This vessel, which was called the 'Countess of Pembroke,' af

Transcriber's note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.

* * * * *

THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. XXII. NOVEMBER, 1843. NO. 5.

THOUGHTS ON IMMORTALITY.

BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

THERE are those who reject the idea of a future state; or, at

least, who deny that they ought to be convinced of its reality,

because reasoning, in the method of the sciences, does not appear

to prove it to them; although they acknowledge how natural it is

for man to anticipate a future existence. I have thought that such

persons might be included in a similitude like the following. Let

us suppose a young bee, just returning from his first excursion

abroad, bearing his load of honey. He has been in a labyrinth of

various directions, and far from his native home; winding among

trees and their branches, and stopping to sip from numerous flowers.

He has even been taken, by one bearing no good-will to the little

community of which he is a member, and carried onward, without being

permitted a sight of the objects which he passed, that he might

estimate aright his new direction. Notwithstanding, he is winging

his way with unerring precision to the place where his little load

is to be deposited. Not more exactly does the needle tend to the

pole, than the line he is drawing points toward his store-house. But

in this he is governed by no such considerations of distance and

direction as enable the skilful navigator so beautifully to select

his way along the pathless ocean. He has no data, by reasoning from

which, as the geometrician reasons, he may determine that his course

bears so many degrees to the right or so many to the left. He has

never been taught to mark the right ascension of hill-tops, nor

to estimate latitude and longitude from the trees. He is governed

in his progress by that indescribable and mysterious principle of

instinct alone, which, although developed in man, produces its

most surprising effects in the brute creation. But here, as he is

going onward thus swiftly and surely, by some creative power a vast

addition is made to his previous character. All at once he becomes a

reasoning being, possessed of all the faculties which are found in

the philosopher. He is endowed with judgment, that he may compare,

and consciousness and reflection, to make him a metaphysician. Nor

is he slow to exercise these newly-acquired faculties.

Among other things, his consciousness tells him that he is impressed

with a deep presentiment of something greatly desirable in the

far distance toward which he supposes his course to be fast and

directly tending. Perhaps he has a memory of the place he left, of

the business there going on, and of the part which he is taking in

it. Probably his strong impression is, that he is fast advancing

toward that place; that he expects the greeting of his friends of

the swarm. Possibly he finds his bosom even now beginning to swell

in anticipation of the praise which shall be bestowed on his early

manifestation of industry and virtue. Perhaps his recollections are

more vague; and accordingly his consciousness only tells him that he

thinks of something requiring him to urge onward in that particular

direction, but of which he realizes no very definite idea.

But here Reason interrupts him: 'Why are you pursuing this course

so fast? I see nothing to attract your attention so strongly.' 'I

am going to a place lying this way,' says the bee, 'where I can

deposite my load in safety, which I am anxious to do quickly, that I

may return for another.' 'But,' says Reason, 'what evidence have you

that the place lies this way?' Here Philosophy whispers: 'You should

not act without evidence; it becomes no reasonable creature to do

so;' but Reason continues: 'There are many points in the horizon

beside that you are making for; and I see not why one of them is not

as likely to be the place as another.'

This rather staggered the bee at first; for he had no recollection

of courses and distances taken, by a comparison of which he could

prove his true direction; but suddenly he said: 'Why, I am so

strongly impressed that this is the course, that I cannot doubt

it.' 'But what signify your strong impressions,' says Reason, 'if

they are not founded on any evidence? Were you ever led to such a

place as you seek by the aid of _impression_ alone?' 'I never was,'

said the bee; for in fact he had never before been out of sight of

the place where he was born. 'Then again,' says Reason, 'I ask what

is your evidence?' And Philosophy again, as a faithful monitor,

replies: 'Bee, you must not act without evidence.'

The bee could hardly add any thing more. Had his experience been

greater, and his reflection deeper, he might have answered, that

there are principles in the mind pointing to certain conclusions,

and seeking to establish certain beliefs, of which those principles

are at once the evidence and the source; and that the impression

which now seemed so clearly to point out his course was one of this

class. But in the exercise of his young faculties he had not yet

arrived at that height of philosophy which could lead him to recur

to such principles. He had never come to distinguish between those

impressions which have taken possession of the mind by chance, and

those which Nature herself has prepared to aid the very weakness of

reason. No wonder then, that thus sore pressed by Reason, he seemed

to find himself at fault.

Whether these mental conflicts were sufficient to suspend his course

entirely, or whether, like a prudent bee, he resolved to act as if

nature were right and reason were wrong until he knew nature to be

wrong and reason to be right, I am not able to say. But I could not

fail to reflect, that if he did finally arrive at the place whither

he had been directing his course, he would probably quarrel with all

the arrangements in the tree.

It would not occur to him, for instance, why such particular art

should be observed in constructing the cells of the comb as the

bee has ever been known to observe. Why must they always be made

with just six sides to them, and no more? Why could they not,

upon occasion, be constructed with three or four sides, or even

round, equally as well? Surely a curve is more beautiful than a

combination of straight lines, with angular points to disturb the

mind; and variety is undoubtedly essential to all harmony. But if

six sides are to be preferred, why not have the same number for

the roof and floor? and why should they be always constructed with

one particular inclination? These and other rules, which the bee

has hitherto followed with such admirable but unconscious wisdom,

his uninstructed reason would be slow to deduce from obvious first

principles. He would perhaps be no better a mathematician than man

himself, with whom centuries succeeded one another before he had

followed the discursive and mazy track to the point whence is seen

the just and convenient architecture of the bee.

We can hardly suppose that under such circumstances he would

not become a confirmed skeptic; rejecting all truths which his

peculiar reasonings would not demonstrate; and failing by reason

to demonstrate those truths which to him are of the greatest

consequence. All this would not be because he had reason, nor

because he exercised it, but because he exercised it imperfectly.

And yet he would seem to use it very much as some modern

philosophers recommend.

II.

WHEN the merchant who trades abroad is about to launch upon the

ocean the ship which contains perhaps the whole of his fortune, he

is naturally anxious as to what may be its fate while entrusted to

the winds and waves, and is solicitous to provide, so far as he can,

against the possibility of ruin by its loss. His course is therefore

to go to the insurance office, inform the agent what he is about to

do, and ask for indemnity against risk.

The insurance office was established for the express purpose of

alleviating such disasters as his would be, should his fears be

realized, and his case is taken into immediate consideration.

The agent regards the route of the proposed voyage, and the seas

over which the ship is to pass; the season of the year in which

she sails, and the storms that are commonly incident thereto; he

deliberates on the propriety of insuring, and if the risk be not

too great, fixes the premium to be paid by the merchant. Upon the

receipt of this sum, he gives him a writing, binding the company in

case the vessel does not arrive safely at the destined port, to pay

to the merchant the estimated value of the ship and cargo.

Now the sum which the company receives on this occasion is but a

small part of what they may be obliged to return, and which they

must pay to the merchant in case the ship insured does not arrive at

the end of her voyage. Yet by such transactions as these neither the

company is impoverished nor by his loss is he who adventures undone.

The company is not impoverished, because in the whole extent of its

transactions it receives from those who do _not_ lose as much as its

funds are diminished by those who _do_. The loser himself is not

undone, because by contributing his share, and enabling the company

to carry on its mitigating operations, he becomes, upon his loss,

entitled to a full portion of relief. And indeed in this manner it

happens that loss falleth lightly upon many, rather than heavily

upon few; and those who, to the benefit of mankind, would trust

their all to be carried down to the sea in ships, are not deterred

therefrom by the fear of possible ruin.

When the astronomer, for the convenience of the navigator, in

enabling him to ascertain his place upon the trackless ocean,

determines what will take place at immense distances from our earth,

and calculates at what exact though distant periods of time the

satellites that revolve about Jupiter may with the telescope be

ascertained to pass through the planet's shadow, his conclusions

are all founded on a knowledge of causes, and of their methods of

operation. The observations of KEPLER and HERSCHEL, and the sublime

reasonings of NEWTON and LAPLACE, founded on fact or on axioms, and

tending to pertinent conclusions, are all concerned in these useful

calculations. Not so in proceedings like those to which we have

referred. There parties act not more from their knowledge of causes

than their ignorance of them. Neither the insurer nor the insured

knows what favorable winds may waft the ship prosperously on her

voyage, nor what tempestuous seas may threaten her with destruction.

Did the one know that in the end she would be lost, he would not

insure. Did the other know that she would arrive safely at the end

of her voyage, he would not desire to be insured. But while the one

has hopes and the other fears, yet both are ignorant. They are able,

by the judicious exercise of the faculties which GOD has given them,

to adopt a course which, without impairing the welfare of the one,

shall tend to secure the safety of the other.

The principle which in these cases determines the insurer whether

to insure, and if so at what premium, is a principle upon which the

pursuit of happiness very often requires us to act. This principle

is, that where a case is under consideration where particular causes

cannot be taken into account, we are most strongly to expect such

an event as has happened or as we know will happen, in the greatest

number of possible cases; unless some particular reason appears

which we are certain should make us expect a different result. The

principle has a deep foundation in the nature of the human mind;

and nowhere is the mutual adaptation between the mind and the

external world more clearly seen. Properly applied, it teaches man

to look for an existence beyond the grave.

For, in the first place, we find it _necessary_ that he should

desire immortality. The prospect of annihilation must always strike

the mind with horror. By nature it is capable of conceiving, of

appreciating and desiring, future as well as present happiness. Its

ideas and desires cannot be bounded by a day or a year, but extend

onward, without the possibility of arriving at a limit. Whenever

therefore the imagination is presented with a termination of

enjoyment, however distant in the field of duration it may be, the

mind at once starts back with a feeling of present unhappiness.

It is especially the case that this desire will not allow the mind

to be consoled for the supposed termination of its existence by

the possession of some other enjoyment. The object is something

which cannot be supplanted by any other. It is indeed the mind's

susceptibility to be gratified by its connection with other objects,

which is the foundation of this desire. It desires continued

existence in proportion as it feels the loveliness by which it is

surrounded, and of the actions which it is invited to perform. It

never so much feels the vanity of any pleasure as when that pleasure

is about to terminate. Very far then must the possession of other

enjoyments be from compensating for the want of this! Nay, so much

livelier as is the joy which the present seems to offer, so much

severer will be the pang when the mind looks forward to futurity.

The hurry of novelty and the splendor of dazzling objects may induce

temporary forgetfulness, but forgetfulness is not consolation;

and of little worth must be that freedom from misery which is

only in proportion as the mind loses its activity. It is indeed

in some degree to run into the very evil we dread, to escape the

consciousness of knowing we must be subject to its consequences.

Beside, in spite of such means the mind will often be aroused to

a more painful remembrance of its mortality. The opiates which

for a time may lull, are yet preparing morbid sensibilities to be

restless under the oblivious influence, and to awaken at length to

a more acute feeling of the pain that has been suppressed. Yet who

can believe there is a single faculty in the mind which must ever

desire, without rational hope, and whose despair must be without

solace?

Of most of the affections which are implanted in the heart of man,

we can discover the end and scope by an observation of them in

particular. And of these, where do we find one whose nature is to

fix itself on an object for whose attainment one cannot rationally

hope, and for whose denial he cannot be consoled? If not in

possession, the mind commonly cherishes an expectation of obtaining

it. If this seem impossible, the desire reverts to something

else, upon which it fixes itself while the mind as soon becomes

indifferent to the possession of the former. However long, however

deeply, any affection may have been fixed, and however well-founded

the hope, or well enjoyed the possession, in which it has been

cherished, yet the blow which severs it rarely inflicts a wound too

deep to be healed. Time gradually soothes; other objects invite;

till at length the sigh called forth by Memory is 'pleasant yet

mournful to the soul.' Now by what application of these principles

of probability are we required to believe that the desire for

immortality is an exception to the universality of the rule we have

been exhibiting? All other affections, attachments, and desires

we find to come within it. Love, filial affection, fondness for

glory or wealth, patriotism--all tend to constitute a moral system

which should be capable of happiness. If there be an exception to

the rule, it is the desire for immortality. But if there _be_ an

exception, how does it happen that we find such long-continued

uniformity? We are ignorant of any particular difference in the

case, which should make it an exception. How then can we doubt?

If desire be fixed on an object for a time unattainable, the faculty

of enjoyment is meanwhile increasing in power, and preparing the

mind for a livelier relish of what has been withheld. When it is

attained, there is also the influence of contrast to enhance the

consciousness of enjoyment. Even grief at severest loss, when

softened by time, adds a pleasing interest to contemplation. But

after what lapse of time shall the mind's horror at annihilation

be softened into mournful complacency? What present pleasure, hope

being expelled, can be contrasted with former pain produced by the

prospect of annihilation, without renewing that pain in the mind?

And to what purpose would the power of enjoying the prospect of

immortality be increased, if the prospect itself be hid in the

blackness of darkness?

III.

If we might imagine the time when all mankind, proceeding on the

supposition of the total want of evidence that the soul is immortal,

had lost that glorious and animating hope, which is indeed the

ground of all others, to what state of despair must we not imagine

them to be reduced? What more total overthrow of every principle

of action could possibly be conceived? How many things are there

in this world which man was made to love? How many actions, how

much noble labor, invite men to their performance, offering a

full reward? How interesting to the virtuous mind to behold their

array! How exciting to its energies, to anticipate the results to

which it may attain! There are forests to be removed, fields to be

cultivated, marts to be established, cities to be built; roads and

artificial rivers are to be constructed, and fleets sent forth upon

every sea, to bring together the productions of every handicraft,

and the fruits of every clime. While this is going on, the mind is

also to be employed in bringing the great agent-power to bear on

the whole in the most efficient manner. Earth and air, fire and

water, are to be brought in subjection, and made to yield their

mighty assistance in the gigantic work which man has to do. The

force of gravity and of expansion is to be guided upon engines of

wood, of iron, and of polished brass, and these, with strokes and

evolutions of wheels, cylinders, and pistons, and with every strong,

every gentle, every delicate and complex movement, must be made to

imitate the works of men's hands; but with such prodigious force

and rapidity, and yet with such nice exactness, as shall infinitely

outvie them all. The mind of man itself is to be wrought up to

a higher state of perfection. Colleges and other seminaries of

learning are to be founded, and books are to be written; the secrets

of nature are to be laid open, and pictures of them to be presented

to every man's view. The darkness of ignorance and barbarism is

to be chased away, and the light of science and virtue to be let

in upon the mind. Improvement is continually to be advanced, and

humanity is to be raised higher and higher toward that eminence of

perfection whose peaks rise one above another, over broader and more

extended regions.

This is some of the work which man has to do; and with what delight

in the employment of his faculties, and with what gratifying

prospects of the ends to be attained, does he address himself to

the task! In the glow of his ardor, he encounters difficulties,

grapples with burdens, and exults in the exercise of his powers, as

he advances in the accomplishment of the 'prize of the high calling'

before him. And what is it which encourages him in all this? which

is the foundation of his exultation? Strike from his mind the belief

in its endless existence, and every thing becomes worthless. How

short is the time of action which this world affords, compared

with the endless future; how strong the desire to range through

that future; and oh! how deep the despair, if that great desire be

without hope! Tell me not there are those who disbelieve in any

future state of the soul, who yet preserve their cheerfulness and

equanimity; who interest themselves in the concerns of life, and are

as active as others in its pursuits. Can any experience convince us

that these have a source of enjoyment equal to that which blesses

his expectation who anticipates a triumph over death? Can a part be

equal to the whole, or the finite compared with the infinite? If men

have been able to fix their affections alone on that which earth

affords, it is not because the things of this world have swelled to

the full compass of the soul, but because she has been cast down

from her sphere, and her aspirations trampled in the dust.

To the infidel, Nature must wear a repulsive aspect; for _why_

should she create a phantom joy, which must soon vanish for ever?

The pleasantness of spring, the voice of early birds, these should

be to him the emblems of mourning, the music of a dirge. To him, the

sun and stars are but torches, to light him to regions of eternal

darkness and silence. GOD in HIS mercy preserve us from a belief

such as his!

THE 'RICH POOR MAN:' A FRAGMENT.

NOW whether he be poor or rich,

Is one to him--he cares not which;

In sweet simplicity he lives,

Happy in what the present gives.

AN EVENING HYMN.

BENEATH the star-lit skies,

Treading the dew-gemmed sod, I look to Thee,

FATHER ALMIGHTY! and these tearful eyes

Through mortal shadows would thy glory see!

My spirit long hath bent

To earthly idols, while Faith's single eye

Gazing upon the treasures thou hast lent,

Turns from its goal beyond the glowing sky.

Ingratitude hath chilled

Affection's gushing fountain, till it flows

Sluggishly onward, like a stream distilled

Where blackened rocks and gathered sands oppose.

And Hope renews her flight

Only to mourn her desolate return;

Since not beyond the veil of mortal night

She strives the land of beauty to discern.

And Love hath forged its chain--

A glittering band that dazzles to subdue!

The thirsting captives in its lengthened train

Turn from the fount of Heaven to earthly dew!

And Thought hath bent its wing

From its high journeying, awhile to sit

Within its gilded cage; a captive thing,

Pleased with the trifles that before it flit.

And from the harp of life

Grief hath her wild, discordant measures wrung;

She saw death conquer in the fearful strife,

And on the air her notes of sadness flung.

Even as the withered flower

Looks up for evening's damp, reviving breath,

So in this calmly bright and solemn hour

My spirit struggles with the bands of death.

From thy resplendent throne

Eternal Father! grant one lucid ray

Upon the path which I must tread alone,

Unless thy smile illume the clouded way.

To thy returning child

Bend a propitious ear! Accept my prayer,

Through CHRIST the crucified, the undefiled,

Whose cry of anguish rent the midnight air.

And now the stars look down

With softer glances, and the dew-drops roll

With ringing melody from night's pale crown:

These are Thy smiles to my awakened soul!

_Boston, Mass._

H. J. W.

THE DOOMED SHIP.

BY ROBERT L. WADE.

THERE was much of bustle and activity, and hurrying to and fro, in

the streets of the usually quiet little town of Salem, on a fine

October morning, 1740. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern

horizon, in token of its approach, was stained with a faint crimson

hue, and a few of the most brilliant gems that deck the firmament

were yet burning brightly in the broad expanse above. The morning

had long been looked forward to with anxiety. The colonies were yet

in their infancy, and every unusual circumstance had a tendency to

create excitement; but to us of later times it may seem strange,

and perchance cause many a one to smile, when he reads, that all

this busy stirring was occasioned by the expected departure of a

packet-ship.

This vessel, which was called the 'Countess of Pembroke,' after

the sister of the sweet bard of Arcadia, was one of two owned by a

company of London merchants, who regularly twice a year sent out

one to the colonies, freighted with such matters as were in demand

at the time, receiving in payment principally the produce of the

country; always by shrewd calculation and management succeeding

in getting the latter at very low rates, while their own goods

seldom failed of bringing high prices. No particular ports were

selected on this side of the Atlantic for the regular destination

of the packets of this company, for the proprietors preferred

sending them to whatever place promised the best market at the

time; and therefore it was a matter of uncertainty altogether with

the colonists where to look for the next arrival. The 'Countess of

Pembroke' and her sister packet, however, had now put into Salem

harbor six consecutive times; and as this was a period when the

most perfect harmony existed between those of the mother country

and her bantlings, the New-Englanders took as much pride in the

shipping and naval matters of Britain as did their brethren under

the more immediate protection of the crown. The consequence was,

in this case, that the good people of Salem and its vicinity had a

strong liking for these two vessels, and had begun to consider them

as belonging particularly to their own community; and when reports

several times spread through the town, that Newport, New-York, and

Boston, and several other places, had held communications with the

company, with a view to having the voyages of the sister crafts

terminate at each of their respective ports, and that the owners

had suffered serious thoughts to creep into their minds to the

same effect, they were not slow or scrupulous in venting their

indignation at what they termed acts of meanness in the other

towns, and resolved, with jealous eyes, to guard against what they

deemed an invasion of their rights and privileges. These feelings,

however, were forgotten in the all-absorbing interest created by

the rapid approach of the time set for the departure of the ship.

For two or three weeks it had been bruited throughout the adjacent

country, that on such a morning the 'Countess of Pembroke' would

sail for England, wind and weather permitting; and now when that

day had dawned, beautiful and bright, and with every prospect of a

happy commencement of the long voyage, (such voyages were _long_

then,) the streets of the town were filled with active people, and

all the wharves and house-tops, and in fact nearly every point from

which a good view of the harbor could be obtained, was covered with

interested spectators.

With the early morning tide the ship had hauled out some little

distance into the stream; and now, as the sun was just lifting

itself above the verge of the horizon, and pouring down its floods

of golden light, her yards were covered with seamen, busily

employed in loosing her sails and preparing for departure. At

her peak the old ensign of England was fluttering in the clear

morning breeze, while from her main top-gallant mast a long dandy

red-and-white-streamer was dancing gaily upon the air. Alongside,

attached by the painter to the rope-ladder which hung down from the

bulwarks, a small boat was rising and falling upon the slight swell

of the waters; and at the foot of the steps of the principal wharf

floated another, containing four oars-men, who were waiting with all

possible patience to take the captain off, who as yet had not made

his appearance.

An hour, two hours, rolled away; the ship still swung at single

anchor; the captain's gig still remained at the wharf; but those

in it had now become quite uneasy at his protracted absence, and

manifested many signs of impatience, in addition to giving vent to

their feelings in their own peculiar way:

'The cap'un's on a lee-shore and going to pieces,' said one; 'I

heard as how there was a false beacon up to decoy him on.' This

joke, which had reference to the 'ladye-love' of their commander,

was immediately understood by all, and received with a shout of

boisterous laughter, which had the effect to restore good humor for

the time being.

Upon the land the crowd had greatly augmented. As day advanced, the

numbers had increased upon the scene; and now in every direction

the eye encountered countless human faces, some turned toward the

water and the gallant craft that sat upon it like a duck, and others

partly back upon the town, to catch the first glimpse of the tardy

officer. It was a matter of wonder and much speculation with the

multitude, as to the cause of his non-appearance, an hour after

sunrise having been the time appointed for the departure of the

ship; and two full hours having passed beyond the time, many began

to fall into the belief, in spite of themselves, that it boded no

good for the anticipated voyage.

'I don't like this,' muttered one to his neighbor, with an ominous

shake of his head; 'I fear some ill may befall our pretty vessel,

which Heaven avert! before she casts anchor in the Thames. They

should have been prompt, and started at the time set--at the very

minute. No good comes of tardiness. Why, friend Gibson, I heard of

a vessel once, that her owners intended to despatch from Cork to

Leghorn, and gave notice that she would sail on just such a morning,

at just such an hour. Well, the morning came, and something was the

matter; either the ship was not ready, or her cargo not all aboard,

or her passengers out of the way; at any rate, she couldn't go, and

so they postponed the start for three days; and when the time came,

she didn't sail for six hours after.'

'Well, and what then?' rejoined his hearer, with a careless and

unconcerned expression on his countenance, seeing that the croaker

had come to a stop in his story, and was looking at him out of one

corner of his eye, with a sort of mysteriousness that he could not

account for; 'well, and what then?'

'What then!' repeated the other, in a loud tone, as though

astonished at this response; and then sinking his voice to a husky

whisper, added, 'Why, she was never heard of after she left port.

What do you think of _that_?--eh?'

'Why, that she was either wrecked, or burned, or captured by

pirates, or something of the kind,' coolly replied the other.

'Umph!' rejoined the first speaker, not very well satisfied with

his success in the benevolent endeavor to excite the apprehensions

of his neighbor; 'there was a ring round the moon last night; and

hark'ee, they say there was something seen off the harbor, too,

about midnight.'

'Do they though?' answered the other, with apparent interest; 'and

pray what was it?'

'I don't know exactly,' was the reply; 'I haven't heard the

particulars; but my son Tom heard from the Boston wagoner, who got

it from the uncle of one of the fishermen who came up, that a light,

a bright light, was seen for more than an hour, away off upon the

water.'

'Poh! nonsense, Jenkins! you're a fool!' impatiently exclaimed the

other; 'you've got a silly, superstitious, old woman's notion into

your head, that something or other is going to happen to the ship,

because the captain's detained ashore, and she didn't start at just

the moment she was expected to. As to the captain, I can tell you

where he is, and what the matter is with him. I heard the messenger,

who was sent down to the boat a little while ago, tell one of the

men, that he was at the counting-room of the agent, fixing his

papers. He sent word that he would be down by the waterside at ten

o'clock. And as to yonder brave craft, I haven't the least doubt

that she will have a quick and safe run home, and that we shall see

her again in this harbor a great many times, unless indeed some

of those mean scamps down in Boston or off at New-York, manage to

get her bringing-up place altered. She is a good, strong, staunch

vessel; sails fast and don't labor much; has got an excellent

crew, a first-rate captain, who will make her walk through the

water like a shark, and a jewel of a mate. I tell you what it is,

friend Jenkins, away with all your gloomy fears and your ugly

prognostications! I wish with all my heart a safe and speedy run to

the 'Countess of Pembroke.''

'That is all very well, neighbor Gibson,' replied the other, not

at all disposed to look upon the brighter side of the picture; 'I

wish as heartily as you, that the Countess may get home safe, and if

wishes would carry her there safe, she'd have no lack. But that does

not alter matters in the least. Good wishes, all the good wishes in

the world, won't carry her home; and I'll tell you what it is, signs

and things are against her. Look you there; see how it is clouding

up.'

The man who had been addressed as Gibson turned his gaze upward

as the other ceased speaking, and saw that it was indeed as he

said. A few straggling clouds had hung upon the distant edge of

the horizon nearly all the morning; and now, taking a start from

their stationary position, were moving along up the surface of the

sky, with huge dark banks of the same following close in their

wake. A few had already reached the bright luminary of day, and

spread a thin mantle of mist over its burning face; but these were

not sufficient to dim materially its glory, and the rays of light

and heat pierced through like sharp and glittering daggers. Yet

it was not so clearly evident that those huge dark masses, which

were now slowly and gradually rolling to the zenith, would become

as transparent when stretching before the dazzling orb as their

pioneers; and many were the eyes that were fixed anxiously upon the

sharp circle of the horizon, watching as they fondly hoped for the

last ominous platoon of mist.

At that moment a whisper run through the crowd, and the whole of

that vast forest of human forms was swayed to and fro like the tall

trees of the woods, when the strong wind bears down upon their

wide-spread ranks. A shout then rung upon the air; all stood upon

tip-toe, swinging themselves backward and forward to catch the first

glimpse of the commander of the ship, who was said to be coming down

to the wharf, in company with the agent.

He was soon in the midst of the crowd; and as it fell back on either

side as he advanced, to give him a clear passage through, many

hearty huzzas rung out upon the bracing air; many in kindly tones

bid him 'God speed' upon his voyage; all which awakened the most

grateful feelings of his heart, and in some instances, where his

eyes fell upon a familiar countenance, elicited a return of hearty

and sincere thanks; while all, from the very chambers of their

hearts, wished him a speedy and safe return. Arrived at the steps,

at the foot of which his boat still lay in waiting, he turned and

looked back upon the little town he was on the point of leaving,

perhaps forever, and upon the dense and almost countless multitude,

which had assembled for a last farewell; then raising his hat

from his head, he waved it once and replaced it, which action was

immediately followed by a startling cheer of hundreds of voices. The

agent of the London Company, who had accompanied him thus far, now

prepared to take leave of him, and giving him his hand, whispered,

while shaking it for the last time, a few parting instructions. This

done, they separated; the agent falling back a little and gaining

a position where he could watch conveniently the departure of the

vessel, and the captain hastily descending the few steps which led

down to the water. As he set one foot upon the gunwale, he halted

a moment and raised his eyes toward the sky; and as he watched the

gathering clouds, and noted the position of the wind, there was a

slight knitting of the brows, a compression of the lips closely

together, and a sparkling of his dark eyes to be discerned, which

gave evidence that the appearance of matters were not exactly as

he could have desired. This, however, was but momentary; for his

face immediately resumed its usual calm expression; and stepping

down into the boat which rocked beneath his heavy tread, he seated

himself at the stern, giving command by a nod to the men to shove

off; and then the little craft made its first leap forward, and the

glassy surface of the water was broken by the regular dip of oars.

A few long and steady pulls sufficed to carry the boat alongside the

ship, when she was suffered to float along under the counter, until

opposite the rope-ladder hanging down the side. Rising then from his

seat, he made two strides to the bows, and without awaiting till the

boat was as close in as the men intended to have had it, he sprang

off and caught the steadying rope in his hand. Unfortunately his

feet missed both of the rounds upon which he had expected to alight;

and such a heavy weight as his body falling suddenly upon so small

a rope as that which he held in his hand, proved too much for it;

one strand cracked and untwisted; another and another; then, to the

horror of all within sight--and every eye upon the shore and aboard

the ship and boat, was upon him--it parted, and he fell heavily into

the chilly element, breaking the surface with a fearful sound, and

the waters closed over him as he sunk.

Such a cry now rang forth from the lips of every man, woman, and

child of that vast collection, that one would have thought it

sufficient to have roused the very monsters of the deep. Ashore,

everything was in confusion, and nearly all dismayed. There was

shouting from one to another, to do this and to do that; there was

running to and fro, from one point to another; some were calling

out to put off in boats, and others to throw off planks and casks,

and logs of wood, and every thing that would float; but all to no

purpose; all were giving orders and none obeying them. Some two

or three indeed there were, who with more presence of mind had

abstained from joining in the uproar, and had upon the first alarm

jumped into a little skiff that lay alongside the wharf, and were

now half way to the ship. Those aboard and in the boat, however,

being used to accidents and dangers incidental to a seaman's

life, participated not in the least in the fears of their friends

ashore. They knew that their captain was an excellent swimmer, and

that he would rise in a moment or two, when they had no doubts or

apprehensions of his rescue from a watery grave. Those, therefore

in the boat poised their oars, ready to strike off at the second

toward the spot, wherever it might be, in which he should appear.

The others aboard busied themselves in throwing out spars, casks,

and barrels, hen-coops, and every thing that they could lay their

hands upon, that would sustain his weight in the water, to assist

him in getting aboard.

In less time than I have occupied in its description, all this

occurred; yet short as it was, short as was the interval between

his sinking and reäppearance, it was a period of the most fearfully

anxious interest. Eyes were strained to catch the first glimpse of

his head; and there were conflicting feelings at work within each

bosom; feelings of doubt, and hope, and fear, and worse than all, a

suspense that was torture. At length, to their great joy, the waters

were parted a few yards from the spot where he sunk, and once more

they caught sight of the object of their interest.

Was that not a shout of heart-felt gladness that then startled the

echoes for miles around? Rising confidently upon the treacherous

waves, as though this was his own peculiar element, he brushed

the water from his face, and then struck out boldly for the ship.

At the same instant the men in the boat, with a hearty cheer,

simultaneously dipped their oars, and one strong pull sent the

little skiff nearly a third of the distance that intervened. On

board, too, more spars were thrown over, and no means were neglected

to ensure his safety. Just then one of the sailors of the ship, who

had thrown over every thing that he could get hold of that would

float, and who had gone down into the cabin in search of something

else, appeared at the bulwarks with a large heavy chair in his arms.

Disregarding the expostulations of his mates, and the cries of those

in the boat that enough had been thrown out, and without taking the

slightest notice of its probable course, he hurled it with all his

strength into the air.

'God save him now!' ejaculated many, while a half-suppressed cry of

terror escaped the lips of others, as they watched its rise, and saw

that the direction it was taking was such that it must inevitably

strike the struggling man, or the water very near him. Shouts of

warning, and cries of, 'push away, quick!' and the various sounds

that would naturally occur at such a moment, filled the air, and

drew his attention to the impending danger. He saw and comprehended

all in a second, and with desperate effort struggled to move, though

it were but a yard from the spot in which he then was. Alas! his

efforts were in vain. Steadily up into the air it held its course,

until it was directly over the swimmer, and the force that hurled it

was expended, when it seemed to hang for a second or two, as though

to give warning, and then fell with fearful rapidity. Down, down it

came! None could help him now! With its full force it struck him on

the head, and with a groan that went to the hearts of all who heard

it, he again disappeared.

It is impossible to find words adequately to describe the

consternation that prevailed at this melancholy accident. In

contrast with the previous manner of expression, it displayed itself

not in noise and confusion, but all seemed suddenly petrified with

horror, gazing motionless and in silence at the point where the

unfortunate man was last seen. For ten long and dreary minutes,

this fearful stillness was unbroken by any sounds, save those of

the waves leaping gently over one another, and the rushing of the

breeze. Weary were the watchings for the rise of the commander of

the gallant ship. When they again saw his form, a few hours after,

(rude grappling-irons, constructed on the spur of the moment, having

been successfully used,) the seal of death was upon his brow.

Of the whole of that vast company, so interested were they all,

scarcely one had left the scene; and now, when the dripping corpse

of the unfortunate captain was carried on shore, and borne up to the

house of the agent of the ship, as they opened to the right and left

to give passage to those who carried him, many eyes were filled,

and cheeks were wet with genuine tears. One and another now began

to whisper among themselves, and wonder what would be done with

the vessel, now that she had lost her captain; whether she would

be detained long, or until another commander could be obtained, or

the first mate promoted to the office; what the agent's intentions

were, and whether or not it was probable that he would order her

round to Boston, and try to make a more successful start from that

place. These, together with speculations upon the weather, and the

probability of a storm, for now the aspect overhead was threatening,

formed the staple of conversation of the assembled townsfolk for

another hour, when it was whispered through the crowd, and afterward

spoken loudly, that the agent had altered the day of sailing to

that day week, when she would sail for England, under the charge

of the first mate. Nobody, however, appeared to possess authentic

information relative to this matter; each one who was questioned

confessed that he was told so by a friend, who had got it from

another, who in his turn had received it from somebody else.

But these rumors were speedily verified by a party who had

constituted themselves a committee to ascertain the truth or

falsehood of the reports, and had marched up in a body to the

counting-room of the agent. These now returned and announced that

the counting-room was locked up, the agent being probably up at his

house superintending the necessary arrangements for the reception

of the body of the captain; but upon the door was affixed a paper,

on which was written in his own hand-writing the sum and substance

of what they had heard. There being now no occasion for remaining

together, the crowd began to disperse, at first slowly; but at the

expiration of fifteen or twenty minutes a few stragglers, who had

stayed behind to take a long, last look, for the time being, of the

ship, were alone left of all the hundreds that had so lately filled

the place.

That night one of the most terrific storms that ever visited

New-England broke over Salem, and the surrounding country and towns,

for miles and miles around. Although it was late in the year, it

was accompanied by the most fearfully vivid lightning and appalling

thunder. Rain and hail poured down in torrents; and the winds, as

though the effort to break their chains had but increased their

anger, united in sustaining such a conflict, that the effects of it

were visible for weeks after. The waters of the harbor were lashed

into perfect fury. Several small fishing craft were sunk at their

moorings, or parted their cables and drove ashore. Boats lying at

the wharves, or in the dock, were dashed in pieces against each

other, or carried up high and dry into the streets of the town. A

small brig which was anchored above the 'Countess of Pembroke,'

loaded and ready to sail for New-York, was struck by lightning and

consumed by fire in the sight of many whose fears would not suffer

them to attempt to sleep, and who spent a portion of the long and

dreary hours of the night in straining their eyes to catch glimpses

of the ship, when the lightning for a few seconds at a time rendered

it visible, without an effort being made to stay the progress of

the flames. The good ship herself suffered severely. Though her

anchors held her firmly, yet her spars and rigging were injured. Her

foretopmast was snapped early in the storm, as though it had been a

pipe-stem, and several of her upper spars were cracked. A fishing

schooner, which had arrived only an hour before dark, and had not

hauled up to the wharf, parted her cable, and in driving toward

the shore came in contact with the ship, running her bowsprit up

into her fore-rigging, and staving in the bulwarks of the 'Countess

of Pembroke,' with the force of the concussion. The town also

suffered much. Several houses were blown down; chimneys without

number were shattered, to the imminent danger of house-tops and

whatever might be in the streets; roofs were lifted up and carried

away; and the spire of one of the churches was struck by lightning.

But fortunately the fire was extinguished by the rain before it

had acquired much headway. Nor did the country escape the general

devastation. Old trees, which had braved the storms of a century or

more, were torn up by their roots, as though they had been but the

saplings of a summer's growth; some were struck by lightning, and

others whose prongs and roots had struck too deeply into the earth

to be severed from that relationship, had their massy limbs and

branches broken off, and otherwise suffered severely. It was in fact

a storm of fearful power. None remembered ever to have witnessed

such a night; and many and many months, ay, and years too, elapsed

ere its equal visited the place.

Not to draw out this narrative to a tedious length, the time

intervening between the morning after the storm and that appointed

for a second attempt to carry the ship out may be passed over, with

merely the remark that the unfortunate captain was during that

period followed to his grave by a large concourse of friends; for

his many virtues had won esteem, and all who knew him felt that in

his untimely end a tie of tender relationship had been severed.

The morning came; not like the other, bright and beautiful, with a

clear, fresh breeze careering over the water, filling the sails,

toying with the numberless flags and streamers upon the little

craft in the harbor, and the different flag-staffs in the town, and

gladdening the hearts of the voyagers and their well-wishers with

the prospect of getting well off the coast; but dark, gloomy, and

ominous. The whole of the broad blue canopy of heaven was shut in by

one wide-spreading cloud, immovable and impenetrable, indicating the

close proximity of snow. The ship had been put in complete order;

but her new commander, though naturally elated at his unexpected

promotion, yet felt a heavy responsibility weighing down his

spirits, and a presentiment that some evil was about to befall the

idolized 'Countess of Pembroke' and her crew.

Upon the shore the crowd assembled to witness her departure was

if possible more dense than before; but not now, as then, rose

shoutings and cheerings and well-wishings. All, alas! felt that

silence was the most appropriate for the occasion; and every

individual preserved it.