earnest zeal of the men was occasionally relieved by moments of

merriment. A coat, having been thrown on the top of one of the

merlons, was caught by a shot, and lodged in a tree, at which sight a

general peal of laughter was heard. Moultrie sat coolly smoking his

pipe during the conflict, occasionally taking it from his mouth to

issue an order. Once, while the battle was in progress, General Lee

came off to the island, but, finding every thing so prosperous, soon

returned to his camp. The supply of powder which was obtained during

the battle, and which enabled the patriots to resume the fight, was

procured, part from a schooner in the harbor, part from the city.

Unbounded enthusiasm, on the side of the inhabitants, hailed the

gallant defenders of the fort after the victory: Moultrie received the

thanks of Congress, was elevated to the rank of brigadier-general, and

was honored by having the post he had defended called after his name.

A stand of colors was presented, by Mrs. Elliott, to the men of his

regiment, with the belief, she said, "that they would stand by them,

as long as they could wave in the air of liberty." It was in guarding

these colors, and perhaps in the recollection of her words, that the

brave Serjeant Jasper lost his life, subsequently, at the siege of

Savannah.

THE POET'S LOVE.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

[THE POET COMMUNETH WITH HIS SOUL.]

"Thou hast a heart," my spirit said;

"Seek out a kindred one, and wed:

So passes grief, comes joy instead."

"True, Soul, I have," I quick replied;

"But in this weary world and wide

That other hath my search defied."

"Poet, thou hast an eye to see;

Thou knowest all things as they be;

The spheres are open books to thee.

"Thou art a missioned creature, sent

To preach of beauty--teach content:

In life's Sahara pitch thy tent!

"It is not good to be alone--

Not fit for any living one--

There's nothing single save the sun.

"Beasts, fishes, birds--yea, atoms mate,

Acknowledging an ordered fate:

What dost thou in a single state?"

"O, Soul!" I bitterly replied,

For I was full of haughty pride,

"Would in my birth that I had died!

"I feel what thou hast said is truth;

But I am past the bloom of youth,

And Beauty's eye has lost its ruth.

"I languish for some gentle heart

To throb with mine, devoid of art,

Perfect and pure in every part--

"Some innocent heart whose pulse's tone

Should beat in echo of mine own,

Where I might reign and reign alone."

"All this, and more, thy love might win,"

My spirit urged, "poor Child of Sin,

That sickenest in this rude world's din.

"Love is a way-side plant: go forth

And pluck--love has no thorns for worth--

The blossom from its place of birth.

"Perchance, on thee may Beauty's queen,

And Fortune's, look, with smiling mien--

With eyes, whose lids hold love between."

"Spirit, I am of little worth,"

Said I--"an erring child of earth:

Yet fain would own a happy hearth.

"Mere beauty, though it drowns my soul

With sunshine, may not be my goal;

And love despises gold's control.

"Better the riches of the mind--

A spirit toward the spheres inclined--

A heart that veers not with the wind.

"She might be beautiful, and gold

Might clasp her in its ruddy fold--

Have lands and tenements to hold:

"She might be poor--it were the same

If lofty, or of lowly name,

If famous, or unknown to fame:

"But she must feel the brotherhood

I feel for man--the love of good;--

Life is at best an interlude,

"And we must act our parts so here,

That, when we reach a loftier sphere,

Our memories shall not shed a tear.

"With such a one, if fair or brown--

Gracing a cottage, or a throne--

Soul, I could live and love unknown!

"Yes, gazing upward in her eye,

Scan what was passing in its sky,

And swoon, and dream, and, dreaming, die."

"There is none such," my spirit sighed.

"Seek glory: woo her for thy bride.

And perish, and be deified!"

"Why, Soul," I said, "the thought of fame,

Of winning an exalted name,

Might woo me, but my heart would blame

"The coldness that compelled me forth.

No: somewhere on this lower earth

The angel that I seek has birth.

"If not, I will so worship here

Her type, that I shall joy, not _fear_--

To meet her in her holier sphere."

MARY WARNER.

OR THE HEAD AND THE HEART.

BY MRS. E. L. B. COWDERY.

"What a happy girl is Mary Warner," said an elderly lady, as a bright

laughing girl turned into another room.

"And so exceedingly lively and cheerful, for one of her years,"

rejoined another.

"Years! How old is she?"

"About twenty-four," said a third, who had hitherto been silent, "and

yet no one, to see her, would think it."

So thought the world, who in their most scrutinizing glance could

detect no indication of care or gloom, in this, the object of their

observations, who was one of those bright, intelligent beings, ever

ready for conversation, and whose sallies of wit, never failed to

excite the attention of those around her. "Little did they know of my

aching heart," said Mary, that evening, to one in whom she had

confided much of her former history; for years had passed since she

had left the grave of her mother, and her native home, on "New

England's rocky shore," to wander forth with her father to the western

wilds. "Little did they know of the bitterness of soul I felt while

making merriment for them."

"How can you so control your feelings, while endeavoring to conceal

them, with such an excess of gayety?" eagerly inquired Ella.

"Ah! that is the work of time and necessity. Time has schooled my

heart to hide behind the covering I might think best to wear. Were my

history known, my name would be the theme of every tongue, the

derision of the stoical, the pity of the simple, and exposed to the

ridicule of a heartless and unfeeling world. The head must dictate and

govern my actions, all else submitting. Yet nothing can equal the

wretchedness of trying to conceal with smiles the bitter struggles of

a wounded spirit, whose every hope hath perished. Eye may not pierce

through the laughing cover, or ear catch the breathing of a sigh. Even

sympathy seems like those cold blasts of a November night, seeking the

hidden recess only to chill its peace forever."

"But do you not," said Ella, "enjoy something of that mirth which you

inspire in others?"

"Sometimes the excitement is sufficient to make me forget, for a

moment, the past, but then it is followed by such a depression that

the feeble clay well nigh sinks beneath it. Misery pays her tribute to

all my revelry."

"Then never will I again wish for Mary Warner's light and joyous air,"

said Ella, her cheek flushed with agitation, for being one of those

sober ones, whose words were ever the thoughts of her heart, she had

often wished for Mary's power to charm.

Weeks and months had rolled away, until they had numbered years. The

friends had parted. Ella's calm face still cheered the domestic

fireside, and Mary was gliding in crowded halls, the gayest of the

gay. No voice more musical than hers, or tones more sprightly; she

moved as a creature of enchantment, her image fastening upon the minds

and memories of all. But Ella was not forgotten or neglected; they

often corresponded. Mary's letters told but too truly how much those

scenes were enjoyed by her. In answer to an invitation to come and

spend the summer in the retirement of Ella's home, she says, "Even in

this giddy place my heart is full to bursting; should I allow myself

more time for meditation it would surely break, and pour forth its

lava streams on the thirsty dust of human pride. In the dark,

cheerless hour of midnight, my burning, throbbing brain still keeps

its restless beating, scarce bestowing the poor refreshment of a

feverish dream to strengthen the earthly tenement. My health is

failing; there will soon be nothing left for me but the drifts of

thought and memory, which gather around a weary past and blighted

future."

It was in vain that Ella tried to place on parchment words of soothing

and consolation--to draw her thoughts from lingering around the ruined

wreck of her affections, and direct them to the "hope set before" her,

of obtaining through the merits of the Savior a home "where the wicked

cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." Every letter she

received came burthened with its own weight of wo.

The summer passed--its roses bloomed and died. Another autumn came and

whistled by; but ere the winter's snow had melted, there were anxious

thoughts concerning Mary Warner. Never before had so long a time

elapsed without a letter from her to Ella. The first crocuses of

spring had just begun to smile when a letter came, written by a

stranger's hand! It told of Mary's being sick even unto death, and

begged of Ella, as she loved her friend, to come and remain with her

while yet life's taper burned. It was a fearful summons thus to break

the suspending spell. That evening saw Ella sitting in the cabin of

one of those large steamers which ply the western waters, anxiously

wending her way to a retired yet pleasant village near the Ohio, for

Mary's sadly declining health could no more mingle in the excitement

of the city, and she had retreated to this lonely place to lay down

her shattered frame in peace. The night of the second day brought Ella

to the place of destination. She entered the house where Mary was,

almost unconscious of the manner in which she introduced herself as

Mary Warner's friend. That was enough; an elderly lady clasped her

hand and bade her welcome. "Oh!" said she, "'tis a strange sight to be

in her sick room. Poor thing! she is nearly gone, and still so lively;

and, too, this morning when I went in, I know she had been weeping."

"Did she ever mention me?" said Ella.

"Last night she said if you would come, that she could die contented."

"Then lead me to her quickly."

They silently bent their steps to the sick chamber, and coming to the

door, both made an involuntary pause.

"She is sleeping," said the old lady, softly; but Ella was too much

struck to make reply. She was thinking of the dreadful changes which

had come over that frail being since last they met. Worn down to a

skeleton, her lips compressed, as if in agony, her dark hair thrown

back upon her shoulders, while her cheeks were pale as the marble so

soon to be raised in her memory, which, with the glimmering of the

lights, served to make it a too dismal scene. Staggering forward to a

chair, she sat down quickly, but in the agitation there was a slight

noise--it awakened the sleeper; a moment passed--they were in each

others arms. When the first wild burst of joy had passed away, Mary

spoke.

"Sit down here, Ella--I want to be alone with you; I feared that I

might die before you came;" a convulsive shuddering passing over her,

as she spoke of death. "I want to give you my history. 'T is? a dark

picture, and yet it has all been mine."

"But are you not too weak and agitated?" asked the warm-hearted

friend.

"Oh, no! that sweet, quiet sleep has so refreshed me, that I feel

almost like another being--and I shall be very brief. But to my story.

You recollect my having often told you that I never set my heart on an

earthly object but I was doomed to bear a bitter disappointment. That

wary, stubborn rock, encircled by the whirl of youthful and

enthusiastic feeling, which, in life's earlier years, drew within its

circled waves my frail bark of love and hope, then cast it forth--a

wreck forever.

"In the village in which I was raised, lived one who shared with me

the sports of childhood; and as we grew older, partook of the

recreations and amusements of the young together. There was a strange

similarity in our tastes and dispositions; and we consequently spent

much of our time in each others society. There were those who

sometimes smiled to see a young and sunny-haired youth so constantly

with the sensitive, shrinking Mary Warner; but then they knew we were

playmates from childhood, and thought no more. Mother was dead, and I

was under the guidance of my remaining parent, an only child--an

idolized and favored one; and in my sixteenth year, claimed as the

bride of Samuel Wayland. Parental judgment frowned, and called it

folly. What could I do? Our faith had long been plighted, but filial

respect demanded that should be laid aside; yet what was I to find in

the future, that would ever repay for the love so vainly wasted. It

was all a blank. I nerved my heart for our last meeting--but the

strings were fibrous, and they broke.

"'I shall go to the West, and then you must forget me,' said I, when

we came to part.

"'Never, Mary, will you, can you be forgotten!'

"We parted there, forever. He is still living, a lone wanderer on the

earth; we have never had any communications; but there is a unity of

feeling, a oneness of spirit, that at times make me feel as if we were

scarcely separated. I enjoy a pleasure in thinking of his memory, a

confidence that would trust him any where in this wide world; and I

now believe that wherever he is, his heart is still true to me. As for

me, I have hurried through life like a 'storm-stricken bird,' no rest

from the busy scenes in which I mingled. Since then, there have been

proposals in which honor, wealth, and distinction were connected; and

once I had well nigh sold myself for interest, and to please my

father. We were promised, and I was congratulated on my happy

prospects; but, alas! alas, for me; the more memory reverted to the

past, my feelings revolted from the present. I sometimes used to stand

where I could see him pass in the street, and exclaim 'oh, heaven! can

I marry that man! can I stand before God's altar, and promise to love

and honor him, when I abhor his presence.' Time was hasting; one night

I went down into the study; father was sitting there.

"'Well, Mary,' said he, 'I suppose you will leave us soon.'

"That was enough for my pent-up feelings to break forth. 'I suppose

so,' said I, 'but, oh! father, I would rather see my grave open

to-morrow, than to think of uniting my destiny with that man. My very

soul detests him."

"Mary, sit down now, and write a letter to Mr. M----, that you cannot

keep your promise, and the reason why. Far would it be from me to

place in the hands of my only daughter, the cup of misery unmixed. My

judgment and your feelings differ.'

"It was late that night when I sealed the fated letter for M----; but

I retired and slept easy, there was a burden removed which had

well-nigh crushed me. What I have experienced since, words may never

tell; the young have deemed me impenetrable to the natural

susceptibilities of our natures, while the old have called me

trifling. But, Ella, depend upon it, a heart once truly given, can

never be bestowed again. I have erred in trying to conceal my history

in the manner I have. Instead of placing my dependance on the goodness

of the Most High, and seeking for that balm which heals the wounded

spirit, and acquiring a calmness of mind which would render me in a

measure happy, I plunged into the vortex of worldly pleasure. But it

is all over now; they say I have the consumption, and pity me, to

think one so joyous should have to die. To-day has been spent mostly

in meditation; and I have tried to pray that my Savior would give me

grace for a dying hour; and, Ella, will you kneel at my bedside and

pray as you used to, when a young, trembling girl?"

"Yes, I will pray for you again," said Ella; "but take this cordial to

revive your exhausted frame."

As the friend raised the refreshing draught, she marked such a change

in Mary's countenance, that her heart quailed at the thought of the

terrible vigil she was keeping, in the silence of night, alone. She

kneeled by the sick, and offered up her prayer with an energy unknown

to her before, such a one as a heart strong in faith, and nerved by

love and fear alone could dictate; a pleading, borne on high by the

angel of might, for the strengthening of the immortal soul in

prison-clay before her. There was a sigh and a groan; she rose hastily

and bent over the couch--there was a gasping for breath, and all was

still. Ella's desolate shriek of anguish first told the tale, that

Mary was dead.

Thus passed again to the Giver, a mind entrusted with high powers, and

uncontrolled affections, who, in the waywardness of youth, cast

unreservedly at the shrine of idolatrous love, her all of earthly

hopes, then wandered forth with naught but their ashes, in the

treasured urn of past remembrance, seeking to cover that with the

mantle of the world's glittering folly.

TO THE AUTHOR OF "THE RAVEN."

BY MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW.

Leave us not so dark uncertain! lift again the fallen curtain!

Let us once again the mysteries of that haunted room explore--

Hear once more that friend infernal--that grim visiter nocturnal!

Earnestly we long to learn all that befalls that bird of yore:

Oh, then, tell us something more!

Doth his shade thy floor still darken? dost thou still, despairing, hearken

To that deep sepulchral utterance like the oracles of yore?

In the same place is he sitting? Does he give no sign of quitting?

Is he conscious or unwitting when he answers "Nevermore?"

Tell me truly, I implore!

Knows he not the littlenesses of our nature--its distresses?

Knows he never need of slumber, fainting forces to restore?

Stoops he not to eating--drinking? Is he never caught in winking

When his demon eyes are sinking deep into thy bosom's core?

Tell me this, if nothing more!

Is he, after all, so evil? Is it fair to call him "devil?"

Did he not give friendly answer when thy speech friend's meaning bore?

When thy sad tones were revealing all the loneness o'er thee stealing,

Did he not, with fellow-feeling, vow to leave thee nevermore?

Keeps he not that oath he swore?

He, too, may be inly praying--vainly, earnestly essaying

To forget some matchless mate, beloved yet lost for evermore.

He hath donned a suit of mourning, and, all earthly comfort scorning,

Broods alone from night till morning. By thy memories Lenore,

Oh, renounce him nevermore.

Though he be a sable brother, treat him kindly as another!

Ah, perhaps the world has scorned him for that luckless hue he wore,

No such narrow prejudices can _he_ know whom Love possesses--

Whom one spark of Freedom blesses. Do not spurn him from thy door

Lest Love enter nevermore!

Not a bird of evil presage, happily he brings some message

From that much-mourned matchless maiden--from that loved and lost Lenore.

In a pilgrim's garb disguised, angels are but seldom prized:

Of this fact at length advised, were it strange if he forswore

The false world for evermore?

Oh, thou ill-starred midnight ranger! dark, forlorn, mysterious stranger!

Wildered wanderer from the eternal lightning on Time's stormy shore!

Tell us of that world of wonder--of that famed unfading "Yonder!"

Rend--oh rend the veil asunder! Let our doubts and fears be o'er!

Doth he answer--"Nevermore?"

SONG OF THE ELVES.

BY ANNA BLACKWELL.

When the moon is high o'er the ruined tower,

When the night-bird sings in her lonely bower,

When beetle and cricket and bat are awake,

And the will-o'-the-wisp is at play in the brake,

Oh then do we gather, all frolic and glee,

We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree!

And brightly we hover on silvery wing,

And dip our small cups in the whispering spring,

While the night-wind lifts lightly our shining hair,

And music and fragrance are on the air!

Oh who is so merry, so happy as we,

We gay little elfins, beneath the old tree?

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

We sat within the farm-house old,

Whose windows looking o'er the bay,

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,

An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,--

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,--

The light-house,--the dismantled fort,--

The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night

Descending filled the little room;

Our faces faded from the sight,

Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,

Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been, and might have been,

And who was changed, and who was dead.

And all that fills the hearts of friends,

When first they feel, with secret pain,

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,

And never can be one again.

The first slight swerving of the heart,

That words are powerless to express,

And leave it still unsaid in part,

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake

Had something strange, I could but mark;

The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,

As suddenly, from out the fire

Built of the wreck of stranded ships,

The flames would leap, and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,

We thought of wrecks upon the main,--

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed,

And sent no answer back again.

The windows rattling in their frames,

The ocean, roaring up the beach--

The gusty blast--the bickering flames--

All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part

Of fancies floating through the brain--

The long lost ventures of the heart,

That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!

They were indeed too much akin--

The drift-wood fire without that burned,

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

SONG FOR A SABBATH MORNING.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Arise ye nations, with rejoicing rise,

And tell your gladness to the listening skies;

Come out forgetful of the week's turmoil,

From halls of mirth and iron gates of toil;

Come forth, come forth, and let your joy increase

Till one loud paean hails the day of peace.

Sing trembling age, ye youths and maidens sing;

Ring ye sweet chimes, from every belfry ring;

Pour the grand anthem till it soars and swells

And heaven seems full of great celestial bells!

Behold the Morn from orient chambers glide,

With shining footsteps, like a radiant bride;

The gladdened brooks proclaim her on the hills

And every grove with choral welcome thrills.

Rise ye sweet maidens, strew her path with flowers,

With sacred lilies from your virgin bowers;

Go youths and meet her with your olive boughs,

Go age and greet her with your holiest vows;--

See where she comes, her hands upon her breast

The sainted Sabbath comes, smiling the world to rest.

CITY LIFE.

BY CHARLES W. BAIRD.

Forgive me, Lord, that I so long have dwelt

In noisome cities, whence Thy sacred works

Are ever banished from my sight; where lurks

Each baleful passion man has ever felt.

Here human skill is shown in shutting out

All sight and thought of things that God hath made;

Lest He should share the constant homage paid

To Mammon, in the hearts of men devout.

O, it was fit that he[2] upon whose head

Weighed his own brother's blood, and God's dread curse,

Should build a city, when he trembling fled

Far from his Maker's face. And which was worse,

The murder--or departing far from Thee?

Great God! impute not either sin to me!

[Footnote 2: Cain.--Genesis iv. 17.]

THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE.

BY FRANK BYRNE.

(_Concluded from page_ 147.)

CHAPTER V.

_In which there is a Storm, a Wreck, and a Mutiny._

When I came on deck the next morning, I found that the mate's

prediction had proved true. A norther, as it is called in the Gulf,

was blowing great guns, and the ship, heading westward, was rolling in

the trough of the tremendous sea almost yard-arm under, with only

close-reefed top-sails and storm foretopmast-staysail set. We wallowed

along in this manner all day, for we were lying our course, and the

skipper was in a hurry to bring our protracted voyage to an end. We

made much more leeway than we reckoned, however, for just at sunset

the high mountains of Cuba were to be seen faintly looming up on the

southern horizon.

"Brace up, there," ordered Captain Smith, when this fact was

announced. "Luff, my man, luff, and keep her as near it as you may."

The old ship came up on the wind, presenting her front most gallantly

to the angry waves, which came on as high as the fore-yard,

threatening to engulf her in the watery abyss. We took in all our

top-sails but the main, and with that, a reefed fore-sail and

foretopmast-staysail set, the old ship shook her feathers, and

prepared herself for an all-night job of clawing off an iron-bound

lee-shore.

The hatches were battened down, the fore-scuttle and companion closed,

and all the crew collected aft on deck and lashed themselves to some

substantial object, to save themselves from being washed over-board by

the immense seas which constantly broke over our bows, and deluged our

decks. The night closed down darker than pitch, and the wind increased

in violence. I have scarcely ever seen so dismal a night. Except when

at intervals a blinding flash of lightning illumined the whole heavens

and the broad expanse of raging ocean, we could distinguish nothing at

a yard's distance, save the glimmer of the phosphorescent binacle

light, and the gleam which flashed from the culmination of the huge

seas ahead of us, resembling an extended cloud of dull fire suspended

in the air, and blown toward us, till, with a noise like thunder, as

it dashed against the bows, it vanished, and another misty fire was to

be seen as if rising out of some dark gulf. At midnight it blew a

hurricane; the wind cut off the tops of the waves, and the air was

full of spray and salt, driving like sleet or snow before the wintry

storm. I had ensconced myself under the lee of the bulwarks, among a

knot of select weather-beaten tars, and notwithstanding the danger we

were in, I could not help being somewhat amused at their

conversation.

"Jack," said Teddy, an Irish sailor, to the ship's oracle, old Jack

Reeves, "do you think the sticks will howld?"

"If they don't," growled Jack, "you'll be in h--l before morning."

"Och, Jasus!" was the only reply to this consolatory remark--and there

was an uneasy nestling throughout the whole circle.

"Well, Frank," said old Jack to me, after a most terrific gust, during

which every man held his breath to listen whether there might not be a

snapping of the spars, "well, Frank, what do you think of that?"

"Why, I think I never saw it blow so hard before," I replied. "'Tisn't

a very comfortable berth, this of ours, with a lee-shore not thirty

miles off, and a hurricane blowing."

"No danger at all, Frank, if them spars only stay by us--and I guess

they will. They're good sticks, and Mr. Brewster is too good a

boatswain not to have 'em well supported. The old Gentile is a

dreadful critter for eatin' to windward in any weather that God ever

sent; but I hope you don't call this blowin' hard, do you? Why, I've

seen it blow so that two men, one on each side of the skipper,

couldn't keep his hair on his head, and they had to get the cabin-boy

to tail on to the cue behind, and take a turn round a belaying-pin."

"An' that nothin' to a time I had in a brig off Hatteras," observed

Teddy, who had somewhat recovered his composure; "we had to cut away

both masts, you persave, and to scud under a scupper nail driv into

the deck, wid a man ready to drive it further as the wind freshened."

"Wasn't that the time, Teddy," asked another, "When that big sea

washed off the buttons on your jacket?"

"Faix, you may well say that; and a nigger we had on board turned

white by reason of the scare he was in."

"Wal, now," interposed Ichabod Green, "Teddy, that's a lie; it's agin

all reason."

"Pooh! you green-horn!" said Jack Reeves, "that's nothing to a yarn I

can spin. You see that when I was quite a boy, I was in a Dutch

man-o'-war for a year and thirteen months; and one day in the Indian

Ocean, it came on to blow like blazes. It blowed for three days and

nights, and the skipper called a council of officers to know what to

do. So, when they'd smoked up all their baccy, they concluded to

shorten sail, and the bo'sn came down to rouse out the crew. He

ondertook to whistle, but it made such an onnateral screech, that the

chaplain thought old Davy had come aboard; and he told the skipper he

guessed he'd take his trick at prayin'. 'Why,' says the skipper,

'we've got on well enough without, ever since we left the Hague,

hadn't we better omit it now?' ''Taint possible,' says the parson. Now

you all know you can't larn seamanship to a parson or passenger--and

the bloody fool knelt down with his face to wind'ard. 'Hillo!' says

the skipper, 'you'd better fill away, and come round afore the wind,

hadn't you?' 'Mynheer captain,' says the parson, 'you're a dreadful

good seaman, but you don't know no more about religious matters than a

horse.' 'That's true,' answered the skipper; 'so suit yourself, and

let fly as soon as you feel the spirit move, bekase that main-sail

wants reefin' awfully.' Well, the parson shuts his eyes, takes the

pipe out of his mouth, and gets under-weigh; but, onluckily, the first

word of the prayer was a Dutch one, as long as the maintop-bowline,

and as crooked as a monkey's tail, and the wind ketchen in the kinks

of it, rams it straight back into his throat, and kills him as dead as

a herrin'. 'Blixem!' says the skipper, 'there'll be brandy enough for

the voyage now.'"

"Sail, ho-o-o!" shouted a dozen voices, as a vivid flash of lightning

showed us the form of a small schooner riding upon the crest of a

wave, not two cables length ahead.

"Hard-a-lee!" shouted the skipper. "My God! make her luff, or we shall

be into them."

Slowly the ship obeyed her helm, and came up on the wind, trembling to

her keel, as the canvas, relieved from the strain, fluttered and

thrashed against the mast with immense violence, and a noise more

deafening than thunder, while the great seas dashed against the bows,

now in full front toward them, with the force and shock of huge rocks

projected from a catapult, and the wind shrieked and howled through

the rigging as if the spirits of the deep were rejoicing over our

dreadful situation.

Again the fiery flash shot suddenly athwart the sky.

Good God! the schooner, her deck and lower rigging black with human

beings, lay broadside to, scarcely ten rods from before our bows. A

cry of horror mingled with the rattling thunder and the howl of the

storm. I felt my blood curdle in my veins, and an oppression like the

nightmare obstructed my voice.

The schooner sunk in the trough, and, as the lightning paled,

disappeared from sight. The next moment our huge ship, with a headlong

pitch, was precipitated upon her. One crash of riven timbers, and a

yell of despairing agony, and all was over; the ship fell off from the

wind, and we were again driving madly forward into the almost palpable

darkness, tearing through the mountain seas.

"Rig the pumps and try them," cried Captain Smith, in a hoarse voice,

"we may have started a plank by the shock."

To the great joy of all, the ship was found to make no more water than

usual. All hands soon settled down quietly again, wondering what the

run-down schooner could have been, and pitying her unfortunate crew,

when a faint shout from the forecastle was heard in a lull of the

storm.

"Lord save us! what can that be?" exclaimed a dozen of the crew in a

breath.

"_In nomine Pathris_--" began Teddy, crossing himself in a fright.

"Silence there!" cried the skipper; "Mr. Stewart, can it be one of the

schooner's crew, who has saved himself by the bowsprit rigging?"

"Plaze yer honor," said Teddy, "it's more likely it's one of their

ghosts."

"Silence, I tell you! who gave you liberty to tell your opinion. Mr.

Brewster, hail 'em, whoever they be."

"Folk'stle, ahoy!" sung out the second mate; "who's there?"

"Help! help! for God's sake!" faintly answered the mysterious voice.

"Go forward, there, two hands," ordered the captain; "'t is one of the

schooner's crew."

After a moment's hesitation, the second mate and Jack Reeves started

on this mission of mercy, and were soon followed by nearly all the

crew. Upon reaching the forecastle we found the body of a man lying

across the heel of the bowsprit, jammed against the windlass pawl. The

insensible form was lifted from its resting place, and, by the

captain's order, finally deposited in the cabin on the transom. The

skipper, steward, and myself, remained below to try and resuscitate

the apparently lifeless body. The means we used were effectual; and

the wrecked seaman opened his eyes, and finally sat up.

"I must go on deck now," said the captain. "Stay below, Frank, and

help the steward undress him, and put him into a berth."

Our benevolent darky had by this time concocted a glass of brandy

grog, very stiff, but, alas! not hot, which I handed to the object of

our care, who, after drinking it, seemed much better; and we then

proceeded to help him strip. I noticed that his clothes were very

coarse, and parti-colored; there were also marks of fetters on his

ancles, and his back was scarred by the lash. I conjectured from these

circumstances that our new shipmate was not of the most immaculate

purity of character, and after I had got him into a berth, between two

warm woollen blankets, I made free to ask him a few questions, not

only about himself, but also about his vessel. I could get no reply

but in Spanish, as I took his lingo to be, though, from his hailing

for help in English, I knew that he must understand that language.

When I went upon deck I reported myself to the officers, who concluded

to defer any examination until morning. The gale began to abate about

midnight, and at nine o'clock in the morning it had so far subsided

that the cabin mess, leaving Mr. Brewster in charge of the deck, went

below to get breakfast.

"The swell is tremendous," said the skipper, as we were endeavoring to

get seated around the table. "I think I never saw a much heavier sea

in any part of the world. Look out, there!"

But the caution was given too late; the ship had risen on an enormous

wave as the skipper had spoken, and when she plunged, the steward

pitched headlong over the cabin table, closely followed by the third

mate, who had grasped his camp-stool for support, and still clung

pertinaciously to it. The ship righted, leaving Langley's corpus

extended at full length among a wreck of broken crockery.

"Well, Mr. Langley," said the skipper, "I hope you enjoy your

breakfast."

"Bill," added the mate, as Langley gathered himself up, "as you've got

through your breakfast so expeditiously, hadn't you better go on deck

and let Mr. Brewster come down?"

"Beg your pardon, sir; but don't you see I'm laid on the table--there

can be no action about me at present."

"Well, sit down and try to preserve your gravity. I hope to see no

more such flights of nonsense at this table."

"Steward," asked the skipper, after we had nearly finished our meal,

"how is your patient this morning?"

"It's enough to make any body out of patience, sar, to fall ober de

cabin table. So tan't werry first rate."

"No, so I perceive; but I mean, how's the man who came on board us

last night?"

"Oh, dat's him--excuse me, sar. Well, sar, he's quite smart dis

mornin'."

"Fetch him out here, I wish to ask him some questions; give him a

shirt and trowsers of mine, and fetch him out."

The steward soon made his appearance again, in company with the

stranger, who, now dressed clean, looked to be a stout, powerful man,

apparently about thirty-five; but his long, tangled, black hair and

whiskers so concealed his features, that their expression could not be

discerned. He bowed as he entered the cabin, and in good English

thanked the captain for his care.

"Sit down upon the stool yonder," said the skipper, "and tell us the

name and nation of your vessel, and by what miracle you escaped; and

afterward you shall have some breakfast."

"The name of the vessel, senor, was the San Diego, the _guarda-costa_

upon this station. I was on deck when your ship was first seen, and I

climbed half way up the main shrouds to look out for you, by the

captain's order. When you struck us, I found myself entangled in your

jib-boom rigging, and held on, though much bruised, and half-drowned

by the seas which ducked me every minute, until I succeeded in laying

in upon your forecastle. I had had time to notice your rig, and knew

you to be an American."

"How many were your crew?" asked the mate.

The sailor started, and for a moment eyed the querist closely. "Oh!

senor, only about fifty souls in all."

"Good God!" cried the captain, "fifty lives lost--fifty souls sent

into eternity with scarcely a moment's warning!"

"Don't regret it, captain," said the sailor, bitterly, "many of them

were only convicts; the government will be much obliged to you."

"Were you a convict?" asked the mate.

"I was, senor, as my dress and appearance would have told you, even if

I had been disposed to lie. I was drafted from the Matanzas chain-gang

to the guarda-costa some six month ago."

"The Matanzas chain-gang!" cried the mate, eagerly, "pray, my good

fellow, do you know a convict by the name of Pedro Garcia?"

The man rose to his feet--"Why, senor, do you?" he inquired.

"I do, indeed," answered Mr. Stewart, impatiently; "but tell

me--answer my question, sir."

The convict brushed back his long hair. "I was once called Don Pedro

Garcia," said he; "tell me," he added, as all four of us rose

involuntarily at this startling announcement, "with whom do I speak?"

"Good God!" cried the mate, making one jump for the convict felon, and

throwing his arms around him, "I'm Ben Stewart, alive and well."

Very unluckily, at this moment the ship gave a violent lurch, and the

two fell, and, locked in each others embrace, rolled over to leeward;

the skipper, who was unguarded in his astonishment, followed Langley's

former wake over the table, which, yielding to the impulse, fetched

away, capsized, and with the captain, also rolled away to leeward; the

steward, as in duty bound, ran to his superior's help.

At this juncture, Brewster, hearing the unusual row, poked his head

through the skylight slide, and demanded--"What's the matter? Mutiny!

by G----d!" he shouted, catching sight of the prostrate forms of his

fellow officers, struggling, as he thought, in the respective grasps

of the rescued convict and the steward. Off went the scuttle, and down

came the valiant Brewster square in the midst of the crockery,

followed by three or four of his watch, stumbling over the bodies of

the overthrown quartette. Langley and myself climbed into a berth and

looked on.

"It's the steward," shouted the mischievous third mate, whose love of

fun could not be controled by fear of consequences; "he tried to stab

the captain with the carving-knife."

The scene now became exciting; the cry of mutiny was heard all over

the vessel; and the skipper and mate hearing it, very naturally

concluding that the mutineers were those who had so unceremoniously

invaded the cabin, turned furiously upon them, and called loudly for

assistance to us in the berth; but we were enjoying the fun too much

to even speak and explain.

"Are ye kilt, cap'n?" asked Teddy, who had pushed his way to his

beloved commander.

"No, you d----d mutinous scoundrel!" replied the enraged skipper,

planting a tremendous blow between the eyes of the anxious

interrogator; "take that!" and the Irishman rolled upon deck. In the

meantime, Mr. Brewster, who had taken an especial spite against the

convict, grabbed him by the throat. Pedro returned the compliment by a

blow in the stomach, and Stewart aided the defeat of his colleague by

taking him by the shoulders and dragging him off. Transported beyond

reason by the pain of the blow he had received, and what he supposed

to be the black ingratitude of Mr. Stewart, Brewster gave a scream of

rage and clinched in with the mate with all his force.

It was fast getting to be past a joke.

"Come, Langley," said I, "let's put a stop to this--somebody will be

killed."

"Sure enough! but how are we going to do it? Oh! here are the mate's

pistols; draw the charges, Frank, and you take one and I the other,

and we'll soon proclaim peace."

"They're not loaded," said I, after trying them with the ramrod.

"All right, then--follow me."

"We jumped down from our roost, leveled our pistols at the crowd, and

threatened to fire if hostilities should not instantly cease on both

sides.

"Langley, hand me those pistols," cried the frenzied skipper, who was

the more angry because nobody would fight with him.

"Please, sir, I can't; I daren't trust myself without 'em. Disperse,

ye rebels! lay down your arms and disperse--die, base and perjured

villain," shouted Langley, holding the muzzle of his pistol to

Brewster's ear, while I, by poking my shooting-iron in everybody's

face, obtained partial order. After a deal of difficulty the mutiny

was explained; and the crestfallen Brewster withdrew his forces,

followed by the mate, who conciliated his irate colleague, and gave

him an inkling as to the real name and character of the rescued

convict.

After the steward had cleared away the wreck of the breakfast things,

a conclave of the cabin-mess was called, to which the black steward

was _ex officio_ and _ex necessitate_ admitted; and it was determined,

after much debate, that the voyage should be continued, and that

during our stay in Matanzas my cousin Pedro should remain hidden on

board. The next mooted point was whether to conceal the matter from

the crew, and decided in the negative; so the men were called aft, and

the truth briefly stated to them. One and all swore to be faithful and

discreet--and so they proved. With one or two exceptions our crew were

Yankees, and of a far higher grade than the crews of merchantmen

generally.

During these proceedings the gale had rapidly abated, and at noon we

found ourselves rolling and pitching in a heavy sea, the sun shining

brightly over our heads, and not a breath of air stirring. The

skipper, mate, and Cousin Pedro were closeted together in the cabin

during the afternoon, while the second and third mates, and ship's

cousin, compared notes sitting under the awning on the booby-hatch. I

enlightened Brewster more fully as to Mr. Stewart's former adventures

in Cuba; and we finally concluded that our running down the Spanish

guarda-costa was the most lucky thing in the world.

"Half my plan is now accomplished to hand," said I; "we must now get

my Cousin Clara out of the nunnery."

"You hadn't better try that, Frank," interposed Mr. Brewster,

"because, for two reasons; in the first place, them Catholics are poor

benighted heathen, and she wouldn't get out if she could--for she is

a veiled nun; and the next place you'd get your neck into a certain

machine called a _garrote_, or else make your cousin's place good in

the chain-gang."

"Nevertheless, I shall try; and if she only is willing to run away,

there can some plan be contrived, I know."

"And my part shall be to run old Alvarez through the body, if the

devil hasn't taken him already," added Mr. William Langley.

"Boys will be boys, that's a fact, call 'em what you're a mind to,"

observed Mr. Brewster, very sapiently stroking his big red whiskers.

The calm continued, and by evening the swell had in a great degree

gone down. In the first dog-watch, my Cousin Pedro, sitting upon the

companion, gave us an account of his long imprisonment. He had, as the

reader already knows, been sentenced for the murder of the Count ----,

and had toiled and slaved in the streets of Matanzas, till drafted,

with many others, on board of the guarda-costa. He knew of Clara's

fate, and had been undeceived by my father in the belief of Mr.

Stewart's death.

Langley and I stood the middle watch again that night. An easterly

breeze, gentle, but steady, blew most of the night; and when we went

below, and eight bells struck, the moon was silvering the lofty peak

of the Pan of Matanzas, which lay far away on our larboard bow.