Although her aunt assured her that every thing which had been done

already, and which was now doing, was quite in rule, the quick-eyed and

quick-witted Rose noted these unusual proceedings, and had an opinion of

her own on the subject. Spike had gone forward, and posted himself on

the weather-side of the forecastle, where he could get the clearest look

ahead, and there he remained most of the time, leaving Mulford on the

quarter-deck, to work the vessel. Perceiving this, she managed to get

near the mate, without attracting her aunt’s attention, and at the same

time out of ear-shot.

“Why is every body so still and seemingly so anxious, Harry Mulford?”

she asked, speaking in a low tone herself as if desirous of conforming

to a common necessity. “Is there any new danger here? I thought the Gate

had been passed altogether, some hours ago?”

“So it has. D’ye see that large dark mass on the water, off the Point,

which seems almost as huge as the Fort, with lights above it? That is a

revenue steamer which came out of York a few hours before us. We wish to

get past her without being troubled by any of her questions.”

“And what do any in this brig care about her questions? They can be

answered, surely.”

“Ay, ay, Rose—they _may_ be answered, as you say, but the answers

sometimes are unsatisfactory. Capt. Spike, for some reason or other, is

uneasy, and would rather not have any thing to say to her. He has the

greatest aversion to speaking the smallest craft when on a coast.”

“And that’s the reason he has undressed his Molly, as he calls her, that

he might not be known.”

Mulford turned his head quickly toward his companion, as if surprised by

her quickness of apprehension, but he had too just a sense of his duty

to make any reply. Instead of pursuing the discourse, he adroitly

contrived to change it, by pointing out to Rose the manner in which they

were getting on, which seemed to be very successfully.

Although the Swash was under much reduced canvas, she glided along with

great ease and with considerable rapidity of motion. The heavy night air

kept her canvas distended, and the weatherly set of the tide, trifling

as it yet was, pressed her up against the breeze, so as to turn all to

account. It was apparent enough, by the manner in which objects on the

land were passed, that the crisis was fast approaching. Rose rejoined

her aunt, in order to await the result, in nearly breathless

expectation. At that moment, she would have given the world to be safe

on shore. This wish was not the consequence of any constitutional

timidity, for Rose was much the reverse from timid, but it was the fruit

of a newly awakened and painful, though still vague, suspicion. Happy,

thrice happy was it for one of her naturally confiding and guileless

nature, that distrust was thus opportunely awakened, for she was without

a guardian competent to advise and guide her youth, as circumstances

required.

The brig was not long in reaching the passage that opened to the Sound.

It is probable she did this so much the sooner because Spike kept her a

little off the wind, with a view of not passing too near the steamer. At

this point, the direction of the passage changes at nearly a right

angle, the revenue-steamer lying on a line with the Neck, and leaving a

sort of bay, in the angle, for the Swash to enter. The land was somewhat

low in all directions but one, and that was by drawing a straight line

from the Point, through the steamer, to the Long Island shore. On the

latter, and in that quarter, rose a bluff of considerable elevation,

with deep water quite near it; and, under the shadows of that bluff,

Spike intended to perform his nicest evolutions. He saw that the revenue

vessel had let her fires go down, and that she was entirely without

steam. Under canvas, he had no doubt of beating her hand over hand,

could he once fairly get to windward, and then she was at anchor, and

would lose some time in getting under way, should she even commence a

pursuit. It was all important, therefore, to gain as much to windward as

possible, before the people of the government vessel took the alarm.

There can be no doubt that the alterations made on board the Swash

served her a very good turn on this occasion. Although the night could

not be called positively dark, there was sufficient obscurity to render

her hull confused and indistinct at any distance, and this so much the

more when seen from the steamer outside, or between her and the land.

All this Spike very well understood, and largely calculated on. In

effect he was not deceived; the look-outs on board the revenue vessel

could trace little of the vessel that was approaching beyond the spars

and sails which rose above the shores, and these seemed to be the spars

and sails of a common fore-topsail schooner. As this was not the sort of

craft for which they were on the watch, no suspicion was awakened, nor

did any reports go from the quarter-deck to the cabin. The steamer had

her quarter watches, and officers of the deck, like a vessel of war, the

discipline of which was fairly enough imitated, but even a man-of-war

may be overreached on an occasion.

Spike was only great in a crisis, and then merely as a seaman. He

understood his calling to its minutiæ, and he understood the Molly Swash

better than he understood any other craft that floated. For more than

twenty years had he sailed her, and the careful parent does not better

understand the humors of the child, than he understood exactly what

might be expected from his brig. His satisfaction sensibly increased,

therefore, as she stole along the land, toward the angle mentioned,

without a sound audible but the gentle gurgling of the water, stirred by

the stem, and which sounded like the ripple of the gentlest wave, as it

washes the shingle of some placid beach.

As the brig drew nearer to the bluff, the latter brought the wind more

ahead, as respected the desired course. This was unfavorable, but it did

not disconcert her watchful commander.

“Let her come round, Mr. Mulford,” said this pilot-captain, in a low

voice—“we are as near in as we ought to go.”

The helm was put down, the head sheets started, and away into the wind

shot the Molly Swash, forereaching famously in stays, and, of course,

gaining so much on her true course. In a minute she was round, and

filled on the other tack. Spike was now so near the land, that he could

perceive the tide was beginning to aid him, and that his weatherly set

was getting to be considerable. Delighted at this, he walked aft, and

told Mulford to go about again as soon as the vessel had sufficient way

to make sure of her in stays. The mate inquired if he did not think the

revenue people might suspect something, unless they stood further out

toward mid-channel, but Spike reminded him that they would be apt to

think the schooner was working up under the southern shore because the

ebb first made there. This reason satisfied Mulford, and, as soon as

they were half way between the bluff and the steamer, the Swash was

again tacked, with her head to the former. This manœuvre was executed

when the brig was about two hundred yards from the steamer, a distance

that was sufficient to preserve, under all the circumstances, the

disguise she had assumed.

“They do not suspect us, Harry!” whispered Spike to his mate. “We shall

get to windward of ’em, as sartain as the breeze stands. That boatin’

gentleman might as well have staid at home, as for any good his hurry

done him or his employers!”

“Whom do you suppose him to be, Capt. Spike?”

“Who?—a feller that lives by his own wicked deeds. No matter who he is.

An informer, perhaps. At any rate, he is not the man to outwit the Molly

Swash, and her old, stupid, foolish master and owner, Stephen Spike.

Luff, Mr. Mulford, luff. Now’s the time to make the most of your

leg—luff her up and shake her. She is setting to windward fast, the ebb

is sucking along that bluff like a boy at a molasses hogshead. All she

can drift on this tack is clear gain; there is no hurry, so long as they

are asleep aboard the steamer. That’s it—make a half-board at once, but

take care and not come round. As soon as we are fairly clear of the

bluff, and open the bay that makes up behind it, we shall get the wind

more to the southward, and have a fine long leg for the next stretch.”

Of course Mulford obeyed, throwing the brig up into the wind, and

allowing her to set to windward, but filling again on the same tack, as

ordered. This, of course, delayed her progress toward the land, and

protracted the agony, but it carried the vessel in the direction she

most wished to go, while it kept her not only end on to the steamer, but

in a line with the bluff, and consequently in the position most

favorable to conceal her true character. Presently, the bay mentioned,

which was several miles deep, opened darkly toward the south, and the

wind came directly out of it, or more to the southward. At this moment

the Swash was near a quarter of a mile from the steamer, and all that

distance dead to windward of her, as the breeze came out of the bay.

Spike tacked his vessel himself now, and got her head up so high that

she brought the steamer on her lee quarter, and looked away toward the

island which lies northwardly from the Point, and quite near to which

all vessels of any draught of water are compelled to pass, even with the

fairest winds.

“Shake the reef out of the mainsail, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, when the

Swash was fairly in motion again on this advantageous tack. “We shall

pass well to windward of the steamer, and may as well begin to open our

cloth again.”

“Is it not a little too soon, sir?” Mulford ventured to remonstrate;

“the reef is a large one, and will make a great difference in the size

of the sail.”

“They’ll not see it at this distance. No, no, sir, shake out the reef,

and sway away on the topgallant-mast rope; I’m for bringing the Molly

Swash into her old shape again, and make her look handsome once more.”

“Do you dress the brig, as well as undress her, o’nights, Capt. Spike?”

inquired the ship-master’s relict, a little puzzled with this fickleness

of purpose. “I do not believe my poor Mr. Budd ever did that.”

“Fashions change, madam, with the times—ay, ay, sir—shake out the

reef, and sway away on that mast-rope, boys, as soon as you have manned

it. We’ll convert our schooner into a brig again.”

As these orders were obeyed, of course, a general bustle now took place.

Mulford soon had the reef out, and the sail distended to the utmost,

while the topgallant-mast was soon up and fidded. The next thing was to

sway upon the fore-yard, and get that into its place. The people were

busied at this duty, when a hoarse hail came across the water on the

heavy night air.

“Brig ahoy!” was the call.

“Sway upon that fore-yard,” said Spike, unmoved by this summons—“start

it, start it at once.”

“The steamer hails us, sir,” said the mate.

“Not she. She is hailing a brig; we are a schooner yet.”

A moment of active exertion succeeded, during which the foreyard went

into its place. Then came a second hail.

“Schooner, ahoy!” was the summons this time.

“The steamer hails us again, Capt. Spike.”

“The devil a bit. We’re a brig now, and she hails a schooner. Come,

boys, bestir yourselves, and get the canvas on Molly for’ard. Loose the

fore-course before you quit the yard there, then up aloft and loosen

every thing you can find.”

All was done as ordered, and done rapidly, as is ever the case on board

a well ordered vessel when there is occasion for exertion. That occasion

now appeared to exist in earnest, for while the men were sheeting home

the topsail a flash of light illuminated the scene, when the roar of a

gun came booming across the water, succeeded by the very distinct

whistling of its shot. We regret that the relict of the late Capt. Budd

did not behave exactly as became a ship-master’s widow, under fire.

Instead of remaining silent and passive, even while frightened, as was

the case with Rose, she screamed quite as loud as she had previously

done that very day in Hell-Gate. It appeared to Spike, indeed, that

practice was making her perfect; and, as for Biddy, the spirit of

emulation became so powerful in her bosom, that, if any thing, she

actually outshrieked her mistress. Hearing this, the widow made a second

effort, and fairly recovered the ground some might have fancied she had

lost.

“Oh! Captain Spike,” exclaimed the agitated widow, “do not—do not, if

you love me, do not let them fire again!”

“How am I to help it!” asked the captain, a good deal to the point,

though he overlooked the essential fact, that, by heaving-to, and

waiting for the steamer’s boat to board him, he might have prevented a

second shot, as completely as if he had the ordering of the whole

affair. No second shot was fired, however. As it afterward appeared, the

screams of Mrs. Budd and Biddy were heard on board the steamer, the

captain of which, naturally enough, supposing that the slaughter must be

terrible where such cries had arisen, was satisfied with the mischief he

had already done, and directed his people to secure their gun and go to

the capstan-bars, in order to help lift the anchor. In a word, the

revenue vessel was getting under way, man-of-war fashion, which means

somewhat expeditiously.

Spike understood the sounds that reached him, among which was the call

of the boatswain, and he bestirred himself accordingly. Experienced as

he was in chases and all sorts of nautical artifices, he very well knew

that his situation was sufficiently critical. It would have been so,

with a steamer at his heels, in the open ocean; but, situated as he was,

he was compelled to steer but one course, and to accept the wind on that

course as it might offer. If he varied at all in his direction it was

only in a trifling way, though he did make some of these variations.

Every moment was now precious, however, and he endeavored to improve the

time to the utmost. He knew that he could greatly outsail the revenue

vessel, under canvas, and some time would be necessary to enable her to

get up her steam; half an hour at the very least. On that half hour,

then, depended the fate of the Molly Swash.

“Send the booms on the yards, and set stun’sails at once, Mr. Mulford,”

said Spike, the instant the more regular canvas was spread forward.

“This wind will be free enough for all but the lower stun’sail, and we

must drive the brig on.”

“Are we not looking up too high, Capt. Spike? The Stepping-Stones are

ahead of us, sir.”

“I know that very well, Mulford. But it’s nearly high water, and the

brig’s in light trim, and we may rub and go. By making a short cut here,

we shall gain a full mile on the steamer; that mile may save us.”

“Do you really think it possible to get away from that craft, which can

always make a fair wind of it, in these narrow waters, Capt. Spike?”

“One don’t know, sir. Nothin’ is done without tryin’, and by tryin’ more

is often done than was hoped for. I have a scheme in my head, and

Providence may favor me in bringing it about.”

Providence! The religionist quarrels with the philosopher if the latter

happen to remove this interposition of a higher power, even so

triflingly as by the intervention of secondary agencies, while the

biggest rascal dignifies even his success by such phrases as

Providential aid! But it is not surprising men should misunderstand

terms, when they make such sad confusion in the acts which these terms

are merely meant to represent. Spike had his Providence as well as a

priest, and we dare say he often counted on its succor, with quite as

rational grounds of dependence as many of the pharisees who are

constantly exclaiming, “The Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord

are these.”

Sail was made on board the Swash with great rapidity, and the brig made

a bold push at the Stepping-Stones. Spike was a capital pilot. He

insisted if he could once gain sight of the spar that was moored on

those rocks for a buoy, he should run with great confidence. The two

lights were of great assistance, of course, but the revenue vessel could

see these lights as well as the brig, and _she_, doubtless, had an

excellent pilot on board. By the time the studding-sails were set on

board the Swash, the steamer was aweigh, and her long line of peculiar

sails became visible. Unfortunately for men who were in a hurry, she lay

so much within the bluff as to get the wind scant, and her commander

thought it necessary to make a stretch over to the southern shore,

before he attempted to lay his course. When he was ready to tack, an

operation of some time with a vessel of her great length, the Swash was

barely visible in the obscurity, gliding off upon a slack bowline, at a

rate which nothing but the damp night air, the ballast-trim of the

vessel, united to her excellent sailing qualities, could have produced

with so light a breeze.

The first half hour took the Swash completely out of sight of the

steamer. In that time, in truth, by actual superiority in sailing, by

her greater state of preparation, and by the distance saved by a bold

navigation, she had gained fully a league on her pursuer. But, while the

steamer had lost sight of the Swash, the latter kept the former in view,

and that by means of a signal that was very portentous. She saw the

light of the steamer’s chimneys, and could form some opinion of her

distance and position.

It was about eleven o’clock when the Swash passed the light at Sands’

Point, close in with the land. The wind stood much as it had been. If

there was a change at all, it was half a point more to the southward,

and it was a little fresher. Such as it was, Spike saw he was getting,

in that smooth water, quite eight knots out of his craft, and he made

his calculations thereon. As yet, and possibly for half an hour longer,

he was gaining, and might hope to continue to gain on the steamer. Then

her turn would come. Though no great traveler, it was not to be expected

that, favored by smooth water and the breeze, her speed would be less

than ten knots, while there was no hope of increasing his own without an

increase of the wind. He might be five miles in advance, or six at the

most; these six miles would be overcome in three hours of steaming, to a

dead certainty, and they might possibly be overcome much sooner. It was

obviously necessary to resort to some other experiment than that of dead

sailing, if an escape was to be effected.

The Sound was now several miles in width, and Spike, at first, proposed

to his mate, to keep off dead before the wind, and by crossing over to

the north shore, let the steamer pass ahead, and continue a bootless

chase to the eastward. Several vessels, however, were visible in the

middle of the passage, at distances varying from one to three miles, and

Mulford pointed out the hopelessness of attempting to cross the sheet of

open water, and expect to go unseen by the watchful eyes of the revenue

people.

“What you say is true enough, Mr. Mulford,” answered Spike, after a

moment of profound reflection, “and every foot that they come nearer,

the less will be our chance. But here is Hempstead Harbor a few leagues

ahead; if we can reach _that_ before the blackguards close we may do

well enough. It is a deep bay, and has high land to darken the view. I

don’t think the brig could be seen at midnight by any thing outside, if

she was once fairly up that water a mile or two.”

“That is our chance, sir!” exclaimed Mulford cheerfully. “Ay, ay, I know

the spot, and every thing is favorable—try that, Capt. Spike; I’ll

answer for it that we go clear.”

Spike did try it. For a considerable time longer he stood on, keeping as

close to the land as he thought it safe to run, and carrying every thing

that would draw. But the steamer was on his heels, evidently gaining

fast. Her chimneys gave out flames, and there was every sign that her

people were in earnest. To those on board the Swash these flames seemed

to draw nearer each instant, as indeed was the fact, and just as the

breeze came fresher out of the opening in the hills, or the low

mountains, which surround the place of refuge in which they designed to

enter, Mulford announced that by aid of the night-glass he could

distinguish both sails and hull of their pursuer. Spike took a look, and

throwing down the instrument, in a way to endanger it, he ordered the

studding-sails taken in. The men went aloft like cats, and worked as if

they could stand in air. In a minute or two the Swash was under what

Mrs. Budd might have called her “attacking” canvas, and was close by the

wind, looking on a good leg well up the harbor. The brig seemed to be

conscious of the emergency, and glided ahead at capital speed. In five

minutes she had shut in the flaming chimneys of the steamer. In five

minutes more Spike tacked, to keep under the western side of the harbor,

and out of sight as long as possible, and because he thought the breeze

drew down fresher where he was than more out in the bay.

All now depended on the single fact whether the brig had been seen from

the steamer or not, before she hauled into the bay. If seen, she had

probably been watched; if not seen, there were strong grounds for hoping

that she might still escape. About a quarter of an hour after Spike

hauled up, the burning chimneys came again into view. The brig was then

half a league within the bay, with a fine dark back-ground of hills to

throw her into shadow. Spike ordered every thing taken in but the

trysail, under which the brig was left to set slowly over toward the

western side of the harbor. He now rubbed his hands with delight, and

pointed out to Mulford the circumstance that the steamer kept on her

course directly athwart the harbor’s mouth! Had she seen the Swash no

doubt she would have turned into the bay also. Nevertheless, an anxious

ten minutes succeeded, during which the revenue vessel steamed fairly

past, and shut in her flaming chimneys again by the eastern headlands of

the estuary.

PART III.

The western wave was all a flame,

The day was well nigh done,

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright sun;

When that strange ship drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the sun.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

At that hour, on the succeeding morning, when the light of day is just

beginning to chase away the shadows of night, the Molly Swash became

visible within the gloom of the high land which surrounds so much of the

bay of Hempstead, under easy sail, backing and filling, in order to keep

within her hiding place, until a look could be had at the state of

things without. Half an hour later, she was so near the entrance of the

estuary, as to enable the look-outs aloft to ascertain that the coast

was clear, when Spike ordered the helm to be put up, and the brig to be

kept away to her course. At this precise moment, Rose appeared on deck,

refreshed by the sleep of a quiet night, and with cheeks tinged with a

color even more delicate than that which was now glowing in the eastern

sky, and which was almost as brilliant.

“We stopped in this bit of a harbor for the night, Miss Rose, that is

all;” said Spike, observing that his fair passenger was looking about

her, in some little surprise, at finding the vessel so near the land,

and seemingly so much out of her proper position. “Yes, we always do

that, when we first start on a v’y’ge, and before the brig gets use to

traveling—don’t we, Mr. Mulford?”

Mr. Mulford, who knew how hopeless was the attempt to mystify Rose, as

one might mystify her credulous and weak-minded aunt, and who had no

disposition to deal any way but fairly by the beautiful, and in one

sense now helpless young creature before him, did not see fit to make

any reply. Offend Spike he did not dare to do, more especially under

present circumstances; and mislead Rose he would not do. He affected not

to hear the question, therefore, but issuing an order about the

head-sails, he walked forward as if to see it executed. Rose herself was

not under as much restraint as the young mate.

“It is convenient, Capt. Spike,” she coolly answered for Mulford, “to

have stopping places for vessels that are wearied, and I remember the

time when my uncle used to tell me of such matters, very much in the

same vein; but, it was before I was twelve years old.”

Spike hemmed, and he looked a little foolish, but Clench, the boatswain,

coming aft to say something to him in confidence, just at that moment,

he was enabled to avoid the awkwardness of attempting to explain. This

man Clench, or Clinch, as the name was pronounced, was deep in the

captain’s secrets; far more so than was his mate, and would have been

filling Mulford’s station at that very time, had he not been hopelessly

ignorant of navigation. On the present occasion, his business was to

point out to the captain, two or three lines of smoke, that were visible

above the water of the Sound, in the eastern board; one of which he was

apprehensive might turn out to be the smoke of the revenue craft, from

which they had so recently escaped.

“Steamers are no rarities in Long Island Sound, Clench,” observed the

captain, leveling his glass at the most suspected of the smokes. “That

must be a Providence, or Stonington chap, coming west with the Boston

train.”

“Either of _them_ would have been further west, by this time, Capt.

Spike,” returned the doubting, but watchful boatswain. “It’s a large

smoke, and I fear it is the revenue fellow coming back, after having had

a look well to the eastward, and satisfying himself that we are not to

be had in that quarter.”

Spike growled out his assent to the possibility of such a conjecture,

and promised vigilance. This satisfied his subordinate for the moment,

and he walked forward, or to the place where he belonged. In the mean

time, the widow came on deck, smiling, and snuffing the salt air, and

ready to be delighted with any thing that was maritime.

“Good morning, Capt. Spike,” she cried—“are we in the offing, yet—you

know I desired to be told when we are in the offing, for I intend to

write a letter to my poor Mr. Budd’s sister, Mrs. Sprague, as soon as we

get to the offing.”

“What is the offing, aunt?” enquired the handsome niece.

“Why _you_ have hardly been at sea long enough to understand me, child,

should I attempt to explain. The offing, however, is the place where the

last letters are always written to the owners, and to friends ashore.

The term comes, I suppose, from the circumstance that the vessel is

about to be off, and it is natural to think of those we leave behind, at

such a moment. I intend to write to your aunt Sprague, my dear, the

instant I hear we are in the offing; and what is more, I intend to make

you my amanuensis.”

“But how will the letter be sent, aunty?—I have no more objections to

writing than any one else, but I do not see how the letter is to be

sent. Really, the sea _is_ a curious region, with its stopping places

for the night, and its offings to write letters at!”

“Yes, it’s all as you say, Rose—a most remarkable region is the sea!

You’ll admire it, as I admire it, when you come to know it better; and

as your poor uncle admired it, and as Capt. Spike admires it, too. As

for the letters, they can be sent ashore by the pilot, as letters are

always sent.”

“But, aunty, there _is_ no pilot in the Swash—for Capt. Spike refused

to take one on board.”

“Rose!—you don’t understand what you are talking about! No vessel ever

yet sailed without a pilot, if indeed any _can_. It’s opposed to the

law, not to have a pilot; and now I remember to have heard your dear

uncle say it wasn’t a voyage if a vessel didn’t take away a pilot.”

“But if they take them away, aunty, how can they send the letters ashore

by them?”

“Poh! poh! child; you don’t know what you’re saying; but you’ll overlook

it, I hope, Capt. Spike, for Rose is quick, and will soon learn to know

better. As if letters couldn’t be sent ashore by the pilot, though he

was a hundred thousand miles from land! But, Capt. Spike, you must let

me know when we are about to get off the Sound, for I know that the

pilot is always sent ashore with his letters, before the vessel gets off

the Sound.”

“Yes, yes,” returned the captain, a little mystified by the widow,

though he knew her so well, and understood her so well—“you shall know,

ma’am, when we get off soundings, for I suppose that is what you mean.”

“What is the difference? Off the Sound, or off the soundings, of course,

must mean the same thing. But, Rosy, we will go below and write to your

aunt at once, for I see a light-house yonder, and light-houses are

always put just off the soundings.”

Rose, who always suspected her aunt’s nautical talk, though she did not

know how to correct it, and was not sorry to put an end to it, now, by

going below, and spreading her own writing materials, in readiness to

write, as the other dictated. Biddy Noon was present, sewing on some of

her own finery.

“Now write, as I tell you, Rose,” commenced the widow—

“My dear sister Sprague—Here we are, at last, just off the soundings,

with light-houses all round us, and so many capes and islands in sight,

that it does seem as if the vessel never _could_ find its way through

them all. Some of these islands must be the West Indies”—

“Aunty, that can _never_ be!” exclaimed Rose—“we left New York only

yesterday.”

“What of that? Had it been old times, I grant you several days might be

necessary to get a sight of the West Indies, but, now, when a letter can

be written to a friend in Boston and an answer received in half an hour,

it requires no such time to go to the West Indies. Besides, what other

islands are there in this part of the world?—they can’t be England—”

“No—no”—said Rose, at once seeing it would be preferable to admit they

were the West Indies; so the letter went on:—

“Some of these islands must be the West Indies, and it is high time we

saw some of them, for we are nearly off the Sound, and the light-houses

are getting to be quite numerous. I think we have already seen four

since we left the wharf. But, my dear sister Sprague, you will be

delighted to hear how much better Rose’s health is already becoming—”

“My health, aunty! Why, I never knew an ill day in my life!”

“Don’t tell me that, my darling; I know too well what all these

deceptive appearances of health amount to. I would not alarm you for the

world, Rosy dear, but a careful parent—and I’m your parent in

affection, if not by nature—but a careful parent’s eye is not to be

deceived. I know you _look_ well, but you are ill, my child; though,

Heaven be praised, the sea air and hydropathy are already doing you a

monstrous deal of good.”

As Mrs. Budd concluded, she wiped her eyes, and appeared really glad

that her niece had a less consumptive look than when she embarked. Rose

sat, gazing at her aunt, in mute astonishment. She knew how much and

truly she was beloved, and that induced her to be more tolerant of her

connection’s foibles than even duty demanded. Feeling was blended with

her respect, but it was almost too much for her, to learn that this

long, and, in some respects painful voyage, was undertaken on her

account, and without the smallest necessity for it. The vexation,

however, would have been largely increased, but for certain free

communications that had occasionally occurred between her and the

handsome mate, since the moment of her coming on board the brig. Rose

knew that Harry Mulford loved her, too, for he had told her as much with

a seaman’s frankness; and, though she had never let him know that his

partiality was returned, her woman’s heart was fast inclining toward

him, with all her sex’s tenderness. This made the mistake of her aunt

_tolerable_, though Rose was exceedingly vexed it should ever have

occurred.

“Why, my dearest aunt,” she cried, “they told me it was on _your_

account that this voyage was undertaken!”

“I know they did, poor, dear Rosy, and that was in order not to alarm

you. Some persons of delicate constitutions—”

“But my constitution is not in the least delicate, aunt; on the

contrary, it is as good as possible; a blessing for which, I trust, I am

truly grateful. I did not know but you might be suffering, though you do

look so well, for they all agreed in telling me you had need of a

sea-voyage.”

“I, a subject for hydropathy! Why, child, water is no more necessary to

me, than it is to a cat.”

“But going to sea, aunty, is not hydropathy—”

“Don’t say that, Rosy; do not say that, my dear. It is hydropathy on a

large scale, as Capt. Spike says, and when he gets us into blue water,

he has promised that you shall have all the benefits of the treatment.”

Rose was silent and thoughtful; after which she spoke quickly, like one

to whom an important thought had suddenly occurred.

“And Capt. Spike, then, was consulted in my case?” she asked.

“He was, my dear, and you have every reason to be grateful to him. He

was the first to discover a change in your appearance, and to suggest a

sea voyage. Marine Hydropathy, he said, he was sure would get you up

again; for Capt. Spike thinks your constitution good at the bottom,

though the high color you have proves too high a state of habitual

excitement.”

“Was Dr. Monson consulted at all, aunt?”

“Not at all. You know the doctors are all against hydropathy, and

mesmerism, and the magnetic telegraph, and every thing that is new; so

we thought it best not to consult him.”

“And my aunt Sprague?”

“Yes, _she_ was consulted after every thing was settled, and when I knew

her notions could not undo what had been already done. But she is a

seaman’s widow, as well as myself, and has a great notion of the virtue

of sea air.”

“Then it would seem that Dr. Spike was the principal adviser in my

case!”

“I own that he was, Rosy dear. Capt. Spike was brought up by your uncle,

who has often told me what a thorough seaman he was. ‘There’s Spike,

now,’ he said to me one day, ‘he can almost make his brig talk’—this

very brig, too, your uncle meant, Rosy, and of course one of the best

vessels in the world, to take hydropathy in.”

“Yes, aunty,” returned Rose, playing with the pen, while her air proved

how little her mind was in her words. “Well, what shall I say next to my

aunt Sprague?”

“Rose’s health is already becoming _confirmed_,” resumed the widow, who

thought it best to encourage her niece by as strong terms as she could

employ, “and I shall extol hydropathy to the skies, as long as I live.

As soon as we reach our port of destination, my dear sister Sprague, I

shall write you a line to let you know it, by the magnetic telegraph—”

“But there is no magnetic telegraph on the sea, aunty,” interrupted

Rose, looking up from the paper, with her clear, serene, blue eyes,

expressing even _her_ surprise, at this touch of the relict’s ignorance.

“Don’t tell me _that_, Rosy child, when every body says the sparks will

fly round the whole earth, just as soon as they will fly from New York

to Philadelphia.”

“But they must have something to fly on, aunty; and the ocean will not

sustain wires, or posts.”

“Well, there is no need of being so particular; if there is no

telegraph, the letter must come by mail. You can say telegraph, here,

and when your aunt gets the letter, the post-mark will tell her how it

came. It looks better to talk about telegraphic communications, child.”

Rose resumed her pen, and wrote at her aunt’s dictation, as

follows:—“By the magnetic telegraph, when I hope to be able to tell you

that our dear Rose is well. As yet, we both enjoy the ocean exceedingly;

but when we get off the Sound, into blue water, and have sent the pilot

ashore, or discharged him, I ought to say, which puts me in mind of

telling you that a cannon was discharged at us only last night, and that

the ball whistled so near me, that I heard it as plain as ever you heard

Rose’s piano.”

“Had I not better first tell my aunt Sprague what is to be done when the

pilot is discharged?”

“No; tell her about the cannon that was discharged, first, and about the

ball that I heard. I had almost forgot that adventure, which was a very

remarkable one, was it not Biddy?”

“Indeed, Missus, and it was! and Miss Rose might put in the letter how

we both screamed at that cannon, and might have been heard as plainly,

every bit of it, as the ball.”

“Say nothing on the subject, Rose, or we shall never hear the last of

it. So, darling, you may conclude in your own way, for I believe I have

told your aunt all that comes to mind.”

Rose did as desired, finishing the epistle in a very few words, for,

rightly enough, she had taken it into her head there was no pilot to be

discharged, and consequently that the letter would never be sent. Her

short, but frequent conferences with Mulford were fast opening her eyes,

not to say her heart, and she was beginning to see Capt. Spike in his

true character, which was that of a great scoundrel. It is true, that

the mate had not long judged his commander quite so harshly; but had

rather seen his beautiful brig and her rare qualities, in her owner and

commander, than the man himself; but jealousy had quickened his

observation of late, and Stephen Spike had lost ground sensibly with

Harry Mulford, within the last week. Two or three times before, the

young man had thought of seeking another berth, on account of certain

distrusts of Spike’s occupations; but he was poor, and so long as he

remained in the Swash, Harry’s opportunities of meeting Rose were

greatly increased. This circumstance, indeed, was the secret of his

still being in the “Molly,” as Spike usually called his craft; the last

voyage having excited suspicions that were rather of a delicate nature.

Then the young man really loved the brig, which, if she could not be

literally made to talk, could be made to do almost every thing else. A

vessel, and a small vessel, too, is rather contracted as to space, but

those who wish to converse can contrive to speak together often, even in

such narrow limits. Such had been the fact with Rose Budd and the

handsome mate. Twenty times since they sailed, short as that time was,

had Mulford contrived to get so near to Rose, as to talk with her,

unheard by others. It is true, that he seldom ventured to do this, so

long as the captain was in sight, but Spike was often below, and

opportunities were constantly occurring. It was in the course of these

frequent but brief conversations, that Harry had made certain dark hints

touching the character of his commander, and the known recklessness of

his proceedings. Rose had taken the alarm, and fully comprehending her

aunt’s mental imbecility, her situation was already giving her great

uneasiness. She had some undefined hopes from the revenue steamer,

though, strangely enough as it appeared to her, her youngest and most

approved suitor betrayed a strong desire to escape from that craft, at

the very moment he was expressing his apprehensions on account of her

presence in the brig. This contradiction arose from a certain _esprit de

corps_, which seldom fails, more or less, to identify the mariner with

his ship.

But the writing was finished, and the letter sealed with wax, Mrs. Budd

being quite as particular in that ceremony as Lord Nelson, when the

females again repaired on deck. They found Spike and his mate sweeping

the eastern part of the sound, with their glasses, with a view to look

out for enemies; or, what to them, just then, was much the same thing,

government craft. In this occupation, Rose was a little vexed to see

that Mulford was almost as much interested as Spike himself, the love of

his vessel seemingly overcoming his love for her, if not his love of the

right—she knew of no reason, however, why the captain should dread any

other vessel, and felt sufficiently provoked to question him a little on

the subject, if it were only to let him see that the niece was not as

completely his dupe as the aunt. She had not been on deck five minutes,

therefore, during which time several expressions had escaped the two

sailors touching their apprehensions of vessels seen in the distance,

ere she commenced her inquiries.

“And why should we fear meeting with other vessels?” Rose plainly

demanded—“here in Long Island Sound, and within the power of the laws

of the country?”

“Fear!” exclaimed Spike, a little startled, and a good deal surprised at

this straight-forward question—“Fear, Miss Rose! You do not think we

are afraid, though there are many reasons why we do not wish to be

spoken by certain craft that are hovering about. In the first place, you

know it is war time—I suppose you know, Madam Budd, that America is at

war with Mexico?”

“Certainly,” answered the widow, with dignity—“and that is a sufficient

reason, Rose, why one vessel should chase, and another should run. If

you had heard your poor uncle relate, as I have done, all his chasings

and runnings away, in the war times, child, you would understand these

things better. Why, I’ve heard your uncle say that, in some of his long

voyages, he has run thousands and thousands of miles, with sails set on

both sides, and all over his ship!”

“Yes, aunty, and so have I, but that was ‘running before the wind,’ as

he used to call it.”

“I s’pose, however, Miss Rose,” put in Spike, who saw that the niece

would soon get the better of the aunt;—“I s’pose, Miss Rose, that

you’ll acknowledge that America is at war with Mexico?”

“I am sorry to say that such is the fact, but I remember to have heard

you say, yourself, Capt. Spike, when my aunt was induced to undertake

this voyage, that you did not consider there was the smallest danger

from any Mexicans.”

“Yes, you did, Capt. Spike,” added the aunt—“you did say there was no

danger from Mexicans.”

“Nor is there a bit, Madam Budd, if Miss Rose, and your honored self

will only hear me. There is no danger, because the brig has the heels of

any thing Mexico can send to sea. She has sold her steamers, and, as for

any thing else under her flag, I would not care a straw.”

“The steamer from which we ran, last evening, and which actually fired

off a cannon at us, was not Mexican, but American,” said Rose, with a

pointed manner that put Spike to his trumps.

“Oh! that steamer—” he stammered—“that was a race—only a race, Miss

Rose, and I wouldn’t let her come near me, for the world. I should never

hear the last of it, in the insurance offices, and on ’change, did I let

_her_ overhaul us. You see, Miss Rose—you see, Madam Budd—” Spike ever

found it most convenient to address his mystifying discourse to the

aunt, in preference to addressing it to the niece—“You see, Madam Budd,

the master of that craft and I are old cronies—sailed together when

boys, and set great store by each other. We met only last evening, just

a’ter I had left your own agreeable mansion, Madam Budd, and says he,

‘Spike, when do you sail?’ ‘To-morrow’s flood, Jones,’ says I—his name

is Jones;—Peter Jones, and as good a fellow as ever lived. ‘Do you go

by the Hook, or by Hell-Gate—’”

“Hurl-Gate, Capt. Spike, if you please—or Whirl-Gate, which some people

think is the true sound; but the other way of saying it is awful.”

“Well, the captain, my old master, always called it Hell-Gate, and I

learned the trick from him—”

“I know he did, and so do all sailors; but genteel people, now-a-days,

say nothing but Hurl-Gate, or Whirl-Gate.”

Rose smiled at this, as did Mulford; but neither said any thing, the

subject having once before been up between them. As for ourselves, we

are still so old fashioned as to say, and write, Hell-Gate, and intend

so to do, in spite of all the Yankees that have yet passed through it,

or who ever shall pass through it, and that is saying a great deal. We

do not like changing names to suit their uneasy spirits.

“Call the place Hurl-Gate, and go on with your story,” said the widow,

complacently.

“Yes, Madam Budd—‘Do you go by the Hook, or by Whirl-Gate?’ said Jones.

‘By Whirl-a-Gig-Gate,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I shall go through the

Gate myself, in the course of the morning. We may meet somewhere to the

eastward, and, if we do, I’ll bet you a beaver,’ says he, ‘that I show

you my stern.’ ‘Agreed,’ says I, and we shook hands upon it. That’s the

whole history of our giving the steamer the slip, last night, and of my

not wishing to let her speak me.”

“But you went into a bay, and let her go past you,” said Rose, coolly

enough as to manner, but with great point as to substance. “Was not that

a singular way of winning a race?”

“It does seem so, Miss Rose, but it’s all plain enough, when understood.

I found that steam was too much for sails, and I stood up into the bay

to let them run past us, in hopes they would never find out the trick. I

care as little for a hat, as any man, but I do care a good deal about

having it reported on ’change that the Molly was beat, by even a

steamer.”

This ended the discourse, for the moment, Clench again having something

to say to his captain in private.

“How much of that explanation am I to believe, and how much disbelieve?”

asked Rose, the instant she was left alone with Harry. “If it be all

invention, it was a ready and ingenious story.”

“No part of it is true. He no more expected that the steamer would pass

through Hell-Gate, than I expected it myself. There was no bet, or race,

therefore; but it was our wish to avoid Uncle Sam’s cruiser, that was

all.”

“And why should _you_ wish any such thing?”

“On my honor, I can give you no better reason, so far as I am concerned,

than the fact that, wishing to keep clear of her, I do not like to be

overhauled. Nor can I tell you why Spike is so much in earnest in

holding the revenue vessel at arm’s length; I know he dislikes all such

craft, as a matter of course, but I can see no particular reason for it

just now. A more innocent cargo was never struck into a vessel’s hold.”

“What is it?”

“Flour; and no great matter of that. The brig is not half full, being

just in beautiful ballast trim, as if ready for a race. I can see no

sufficient reason, beyond native antipathy, why Capt. Spike should wish

to avoid any craft, for it is humbug his dread of a Mexican, and least

of all, here in Long Island Sound. All that story about Jones is a tub

for whales.”

“Thank you for the allusion; my aunt and myself being the whales.”

“You know I do mean—_can_ mean nothing, Rose, that is disrespectful to

either yourself or your aunt.”

Rose looked up, and she looked pleased. Then she mused in silence, for

some time, when she again spoke.

“Why have you remained another voyage, with such a man, Harry?” she

asked, earnestly.

“Because, as his first officer, I have had access to your house, when I

could not have had it otherwise; and because I have apprehended that he

might persuade Mrs. Budd, as he had boasted to me it was his intention

to do, to make this voyage.”

Rose now looked grateful; and deeply grateful did she feel, and had

reason to feel. Harry had concealed no portion of his history from her.

Like herself, he was a ship-master’s son, but one better educated and

better connected than was customary for the class. His father had paid a

good deal of attention to the youth’s early years, but had made a seaman

of him, out of choice. The father had lost his all, however, with his

life, in a ship-wreck, and Harry was thrown upon his own resources, at

the early age of twenty. He had made one or two voyages as a second

mate, when chance threw him in Spike’s way, who, pleased with some

evidences of coolness and skill, that he had shown in a foreign port, on

the occasion of another loss, took him as his first officer; in which

situation he had remained ever since, partly from choice and partly from

necessity. On the other hand, Rose had a fortune; by no means a large

one, but several thousands in possession, from her own father, and as

many more in reversion from her uncle. It was this money, taken in

connection with the credulous imbecility of the aunt, that had awakened

the cupidity, and excited the hopes of Spike. After a life of lawless

adventures, one that had been chequered by every shade of luck, he found

himself growing old, with his brig growing old with him, and little left

beside his vessel and the sort of half cargo that was in her hold. Want

of means, indeed, was the reason that the flour barrels were not more

numerous.

Rose heard Mulford’s explanation favorably, as indeed she heard most of

that which came from him, but did not renew the discourse, Spike’s

conference with the boatswain just then terminating. The captain now

came aft, and began to speak of the performances of his vessel in a way

to show that he took great pride in them.

“We are traveling at the rate of ten knots, Madam Budd,” he said

exultingly, “and that will take us clear of the land, before night shuts

in ag’in. Montauk is a good place for an offing; I ask for no better.”

“Shall we then have _two_ offings, this voyage, Capt. Spike?” asked

Rose, a little sarcastically. “If we are in the offing now, and are to

be in the offing when we reach Montauk, there must be two such places.”

“Rosy, dear, you amaze me!” put in the aunt. “There is no offing until

the pilot is discharged, and when he’s discharged there is nothing but

offing. It’s all offing. On the Sound, is the first great change that

befalls a vessel as she goes to sea; then, comes the offing; next the

pilot is discharged—then—then—what comes next, Capt. Spike?”

“Then the vessel takes her departure—an old navigator like yourself,

Madam Budd, ought not to forget the departure.”

“Quite true, sir. The departure is a very important portion of a

seaman’s life. Often, and often have I heard my poor, dear Mr. Budd talk

about his departures. His departures, and his offings and his—”

“Land-falls,” added Spike, perceiving that the ship-master’s relict was

a little at fault.

“Thank you, sir; the hint is quite welcome. His land-falls, also, were

often in his mouth.”

“What is a land-fall, aunty?” enquired Rose—“It appears a strange term

to be used by one who lives on the water.”

“Oh! there is no end to the curiosities of sailors! A ‘land-fall,’ my

dear, means a ship-wreck of course. To fall on the land, and a very

unpleasant fall it is, when a vessel should keep on the water. I’ve

heard of dreadful land-falls in my day, in which hundreds of souls have

been swept into eternity, in an instant.”

“Yes; yes, Madam Budd—there are such accidents truly, and serious

things be they to encounter,” answered Spike, hemming a little to clear

his throat, as was much his practice whenever the widow ran into any

unusually extravagant blunder; “yes, serious things to encounter. But

the land-fall that I mean is a different sort of thing; being, as you

well know, what we say when we come in _sight_ of land a’ter a v’y’ge;

or, meaning the land we may happen first to see. The departure is the

beginning of our calculation when we lose sight of the last cape or

head-land, and the land-fall closes it, by letting us know where we are,

at the other end of our journey, as you probably remember.”

“Is there not such a thing as clearing out in navigation?” asked Rose

quickly, willing to cover a little confusion that was manifest in her

aunt’s manner.

“Not exactly in navigation, Miss Rose, but clearing out, with honest

folk, ought to come first and navigation a’terwards. Clearing out means

going through the Custom House, accordin’ to law.”

“And the Molly Swash has cleared out, I hope?”

“Sartain—a more lawful clearance was never given in Wall Street; it’s

for Key West and a market. I did think of making it Havana and a market,

but port-charges are lightest at Key West.”

“Then Key West is the place to which we are bound?”

“It ought to be, agreeable to papers; though vessels sometimes miss the

ports for which they clear.”

Rose put no more questions, and her aunt being conscious that she had

not appeared to advantage in the affair of the “land-fall,” was also

disposed to be silent. Spike and Mulford had their attention drawn to

the vessel, and the conversation dropped.

The reader can readily suppose that the Molly Swash had not been

standing still all this time. So far from this, she was running “down

Sound,” with the wind on her quarter, or at south-west, making great

head-way, as she was close under the south shore, or on the island side

of the water she was in. The vessel had no other motion than that of her

speed, and the females escaped every thing like sea-sickness, for the

time being. This enabled them to attend to making certain arrangements

necessary to their comforts below, previously to getting into rough

water. In acquitting herself of this task, Rose received much useful

advice from Josh, though his new assistant, Jack Tier, turned out to be

a prize indeed, in the cabins. The first was only a steward; but the

last proved himself not only a handy person of his calling, but one full

of resources; a genius, in his way. Josh soon became so sensible of his

own inferiority, in contributing to the comforts of females, that he

yielded the entire management of the “ladies’ cabin,” as a little place

that might have been ten feet square, was called, to his

uncouth-looking, but really expert deputy. Jack waddled about below, as

if born and brought up in such a place, and seemed every way fitted for

his office. In height, and in build generally, there was a surprising

conformity between the widow and the steward’s deputy, a circumstance

which might induce one to think they must often have been in each

other’s way, in a space so small; though, in point of fact, Jack never

ran foul of any one. He seemed to avoid this inconvenience, by a species

of nautical instinct.

Towards the turn of the day, Rose had every thing arranged, and was

surprised to find how much room she had made for her aunt and herself,

by means of Jack’s hints, and how much more comfortable it was possible

to be, in that small cabin, than she had, at first, supposed.

After dinner, Spike took his siesta. He slept in a little state-room

that stood on the starboard side of the quarter-deck, quite aft; as

Mulford did in one on the larboard. These two state-rooms were fixtures;

but a light deck over-head, which connected them, shipped and unshipped,

forming a shelter for the man at the wheel, when in its place, as well

as for the officer of the watch, should he see fit to use it, in bad

weather. This sort of cuddy, Spike termed his “coach-house.”

The captain had no sooner gone into his state-room, and closed its

window, movements that were understood by Mulford, than the latter took

occasion to intimate to Rose, by means of Jack Tier, the state of things

on deck, when the young man was favored with the young lady’s company.

“He has turned in for his afternoon’s nap, and will sleep for just one

hour, blow high, or blow low,” said the mate, placing himself at Rose’s

side on the trunk, which formed the usual seat for those who could

presume to take the liberty of sitting down on the quarter-deck. “It’s a

habit with him, and we can count on it, with perfect security.”

“His doing so, now, is a sign that he has no immediate fears of the

revenue steamer?”

“The coast is quite clear of her. We have taken good looks at every

smoke, but can see nothing that appears like our late companion. She has

doubtless gone to the eastward, on duty, and merely chased us, on her

road.”

“But _why_ should she chase us, at all?”

“Because we ran. Let a dog run, or a man run, or a cat run, ten to one

but something starts in chase. It is human nature, I believe, to give

chase; though I will admit there was something suspicious about that

steamer’s movements—her anchoring off the Fort, for instance. But let

her go, for the present; are you getting things right, and to your mind,

below decks?”

“Very much so. The cabin is small, and the two state-rooms the merest

drawers that ever were used, but, by putting every thing in its place,

we have made sufficient room, and no doubt shall be comfortable.”

“I am sorry you did not call on me for assistance. The mate has a

prescriptive right to help stow away.”

“We made out without your services,” returned Rose, slightly

blushing—“Jack Tier, as he is called, Josh’s assistant, is a very

useful person, and has been our adviser and manager. I want no better,

for such services.”

“He is a queer fellow, all round. Take him altogether, I hardly ever saw

so droll a being! As thick as he’s long, with a waddle like a duck, a

voice that is cracked, hair like bristles, and knee high, the man might

make a fortune as a show. Tom Thumb is scarcely a greater curiosity.”

“He is singular in ‘build,’ as you call it,” returned Rose, laughing,

“but, I can assure you, that he is a most excellent fellow in his

way—worth a dozen of Josh. Do you know, Harry, that I suspect he has

strong feelings towards Capt. Spike; though whether of like or dislike,

friendship or enmity, I am at a loss to say.”

“And why do you think that he has any feeling, at all? I have heard

Spike say, he left the fellow ashore, somewhere down on the Spanish

Main, or in the Islands, quite twenty years since, but a sailor would

scarce carry a grudge so long a time, for such a thing as that.”

“I do not know—but feeling there is, and much of it, too; though,

whether hostile, or friendly, I will not undertake to say.”

“I’ll look to the chap, now you tell me this. It is a little odd, the

manner in which he got on board us, taken in connection with the company

he was in, and a discovery may be made. Here he is, however, and, as I

keep the keys of the magazine, he can do us no great harm, unless he

scuttles the brig.”

“Magazine! Is there such a thing here?”

“To be sure there is, and ammunition enough in it, to keep eight

carronades in lively conversation for a couple of hours.”

“A carronade is what you call a gun, is it not?”

“A piece of a one—being somewhat short, like your friend Jack Tier, who

is shaped a good deal like a carronade.”

Rose smiled—nay, half laughed, for Harry’s pleasantries almost took the

character of wit in her eyes, but she did not the less pursue her

inquiries.

“Guns! And where are they, if they be on this vessel?”

“Do not use such a lubberly expression, my dear Rose, if you respect

your father’s profession. _On_ a vessel is a new fangled Americanism,

that is neither fish, flesh, nor red-herring, as we sailors say—neither

English nor Greek.”

“What should I say, then? My wish is not to parade sea-talk, but to use

it correctly, when I use it at all.”

“The expression is hardly ‘sea-talk,’ as you call it, but every-day

English—that is when rightly used. On a vessel is no more English, than

it is nautical—no sailor ever used such an expression.”

“Tell me what I ought to say, and you will find me a willing, if not an

apt scholar. I am certain of having often read it, in the newspapers,

and that quite lately.”

“I’ll answer for that, and it’s another proof of its being wrong. _In_ a

vessel is as correct as _in_ a coach, and _on_ a vessel as wrong as can

be; but you can say _on board_ a vessel, though not ‘on a vessel!’ Not

on the ‘boards of a vessel,’ as Mrs. Budd has it.”

“Mr. Mulford!”

“I beg a thousand pardons, Rose, and will offend no more—though she

does make some very queer mistakes!”

“My aunt thinks it an honor to my uncle’s memory to be able to use the

language of his professional life, and if she do sometimes make mistakes

that are absurd, it is with a motive so respectable that no sailor

should deride them.”

“I am rebuked for ever. Mrs. Budd may call the anchor a silver spoon,

hereafter, without my even smiling. But, if the aunt has this kind

remembrance of a seaman’s life, why cannot the niece think equally well

of it.”

“Perhaps she does,” returned Rose, smiling again—“seeing all its

attractions through the claims of Capt. Spike.”

“I think half the danger from him gone, now that you seem so much on

your guard. What an odious piece of deception, to persuade Mrs. Budd

that you were fast falling into a decline!”

“One so odious that I shall surely quit the brig at the first port we

enter, or even in the first suitable vessel that we may speak.”

“And Mrs. Budd—could you persuade her to such a course?”

“You scarce know us, Harry Mulford. My aunt commands, when there is no

serious duty to perform, but we change places, when there is. I can

persuade her to any thing that is right, in ten minutes.”

“You might persuade a world!” cried Harry, with strong admiration

expressed in his countenance; after which he began to converse with

Rose, on a subject so interesting to themselves that we do not think it

prudent to relate any more of the discourse, forgetting all about the

guns.

About four o’clock, of a fine summer’s afternoon, the Swash went through

the Race, on the best of the ebb, and with a staggering south-west wind.

Her movement by the land, just at that point, could not have been less

than at the rate of fifteen miles in the hour. Spike was in high

spirits, for his brig had got on famously that day, and there was

nothing in sight to the eastward. He made no doubt, as he had told his

mate, that the steamer had gone into the Vineyard Sound, and that she

was bound over the shoals.

“They want to make political capital, out of her,” he added, using one

of the slang phrases that the “business habits” of the American people

are so fast, and so rapidly incorporating with the common language of

the country—“They want to make political capital out of her, Harry, and

must show her off to the Boston folk, who are full of notions. Well, let

them turn her to as much account in that way, as they please, so long as

they keep her clear of the Molly. Your sarvant, Madam Budd”—addressing

the widow, who just at that moment came on deck—“a fine a’ternoon, and

likely to be a clear night to run off the coast in.”

“Clear nights are desirable, and most of all at sea, Capt. Spike,”

returned the relict, in her best, complacent, manner, “whether it be to

run _off_ a coast, or to run _on_ a coast. In either case, a clear

night, or a bright moon must be useful.”

Capt. Spike rolled his tobacco over in his mouth, and cast a furtive

glance at the mate, but he did not presume to hazard any further

manifestations of his disposition to laugh.

“Yes, Madam Budd,” he answered, “it is quite as you say, and I am only

surprised where you have picked up so much of what I call useful

nautical knowledge.”

“We live and learn, sir. You will recollect that this is not my first

voyage, having made one before, and that I passed a happy, happy, thirty

years in the society of my poor, dear husband, Rose’s uncle. One must

have been dull, indeed, not to have picked up, from such a companion,

much of a calling that was so dear to him, and the particulars of which

were so very dear to him. He actually gave me lessons in the ‘sea

dialect,’ as he called it, which probably is the true reason I am so

accurate and general in my acquisitions.”

“Yes, Madam Budd—yes—hem—you are—yes, you are wonderful in that way.

We shall soon get an offing, now, Madam Budd—yes, soon get an offing,

now.”

“And take in our departure, Capt. Spike—” added the widow with a very

intelligent smile.

“Yes, take our departure. Montauk is yonder, just coming in sight; only

some three hours’ run from this spot. When we get there, the open ocean

will lie before us, and give me the open sea, and I’ll not call the king

my uncle.”

“Was he your uncle, Capt. Spike?”

“Only in a philanthropic way, Madam Budd. Yes, let us get a good offing,

and a rapping to’gallant breeze, and I do not think I should care much

for two of Uncle Sam’s new-fashioned revenue craft, one on each side of

me.”

“How delightful do I find such conversation, Rose! It’s as much like

your poor, dear uncle’s, as one pea is like another. ‘Yes,’ he used to

say, too, ‘let me only have one on each side of me, and a wrapper round

the topgallant sail to hold the breeze, and I’d not call the king my

uncle.’ Now I think of it, _he_ used to talk about the king as his

uncle, too.”

“It was all talk, aunty. He had no uncle, and what is more, he had no

king.”

“That’s quite true, Miss Rose,” rejoined Spike, attempting a bow, which

ended in a sort of a jerk. “It is not very becoming in us republicans to

be talking of kings, but a habit is a habit. Our forefathers had kings,

and we drop into their ways without thinking of what we are doing.

Fore-topgallant yard, there?”

“Sir.”

“Keep a bright look-out, ahead. Let me know the instant you make any

thing in the neighborhood of Montauk.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“As I was saying, Madam Budd, we seamen drop into our forefather’s ways.

Now, when I was a youngster, I remember, one day, that we fell in with a

ketch—you know, Miss Rose, what a ketch is, I suppose?”

“I have not the least notion of it, sir.”

“Rosy, you amaze me!” exclaimed the aunt—“and you a ship-master’s

niece, and a ship-master’s daughter! A catch is a trick that sailors

have, when they quiz landsmen.”

“Yes, Madam Budd, yes; we have them sort of catches, too, but I now mean

the vessel with a peculiar rig, which we call a ketch, you know.”

“Is it the full-jigger, or the half-jigger sort, that you mean?”

Spike could hardly stand this, and he had to hail the top-gallant-yard

again, in order to keep the command of his muscles, for he saw by the

pretty frown that was gathering on the brow of Rose, that she was

regarding the matter a little seriously. Luckily, the answer of the man

on the yard diverted the mind of the widow from the subject, and

prevented the necessity of any reply.

“There’s a light, of course sir, on Montauk, is there not, Capt. Spike?”

demanded the seaman who was aloft.

“To be sure there is—every head-land, here-abouts, has its light; and

some have two.”

“Ay, ay, sir—it’s that which puzzles me; I think I see one light-house,

and I’m not certain but I see two.”

“If there is any thing like a second, it must be a sail. Montauk has but

one light.”

Mulford sprang into the fore-rigging, and in a minute was on the yard.

He soon came down and reported the light-house in sight, with the

afternoon’s sun shining on it, but no sail near.

“My poor, dear Mr. Budd used to tell a story of his being cast away on a

light-house, in the East Indies,” put in the relict, as soon as the mate

had ended his report, “which always affected me. It seems there were

three ships of them together, in an awful tempest directly off the

land—”

“That was comfortable any how,” cried Spike;—“if it must blow hard, let

it come off the land, say I.”

“Yes, sir, it was directly off the land, as my poor husband always said,

which made it so much the worse you must know, Rosy, though Capt.

Spike’s gallant spirit would rather encounter danger than not. It blew

what they call a Hyson, in the Chinese seas—”

“A what, aunty?—Hyson is the name of a tea, you know.”

“A Hyson, I’m pretty sure it was, and I suppose the wind is named after

the tea, or the tea after the wind.”

“The ladies do get in a gale, sometimes, over their tea,” said Spike

gallantly. “But I rather think Madam Budd must mean a Typhoon.”

“That’s it—a Typhoon, or a Hyson—there is not much difference between

them, you see. Well, it blew a Typhoon, and they are always mortal to

somebody. This my poor Mr. Budd well knew, and he had set his

chronometer for that Typhoon—”

“Excuse me aunty, it was the barometer that he was watching—the

chronometer was his watch.”

“So it was—his watch on deck _was_ his chronometer, I declare. I _am_

forgetting a part of my education. Do you know the use of a chronometer,

now, Rose? You have seen your uncle’s often, but do you know how he used

it?”

“Not in the least, aunty. My uncle often tried to explain it, but I

never could understand him.”

“It must have been, then, because Capt. Budd did not try to make himself

comprehended,” said Mulford, “for I feel certain nothing would be easier

than to make _you_ understand the uses of the chronometer.”

“I should like to learn it from _you_, Mr. Mulford,” answered the

charming girl, with an emphasis so slight on the ‘you,’ that no one

observed it but the mate, but which was clear enough to him, and caused

every nerve to thrill.

“I can attempt it,” answered the young man, “if it be agreeable to Mrs.

Budd, who would probably like to hear it, herself.”

“Certainly, Mr. Mulford, though I fancy you can say little on such a

subject, that I have not often heard, already, from my poor, dear, Mr.

Budd.”

This was not very encouraging, truly, but Rose continuing to look

interested, the mate proceeded.

“The use of the chronometer is to ascertain the longitude,” said Harry,

“and the manner of doing it, is simply this: A chronometer is nothing

more nor less, than a watch made with more care than usual, so as to

keep the most accurate time. They are of all sizes, from that of a

clock, down to this which I wear in my fob, and which is a watch in size

and appearance. Now, the nautical almanacs are all calculated to some

particular meridian—”

“Yes,” interrupted the relict, “Mr. Budd had a great deal to say about

meridians.”

“That of London, or Greenwich, being the meridian used by those who use

the English Almanacs, and those of Paris or St. Petersburgh, by the

French and Russians. Each of these places has an observatory, and

chronometers that are kept carefully regulated, the year round. Every

chronometer is set by the regulator of the particular observatory or

place to which the almanac used is calculated.”

“How wonderfully like my poor, dear Mr. Budd, all this is, Rosy!

Meridians, and calculated and almanacs! I could almost think I heard

your uncle entertaining me with one of his nautical discussions, I

declare!”

“Now the sun rises earlier in places east, than in places west of us.”

“It rises earlier in the summer, but later in the winter, every where,

Mr. Mulford.”

“Yes, my dear Madam, but the sun rises earlier every day, in London,

than it does in New York.”

“That is impossible,” said the widow, dogmatically—“Why should not the

sun rise at the same time in England and America?”

“Because England is east of America, aunty. The sun does not move, you

know, but only appears to us to move, because the earth turns round from

west to east, which causes those who are farthest east to see it the

first. That is what Mr. Mulford means.”

“Rose has explained it perfectly well,” continued the mate. “Now the

earth is divided into 360 degrees, and the day is divided into 24 hours.

If 360 be divided by 24, the quotient will be 15. It follows, that for

each fifteen degrees of longitude, there is a difference of just one

hour in the rising of the sun, all over the earth, where it rises at

all. New York is near five times 15 degrees west of Greenwich, and the

sun consequently rises five hours later at New York than at London.”

“There _must_ be a mistake in this, Rosy,” said the relict in a tone of

desperate resignation, in which the desire to break out in dissent, was

struggling oddly enough, with an assumed dignity of deportment. “I’ve

always heard that the people of London are some of the latest in the

world. Then I’ve been in London, and know that the sun rises in New

York, in December, a good deal earlier than it does in London, by the

clock—yes, by the clock.”

“True enough, by the clock, Mrs. Budd, for London is more than ten

degrees north of New York, and the farther north you go, the later the

sun rises in winter, and the earlier in summer.”

The relict merely shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say that she

knew no such thing; but Rose, who had been well taught, raised her

serene eyes to her aunt’s face, and mildly said—

“All true, aunty, and that is owing to the fact that the earth is

smaller at each end, than in the middle.”

“Fiddle faddle with your middles and ends, Rose—I’ve been in London,

dear, and know that the sun rises later there than in New York, in the

month of December, and that I know by the clock, I tell you.”

“The reason of which is,” resumed Mulford, “because the clocks of each

place keep the time of that place. Now, it is different with the

chronometers, they are set in the observatory of Greenwich, and keep the

time of Greenwich. This watch chronometer was set there, only six months

since, and this time, as you see is near nine o’clock, when in truth it

is only about four o’clock, here, where we are.”

“I wonder you keep such a watch, Mr. Mulford!”

“I keep it,” returned the mate smiling, “because I know it to keep good

time. It has the Greenwich time; and, as your watch has the New York

time, by comparing them together, it is quite easy to find the longitude

of New York.”

“Do you, then, keep watches to compare with your chronometers?” asked

Rose, with interest.

“Certainly not, as that would require a watch for every separate part of

the ocean, and then we should only get known longitudes. It would be

impracticable, and load a ship with nothing but watches. What we do, is

this: We set our chronometers at Greenwich, and thus keep the Greenwich

true time, wherever we go. The greatest attention is paid to the

chronometers, to see that they receive no injuries, and usually there

are two, and often more of them, to compare one with another, in order

to see that they go well. When in the middle of the ocean, for instance,

we find the true time of day at that spot, by ascertaining the height of

the sun. This we do by means of our quadrants, or sextants; for, as the

sun is always in the zenith at twelve o’clock, nothing is easier than to

do this, when the sun can be seen, and an arc of the heavens measured.

At the instant the height of the sun is ascertained by one observer, he

calls to another, who notes the time on the chronometer. The difference

in these two times, or that of the chronometer and that of the sun,

gives the distance in degrees and minutes, between the longitude of

Greenwich and that of the place on the ocean, where the observer is; and

that gives him his longitude. If the difference is three hours and

twenty minutes, in time, the distance from Greenwich is fifty degrees of

longitude, because the sun rises there three hours and twenty minutes

sooner in London, than in the fiftieth degree of west longitude.”

“A watch is a watch, Rosy,” put in the aunt, doggedly—“and time is

time.—When it’s four o’clock at our house, it’s four o’clock at your

aunt Sprague’s, and it’s so all over the world. The world may turn

round—I’ll not deny it, for your uncle often said as much as _that_,

but it cannot turn in the way Mr. Mulford says, or we should all fall

off it, at night, when it was bottom upwards. No, sir, no; you’ve

started wrong. My poor, dear, late Mr. Budd always admitted that the

world turned round, as the books say; but, when I suggested to him the

difficulty of keeping things in their places, with the earth upside

down, he acknowledged candidly—for he was all candor, I must say that

for him—and owned that he had made a discovery, by means of his

barometer, which showed that the world did not turn round, in the way

you describe, or by rolling over, but by whirling about as one turns in

a dance. You must remember your uncle’s telling me this, Rose?”

Rose did remember her uncle’s telling her aunt this, as well as a great

many other similar prodigies. Capt. Budd had married his silly wife, on

account of her pretty face, and when the novelty of that was over, he

often amused himself by inventing all sorts of absurdities, to amuse

both her and himself. Among other things, Rose well remembered his

quieting her aunt’s scruples about falling off the earth, by laying down

the theory that the world did not “roll over,” but “whirl round.” But

Rose did not answer the question.

“Objects are kept in their places on the earth, by means of attraction,”

Mulford ventured to say, with a great deal of humility of manner. “I

believe it is thought there is no up or down, except as we go from, or

towards the earth; and that would make the position of the last a matter

of indifference, as respects objects keeping on it.”

“Attractions are great advantages, I will own, sir, especially to our

sex. I think it will be acknowledged there has been no want of them in

our family, any more than there has been of sense and information.

Sense, and information, we pride ourselves on; attractions being gifts

from God, we try to think less of them. But all the attractions in the

world could not keep Rosy, here, from falling off the earth, did it ever

come bottom upwards. And, mercy on me, where would she fall to!”

Mulford saw that argument was useless, and he confined his remarks,

during the rest of the conversation, to showing Rose the manner in which

the longitude of a place might be ascertained, with the aid of the

chronometer, and by means of observations to get the true time of day,

at the particular place itself. Rose was so quick witted, and already so

well instructed, as easily to comprehend the principles; the details

being matters of no great moment to one of her sex and habits. But Mrs.

Budd remained antagonist to the last. She obstinately maintained that

twelve o’clock was twelve o’clock; or, if there _was_ any difference,

“London hours were notoriously later, than those of New York.”

Against such assertions, arguments were obviously useless, and Mulford,

perceiving that Rose began to fidget, had sufficient tact to change the

conversation altogether.

And still the Molly Swash kept in swift motion. Montauk was, by this

time, abeam, and the little brigantine began to rise and fall, on the

long swells of the Atlantic, which now opened before her, in one vast

sheet of green and rolling waters. On her right, lay the termination of

Long Island; a low, rocky cape, with its light, and a few fields in

tillage, for the uses of those who tended it. It was the “land’s end” of

New York, while the island that was heaving up out of the sea, at a

distance of about twenty miles to the eastward, was the property of

Rhode Island, being called Blok Island. Between the two, the Swash

shaped her course for the ocean.

Spike had betrayed uneasiness, as his brig came up with Montauk; but the

coast seemed clear, with not even a distant sail in sight, and he came

aft rubbing his hands with delight, speaking cheerfully.

“All right, Mr. Mulford,” he cried—“every thing ship-shape and

brister-fashion—not even a smack fishing here-away, which is a little

remarkable. Ha!—what are you staring at, over the quarter, there?”

“Look here, sir, directly in the wake of the setting sun, which we are

now opening from the land—is not that a sail?”

“Sail! Impossible, sir. What should a sail be doing in there, so near

Montauk—no man ever saw a sail there, in his life. It’s a spot in the

sun, Madam Budd, that my mate has got a glimpse at, and, sailor-like, he

mistakes it for a sail! Ha—ha—ha—yes, Harry, it’s a spot in the sun.”

“It is a spot _on_ the sun, as you say, but it’s a spot made by a

vessel—and here is a boat pulling towards her, might and main; going

from the light, as if carrying news.”

It was no longer possible for Spike’s hopes to deceive him. There was a

vessel sure enough, though, when first seen, it was so directly in a

line with the fiery orb of the setting sun, as to escape common

observation. As the brig went foaming on towards the ocean, however, the

black speck was soon brought out of the range of the orb of day, and

Spike’s glass was instantly leveled at it.

“Just as one might expect, Mr. Mulford,” cried the captain, lowering his

glass, and looking aloft to see what could be done to help his craft

along; “a bloody revenue cutter, as I’m a wicked sinner! There she lies,

sir, within musket shot of the shore, hid behind the point, as it might

be in waiting for us, with her head to the southward, her helm hard

down, topsail aback, and foresail brailed; as wicked looking a thing as

Free Trade and Sailor’s Rights ever ran from. My life on it, sir, she’s

been put in that precise spot, in waiting, for the Molly to arrive. You

see, as we stand on, it places her as handsomely to windward of us, as

the heart of man could desire.”

“It _is_ a revenue cutter, sir; now she’s out of the sun’s wake, that is

plain enough. And that is her boat, which has been sent to the light to

keep a lookout for us. Well, sir; she’s to windward, but we have every

thing set for our course, and as we are fairly abeam, she must be a

great traveler to overhaul us.”

“I thought these bloody cutters were all down in the Gulf,” growled the

captain, casting his eyes aloft, again, to see that every thing drew.

“I’m sure the newspapers have mentioned as many as twenty that are down

there, and here is one, lying behind Montauk, like a snake in the

grass!”

“At any rate, by the time he gets his boat up, we shall get the start of

him—ay; there he fills and falls off, to go and meet her. He’ll soon be

after us, Capt. Spike, at racing speed.”

Every thing occurred as those two mariners had foreseen. The revenue

cutter, one of the usual fore-topsail schooners that are employed in

that service, up and down the coast, had no sooner hoisted up her boat,

than she made sail, a little off the wind, on a line to close with the

Swash. As for the brig, she had hauled up to an easy bowline, as she

came round Montauk, and was now standing off south south-east, still

having the wind at south-west. The weatherly position of the cutter

enabled her to steer rather more than one point freer. At the

commencement of this chase, the vessels were about a mile and a half

apart, a distance too great to enable the cutter to render the light

guns she carried available, and it was obvious from the first, that

every thing depended on speed. And speed it was, truly; both vessels

fairly flying; the Molly Swash having at last met with something very

like her match. Half an hour satisfied both Spike and Mulford that, by

giving the cutter the advantage of one point in a freer wind, that she

would certainly get along side of them, and the alternative was to keep

off.

“A starn chase is a long chase, all the world over,” cried Spike—“edge

away, sir; edge away, sir, and bring the cutter well on our quarter.”

This order was obeyed, but to the surprise of those in the Swash, the

cutter did not exactly follow, though she kept off a little more. Her

object seemed to be to maintain her weatherly position, and in this

manner, the two vessels ran on, for an hour longer, until the Swash had

made most of the distance between Montauk and Blok Island. Objects were

even becoming dimly visible on the last, and the light on the point was

just becoming visible, a lone star above a waste of desert, the sun

having been down now fully a quarter of an hour, and twilight beginning

to draw the curtain of night over the waters.

“A craft under Blok,” shouted the look-out, that was still kept aloft as

a necessary precaution.

“What sort of a craft?” demanded Spike, fiercely; for the very mention

of a sail, at that moment, aroused all his ire. “Arn’t you making a

frigate out of an apple orchard?”

“It’s the steamer, sir. I can now see her smoke. She’s just clearing the

land, on the south side of the island, and seems to be coming round to

meet us.”

A long, low, eloquent whistle from the captain, succeeded this

announcement. The man aloft was right. It _was_ the steamer, sure

enough; and she had been lying hid behind Blok Island, exactly as her

consort had been placed behind Montauk, in waiting for their chase to

arrive. The result was to put the Molly Swash in exceeding jeopardy, and

the reason why the cutter kept so well to windward, was fully explained.

To pass out to sea between these two craft was hopeless. There remained

but a single alternative from capture, by one or by the other, and that

Spike adopted instantly. He kept his brig dead away, setting

studding-sails on both sides. This change of course brought the cutter

nearly aft, or somewhat on the other quarter, and laid the brig’s head

in a direction to carry her close to the northern coast of the island.

But the principal advantage was gained over the steamer, which could not

keep off, without first standing a mile or two, or even more, to the

westward, in order to clear the land. This was so much clear gain to the

Swash, which was running off at racing speed, on a northeast course,

while her most dangerous enemy was still heading to the westward. As for

the cutter, she kept away; but, it was soon apparent that the brig had

the heels of her, dead before the wind.

Darkness now began to close around the three vessels; the brig and the

schooner soon becoming visible to each other principally by means of

their night-glasses; though the steamer’s position could be easily

distinguished by means of her flaming chimney. This latter vessel stood

to the westward for a quarter of an hour, when her commander appeared to

become suddenly conscious of the ground he was losing, and he wore short

round, and went off before the wind, under steam and canvas; intending

to meet the chase off the northern side of the island. The very person

who had hailed the Swash, as she was leaving the wharf, who had passed

her in Hell-Gate, with Jack Tier in his boat, and who had joined her off

Throgmorton’s, was now on her deck, urging her commander, by every

consideration, not to let the brig escape. It was at his suggestion that

the course was changed. Nervous, and eager to seize the brig, he

prevailed on the commander of the steamer to change his course. Had he

done no more than this, all might have been well; but, so exaggerated

were his notions of the Swash’s sailing, that, instead of suffering the

steamer to keep close along the eastern side of the island, he persuaded

her commander of the necessity of standing off, a long distance to the

northward and eastward, with a view to get ahead of the chase. This was

not bad advice, were there any certainty that Spike would stand on, of

which, however, he had no intention.

The night set in dark and cloudy, and, the instant that Spike saw, by

means of the flaming chimney, that the steamer had wore, and was going

to the eastward of Blok, his plan was laid. Calling to Mulford, he

communicated it to him, and glad to find that his intelligent mate was

of his own way of thinking. The necessary orders were given,

accordingly, and every thing was got ready for its execution.

In the meantime, the two revenue craft were much in earnest. The

schooner was one of the fastest in the service, and had been placed

under Montauk, as described, in the confident expectation of her being

able to compete with even the Molly Swash successfully; more especially

if brought upon a bowline. Her commander watched the receding form of

the brig with the closest attention, until it was entirely swallowed up

in the darkness, under the land, towards which he then sheered himself,

in order to prevent the Swash from hauling up, and turning to windward,

close in under the shadow of the island. Against this manœuvre, however,

the cutter had now taken an effectual precaution, and her people were

satisfied that escape in that way was impossible.

On the other hand, the steamer was doing very well. Driven by the

breeze, and propelled by her wheels, away she went, edging further and

further from the island, as the person from the Custom House succeeded,

as it might be, inch by inch, in persuading the captain of the necessity

of his so doing. At length a sail was dimly seen ahead, and then no

doubt was entertained that the brig had got to the northward and

eastward of them. Half an hour brought the steamer along side of this

sail, which turned out to be a brig, that had come over the shoals, and

was beating into the ocean, on her way to one of the southern ports. Her

captain said there had nothing passed to the eastward.

Round went the steamer, and in went all her canvas. Ten minutes later

the look-out saw a sail to the westward, standing before the wind. Odd

as it might seem, the steamer’s people now fancied they were sure of the

Swash. There she was, coming directly for them, with square yards! The

distance was short, or a vessel could not have been seen by that light,

and the two craft were soon near each other. A gun was actually cleared

on board the steamer, ere it was ascertained that the stranger was the

schooner! It was now midnight, and nothing was in sight but the coasting

brig. Reluctantly, the revenue people gave the matter up; the Molly

Swash having again eluded them, though by means unknown.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

HAWKING.

BY E. M. SIDNEY.

Up and away, for the day is bright,

With the falconers shouting cheerily!

Look at the gos-hawk’s eye of light,

As he plumes his pinions merrily!

He sees the heron, and quick he starts,

Wheeling to heaven so cheerily!

Now, like a thunderbolt down he darts

Away, away right merrily!

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_History of the Thirty Years’ War. Translated from the German of

Frederick Schiller. By the Rev. A. J. W. Morrison, M. A. New

York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

In the opinion of Carlyle this is the best philosophical history that

Germany has produced. The Harpers have reprinted it in the cheap and

elegant series of valuable books, entitled their “New Miscellany.” The

volume presents a graphic and exceedingly interesting view of one of the

most terrible and devastating wars with which Europe was ever cursed. It

represents the struggle of the Protestant States against the overgrown

power of Austria, and the various motives, religious and devilish, which

animated the parties during the contest. The skill and bravery of the

commanders engaged in the war, give a personal as well as general

interest to the narrative. On the one side we have Gustavus Adolphus,

Count Thorn, Mansfield, Bernard of Weimar, Banner, Torstensohn, on the

other Wallenstein, Tilly, Piccolimini, Pappenheim, and Hatzfeld.

Gustavus Adolphus and Wallenstein are, of course, the leading objects of

interest. In reading this history the mind becomes so accustomed to the

devastation of provinces, the murder of peasants, and horrible outrages

on all the decencies and sanctities of life,—that fire, famine and

slaughter become mere commonplaces and matters of course. We read, at

last, the most terrible accounts of wretchedness and cruelty, with

hardly a shudder. Schiller, in summing up the various evils of this war,

a war which devastated whole provinces, reduced towns and cities to

ashes, “smothered the glimmering sparks of civilization in Germany, and

threw back the improving manners of the country into their pristine

barbarity and wildness,” still finds consolation in the thought that

from this fearful war Europe came forth free and independent. “In it she

first learned to recognize herself as a community of nations; and this

intercommunion of States, which originated in the thirty years’ war,

would alone be sufficient to reconcile the philosopher to its horrors.”

There is, in truth, some consolation in the idea that a soul of goodness

abides in things evil,—that men, mad with passion or drunk with

fanaticism, cannot hack each other to pieces, without having their blind

fury directed by a higher power to a good result.

* * * * *

_The History of Civilization from the Fall of the Roman Empire

to the French Revolution. By F. Guizot. Translated by William

Hazlitt. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 4 vols. 12mo._

No person can have watched the course of the prominent American

publishers of the United States, without observing a manifest

improvement, within the last three or four years, in the character of

the books they reprint, and the style of their execution. The house of

Appleton & Co. have been especially distinguished for the intrinsic

value, and the cheapness and elegance, of their publications. Their

mercantile daring, in hazarding capital on books which were not

considered, until lately, profitable speculations, deserves the highest

praise. The present edition of Guizot’s admirable work on Civilization,

is one of their most important additions to the stock of works,

combining great learning and profound thought, with some of the most

charming qualities of style. The first portion of the present

publication, on the General History of Civilization in Europe, is well

known; but the other three volumes, containing Guizot’s lectures on the

History of Civilization in France, have been but lately translated.

Guizot is probably the greatest historian that France has produced, in

the combination of those qualities which go to make up a genius for

history. He yields to none in the research which collects facts, the

understanding which analyses and arranges them, and the imagination

which represents them as realities, and endows them with substantial

life and meaning. To all these advantages, he adds a beautiful

clearness, vigor and brilliancy of style, in narrating the progress of

events and setting forth their laws and principles. The present history

is at once popular and profound. It is calculated to delight and

instruct the common reader as well as the student. We cordially

recommend it to all, as a book containing a vast amount of erudition and

thought, devoted to the illustration of a subject in which everybody has

an interest, and calculated to improve the literary taste of the reader,

as well as to inform and enlarge his understanding.

* * * * *

_Stories from the Italian Poets. By Leigh Hunt. New York: Wiley

& Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is one of the most entertaining volumes of the season. It contains

a summary in prose of Dante’s Divine Comedy, and various stories from

the poems of Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, with occasional passages

versified, and some interesting critical notices of the lives and genius

of the poets. In the criticisms Hunt evinces a knowledge of his authors,

founded on a long acquaintance with them, and a keen enjoyment of their

excellencies. The account of the Divine Comedy is the best, for the

general mind, which we have yet seen in English, and is calculated to

give delight to thousands, to whom Cary’s translation would be a bore.

The stories from Pulci are exquisite for their mirthful beauty. The

tales from Boiardo, Ariosto and Tasso, will introduce the common novel

reader into a new world of beauty, heroism and romance. The passages of

grandeur and sublimity, of pathos and sweetness,—the images both

delicate and magnificent, with which the volume abounds,—make its

circulation in this country a thing devoutly to be wished. It will

enable the reader to obtain some idea of the splendor and opulence of

the Italian mind, in all which enchants the senses and thrills the

imagination.

Hunt’s critical notices and occasional comments are very characteristic.

His style has the same sweetness and felicity which constitute the charm

of his other essays; and is dotted over with those little impertinences

of personal opinion, from which nothing that he writes is wholly free.

His remarks on Dante throw more light upon his own character than that

of his subject. From the very constitution of his mind he revolts at all

infliction of suffering, even for sin. He would have ice-creams in

Pandemonium. He is inexpressibly shocked at Dante’s severity and spleen,

and speaks many a fair word for the poor rascals whom the austere

Florentine has consigned to perdition. His comments on the remorseless

severity of the punishments in Hell,—his indignation that Cato should

be placed in Purgatory while his wife, Marcia, sojourns in the pit,—his

exceptions to some of the persons placed on high seats in heaven,—are

often exquisitely amusing. It requires a man like Hunt to criticise a

man like Dante.

* * * * *

_The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

1 vol. 8vo._

This is a splendid edition of one of the most popular of English poets.

It has ten fine steel embellishments, and its general execution places

it very nearly on a level with the English edition. As a specimen of

American typography it is very honorable to the enterprising publishers.

It is the only complete edition of Moore ever published in this country,

being reprinted from the London collection, lately edited by the poet

himself, and containing his autobiographical prefaces and illustrations.

In these the poet very pleasantly prattles about his own life and works,

and is exhibited as the most graceful of egotists. The volume contains

an immense number of brilliant verses, ranging in subject from the

romantic poem to the political squib. Without depth of passion,

elevation of sentiment, or grandeur of imagination, the poems of Moore

still evince a quickness of sensibility, an opulence of fancy, and a

brilliancy of wit, which have made them among the most popular works

produced within the present century. His poems are lit up with an

incessant shower of sparkling fancies. Almost everything he has written

is full of glitter and point—his sentiment as well as his satire. His

songs are often epigrams of feeling. Though, as a poet, he can hardly

stand by the side of Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge, or Byron, in the

greatest qualities of the bard, yet no one can glance over the present

volume without being impressed with the brilliant genius of its author,

and fascinated with the stores of wit, fancy, learning and sentiment,

which glisten and gleam on every page.

* * * * *

_The French Revolution. A History. By Thomas Carlyle. Newly

Revised by the Author, with Index. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 3

Parts. 12mo._

This is Carlyle’s grandest work—a prose epic on the great event of

modern history. In our narrow limits we cannot hope to do any thing like

justice, to the imagination, fancy, learning, humor, pathos, sublimity,

characterization, with which the volumes abound. In spite of some

obstinate faults, in spite of much false and pernicious doctrine, in

spite of the style, no work ever written on the French Revolution equals

this in the clearness with which it represents the causes of that

revolution, in the vividness with which it brings up its different

events in magnificent pictures, speaking directly to the eye, and in the

grandeur of its delineations of the principal actors in the drama. The

portraits of Mirabeau, Danton, Robespierre, are masterpieces. Every page

glows with vital life. The words are all alive with meaning. They paint

objects so distinctly that we become observers of the scenes to which

they relate. Carlyle, in truth, is a master of expression as

distinguished from mere fluency. He selects the “inevitable best word,”

or compounds it, with an unmistakable tact and sureness. If to his other

great qualities he joined calmness, comprehension, mental honesty, the

present work would be almost perfect. Viewing it with an eye to all its

faults, it must be pronounced a work of great genius and power.

* * * * *

_The Life and Correspondence of John Foster. Edited by J. E.

Ryland. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 vols. 12mo._

Foster is well known as the author of a volume of essays, laden with

weighty thought and acute observations on character and life. The

present volume, containing his letters and journals from his earliest to

his latest years, is one of great value, not merely to his own sect, the

Baptists, but to all who can appreciate originality of character and

thought. Foster was a hard, determined, patient thinker, gifted with

much imagination, and impressing on every thing he wrote the invincible

honesty of his character. His correspondence reveals to us the inmost

recesses of his mind and disposition, and constitutes a kind of

psychological autobiography, replete with materials of interest and

instruction. The separate thoughts scattered over these volumes would

alone be sufficient to reward abundantly the trouble of its perusal. One

of the strongest peculiarities of genius, Foster says in one place, “is

the power of lighting its own fire.” Of a soft and pensive evening, he

remarks—“It is as if the soul of Eloisa pervaded all the air.”

Shakspeare, he observes, had perceptions of every kind; “he could think

every way. His mind might be compared to that monster the prophet saw in

his vision, which _had eyes all over_.” Again he says—“Lord Chatham did

not _reason_; he struck, as by intuition, directly on the _results_ of

reasoning; as a cannon-shot strikes the mark without your seeing its

course through the air as it moves towards its object.” When shown a

piece of ornamental worsted-work, with a great deal of red in it, he

said “it was red with the blood of murdered time.” The volumes are full

of thoughts and observations equally striking and pointed.

* * * * *

_The New Timon. A Romance of London. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart.

1 vol. 12mo._

This poem has excited no inconsiderable interest in London. It is

reprinted from the third English edition. Bulwer has been mentioned as

the probable author, but this must be a mistake, unless Bulwer has

essentially changed his literary opinions. Wordsworth, Keats and

Tennyson, each of whom the author of “Pelham” has warmly praised, the

author of “Timon” most ignorantly and pertly ridicules. The poem, it

must be admitted, has much merit. It is written in a vigorous style,

contains numerous passages of flashing description, much keen

portraiture of prominent English politicians, and many beautiful scenes

of pathos and passion. The pith and nerve of the verse, the

half-misanthropic, half-romantic tone of the sentiment, the frequent

allusion to contemporary events and persons, and the bitter sharpness of

the satire on social evils,—often remind the reader of Byron. The work

evidences a brilliant and restless intellect, ill at ease with the

manners and institutions of society, scornful, dogmatic and perverse,

but quite felicitous in running keen observations into the moulds of

fancy and wit. Kinglake, the author of Eothen, might have written it.

The author’s character is a composite, made up of Diogenes and

Alcibiades.

* * * * *

_Memoirs of the Life of Addison. By Miss Aiken. Philadelphia:

Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The publishers of this volume have started a “Library for the People,”

of which the Life of Addison constitutes No. 5. It makes a volume of

about 300 pages, elegantly printed. The price is only fifty cents, or

_one-fourteenth_ of the cost of the English edition. All the mistakes of

the English edition, so acutely pointed out by Macaulay, have been

corrected in the American reprint. The work is well written, and

introduces us to a most interesting period of English literature and

history. The correspondence of Addison confers great value upon the

work. Most of the letters were never before printed. The beautiful

character of the subject, joined to the immense influence which his

writings have exerted on English letters and manners, give to the

details of his virtuous and well-spent life a peculiar interest and

charm. A volume which introduces us so completely to Addison, and

strengthens that affectionate companionship with him, which his works

may have commenced, cannot fail to be popular.

* * * * *

_The Poetry of Wit and Humor. Selected from the English Poets.

With an Illustrative Essay, and Critical Comments. By Leigh

Hunt. 1 vol. 12mo._

The matter of this book will ensure its success. It contains extracts

from Chaucer, Shakspeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Suckling,

Dryden, Pope, Goldsmith and Wolcot, with running comments on the authors

and on particular passages of the poems. The essay on Wit and Humor,

though it does not exhaust the topic, is ingenious, and pleasantly

illustrated. We do not think that in the case of a few of the authors,

Hunt has hit upon the happiest selections. Few, for example, would

obtain an idea of the comic genius of Fletcher from the specimens quoted

in the volume. The task, however, was a difficult one to perform; and

the editor, in compiling an entertaining volume, has done all that

perhaps could be expected, in the limited space to which he was

confined.

* * * * *

_The Island Bride, and other Poems. By James F. Colman. Boston:

Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The most superficial glance over this volume would convince even the

supercilious critic, that the author is destined to take a high rank

among American poets. “The Island Bride” contains nine Cantos of

Spenserian verse, finished in diction, poetical in feeling, and replete

with thought, fancy and imagination. It is one of the very few long

poems in American literature, which more than repay perusal. The other

pieces are of much merit, and bear unmistakable marks of power. The most

surprising quality manifested in the volume, is perhaps the correct

taste which is everywhere observable throughout its pages. It seems the

work of a veteran in composition, rather than the first volume of a

youthful poet. We should be pleased, had we time, to make it the subject

of a more extended notice; but at present, we can do little more than

cordially commend it to the notice of our readers.

* * * * *

_Classical Antiquities, a Compendium of Roman and Grecian

Antiquities, with a Sketch of Ancient Mythology. By Joseph

Salkeld. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The object of this volume is a good one, and it will be found eminently

useful. To read modern books understandingly, some knowledge of the

religion, government and manners and customs of the Greeks and Romans,

is indispensable, from the multitude of allusions to them throughout

every department of modern literature. In addition to this, the subject

of Classical Antiquities is sufficiently interesting of itself, to

justify the reading of a much larger book than the present. The “way of

life” among two nations, which have once held a vast dominion on earth,

by virtue of their power and policy, and still hold even a vaster

dominion over the mind by virtue of their literature, must be

interesting to every reflective and curious mind.

* * * * *

_Rationale of Crime, and its Appropriate Treatment; being a

Treatise on Criminal Jurisprudence considered in relation to

Cerebral Organization. By M. B. Sampson. With Notes and

Illustrations by E. W. Farnham. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

The character of this volume is indicated by its title. It is the

application of the principles of phrenology to the phenomena of crime.

The notions of the author are illustrated by a number of portraits of

criminals and other persons, the shape of whose heads are said to

indicate the bent of their characters. The book is readable, even to

unbelievers in the science of bumps. Phrenology, however, to all intents

and purposes, is an exploded system; and thieves and murderers cannot,

at this day, save themselves from punishment, by exhibiting in

extenuation of their crime, the most gigantic organs of acquisitiveness

and destructiveness.

* * * * *

_Notes on the Northwest and Valley of the Upper Mississippi. By

Wm. J. A. Bradford. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

A work like this has long been wanted. The large mass of readers are

singularly deficient in accurate knowledge respecting the great region

of which it treats. Mr. Bradford has interesting chapters on the

physical geography, history, topography, pursuits, health, geology,

botany, monuments, and aboriginal inhabitants of the Northwest. Under

this name he includes the country between Lakes Superior and Michigan,

east,—the Illinois and Missouri Rivers, and the Northern Boundary of

the United States,—including Iowa and Wisconsin, part of Michigan

northwest of the Straits of Mackinaw, and Northern Illinois and

Missouri.

* * * * *

_Poetry and Truth from my Life. From the German of Goethe. By

Parke Godwin. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 Parts, 12mo._

It is singular that this is the first good English translation of the

celebrated work of Goethe on his own life. As a record of the external

influences and internal experiences, which went to form the character of

Germany’s master-intellect, it is one of the most important works of the

age. Carlyle, in referring to it, well says—“what would we give for

such an autobiography of Shakspeare, of Milton, even of Pope or Swift?”

The publishers have included it in their series of “Choice Books”—an

enterprise which they have successfully extended to eighty numbers,

without any evidence of exhausting their materials.

* * * * *

_Something for Every-Body: Gleaned in the Old Purchase, from

Fields often Reaped. By Robert Carlton. New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This book well bears out its title. It is a collection of anecdotes,

personal adventures, and hits upon popular errors. The author is a

shrewd observer of life and character, and has an eye for the tendencies

of popular movements. There is much sense and humor in his remarks on

the various moral reforms of the day. He is “a gentleman of the old

school,” and perhaps does not always do complete justice to the objects

of his sarcasm or indignation; but he well probes their weak points.

* * * * *

_Sartor Resartus: the Life and Opinions of Herr Teufelsdröckh.

In Three Books. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This edition of Carlyle’s celebrated work on the philosophy of clothes,

is revised by the author; and Wiley & Putnam are authorized by him, to

“print and vend the same in the United States.” The book, itself, with

all its wildness of style, is one of the most fascinating works of the

century—full of splendid imagination, deep thought, and humorous

insight into life, character and manners. Its wealth of pictorial

expression, would alone entitle it to a high rank among works of

imagination. The present edition is altogether the best and most elegant

ever published in the United States.

* * * * *

_Experimental Researches on the Food of Animals, and the

Fattening of Cattle; with Remarks on the Food of Man. By Robert

Dundas Thomson, M. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work presents the results of an extensive series of original

experiments, undertaken by order of the British government. It is full

of matter important at once to the practical agriculturist and the

scientific physiologist. The publishers have issued it in a cheap form,

so as to bring it within the reach of the humblest means. The author is

evidently a patient man of science, who may be relied upon as a close

observer of facts, and strict reasoner from them. No farmer can well

dispense with the book.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.

_Coiffure de_ Normandin, _passage Choiseul, 19—Chapeaux de M^{me}._

Baudry, _r. Richlieu 87;_

_Toilettes de M^{me}._ Ferrière Pennona, _r. Mondovi, 1—plumes de M^{me}._

Tilman, _rue Minars, 5;_

_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2^{bis}—Mouchoirs de_ L. Chapron

& Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7;_

_Essences & flacons de_ Guerlain, _r. de la Paix, 11—Chaussures de_

Hoffmann, _r. du Dauphin, 9_.

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been

corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page iv, by Charles E. Cathrall, 149 ==> by Charles E. Cathrall, 140

page iv, Fox and Saukie Indians, ==> Saukie and Fox Indians,

page 5, a suprise took place ==> a surprise took place

page 21, like barks again put ==> like barques again put

page 28, thou seeest, hearest, ==> thou seest, hearest,

page 30, the streets, massacreing ==> the streets, massacring

page 31, supremay of the Pope! ==> supremacy of the Pope!

page 31, they were massacreing men, ==> they were massacring men,

page 46, your neice, I might ==> your niece, I might

page 51, with a manifest distate ==> with a manifest distaste

page 54, this arrangment, but in ==> this arrangement, but in

page 55, was a taunt top-mast, ==> was a taut top-mast,

page 60, would be villified ==> would be vilified

page 144, Firm of Domby & Son ==> Firm of Dombey & Son

Le Follet, _Chapeau de M^{me}._ Baudry ==> _Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Baudry

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 1, January 1847, George Rex

Graham, Editor]