CHAPTER XI.

The messenger who had brought Miss Gansevoort’s letter to the fort, was

the same servant of Sir Philip who had accompanied him to the house of

Captain Wilton on the night of his arrest. It was through his agency

that the prisoner proposed to accomplish his present designs. Base and

perfidious to the last, he manifested not the least repugnance to thus

sacrificing one, who, whatever were his other faults, had ever

manifested the utmost fidelity to him. The servant had come directly

from the camp of the brigands, and being fully in their confidence,

could guide a detachment from the garrison directly to the spot, and

thus probably promote the destruction or capture of the whole band. No

time was lost in this enterprise. Count De Zeng in the most earnest

manner begged, and obtained, command of the expedition. The outlaws were

only about thirty in number, and the count, anxious to make a rapid and

secret march, did not consider it necessary or prudent to take more than

twice that force. The distance to be accomplished was about thirty

miles, and at the hour of ten on the ensuing evening the little army set

out. Knowing the vigilant character of his enemy, De Zeng had observed

the greatest secrecy, and at the hour of starting not an individual of

the company, excepting himself and his guide, had the most remote idea

of the object of the expedition. Avoiding the village, which might

contain the lurking spies of Wiley, they took the nearest route to the

forest, and there, through its wild and unfrequented depths, slowly

pursued their way. We will not dwell upon the particulars of this most

toilsome march. The cold was intense, the snow lay deep upon the ground,

and the wind came moaning through the long defiles of the mountains,

among which their path must be pursued. To the Count De Zeng,

unaccustomed even to the sight of an American wilderness, it was painful

in the extreme. But no word or look gave token of impatience. The deep

anxiety that pervaded his breast in relation to the result of his

mission, on which the life of Miss Gansevoort, and his own future

happiness must depend, diminished every smaller trial. Laughing at every

obstacle, he encouraged his followers by his own fortitude and

fearlessness. At the dawn of day they had accomplished but little more

than half of their journey. Allowing his men a single hour for

refreshment and repose, he again pressed forward. They beheld his

endurance with surprise, and were ashamed to complain.

At about noon, the guide having informed De Zeng that they were drawing

near to Wiley’s encampment, he made a brief halt, for the purpose of

explaining to his men the nature of the service on which they were

bound. He informed them that Wiley was to be taken alive, if possible;

but charged them particularly that the chief object of the expedition

was the safe recovery of Miss Gansevoort. Having succeeded in animating

them with a portion of his own enthusiasm, by a few brief but forcible

remarks, he resumed his march.

The camp was situated on a summit which overlooked all the adjacent

region, and which, by reason of its steepness, was nearly inaccessible,

excepting at a point which was in full view of the enemy. The denseness

of the forest was, however, favorable to the secret approach from

another direction, and De Zeng resolved at once to scale the height in

the rear. With incredible toil this task was performed. The summit

having been attained, the panting soldiers were immediately formed and

led forward. Against any ordinary approach of an enemy Wiley was

sufficiently guarded; but he was not prepared for treachery. He could

not anticipate the approach of an army by a way that even a chamois

hunter would have hesitated to climb. He was taken so entirely off his

guard, that but few of his company were even under arms, and the first

intimation of his enemy’s approach was a loud demand to surrender. The

Tories and savages flew hastily to their arms, but a single volley, and

a rapid charge with the bayonet proved decisive. Several were killed,

and the rest, excepting only their leader, instantaneously surrendered.

He alone, agile as a deer, fled into the forest, and descending the

dreadful declivity almost at a leap, once more seemed to bid defiance to

his foes. But the avenger was on his path. Nothing could exceed the rage

which had burned in the bosom of the young count from the moment when he

first caught sight of his enemy. Calling now on a few of his men to

follow, but distancing every competitor, De Zeng rushed down the side of

the mountain in pursuit, and gaining momentarily upon the fugitive, once

more called on him to yield. Wiley turned, and stood for a moment at

bay; but beholding the flashing blade of his pursuer at his breast, and

numbers of his enemies hastening up, he quietly surrendered. Exulting in

his success, the count now returned hastily to the camp; but, alas! he

was yet destined to experience a bitter proof how difficult it is to

circumvent a vigilant adversary. Notwithstanding Wiley’s terror, his

countenance had worn a sardonic smile, which gave token of some unknown

calamity. Too soon did the fearful truth transpire. Miss Gansevoort was

not in the camp. No words can express the anguish of Count De Zeng at

this discovery. Wiley, who was immediately sternly interrogated by his

captor, stated that Ellen was a full day’s journey in the wilderness, in

custody of a band of Hurons. But a moment’s reflection convinced the

count of the improbability of this story. The time had not yet arrived,

when, according to the statement in Ellen’s letter, the Indians were to

start; and they would not be likely thus to defeat their whole plan by a

premature movement. The other prisoners were severally questioned, but

no satisfactory information could be obtained. Rage mingled with the

grief of De Zeng, when he saw himself thus trifled with. He believed

that Miss Gansevoort had been conveyed to some other lurking-place in

the forest, by Wiley’s direction, and that the latter was fully

cognizant of her present position. This hypothesis alone affording him

any hope of rescuing her, he resolved to act upon it. Summoning Wiley,

therefore, to his presence, he addressed him as follows:

“You alone are accountable for the present captivity and suffering of

Miss Gansevoort. Produce her here within two hours or those forest trees

shall afford a gallows for you, higher than Haman ever hung. Select any

three of your men whom you choose to send upon this errand, and they

shall immediately be set at liberty.”

Wiley smiled as he replied: “Count De Zeng forgets that he is talking to

a gentleman, and an officer of the British army. Such threats may

frighten children.”

“Decline the proposition,” said De Zeng sternly, “and the hours shall be

shortened into minutes.”

“I repeat,” answered Wiley, again smiling contemptuously, “that I am not

thus to be intimidated.”

De Zeng did not reply, but hastily detailing a dozen men, made known to

them his wishes. The preparations went rapidly forward, but still the

prisoner laughed. Not for effect, not with affectation, but with real

incredulity and scorn, he laughed. He laughed while his hands were being

tied. He laughed while the rope was fastened around his neck. A sapling

had been bent slightly toward the ground, and secured in that position

by a rope, readily formed of twisted bark, and tied around the summit

and base of the tree, while another rope of the same material, suspended

from the top, received the prisoner’s neck. The severance of the

first-named cord would allow the tree to return to its upright position,

thus simply effecting the design.

When all things were ready, Count De Zeng took out his watch, and

solemnly informed the prisoner that he had only five minutes of life

remaining, if he continued to refuse the proposed terms.

“You shall yet answer for this foolery,” was the only reply. “The law

will redress me.”

“Outlaw! brigand! kidnapper!” returned the count; “do you talk to me of

law?”

Wiley knew that his life was forfeited, and that if carried a prisoner

to the American camp, his only chance of escape from death would consist

in his being exchanged for Miss Gansevoort, which he entertained

sanguine hopes of effecting. He was also infatuated to the last with

entire incredulity in regard to De Zeng’s threats, having himself before

witnessed, and even been a party to similar transactions, where nothing

more was intended than to extort some valuable information. He therefore

continued unrelenting.

An awful silence for a few minutes prevailed, during which De Zeng’s

eyes were riveted upon his watch, and an attendant with drawn sword

stood ready to sever the cord at the base of the tree. The prisoner

again smiled, as he remarked, “The time must be past, Count De Zeng: I

suppose the play is now over.”

A signal from the count, and a flash of the executioner’s blade, was the

only reply. The released tree sprang upwards, and, suspended, struggling

from its lofty top, Edward Wiley passed into eternity.

Appalled at the awful spectacle, the little company remained for some

time silent, but at length one of the prisoners, who seemed in some

authority, and who had ventured to remonstrate against the proceedings,

remarked that the “tragedy was ended.”

“Ended!” exclaimed De Zeng, in a voice of startling tone; “it is but

just begun. Your whole number, man by man, shall dangle at those

tree-tops, if you still persist in withholding your captive. Who stands

next in authority?”

Of course none were anxious to lay claim to so dangerous a dignity; but

the majority of the prisoners being Indians, one, who bore the insignia

of a chief, was selected and brought forward. Glancing with a slight

tremor upward at the suspended body of his leader, he turned to the

count, and said,

“The white chief carried a forked tongue; Wind-Wing will bring back the

Pale Flower.”

A brief parley ensued, during which it appeared that the chief had a son

among the prisoners, who agreed to be responsible for the fulfillment of

his promise. The compact was duly made. By the time that the shadow of

an adjacent maple should fall across the corner of the encampment,

Wind-Wing was to return with the maiden, or his son was to die. The time

specified was about an hour. It was a period of intense interest to all.

The short winter day was fast wasting away, and Count De Zeng felt that

if it passed without the rescue of Miss Gansevoort, but little hope

would remain of effecting that object. He hardly dared to believe either

in the fidelity of the savage, or in his ability to accomplish his task.

If Ellen was in reality in the vicinity, she was doubtless in the

custody of Tories, over whom the Indian would have no control. More

especially, if the latter should be indiscreet enough to divulge the

death of Wiley, would that circumstance operate against poor Ellen. The

more De Zeng reflected the more he despaired. He even began to

anticipate an attack of the camp, as Wind-Wing might make use of his

fleetness only to arouse the neighboring Tories to the rescue of their

friends. Double vigilance was therefore enjoined upon the sentinels. In

the meantime the hour dragged slowly along, and the shadow gradually

approached the designated line. It was with real pain that De Zeng gave

orders to make ready the fatal tree. Wiley’s death he had witnessed

without the slightest compunction, but the Indian was comparatively

innocent. His resolution, however, was fixed. If the chief failed of his

promise, there would be nothing further to rely upon, excepting a

thorough intimidation of the remaining prisoners.

But the Indian who stood in jeopardy manifested no fear. While others

watched the creeping shadow of the maple, his gaze was fixed upon the

distant hills. The rope was adjusted, but he did not quail. The

executioner took his stand, but still his bright eye, bespeaking an

unfaltering faith in his sire’s fidelity, rested on the distant forests.

Choked with emotion, his whole frame moved by the violent pulsations of

his heart, Count De Zeng stood silently by. At this moment a sudden

ejaculation from the Indian caused all eyes to take the direction of his

own, when, bounding down the side of a distant mountain, Wind-Wing,

bearing a white burthen in his arms, was perceived. Long, loud, and

tumultuous were the cheers that burst from that assembled throng, and

awakened the distant echoes of the silent forest. Darting from the midst

of his companions, De Zeng once more dashed down the hill, and seeming

to surpass all human speed in his flight, in a short time had met and

received from the nearly exhausted chieftain, the terrified but yet

conscious Ellen. Let us not undertake so idle a task as that of

depicting the delight either of the liberated captive, or her generous

rescuer.

The conjectures of Count De Zeng had been nearly correct. Anticipating a

possible attack, Wiley had taken the precaution to send his prisoner, in

custody of a small detachment of Indians, to a secure hiding-place a few

miles distant from the encampment. There were, however, no Tories among

her guard, and the influence of the chief over his fellow savages was,

of course, sufficient to enable him to obtain the maiden without

difficulty. They had even accompanied him the greater part of the way,

and assisted to transport his gentle burthen.

With a light heart the count now gave orders for his homeward march. A

litter was readily formed, in which Ellen was carried; the soldiers, who

had begun to idolize their leader for his bold and successful conduct in

the late enterprise, vieing with each other in alacrity to perform this

duty. With brief intervals of repose, their march was continued through

the night, and before noon of the ensuing day they arrived in safety at

the fort. The commandant, to whom the period of De Zeng’s absence had

been one of the most painful suspense, now gave way to the most

unbounded delight, which soon, with a contagious influence diffused

itself throughout the garrison. He gave orders to celebrate the event by

a general salute from the guns of the fort, which were immediately

carried into effect, amidst the heartiest and most tumultuous cheering

that ever awakened the echoes of Tappaan Zee.

Bender, within a few days, was pardoned and released. Thoroughly

humbled, yet sufficiently happy in saving his life, he quietly departed.

One result of the remarkable events which have been recorded will be so

easily conjectured by the reader, as scarcely to require its relation.

Born at remote points of the globe, singularly united in their recent

destinies, and long really wedded in affection, Louis De Zeng and Ellen

Gansevoort were not henceforth to be separated. But the day which

witnessed their union was equally auspicious to another pair of generous

and gentle hearts. Colonel Gansevoort had, by some accident, at length

discovered his own attachment to the beautiful Alice. By her seemingly

slight agency what momentous results had been effected. A lifetime of

devotion could not have repaid the service, which, under the impulse of

a generous feeling, she had freely rendered. But a sense of obligation

was not necessary to inspire affection for Alice. Her gentle heart

elicited a voluntary and perpetual homage, which no sentiment of duty

was needed to confirm.

Little remains to be told. The subsequent military career of Colonels

Gansevoort and De Zeng were distinguished by the same integrity,

sagacity, and courage, which had marked their commencement. If they did

not rise to eminence in station, it was less from want of ability than

want of ambition. They had drunk of that charmed cup of bliss which

renders tasteless and insipid all the inferior joys of life.

Colonel Edmund Gansevoort lived to read the proclamation by which his

royal master acknowledged the sovereignty and independence of the United

States of America, and to behold his own boasted possessions saved from

confiscation only by the interest of his once disinherited son.

* * * * *

LINES

ON VISITING BROAD STREET HOTEL,

HEAD-QUARTERS OF WASHINGTON, WHEN NEW YORK WAS EVACUATED BY CLINTON.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

It is a structure of the olden time,

Built to endure, not dazzle for a day;

A stain is on the venerable roof,

Telling of conflict with the King of Storms,

And clings to casement-worn, and hanging eaves,

With thread-like roots, the moss.

Grey shutters swing

On rusted hinges, but the beams of day

Dart with a softening radiance through the bars.

Colossal domes of chiseled marble made,

Religion’s fanes, with glittering golden spires,

And Mammon’s airy and embellished halls,

Wearing a modern freshness, are in sight,

But a cold glance they win from me alone.

Why do I turn from Art’s triumphant works,

To look on pile more humble? Why in thought

Linger around this ancient edifice?

The place is hallowed—Washington once trod,

Planning the fall of tyranny, these floors.

Within yon chamber did he bend the knee,

Calling on God to aid the patriot’s cause,

At morn, and in the solemn hour of night,

His mandate, pregnant with a Nation’s fate,

Went forth from these plain, unpretending walls.

Here towered, in war-like garb, his stately form,

While marshaled thousands in the dusty street,

Gave ear to his harangue, and inly vowed

To die or conquer with their matchless chief.

Methinks at yon old window I behold

His calm, majestic features—while the sound

Of blessing rises from the throng below.

Have not the scenes of other days returned?

Do I not hear the sentry’s measured tramp,

Clangor of mail, and neigh of battle-steed,

Mingling their discord with the drum’s deep roll?

No! ’twas a dream!—the magic of a place

Allied to memory of Earth’s noblest son,

Gives form and seeming life to viewless air.

Relic of our Heroic Age, farewell!

Long may these walls defy dissolving Time,

Mock the blind fury of the hollow blast,

And woo the pilgrim hither, while a voice

Comes from the shadowy caverns of the Past,

Full of instruction to a freeman’s soul—

A _mighty voice_ that speaks of Washington,

And prompts renewal of stern vow to guard

Pure fires that on my Country’s altar glow.

* * * * *

THE STRAWBERRY-WOMAN.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

“Strawb’_rees_! Strawb’_rees_!” cried a poorly clad, tired-looking

woman, about eleven o’clock one sultry June morning. She was passing a

handsome house in Walnut street, into the windows of which she looked

earnestly, in the hope of seeing the face of a customer. She did not

look in vain, for the shrill sound of her voice brought forward a lady,

dressed in a silk morning-wrapper, who beckoned her to stop. The woman

lifted the heavy tray from her head, and placing it upon the door-step,

sat wearily down.

“What’s the price of your strawberries?” asked the lady, as she came to

the door.

“Ten cents a box, madam. They are right fresh.”

“Ten cents!” replied the lady, in a tone of surprise, drawing herself up

and looking grave. Then shaking her head, and compressing her lips

firmly, she added—

“I can’t give ten cents for strawberries. It’s too much.”

“You can’t get such strawberries as these for less, madam,” said the

woman. “I got a levy a box for them yesterday.”

“Then you got too much, that’s all I have to say. I never pay such

prices. I bought strawberries in market yesterday, just as good as

yours, for eight cents a box.”

“I don’t know how they do to sell them at that price,” returned the

woman. “Mine cost nearly eight cents, and ought to bring me at least

twelve. But I am willing to take ten, so that I can sell out quickly.

It’s a very hot day.” And the woman wiped, with her apron, the

perspiration from her glowing face.

“No, I wont pay ten cents,” said the lady(?) coldly. “I’ll give you

forty cents for five quarts, and nothing more.”

“But, madam, they cost me within a trifle of eight cents a quart.”

“I can’t help that. You paid too much for them, and this must be your

loss, not mine, if I buy your strawberries. I never pay for other

people’s mistakes. I understand the use of money much better than that.”

The poor woman did not feel very well. The day was unusually hot and

sultry, and her tray felt heavier, and tired her more than usual. Five

boxes would lighten it, and if she sold her berries at eight cents, she

would clear two cents and a half, and that made her something.

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” she said, after thinking a few moments;

“I don’t feel as well as usual to-day, and my tray is heavy. Five boxes

sold will be something. You shall have them at nine cents. They cost me

seven and a half, and I am sure it’s worth a cent and a half a box to

cry them about the streets such hot weather as this.”

“I have told you, my good woman, exactly what I will do,” said the

customer, with dignity. “If you are willing to take what I offer you,

say so, if not, we needn’t stand here any longer.”

“Well, I suppose you will have to take them,” replied the

strawberry-woman, seeing that there was no hope of doing better. “But

it’s too little.”

“It’s enough,” said the lady, as she turned to call a servant. Five

boxes of fine large strawberries were received, and forty cents paid for

them. The lady re-entered the parlor, pleased at her good bargain, while

the poor woman turned from the door sad and disheartened. She walked

nearly the distance of a square before she could trust her voice to

utter her monotonous cry of

“Strawb’_rees_! Strawb’_rees_!”

An hour afterward, a friend called upon Mrs. Mier, the lady who had

bought the strawberries. After talking about various matters and things

interesting to lady house-keepers, Mrs. Mier said—

“How much did you pay for strawberries this morning?”

“Ten cents.”

“You paid too much. I bought them for eight.”

“For eight! Were they good ones?”

“Step into the dining-room and I will show them to you.”

The ladies stepped into the dining-room, when Mrs. Mier displayed her

large, red berries, which were really much finer than she had at first

supposed them to be.

“You didn’t get them for eight cents,” remarked the visiter

incredulously.

“Yes I did. I paid forty cents for five quarts.”

“While I paid fifty for some not near so good.”

“I suppose you paid just what you were asked?”

“Yes, I always do that. I buy from one woman during the season, who

agrees to furnish me at the regular market price.”

“Which you will always find to be two or three cents above what you can

get them for in the market.”

“You always buy in market.”

“I bought these from a woman at the door.”

“Did she only ask eight cents for them?”

“Oh no! She asked ten cents, and pretended that she got twelve and a

half for the same quality of berries yesterday. But I never give these

people what they ask.”

“While I never can find it in my heart to ask a poor, tired-looking

woman at my door, to take a cent less for her fruit than she asks me. A

cent or two, while it is of little account to me, must be of great

importance to her.”

“You are a very poor economist, I see,” said Mrs. Mier. “If that is the

way you deal with every one, your husband no doubt finds his expense

account a very serious item.”

“I don’t know about that. He never complains. He allows me a certain sum

every week to keep the house, and find my own and the children’s

clothes; and so far from ever calling on him for more, I always have

fifty or a hundred dollars lying by me.”

“You must have a precious large allowance then, considering your want of

economy in paying everybody just what they ask for their things.”

“Oh, no! I don’t do that exactly, Mrs. Mier. If I consider the price of

a thing too high, I don’t buy it.”

“You paid too high for your strawberries to-day.”

“Perhaps I did; although I am by no means certain.”

“You can judge for yourself. Mine cost but eight cents, and you own that

they are superior to yours at ten cents.”

“Still, yours may have been too cheap, instead of mine too dear.”

“Too cheap! That is funny! I never saw any thing too cheap in my life.

The great trouble is, that every thing is too dear. What do you mean by

too cheap?”

“The person who sold them to you may not have made profit enough upon

them to pay for her time and labor. If this were the case, she sold them

to you too cheap.”

“Suppose she paid too high for them? Is the purchaser to pay for her

error?”

“Whether she did so, it would be hard to tell; and even if she had made

such a mistake, I think it would be more just and humane to pay her a

price that would give her a fair profit, instead of taking from her the

means of buying bread for her children. At least this is my way of

reasoning.”

“And a precious lot of money it must take to support such a system of

reasoning. But how much, pray, do you have a week to keep the family? I

am curious to know.”

“Thirty-five dollars.”

“Thirty-five dollars! You are jesting.”

“Oh, no! That is exactly what I receive, and as I have said, I find the

sum ample.”

“While I receive fifty dollars a week,” said Mrs. Mier, “and am forever

calling on my husband to settle some bill or other for me. And yet I

never pay the exorbitant prices asked by everybody for every thing. I am

strictly economical in my family. While other people pay their domestics

a dollar and a half and two dollars a week, I give but a dollar and a

quarter each to my cook and chambermaid, and require the chambermaid to

help the washer-woman on Mondays. Nothing is wasted in my kitchen, for I

take care, in marketing, not to allow room for waste. I don’t know how

it is that you save money on thirty-five dollars with your system, while

I find fifty dollars inadequate with my system.”

The exact difference in the two systems will be clearly understood by

the reader, when he is informed that although Mrs. Mier never paid any

body as much as was at first asked for an article, and was always

talking about economy, and trying to practice it, by withholding from

others what was justly their due, as in the case of the

strawberry-woman, yet she was a very extravagant person, and spared no

money in gratifying her own pride. Mrs. Gilman, her visiter, was, on the

contrary, really economical, because she was moderate in all her

desires, and was usually as well satisfied with an article of dress or

furniture that cost ten or twenty dollars, as Mrs. Mier was with one

that cost forty or fifty dollars. In little things, the former was not

so particular as to infringe the rights of others, while in larger

matters, she was careful not to run into extravagance in order to

gratify her own or children’s pride and vanity, while the latter pursued

a course directly opposite.

Mrs. Gilman was not as much dissatisfied, on reflection, about the price

she had paid for her strawberries, as she had felt at first.

“I would rather pay these poor creatures two cents a quart too much than

too little,” she said to herself,—“dear knows, they earn their money

hard enough, and get but a scanty portion after all.”

Although the tray of the poor strawberry-woman, when she passed from the

presence of Mrs. Mier, was lighter by five boxes, her heart was heavier,

and that made her steps more weary than before. The next place at which

she stopped, she found the same disposition to beat her down in her

price.

“I’ll give you nine cents, and take four boxes,” said the lady.

“Indeed, madam, that is too little,” replied the woman; “ten cents is

the lowest at which I can sell them and make even a reasonable profit.”

“Well, say thirty-seven and a-half for four boxes, and I will take them.

It is only two cents and a-half less than you ask for them.”

“Give me a fip, ma!—there comes the candy-man!” exclaimed a little

fellow, pressing up to the side of the lady. “Quick, ma! Here,

candy-man!” calling after an old man with a tin cylinder under his arm,

that looked something like an ice-cream freezer. The lady drew out her

purse, and searched among its contents for the small coin her child

wanted.

“I havn’t any thing less than a levy,” she at length said.

“Oh, well, he can change it. Candy-man, you can change a levy?”

By this time the “candy-man” stood smiling beside the strawberry-woman.

As he was counting out the fip’s worth of candy, the child spoke up in

an earnest voice, and said—

“Get a levy’s worth, mother, do, wont you? Cousin Lu’s coming to see us

to-morrow.”

“Let him have a levy’s worth, candy-man. He’s such a rogue I can’t

resist him,” responded the mother. The candy was counted out, and the

levy paid, when the man retired in his usual good humor.

“Shall I take these strawberries for thirty-seven and a-half cents?”

said the lady, the smile fading from her face. “It is all I am willing

to give.”

“If you wont pay any more, I mustn’t stand for two cents and a-half,”

replied the woman, “although they would nearly buy a loaf of bread for

the children,” she mentally added.

The four boxes were sold for the sum offered, and the woman lifted the

tray upon her head, and moved on again. The sun shone out still hotter

and hotter as the day advanced. Large beads of perspiration rolled from

the throbbing temples of the strawberry-woman, as she passed wearily up

one street and down another, crying her fruit at the top of her voice.

At length all were sold but five boxes, and now it was past one o’clock.

Long before this she ought to have been at home. Faint from

over-exertion, she lifted her tray from her head, and placing it upon a

door-step, sat down to rest. As she sat thus, a lady came up, and paused

at the door of the house as if about to enter.

“You look tired, my good woman,” she said kindly. “This is a very hot

day for such hard work as yours. How do you sell your strawberries?”

“I ought to have ten cents for them, but nobody seems willing to give

ten cents to-day, although they are very fine, and cost me as much as

some I have got twelve and a half for.”

“How many boxes have you?”

“Five, ma’am.”

“They are very fine, sure enough,” said the lady, stooping down and

examining them; “and well worth ten cents. I’ll take them.”

“Thanky, ma’am. I was afraid I should have to take them home,” said the

woman, her heart bounding up lightly.

The lady rang the bell, for it was at her door that the tired

strawberry-woman had stopped to rest herself. While she was waiting for

the door to be opened, the lady took from her purse the money for the

strawberries, and handing it to the woman, said,

“Here is your money. Shall I tell the servant to bring you out a glass

of cool water? You are hot and tired.”

“If you please, ma’am,” said the woman, with a grateful look.

The water was sent out by the servant who was to receive the

strawberries, and the tired woman drank it eagerly. Its refreshing

coolness flowed through every vein, and when she took up her tray to

return home, both heart and step were lighter.

The lady, whose benevolent feelings had prompted her to the performance

of this little act of kindness, could not help remembering the woman’s

grateful look. She had not done much—not more than it was every one’s

duty to do; but the recollection of even that was pleasant, far more

pleasant than could possibly have been Mrs. Mier’s self-gratulations at

having saved ten cents on her purchase of five boxes of strawberries,

notwithstanding the assurance of the poor woman who vended them, that,

at the reduced rate, her profit on the whole would only be two cents and

a-half.

After dinner Mrs. Mier went out and spent thirty dollars in purchasing

jewelry for her eldest daughter, a young lady not yet eighteen years of

age. That evening, at the tea-table, the strawberries were highly

commended as being the largest and most delicious in flavor of any they

had yet had; in reply to which, Mrs. Mier stated, with an air of

peculiar satisfaction, that she had got them for eight cents a box when

they were worth at least ten cents.

“The woman asked me ten cents,” she said, “but I offered her eight, and

she took it.”

While the family of Mrs. Mier were enjoying their pleasant repast, the

strawberry-woman sat at a small table, around which were gathered three

young children, the oldest but six years of age. She had started out in

the morning with thirty boxes of strawberries, for which she was to pay

seven and a-half cents a box. If all had brought the ten cents a box,

she would have made seventy-five cents; but such was not the case. Rich

ladies had beaten her down in her price—had chaffered with her for the

few pennies of profits to which her hard labor entitled her—and

actually robbed her of the meager pittance she strove to earn for her

children. Instead of realizing the small sum of seventy-five cents, she

had cleared only forty-five cents. With this she bought a little Indian

meal and molasses for her own and her children’s supper and breakfast.

As she sat with her children, eating the only food she was able to

provide for them, and thought of what had occurred during the day, a

feeling of bitterness toward her kind came over her; but the remembrance

of the kind words, and the glass of cool water, so timely and

thoughtfully tendered to her, was like leaven in the waters of Marah.

Her heart softened, and with the tears stealing to her eyes, she glanced

upward, and asked a blessing on her who had remembered that, though

poor, she was still human.

Economy is a good thing, and should be practiced by all, but it should

show itself in denying ourselves, not in oppressing others. We see

persons spending dollar after dollar foolishly one hour, and in the next

trying to save a five penny piece off of a wood-sawyer, coal-heaver, or

market-woman. Such things are disgraceful, if not dishonest.

* * * * *

THE SOUL’S SEARCH.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

A weary, wandering soul am I,

O’erburthened with an earthly weight;

A palmer through the world and sky

Seeking the celestial gate.

Tell me, ye sweet and sinless flowers,

Who all night gaze upon the skies,

Have ye not in the silent hours

Seen aught of Paradise?

Ye birds, that soar and sing, elate

With joy which makes your voices strong,

Have ye not at the crystal gate

Caught somewhat of your song?

Ye waters, sparkling in the morn,

Ye seas, which hold the starry night,

Have ye not from the imperial bourn

Caught glimpses of its light?

Ye hermit oaks, and sentinel pines,

Ye mountain forests old and gray,

In all your long and winding lines

Have ye not seen the way?

Thou moon, ’mid all thy starry bowers,

Knowest thou the path the angels tread?

Seest thou beyond thy azure towers

The golden gates dispread?

Ye holy spheres, that sang with earth

While earth was yet a sinless star,

Have the immortals heavenly birth

Within your realms afar?

Thou monarch sun, whose light unfurls

Thy banners through unnumbered skies,

Seest thou amid thy subject worlds

The flaming portals rise?

All, all are mute! and still am I

O’erburthened with an earthly weight,

A palmer through the world and sky

Seeking the celestial gate.

No answer wheresoe’er I roam—

From skies afar no guiding ray;

But, hark! the voice of Christ says “Come!

Arise! I am the way!”

* * * * *

TO LIZZIE.

BY MRS. M. N. M’DONALD.

And all hearts do pray, “God love her!”

Ay, in certes, in good sooth,

We may all be sure He doth.

Miss Barrett.

There’s a charm about thee, Lizzie,

That I cannot well define,

And I sometimes think it lieth

In that soft blue eye of thine;

And yet, though pleasant is thine eye,

And beautiful thy lip—

As a rose-leaf bathed in honey dews,

A bee might love to sip—

Yet I think it is nor lip nor eye

Which binds me with its spell,

But a something dearer far than these,

Though undefinable.

When I meet thee, dearest Lizzie,

When I hear thy gentle tone;

When my hand is pressed so tenderly,

So warmly in thine own—

Why then I think it is thy voice,

Whose music, like a bird’s,

Can soothe me with the melody

Of sweetly spoken words:

Perchance the pressure of thy hand

This hidden charm may be—

Or the magic, Lizzie, of a sigh

That lures my heart to thee.

Perchance it is thy gentleness,

Perchance thy winning smile,

Which lurketh in such dimples

As might _easily_ beguile;

Or perchance the music of thy laugh

Hath a bewildering flow—

Yet I cannot tell, my Lizzie,

If it be thy laugh or no;

For mirth as musical as thine

Hath met mine ear before,

But its memory faded from my heart

When once the strain was o’er.

Oh! for the wand of fairy

To dissolve the witching spell,

And teach me, dearest Lizzie,

What it is I love so well.

Thy simple truth and earnestness,

Perchance it may be this,

Or the gentle kindness breathing

In thy morn or evening kiss—

Thy care for others’ weal or wo,

Thy quickly springing tears—

Or, at times, a quiet thoughtfulness,

Unmeet for thy brief years.

Well, be it either look or tone,

Or smile, or soft caress,

I know not, Lizzie, yet I feel

I could not love thee less.

And something, haply, there may be,

“Like light within a vase,”

Which, from the soul-depths gleaming forth,

Flings o’er thee such a grace.

Perchance, the hidden charm I seek,

That words may not impart,

Is but the warm affections

Of a kind and loving heart.

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. As You Like It.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(_Continued from page 313._)

PART VIII.

Ay, fare you well, fair gentleman.—As You Like It.

While the tyro believes the vessel is about to capsize at every puff of

wind, the practiced seaman alone knows when danger truly besets him in

this particular form. Thus it was with Harry Mulford, when the Mexican

schooner went over, as related in the close of the preceding chapter. He

felt no alarm until the danger actually came. Then, indeed, no one there

was so quickly or so thoroughly apprized of what the result would be,

and he directed all his exertions to meet the exigency. While there was

the smallest hope of success, he did not lessen, in the least, his

endeavors to save the vessel; making almost superhuman efforts to cast

off the fore-sheet, so as to relieve the schooner from the pressure of

one of her sails. But, no sooner did he hear the barrels in the hold

surging to leeward, and feel by the inclination of the deck beneath his

feet, that nothing could save the craft, than he abandoned the sheet,

and sprang to the assistance of Rose. It was time he did; for, having

followed him into the vessel’s lee waist, she was the first to be

submerged in the sea, and would have been hopelessly drowned, but for

Mulford’s timely succor. Women _might_ swim more readily than men, and

do so swim, in those portions of the world where the laws of nature are

not counteracted by human conventions. Rose Budd, however, had received

the vicious education which civilized society inflicts on her sex, and,

as a matter of course, was totally helpless in an element in which it

was the design of Divine Providence she should possess the common means

of sustaining herself, like every other being endued with animal life.

Not so with Mulford, he swam with ease and force, and had no difficulty

in sustaining Rose until the schooner had settled into her new berth, or

in hauling her on the vessel’s bottom immediately after.

Luckily, there was no swell, or so little as not to endanger those who

were on the schooner’s bilge; and Mulford had no sooner placed her in

momentary safety at least, whom he prized far higher than his own life,

than he bethought him of his other companions. Jack Tier had hauled

himself up to windward by the rope that steadied the tiller, and he had

called on Mrs. Budd to imitate his example. It was so natural for even a

woman to grasp any thing like a rope at such a moment, that the widow

instinctively obeyed, while Biddy seized, at random, the first thing of

the sort that offered. Owing to these fortunate chances, Jack and Mrs.

Budd succeeded in reaching the quarter of the schooner, the former

actually getting up on the bottom of the wreck, on to which he was

enabled to float the widow, who was almost as buoyant as cork, as,

indeed, was the case with Jack himself. All the stern and bows of the

vessel were under water, in consequence of her leanness forward and aft;

but though submerged, she offered a precarious footing, even in these

extremities, to such as could reach them. On the other hand, the place

where Rose stood, or the bilge of the vessel, was two or three feet

above the surface of the sea, though slippery and inclining in shape.

It was not half a minute from the time that Mulford sprang to Rose’s

succor, ere he had her on the vessel’s bottom. In another half minute,

he had waded down on the schooner’s counter, where Jack Tier was lustily

calling to him for “help,” and assisted the widow to her feet, and

supported her until she stood at Rose’s side. Leaving the last in her

aunt’s arms, half distracted between dread and joy, he turned to the

assistance of Biddy. The rope at which the Irish woman had caught, was a

straggling end that had been made fast to the main channels of the

schooner, for the support of a fender, and had been hauled partly

in-board to keep it out of the water. Biddy had found no difficulty in

dragging herself up to the chains, therefore, and had she been content

to sustain herself by the rope, leaving as much of her body submerged as

comported with breathing, her task would have been easy. But, like most

persons who do not know how to swim, the good woman was fast exhausting

her strength, by vain efforts to walk on the surface of an element that

was never made to sustain her. Unpracticed persons, in such situations,

cannot be taught to believe that their greatest safety is in leaving as

much of their bodies as possible beneath the water, keeping the mouth

and nose alone free for breath. But we have seen even instances in which

men, who were in danger of drowning, seemed to believe it might be

possible for them to crawl over the waves on their hands and knees. The

philosophy of the contrary course is so very simple, that one would

fancy a very child might be made to comprehend it; yet, it is rare to

find one unaccustomed to the water, and who is suddenly exposed to its

dangers, that does not resort, under the pressure of present alarm, to

the very reverse of the true means to save his or her life.

Mulford had no difficulty in finding Bridget, whose exclamations of

“murther!” “help!” “he-l-lup!” “Jasus!” and other similar cries led him

directly to the spot, where she was fast drowning herself by her own

senseless struggles. Seizing her by the arm, the active young mate soon

placed her on her feet, though her cries did not cease until she was

ordered by her mistress to keep silence.

Having thus rescued the whole of his companions from immediate danger,

Mulford began to think of the future. He was seized with sudden surprise

that the vessel did not sink, and for a minute he was unable to account

for the unusual fact. On the former occasion, the schooner had gone down

almost as soon as she fell over; but now she floated with so much

buoyancy as to leave most of her keel and all of her bilge on one side

quite clear of the water. As one of the main hatches was off, and the

cabins doors, and booby-hatch doors forward were open, and all were

under water, it required a little reflection on the part of Mulford to

understand on what circumstance all their lives now depended. The mate

soon ascertained the truth, however, and we may as well explain it to

the reader in our own fashion, in order to put him on a level with the

young seaman.

The puff of wind, or little squall, had struck the schooner at the most

unfavorable moment for her safety. She had just lost her way in tacking,

and the hull not moving ahead, as happens when a craft is thus assailed

with the motion on her, all the power of the wind was expended in the

direction necessary to capsize her. Another disadvantage arose from the

want of motion. The rudder, which acts solely by pressing against the

water as the vessel meets it, was useless, and it was not possible to

luff, and throw the wind from the sails, as is usually practiced by

fore-and-aft rigged craft, in moments of such peril. In consequence of

these united difficulties, the shifting of the cargo in the hold, the

tenderness of the craft itself, and the force of the squall, the

schooner had gone so far over as to carry all three of the openings to

her interior suddenly under water, where they remained, held by the

pressure of the cargo that had rolled to leeward. Had not the water

completely covered these openings, or hatches, the schooner must have

sunk in a minute or two, or by the time Mulford had got all his

companions safe on her bilge. But they were completely submerged, and so

continued to be, which circumstance alone prevented the vessel from

sinking, as the following simple explanation will show.

Any person who will put an empty tumbler, bottom upwards, into a bucket

of water, will find that the water will not rise within the tumbler more

than an inch at most. At that point it is arrested by the resistance of

the air, which, unable to escape, and compressed into a narrow compass,

forms a body that the other fluid cannot penetrate. It is on this simple

and familiar principle, that the chemist keeps his gases, in inverted

glasses, placing them on shelves slightly submerged in water. Thus it

was, then, that the schooner continued to float, though nearly bottom

upward, and with three inlets open, by which the water could and did

penetrate. A considerable quantity of the element had rushed in at the

instant of capsizing, but meeting with resistance from the compressed

and pent air, its progress had been arrested, and the wreck continued to

float, sustained by the buoyancy that was imparted to it, in containing

so large a body of a substance no heavier than atmospheric air. After

displacing its weight of water, enough of buoyancy remained to raise the

keel a few feet above the level of the sea.

As soon as Mulford had ascertained the facts of their situation, he

communicated them to his companions, encouraging them to hope for

eventual safety. It was true, their situation was nearly desperate,

admitting that the wreck should continue to float forever, since they

were nearly without food, or any thing to drink, and had no means of

urging the hull through the water. They must float, too, at the mercy of

the winds and waves, and should a sea get up, it might soon be

impossible for Mulford himself to maintain his footing on the bottom of

the wreck. All this the young man had dimly shadowed forth to him,

through his professional experience; but the certainty of the vessel’s

not sinking immediately had so far revived his spirits, as to cause him

to look on the bright side of the future, pale as that glimmering of

hope was made to appear whenever reason cast one of its severe glances

athwart it.

Harry had no difficulty in making Rose comprehend their precise

situation. Her active and clear mind understood at once the causes of

their present preservation, and most of the hazards of the future. It

was not so with Jack Tier. He was composed, even resigned; but he could

not see the reason why the schooner still floated.

“I know that the cabin-doors were open,” he said, “and if they wasn’t,

of no great matter would it be, since the joints ar’n’t caulked, and the

water would run through them as through a sieve. I’m afeard, Mr.

Mulford, we shall find the wreck going from under our feet afore long,

and when we least wish it, perhaps.”

“I tell you the wreck will float so long as the air remains in its

hold,” returned the mate, cheerfully. “Do you not see how buoyant it

is?—the certain proof that there is plenty of air within. So long as

that remains, the hull _must_ float.”

“I’ve always understood,” said Jack, sticking to his opinion, “that

wessels floats by vartue of water, and not by vartue of air; and, that

when the water gets on the wrong side on ’em, there’s little hope left

of keepin’ ’em up.”

“What has become of the boat?” suddenly cried the mate. “I have been so

much occupied as to have forgotten the boat. In that boat we might all

of us still reach Key West. I see nothing of the boat!”

A profound silence succeeded this sudden and unexpected question. All

knew that the boat was gone, and all knew that it had been lost by the

widow’s pertinacity and clumsiness; but no one felt disposed to betray

her at that grave moment. Mulford left the bilge, and waded as far aft

as it was at all prudent for him to proceed, in the vain hope that the

boat might be there, fastened by its painter to the schooner’s tafferel,

as he had left it, but concealed from view by the darkness of the night.

Not finding what he was after, he returned to his companions, still

uttering exclamations of surprise at the unaccountable loss of the boat.

Rose now told him that the boat had got adrift some ten or fifteen

minutes before the accident befell them, and that they were actually

endeavoring to recover it when the squall, which capsized the schooner,

struck them.

“And why did you not call me, Rose?” asked Harry, with a little of

gentle reproach in his manner. “It must have soon been my watch on deck,

and it would have been better that I should lose half an hour of my

watch below, than we should lose the boat.”

Rose was now obliged to confess that the time for calling him had long

been past, and that the faint streak of light, which was just appearing

in the east, was the near approach of day. This explanation was made

gently, but frankly, and Mulford experienced a glow of pleasure at his

heart, even in that moment of jeopardy, when he understood Rose’s motive

for not having him disturbed. As the boat was gone, with little or no

prospect of its being recovered again, no more was said about it; and

the widow, who had stood on thorns the while, had the relief of

believing that her awkwardness was forgotten.

It was such a relief from an imminent danger to have escaped from

drowning when the schooner capsized, that those on her bottom did not,

for some little time, realize all the terrors of their actual situation.

The inconvenience of being wet was a trifle not to be thought of, and,

in fact, the light summer dresses worn by all, linen or cotton as they

were entirely, were soon effectually dried in the wind. The keel made a

tolerably convenient seat, and the whole party placed themselves on it

to await the return of day, in order to obtain a view of all that their

situation offered in the way of a prospect. While thus awaiting, a

broken and short dialogue occurred.

“Had you stood to the northward the whole night?” asked Mulford,

gloomily, of Jack Tier; for gloomily he began to feel, as all the facts

of their case began to press more closely on his mind. “If so, we must

be well off the reef, and out of the track of wreckers and turtlers. How

had you the wind, and how did you head before the accident happened?”

“The wind was light the whole time, and for some hours it was nearly

calm,” answered Jack, in the same vein; “I kept the schooner’s head to

the nor’ard, until I thought we were getting too far off our course, and

then I put her about. I do not think we could have been any great

distance from the reef, when the boat got away from us, and I suppose we

are in its neighborhood now, for I was tacking to fall in with the boat

when the craft went over.”

“To fall in with the boat! Did you keep off to leeward of it, then, that

you expected to fetch it by tacking?”

“Ay, a good bit; and I think the boat is now away here to windward of

us, drifting athwart our bows.”

This was important news to Mulford. Could he only get that boat, the

chances of being saved would be increased a hundred fold, nay, would

almost amount to a certainty; whereas, so long as the wind held to the

southward and eastward, the drift of the wreck must be toward the open

water, and consequently so much the further removed from the means of

succor. The general direction of the Trades, in that quarter of the

world, is east, and should they get round into their old and proper

quarter, it would not benefit them much; for the reef running

south-west, they could scarcely hope to hit the Dry Tortugas again, in

their drift, were life even spared them sufficiently long to float the

distance. Then there might be currents, about which Mulford knew nothing

with certainty; they might set them in any direction; and did they

exist, as was almost sure to be the case, were much more powerful than

the wind in controlling the movements of a wreck.

The mate strained his eyes in the direction pointed out by Jack Tier, in

the hope of discovering the boat through the haze of the morning, and he

actually did discern something that, it appeared to him, might be the

much desired little craft. If he were right, there was every reason to

think the boat would drift down so near them, as to enable him to

recover it by swimming. This cheering intelligence was communicated to

his companions, who received it with gratitude and delight. But the

approach of day gradually dispelled that hope, the object which Mulford

had mistaken for the boat, within two hundred yards of the wreck,

turning out to be a small low, but bare hummock of the reef, at a

distance of more than two miles.

“That is a proof that we are not far from the reef at least,” cried

Mulford, willing to encourage those around him all he could, and really

much relieved at finding himself so near even this isolated fragment of

_terra firma_. “This fact is the next encouraging thing to finding

ourselves near the boat, or to falling in with a sail.”

“Ay, ay,” said Jack, gloomily; “boat or no boat, ’twill make no great

matter of difference now. _There’s_ customers that’ll be sartain to take

all the grists you can send to their mill.”

“What things are those glancing about the vessel?” cried Rose, almost in

the same breath; “those dark sharp-looking sticks—see, there are five

or six of them; and they move as if fastened to something under the

water that pulls them about.”

“Them’s the customers I mean, Miss Rose,” answered Jack, in the same

strain as that in which he had first spoken; “they’re the same thing at

sea as lawyers be ashore, and seem made to live on other folks. Them’s

sharks.”

“And yonder is truly the boat!” added Mulford, with a sigh that almost

amounted to a groan. The light had, by this time, so far returned, as to

enable the party not only to see the fins of half a dozen sharks, which

were already prowling about the wreck, the almost necessary consequence

of their proximity to a reef in that latitude, but actually to discern

the boat drilling down toward them, at a distance that promised to carry

it past, within the reach of Mulford’s powers of swimming, though not as

near as he could have wished, even under more favorable circumstances.

Had their extremity been greater, or had Rose begun to suffer from

hunger or thirst, Mulford might have attempted the experiment of

endeavoring to regain the boat, though the chances of death by means of

the sharks, would be more than equal to those of escape; but still

fresh, and not yet feeling even the heat of the sun of that low

latitude, he was not quite goaded into such an act of desperation. All

that remained for the party, therefore, was to sit on the keel of the

wreck, and gaze with longing eyes at a little object floating past,

which, once at their command, might so readily be made to save them from

a fate that already began to appear terrible in the perspective. Near an

hour was thus consumed, ere the boat was about half a mile to leeward;

during which scarcely an eye was turned from it for one instant, or a

word was spoken.

“It is beyond my reach now,” Mulford at length exclaimed, sighing

heavily, like one who became conscious of some great and irretrievable

loss. “Were there no sharks, I could hardly venture to attempt swimming

so far, with the boat drifting from me at the same time.”

“I should never consent to let you make the trial, Harry,” murmured

Rose, “though it were only half as far.”

Another pause succeeded.

“We have now the light of day,” resumed the mate, a minute or two later,

“and may see our true situation. No sail is in sight, and the wind

stands steadily in its old quarter. Still, I do not think we leave the

reef! There, you may see breakers off here at the southward, and it

seems as if more rocks rise above the sea, in that direction. I do not

know that our situation would be any the better, however, were we

actually on them, instead of being on this floating wreck.”

“The rocks will never sink,” said Jack Tier, with so much emphasis as to

startle the listeners.

“I do not think this hull will sink until we are taken off it, or are

beyond caring whether it sink or swim,” returned Mulford.

“I do not know that, Mr. Mulford. Nothing keeps us up but the air in the

hold, you say.”

“Certainly not; but that air will suffice as long as it remains there.”

“And what do you call these things?” rejoined the assistant steward,

pointing at the water near him, in or on which no one else saw anything

worthy of attention.

Mulford, however, was not satisfied with a cursory glance, but went

nearer to the spot where Tier was standing. Then, indeed, he saw to what

the steward alluded, and was impressed by it, though he said nothing.

Hundreds of little bubbles rose to the surface of the water, much as one

sees them rising in springs. These bubbles are often met with in lakes

and other comparatively shallow waters, but they are rarely seen in

those of the ocean. The mate understood, at a glance, that those he now

beheld were produced by the air which escaped from the hold of the

wreck; in small quantities at a time, it was true, but by a constant and

increasing process. The great pressure of the water forced this air

through crevices so minute that, under ordinary circumstances, they

would have proved impenetrable to this, as they were still to the other

fluid, though they now permitted the passage of the former. It might

take a long time to force the air from the interior of the vessel by

such means, but the result was as certain as it might be slow. As

constant dropping will wear a stone, so might the power that kept the

wreck afloat be exhausted by the ceaseless rising of these minute

air-bubbles.

Although Mulford was entirely sensible of the nature of this new source

of danger, we cannot say he was much affected by it at the moment. It

seemed to him far more probable that they must die of exhaustion, long

before the wreck would lose all of its buoyancy by this slow process,

than that even the strongest of their number could survive for such a

period. The new danger, therefore, lost most of its terrors under this

view of the subject, though it certainly did not add to the small sense

of security that remained, to know that inevitably their fate must be

sealed through its agency, should they be able to hold out for a

sufficient time against hunger and thirst It caused Mulford to muse in

silence for many more minutes.

“I hope we are not altogether without food,” the mate at length said.

“It sometimes happens that persons at sea carry pieces of biscuit in

their pockets, especially those who keep watch at night. The smallest

morsel is now of the last importance.”

At this suggestion, every one set about an examination. The result was,

that neither Mrs. Budd nor Rose had a particle of food, of any sort,

about their persons. Biddy produced from her pockets, however, a whole

biscuit, a large bunch of excellent raisins that she had filched from

the steward’s stores, and two apples; the last being the remains of some

fruit that Spike had procured a month earlier in New York. Mulford had

half a biscuit, at which he had been accustomed to nibble in his

watches; and Jack lugged out, along with a small plug of tobacco, a

couple of sweet oranges. Here, then, was every thing in the shape of

victuals or drink, that could be found for the use of five persons, in

all probability for many days. The importance of securing it for equal

distribution, was so obvious, that Mulford’s proposal to do so, met with

a common assent. The whole was put in Mrs. Budd’s bag, and she was

intrusted with the keeping of this precious store.

“It may be harder to abstain from food at first, when we have not

suffered for its want, than it will become after a little endurance,”

said the mate. “We are now strong, and it will be wiser to fast as long

as we conveniently can, to-day, and relieve our hunger by a moderate

allowance toward evening, than to waste our means by too much indulgence

at a time when we are strong. Weakness will be sure to come if we remain

long on the wreck.”

“Have you ever suffered in this way, Harry?” demanded Rose, with

interest.

“I have, and that dreadfully. But a Merciful Providence came to my

rescue then, and it may not fail me now. The seaman is accustomed to

carry his life in his hand, and to live on the edge of eternity.”

The truth of this was so apparent as to produce a thoughtful silence.

Anxious glances were cast around the horizon from time to time, in quest

of any sail that might come in sight; but uselessly. None appeared, and

the day advanced without bringing the slightest prospect of relief.

Mulford could see, by the now almost sunken hummocks, that they were

slowly drifting along the reef, toward the southward and eastward, a

current no doubt acting slightly from the north-west. Their proximity to

the reef, however, was of no advantage, as the distance was still so

great as to render any attempt to reach it, even on the part of the

mate, unavailable. Nor would he have been any better off could he have

gained a spot on the rocks, that was shallow enough to admit of his

walking, since wading about in such a place would have been less

desirable than to be floating where he was.

The want of water to drink, threatened to be the great evil. Of this,

the party on the wreck had not a single drop! As the warmth of the day

was added to the feverish feeling produced by excitement, they all

experienced thirst, though no one murmured. So utterly without means of

relieving this necessity did each person know them all to be, that no

one spoke on the subject at all. In fact, shipwreck never produced a

more complete destitution of all the ordinary agents of helping

themselves, in any form or manner, than was the case here. So sudden and

complete had been the disaster, that not a single article, beyond those

on the persons of the sufferers, came even in view. The masts, sails,

rigging, spare spars, in a word, every thing belonging to the vessel was

submerged and hidden from their sight, with the exception of a portion

of the vessel’s bottom, which might be forty feet in length, and some

ten or fifteen in width, including that which was above water on both

sides of the keel, though one only of these sides was available to the

females, as a place to move about on. Had Mulford only a boat-hook, he

would have felt it a relief; for not only did the sharks increase in

number, but they grew more audacious, swimming so near the wreck that,

more than once, Mulford apprehended that some one of the boldest of them

might make an effort literally to board them. It is true, he had never

known of one of these fish’s attempting to quit his own element in

pursuit of his prey; but such things were reported, and those around the

wreck swam so close and seemed so eager to get at those who were on it,

that there really might be some excuse for fancying they might resort to

unusual means of effecting their object. It is probable that, like all

other animals, they were emboldened by their own numbers, and were

acting in a sort of concert, that was governed by some of the many

mysterious laws of nature, that have still escaped human observation.

Thus passed the earlier hours of that appalling day. Toward noon,

Mulford had insisted on the females dividing one of the oranges between

them, and extracting its juice by way of assuaging their thirst. The

effect was most grateful, as all admitted, and even Mrs. Budd urged

Harry and Tier to take a portion of the remaining orange; but this, both

steadily refused. Mulford did consent to receive a small portion of one

of the apples, more with a view of moistening his throat than to appease

his hunger, though it had, in a slight degree, the latter effect also.

As for Jack Tier, he declined even the morsel of apple, saying that

tobacco answered his purpose, as indeed it temporarily might.

It was near sunset, when the steward’s assistant called Mulford aside,

and whispered to him that he had something private to communicate. The

mate bade him say on, as they were out of ear-shot of their companions.

“I’ve been in sitiations like this afore,” said Jack, “and one l’arns

exper’ence by exper’ence. I know how cruel it is on the feelin’s to have

the hopes disapp’inted in these cases, and therefore shall proceed with

caution. But, Mr. Mulford, there’s a sail in sight, if there is a drop

of water in the Gulf!”

“A sail, Jack! I trust in Heaven, you are not deceived!”

“Old eyes are true eyes in such matters, sir. Be careful not to start

the women. They go off like gunpowder, and, Lord help ’em! have no more

command over themselves, when you loosen ’em once, than so many

flying-fish with a dozen dolphins a’ter them. Look hereaway, sir, just

clear of the Irish woman’s bonnet, a little broad off the spot where the

reef was last seen—if that an’t a sail, my name is not Jack Tier.”

A sail there was, sure enough! It was so very distant, however, as to

render its character still uncertain, though Mulford fancied it was a

square-rigged vessel heading to the northward. By its position, it must

be in one of the channels of the reef, and by its course, if he were not

deceived, it was standing through, from the main passage along the

southern side of the rocks, to come out on the northern. All this was

favorable, and at first the young mate felt such a throbbing of the

heart as we all experience when great and unexpected good intelligence

is received. A moment’s reflection, however, made him aware how little

was to be hoped for from this vessel. In the first place, her distance

was so great as to render it uncertain even which way she was steering.

Then, there was the probability that she would pass at so great a

distance as to render it impossible to perceive an object as low as the

wreck, and the additional chance of her passing in the night. Under all

the circumstances, therefore, Mulford felt convinced that there was very

little probability of their receiving any succor from the strange sail;

and he fully appreciated Jack Tier’s motive in forbearing to give the

usual call of “Sail, ho!” when he made his discovery. Still, he could

not deny himself the pleasure of communicating to Rose the cheering fact

that a vessel was actually in sight. She could not reason on the

circumstances as he had done, and might at least pass several hours of

comparative happiness by believing that there was some visible chance of

delivery.

The females received the intelligence with very different degrees of

hope. Rose was delighted. To her their rescue appeared an event so very

probable now, that Harry Mulford almost regretted he had given rise to

an expectation which he himself feared was to be disappointed. The

feelings of Mrs. Budd were more suppressed. The wreck and her present

situation were so completely at variance with all her former notions of

the sea and its incidents, that she was almost dumb-founded, and feared

either to speak or to think. Biddy differed from either of her

mistresses—the young or the old; she appeared to have lost _all_ hope,

and her physical energy was fast giving way under her profound moral

debility.

From the return of light, that day, Mulford had thought, if it were to

prove that Providence had withdrawn its protecting hand from them,

Biddy, who to all appearance ought to be the longest liver among the

females at least, would be the first to sink under her sufferings. Such

is the influence of moral causes on the mere animal.

Rose saw the night shut in around them, amid the solemn solitude of the

ocean, with a mingled sensation of awe and hope. She had prayed

devoutly, and often, in the course of the preceding day, and her

devotions had contributed to calm her spirits. Once or twice, while

kneeling with her head bowed to the keel, she had raised her eyes toward

Harry with a look of entreaty, as if she would implore him to humble his

proud spirit and place himself at her side, and ask that succor from

God, which was so much needed, and which indeed it began most seriously

to appear that God alone could yield. The young mate did not comply, for

his pride of profession and of manhood offered themselves as

stumbling-blocks to prevent submission to his secret wishes. Though he

rarely prayed, Harry Mulford was far from being an unbeliever, or one

altogether regardless of his duties and obligations to his Divine

Creator. On the contrary, his heart was more disposed to resort to such

means of self-abasement and submission, than he put in practice, and

this because he had been taught to believe that the Anglo-Saxon mariner

did not call on Hercules, on every occasion of difficulty and distress

that occurred, as was the fashion with the Italian and Romish seamen,

but he put his own shoulder to the wheel, confident that Hercules would

not forget to help him who knew how to help himself. But Harry had great

difficulty in withstanding Rose’s silent appeal that evening, as she

knelt at the keel for the last time, and turned her gentle eyes upward

at him, as if to ask him once more to take his place at her side.

Withstand the appeal he did, however, though in his inward spirit he

prayed fervently to God to put away this dreadful affliction from the

young and innocent creature before him. When these evening devotions

were ended, the whole party became thoughtful and silent.

It was necessary to sleep, and arrangements were made to do so, if

possible, with a proper regard for their security. Mulford and Tier were

to have the look-out, watch and watch. This was done that no vessel

might pass near them unseen, and that any change in the weather might be

noted and looked to. As it was, the wind had fallen, and seemed about to

vary, though it yet stood in its old quarter, or a little more easterly,

perhaps. As a consequence, the drift of the wreck, insomuch as it

depended on the currents of the air, was more nearly in a line with the

direction of the reef, and there was little ground for apprehending that

they might be driven further from it in the night. Although that reef

offered in reality no place of safety, that was available to his party,

Mulford felt it as a sort of relief, to be certain that it was not

distant, possibly influenced by a vague hope that some passing wrecker

or turtler might yet pick them up.

The bottom of the schooner and the destitute condition of the party

admitted of only very simple arrangements for the night. The females

placed themselves against the keel in the best manner they could, and

thus endeavored to get a little of the rest they so much needed. The day

had been warm, as a matter of course, and the contrast produced by the

setting of the sun was at first rather agreeable than otherwise. Luckily

Rose had thrown a shawl over her shoulders, not long before the vessel

capsized, and in this shawl she had been saved. It had been dried, and

it now served for a light covering to herself and her aunt, and added

essentially to their comfort. As for Biddy, she was too hardy to need a

shawl, and she protested that she should not think of using one, had she

been better provided. The patient, meek manner in which that humble, but

generous-hearted creature submitted to her fate, and the earnestness

with which she had begged that “Miss Rosy” might have her morsel of the

portion of biscuit each received for a supper, had sensibly impressed

Mulford in her favor; and knowing how much more necessary food was to

sustain one of her robust frame and sturdy habits, than to Rose, he had

contrived to give the woman, unknown to herself, a double allowance. Nor

was it surprising that Biddy did not detect this little act of fraud in

her favor, for this double allowance was merely a single mouthful. The

want of water had made itself much more keenly felt than the want of

food, for as yet anxiety, excitement and apprehension prevented the

appetite from being much awakened, while the claims of thirst were

increased rather than the reverse, by these very causes. Still, no one

had complained, on this or any other account, throughout the whole of

the long and weary day which had passed.

Mulford took the first look-out, with the intention of catching a little

sleep, if possible, during the middle hours of the night, and of

returning to his duty as morning approached. For the first hour nothing

occurred to divert his attention from brooding on the melancholy

circumstances of their situation. It seemed as if all around him had

actually lost the sense of their cares in sleep, and no sound was

audible amid that ocean waste, but the light washing of the water, as

the gentle waves rolled at intervals against the weather side of the

wreck. It was now that Mulford found a moment for prayer, and seated on

the keel, that he called on the Divine aid, in a fervent but silent

petition to God, to put away this trial from the youthful and beautiful

Rose, at least, though he himself perished. It was the first prayer that

Mulford had made in many months, or since he had joined the Swash—a

craft in which that duty was seldom thought of.

A few minutes succeeded this petition, when Biddy spoke.

“Missus—Madam Budd—dear Missus”—half whispered the Irish woman,

anxious not to disturb Rose, who lay furthest from her—“Missus, bees ye

asleep at sich a time as this?”

“No, Biddy; sleep and I are strangers to each other, and are likely to

be till morning. What do you wish to say?”

“Any thing is betther than my own t’oughts, missus dear, and I wants to

talk to ye. Is it no wather at all they’ll give us so long as we stay in

this place?”

“There is no one to give it to us but God, poor Biddy, and he alone can

say what, in his gracious mercy, it may please him to do. Ah! Biddy, I

fear me that I did an unwise and thoughtless thing, to bring my poor

Rose to such a place as this. Were it to be done over again, the riches

of Wall Street would not tempt me to be guilty of so wrong a thing!”

The arm of Rose was thrown around her aunt’s neck, and its gentle

pressure announced how completely the offender was forgiven.

“I’s very sorry for Miss Rose,” rejoined Biddy, “and I suffers so much

the more meself in thinking how hard it must be for the like of her to

be wantin’ in a swallow of fresh wather.”

“It is no harder for me to bear it, poor Biddy,” answered the gentle

voice of our heroine, “than it is for yourself.”

“Is it meself, then? Sure am I, that if I had a quar-r-t of good, swate

wather from our own pump, and _that’s_ far betther is it than the

Crothon the best day the Crothon ever seed—but had I a quar-r-t of it,

every dhrap would I give to you, Miss Rose, to app’ase your thirst, I

would.”

“Water would be a great relief to us all, just now, my excellent Biddy,”

answered Rose, “and I wish we had but a tumbler full of that you name,

to divide equally among the whole five of us.”

“Is it divide? Then it would be ag’in dividin’ that my voice would be

raised, for that same r’ason that the tumbler would never hold as much

as you could dhrink yourself, Miss Rose.”

“Yet the tumbler full would be a great blessing for us all, just now,”

murmured Mrs. Budd.

“And isn’t mutthon good ’atin’, ladies! Och! if I had but a good swate

pratie, now, from my own native Ireland, and a dhrap of milk to help

wash it down! It’s mighty little that a body thinks of sich thrifles

when there’s abundance of them; but when there’s none at all, they get

to be stronger in the mind than riches and honors.”

“You say the truth, Biddy,” rejoined the mistress, “and there is a

pleasure in talking of them, if one can’t enjoy them. I’ve been thinking

all the afternoon, Rose, what a delicious food is a good roast turkey,

with cranberry sauce; and I wonder, now, that I have not been more

grateful for the very many that Providence has bestowed upon me in my

time. My poor Mr. Budd was passionately fond of mutton, and I used

wickedly to laugh at his fondness for it, sometimes, when he always had

his answer ready, and that was that there are no sheep at sea. How true

that is, Rosy dear; there are indeed no sheep at sea!”

“No, aunty,” answered Rose’s gentle voice from beneath the shawl; “there

are no such animals on the ocean, but God is with us here as much as he

would be in New York.”

A long silence succeeded this simple remark of his well beloved, and the

young mate hoped that there would be no more of a dialogue, every

syllable of which was a dagger to his feelings. But nature was stronger

than reflection in Mrs. Budd and Biddy, and the latter spoke again,

after a pause of near a quarter of an hour.

“Pray for me, Missus,” she said, moaningly, “that I may sleep. A bit of

sleep would do a body almost as much good as a bit of bread—I wont say

as much as a dhrap of wather.”

“Be quiet, Biddy, and we _will_ pray for you,” answered Rose, who

fancied by her breathing that her aunt was about to forget her

sufferings for a brief space, in broken slumbers.

“Is it for you I’ll do _that_—and sure will I, Miss Rose. Niver would I

have quitted Ireland, could I have thought there was sich a spot on this

earth as a place where no wather was to be had.”

This was the last of Biddy’s audible complaints, for the remainder of

this long and anxious watch of Mulford. He then set himself about an

arrangement which shall be mentioned in its proper place. At twelve

o’clock, or when he thought it was twelve, he called Jack Tier, who in

turn called the mate again at four.

“It looks dark and threatening,” said Mulford, as he rose to his feet

and began to look about him once more, “though there does not appear to

be any wind.”

“It’s a flat calm, Mr. Mate, and the darkness comes from yonder cloud,

which seems likely to bring a little rain.”

“Rain! Then God is indeed with us here. You are right, Jack; rain must

fall from that cloud. We must catch some of it, if it be only a drop to

cool Rose’s parched tongue.”

“In what?” answered Tier, gloomily. “She may wring her clothes when the

shower is over, and in that way get a drop. I see no other method.”

“I have bethought me of all that, and passed most of my watch in making

the preparations.”

Mulford then showed Tier what he had been about, in the long and

solitary hours of the first watch. It would seem that the young man had

dug a little trench with his knife, along the schooner’s bottom,

commencing two or three feet from the keel, and near the spot where Rose

was lying, and carrying it as far as was convenient toward the run,

until he reached a point where he had dug out a sort of reservoir to

contain the precious fluid, should any be sent them by Providence. While

doing this, there were no signs of rain; but the young man knew that a

shower alone could save them from insanity, if not from death, and in

speculating on the means of profiting by one, should it come, he had

bethought him of this expedient. The large knife of a seaman had served

him a good turn, in carrying on his work, to complete which there

remained now very little to do, and that was in enlarging the receptacle

for the water. The hole was already big enough to contain a pint, and it

might easily be sufficiently enlarged to hold double that quantity.

Jack was no sooner made acquainted with what had been done, than he

pulled out a knife and commenced tearing splinter after splinter from

the planks, to help enlarge the reservoir. This could only be done by

cutting on the surface, for the wood was not three inches in thickness,

and the smallest hole _through_ the plank, would have led to the rapid

escape of the air and to the certain sinking of the wreck. It required a

good deal of judgment to preserve the necessary level also, and Mulford

was obliged to interfere more than once to prevent his companion from

doing more harm than good. He succeeded, however, and had actually made

a cavity that might contain more than a quart of water, when the first

large drop fell from the heavens. This cavity was not a hole, but a

long, deep trench—deep for the circumstances—so nicely cut on the

proper level, as to admit of its holding a fluid in the quantity

mentioned.

“Rose—dearest—rise, and be ready to drink,” said Mulford, tenderly

disturbing the uneasy slumbers of his beloved. “It is about to rain, and

God is with us here, as he might be on the land.”

“Wather!” exclaimed Biddy, who was awoke with the same call. “What a

blessed thing is good swate wather, and sure am I we ought all to be

thankful that there is such a precious gift in the wor-r-ld.”

“Come, then,” said Mulford, hurriedly, “it will soon rain—I hear it

pattering on the sea. Come hither, all of you, and drink, as a merciful

God furnishes the means.”

This summons was not likely to be neglected. All arose in haste, and the

word “water” was murmured from every lip. Biddy had less self-command

than the others, and she was heard saying aloud,—“Och! and didn’t I

dhrame of the blessed springs and wells of Ireland the night, and

haven’t I dhrunk at ’em all; but now it’s over, and I am awake, no good

has’t done me, and I’m ready to die for one dhrap of wather.”

That drop soon came, however, and with it the blessed relief which such

a boon bestows. Mulford had barely time to explain his arrangements, and

to place the party on their knees, along his little reservoir and the

gutter which led to it, when the pattering of the rain advanced along

the sea, with a deep rushing sound. Presently, the uplifted faces and

open mouths caught a few heavy straggling drops, to cool the parched

tongues, when the water came tumbling down upon them in a thousand

little streams. There was scarcely any wind, and merely the skirt of a

large black cloud floated over the wreck, on which the rain fell barely

one minute. But it fell as rain comes down within the tropics, and in

sufficient quantities for all present purposes. Everybody drank, and

found relief, and, when all was over, Mulford ascertained by examination

that his receptacle for the fluid was still full to overflowing. The

abstinence had not been of sufficient length, nor the quantity taken of

large enough amount, to produce injury, though the thirst was generally

and temporarily appeased. It is probable that the coolness of the hour,

day dawning as the cloud moved past, and the circumstance that the

sufferers were wetted to their skins, contributed to the change.

“Oh, blessed, blessed wather!” exclaimed Biddy, as she rose from her

knees; “America, afther all, isn’t as dhry a counthry as some say. I’ve

niver tasted swater wather in Ireland itself!”

Rose murmured her thanksgiving in more appropriate language. A few

exclamations also escaped Mrs. Budd, and Jack Tier had his sententious

eulogy on the precious qualities of sweet water.

The wind rose as the day advanced, and a swell began to heave the wreck

with a power that had hitherto been dormant. Mulford understood this to

be a sign that there had been a blow at some distance from them, that

had thrown the sea into a state of agitation, which extended itself

beyond the influence of the wind. Eagerly did the young mate examine the

horizon, as the curtain of night arose, inch by inch, as it might be, on

the watery panorama, in the hope that a vessel of some sort or other

might be brought within the view. Nor was he wholly disappointed. The

strange sail seen the previous evening was actually there; and what was

more, so near as to allow her hull to be distinctly visible. It was a

ship, under her square canvas, standing from between divided portions of

the reef, as if getting to the northward, in order to avoid the opposing

current of the Gulf Stream. Vessels bound to Mobile, New Orleans, and

other ports along the coast of the Republic, in that quarter of the

ocean, often did this; and when the young mate first caught glimpses of

the shadowy outline of this ship, he supposed it to be some packet, or

cotton-droger, standing for her port on the northern shore. But a few

minutes removed the veil, and with it the error of this notion. A seaman

could no longer mistake the craft. Her length, her square and massive

hamper, with the symmetry of her spars, and the long, straight outline

of the hull, left no doubt that it was a cruiser, with her hammocks

unstowed. Mulford now cheerfully announced to his companions, that the

ship they so plainly saw, scarcely a gun-shot distant from them, was the

sloop-of-war which had already become a sort of an acquaintance.

“If we can succeed in making them see our signal,” cried Mulford, “all

will yet be well. Come, Jack, and help me to put abroad this shawl, the

only ensign we can show.”

The shawl of Rose was the signal spread. Tier and Mulford stood on the

keel, and holding opposite corners, let the rest of the cloth blow out

with the wind. For near an hour did these two extend their arms, and try

all possible expedients to make their signal conspicuous. But,

unfortunately, the wind blew directly toward the cruiser, and instead of

exposing a surface of any breadth to the vision of those on board her,

it must, at most, have offered little more than a flitting, waving line.

As the day advanced, sail was made on the cruiser. She had stood through

the passage, in which she had been becalmed most of the night, under

short canvas; but now she threw out fold after fold of her

studding-sails, and moved away to the westward, with the stately motion

of a ship before the wind. No sooner had she got far enough to the

northward of the reef, than she made a deviation from her course as

first seen, turning her stern entirely to the wreck, and rapidly

becoming less and less distinct to the eyes of those who floated on it.

Mulford saw the hopelessness of their case, as it respected relief from

this vessel; still he persevered in maintaining his position on the

keel, tossing and waving the shawl, in all the manners that his

ingenuity could devise. He well knew, however, that their chances of

being seen would have been trebled could they have been ahead instead of

astern of the ship. Mariners have few occasions to look behind them,

while a hundred watchful eyes are usually turned ahead, more especially

when running near rocks and shoals. Mrs. Budd wept like an infant when

she saw the sloop-of-war gliding away, reaching a distance that rendered

sight useless, in detecting an object that floated as low on the water

as the wreck. As for Biddy, unable to control her feelings, the poor

creature actually called to the crew of the departing vessel, as if her

voice had the power to make itself heard, at a distance which already

exceeded two leagues. It was only by means of the earnest remonstrances

of Rose, that the faithful creature could be quieted.

“Why will ye not come to our relaif?” she cried at the top of her voice.

“Here are we, helpless as new-born babbies, and ye sailing away from us

in a con_thra_ry way! D’ye not bethink you of the missus, who is much of

a sailor, but not sich a one as to sail on a wrack; and poor Miss Rose,

who is the char-rm and delight of all eyes. Only come and take off Miss

Rose, and lave the rest of us, if ye so likes; for it’s a sin and a

shame to laive the likes of her to die in the midst of the ocean, as if

she was no betther nor a fish. Then it will be soon that we shall ag’in

fale the want of wather, and that, too, with nothing but wather to be

seen on all sides of us.”

“It is of no use,” said Harry, mournfully, stepping down from the keel,

and laying aside the shawl. “They cannot see us, and the distance is now

so great as to render it certain they never will. There is only one hope

left. We are evidently set to and fro by the tides, and it is possible

that, by keeping in or near this passage, some other craft may appear,

and we be more fortunate. The relief of the rain is a sign that we are

not forgotten by Divine Providence, and with such a protector we ought

not to despair.”

A gloomy and scanty breaking of the fast succeeded. Each person had one

large mouthful of bread, which was all that prudence would authorize

Mulford to distribute. He attempted a pious fraud, however, by placing

his own allowance along with that of Rose’s, under the impression that

her strength might not endure privation as well as his own. But the

tender solicitude of Rose was not to be thus deceived. Judging of his

wishes and motives by her own, she at once detected the deception, and

insisted on retaining no more than her proper share. When this

distribution was completed, and the meager allowance taken, only

sufficient bread remained to make one more similar scanty meal, if meal

a single mouthful could be termed. As for the water, a want of which

would be certain to be felt as soon as the sun obtained its noon-day

power, the shawl was extended over it, in a way to prevent evaporation

as much as possible, and at the same time to offer some resistance to

the fluid’s being washed from its shallow receptacle by the motion of

the wreck, which was sensibly increasing with the increase of the wind

and waves.

Mulford had next an anxious duty to perform. Throughout the whole of the

preceding day he had seen the air escaping from the hull, in an

incessant succession of small bubbles, which were formidable through

their numbers, if not through their size. The mate was aware that this

unceasing loss of the buoyant property of the wreck, must eventually

lead to their destruction, should no assistance come, and he had marked

the floating line on the bottom of the vessel with his knife, ere

darkness set in, on the previous evening. No sooner did his thoughts

recur to this fact, after the excitement of the first hour of daylight

was over, than he stepped to the different places thus marked, and saw,

with an alarm that it would be difficult to describe, that the wreck had

actually sunk into the water several inches within the last few hours.

This was, indeed, menacing their security in a most serious manner,

setting a limit to their existence, which rendered all precaution on the

subject of food and water useless. By the calculations of the mate, the

wreck could not float more than eight-and-forty hours, should it

continue to lose the air at the rate at which it had been hitherto lost.

Bad as all this appeared, things were fated to become much more serious.

The motion of the water quite sensibly increased, lifting the wreck at

times in a way greatly to increase the danger of their situation. The

reader will understand this movement did not proceed from the waves of

the existing wind, but from what is technically called a ground-swell,

or the long, heavy undulations that are left by the tempest that is

past, or by some distant gale. The waves of the present breeze were not

very formidable, the reef making a lee; though they might possibly

become inconvenient from breaking on the weather side of the wreck, as

soon as the drift carried the latter fairly abreast of the passage

already mentioned. But the dangers that proceeded from the heavy

ground-swell, which now began to give a considerable motion to the

wreck, will best explain itself by narrating the incidents as they

occurred.

Harry had left his marks, and had taken his seat on the keel at Rose’s

side, impatiently waiting for any turn that Providence might next give

to their situation, when a heavy roll of the wreck first attracted his

attention to this new circumstance.

“If any one is thirsty,” he observed quietly, “he or she had better

drink now, while it may be done. Two or three more such rolls as this

last will wash all the water from our gutters.”

“Wather is a blessed thing,” said Biddy, with a longing expression of

the eyes, “and it would be betther to swallow it than to let it be

lost.”

“Then drink, for Heaven’s sake, good woman, it may be the last occasion

that will offer.”

“Sure am I that I would not touch a dhrap, while the missus and Miss

Rosy was a sufferin’.”

“I have no thirst at all,” answered Rose, sweetly, “and have already

taken more water than was good for me, with so little food on my

stomach.”

“Eat another morsel of the bread, beloved,” whispered Harry, in a manner

so urgent that Rose gratefully complied. “Drink, Biddy, and we will come

and share with you before the water is wasted by this increasing

motion.”

Biddy did as desired, and each knelt in turn and took a little of the

grateful fluid, leaving about a gill in the gutters for the use of those

whose lips might again become parched.

“Wather is a blessed thing,” repeated Biddy, for the twentieth time—“a

blessed, blessed thing is wather!”—

A little scream from Mrs. Budd, which was dutifully taken up by the

maid, interrupted the speech of the latter, and every eye was turned on

Mulford, as if to ask an explanation of the groaning sound that had been

heard within the wreck. The young mate comprehended only too well. The

rolling of the wreck had lifted a portion of the open hatchway above the

undulating surface of the sea, and a large quantity of the pent air

within the hold had escaped in a body. The entrance of water to supply

the vacuum had produced the groan. Mulford had made new marks on the

vessel’s bottom with his knife, and he stepped down to them, anxious and

nearly heart-broken, to note the effect. That one surging of the wreck

had permitted air enough to escape to lower it in the water several

inches. As yet, however, the visible limits of their floating foundation

had not been sufficiently reduced to attract the attention of the

females; and the young man said nothing on the subject. He thought that

Jack Tier was sensible of the existence of this new source of danger,

but if he were, that experienced mariner imitated his own reserve, and

made no allusion to it. Thus passed the day. Occasionally the wreck

rolled heavily, when more air escaped, the hull settling lower and lower

in the water as a necessary consequence. The little bubbles continued

incessantly to rise, and Mulford became satisfied that another day must

decide their fate. Taking this view of their situation, he saw no use in

reserving their food, but encouraged his companions to share the whole

of what remained at sunset. Little persuasion was necessary, and when

night once more came to envelope them in darkness, not a mouthful of

food, or a drop of water remained to meet the necessities of the coming

morn. It had rained again for a short time, in the course of the

afternoon, when enough water had been caught to allay their thirst, and

what was almost of as much importance to the females now, a sufficiency

of sun had succeeded to dry their clothes, thus enabling them to sleep

without enduring the chilling damps that might otherwise have prevented

it. The wind had sensibly fallen, and the ground-swell was altogether

gone, but Mulford was certain that the relief had come too late. So much

air had escaped while it lasted as scarce to leave him the hope that the

wreck could float until morning. The rising of the bubbles was now

incessant, the crevices by which they escaped having most probably

opened a little, in consequence of the pressure and the unceasing action

of the currents, small as the latter were.

Just as darkness was shutting in around them for the second time, Rose

remarked to Mulford that it seemed to her that they had not as large a

space for their little world as when they were first placed on it. The

mate, however, successfully avoided an explanation; and when the watch

was again set for the night, the females lay down to seek their repose,

more troubled with apprehensions for a morrow of hunger and thirst, than

by any just fears that might so well have arisen from the physical

certainty that the body which alone kept them from being engulfed in the

sea, could float but a few hours longer. This night Tier kept the

look-out until Jupiter reached the zenith, when Mulford was called to

hold the watch until light returned.

It may seem singular that any could sleep at all in such a situation.

But we get accustomed, in an incredibly short time, to the most violent

changes; and calamities that seem insupportable, when looked at from a

distance, lose half their power if met and resisted with fortitude. The

last may, indeed, be too significant a word to be applied to all of the

party on the wreck, on the occasion of which we are writing, though no

one of them all betrayed fears that were troublesome. Of Mulford it is

unnecessary to speak. His deportment had been quiet, thoughtful, and

full of a manly interest in the comfort of others, from the first moment

of the calamity. That Rose should share the largest in his attentions

was natural enough, but he neglected no essential duty to her

companions. Rose, herself, had little hope of being rescued. Her

naturally courageous character, however, prevented any undue exhibitions

of despair, and now it was that the niece became the principal support

of the aunt, completely changing the relations that had formerly existed

between them. Mrs. Budd had lost all the little buoyancy of her mind.

Not a syllable did she now utter concerning ships and their manœuvres.

She had been, at first, a little disposed to be querulous and

despairing, but the soothing and pious conversation of Rose awakened a

certain degree of resolution in her, and habit soon exercised its

influence over even her inactive mind. Biddy was a strange mixture of

courage, despair, humility, and consideration for others. Not once had

she taken her small allowance of food without first offering it, and

that, too, in perfect good faith, to her “Missus and Miss Rosy;” yet her

moanings for this sort of support, and her complaints of bodily

suffering much exceeded that of all the rest of the party put together.

As for Jack Tier, his conduct singularly belied his appearance. No one

would have expected any great show of manly resolution from the little

rotund, lymphatic figure of Tier; but he had manifested a calmness that

denoted either great natural courage, or a resolution derived from

familiarity with danger. In this particular, even Mulford regarded his

deportment with surprise, not unmingled with respect.

“You have had a tranquil watch, Jack,” said Harry, when he was called by

the person named, and had fairly aroused himself from his slumbers. “Has

the wind stood as it is since sunset?”

“No change whatever, sir. It has blown a good working breeze the whole

watch, and what is surprising, not as much lipper has got up as would

frighten a colt on a sea beach.”

“We must be near the reef, by that. I think the only currents we feel

come from the tide, and they seem to be setting us back and forth,

instead of carrying us in any one settled direction.”

“Quite likely, sir; and this makes my opinion of what I saw an hour

since all the more probable.”

“What you saw! In the name of a merciful Providence, Tier, do not trifle

with me. Has any thing been seen near by?”

“Don’t talk to me of your liquors and other dhrinks,” murmured Biddy in

her sleep. “It’s wather that is a blessed thing; and I wish I lived, the

night and the day, by the swate pump that’s in our own yard, I do.”

“The woman has been talking in her sleep, in this fashion, most of the

watch,” observed Jack, coolly, and perhaps a little contemptuously.

“But, Mr. Mulford, unless my eyes have cheated me, we are near that boat

again. The passage through the reef is close aboard us, here, on our

larboard bow, as it might be, and the current has sucked us in it in a

fashion to bring it in a sort of athwart-hawse direction to us.”

“If that boat, after all, should be sent by Providence to our relief!

How long is it since you saw it, Jack?”

“But a bit since, sir; or, for that matter, I think I see it now. Look

hereaway, sir, just where the dead-eyes of the fore-rigging would bear

from us, if the craft stood upon her legs, as she ought to do. If that

isn’t a boat, it’s a rock out of water.”

Mulford gazed through the gloom of midnight, and saw, or fancied he saw,

an object that might really be the boat. It could not be very distant

either; and his mind was instantly made up as to the course he would

pursue. Should it actually turn out to be that which he now so much

hoped for, and its distance in the morning did not prove too great for

human powers, he was resolved to swim for it at the hazard of his life.

In the meantime, or until light should return, there remained nothing to

do but to exercise as much patience as could be summoned, and to confide

in God, soliciting his powerful succor by secret prayer.

Mulford was no sooner left alone, as it might be, by Tier’s seeking a

place in which to take his rest, than he again examined the state of the

wreck. Little as he had hoped from its long-continued buoyancy, he found

matters even worse than he apprehended they would be. The hull had lost

much air, and had consequently sunk in the water in an exact proportion

to this loss. The space that was actually above the water, was reduced

to an area not more than six or seven feet in one direction, by some ten

or twelve in the other. This was reducing its extent, since the evening

previous, by fully one-half; and there could be no doubt that the air

was escaping, in consequence of the additional pressure, in a ratio that

increased by a sort of arithmetical progression. The young man knew that

the whole wreck, under its peculiar circumstances, might sink entirely

beneath the surface, and yet possess sufficient buoyancy to sustain

those that were on it for a time longer, but this involved the terrible

necessity of leaving the females partly submerged themselves.

Our mate heard his own heart beat, as he became satisfied of the actual

condition of the wreck, and of the physical certainty that existed of

its sinking, at least to the point last mentioned, ere the sun came to

throw his glories over the last view that the sufferers would be

permitted to take of the face of day. It appeared to him that no time

was to be lost. There lay the dim and shapeless object that seemed to be

the boat, distant, as he thought, about a mile. It would not have been

visible at all but for the perfect smoothness of the sea, and the low

position occupied by the observer. At times it did disappear altogether,

when it would rise again, as if undulating in the ground-swell. This

last circumstance, more than any other, persuaded Harry that it was not

a rock, but some floating object that he beheld. Thus encouraged, he

delayed no longer. Every moment was precious, and all might be lost by

indecision. He did not like the appearance of deserting his companions,

but, should he fail, the motive would appear in the act. Should he fail,

every one would alike soon be beyond the reach of censure, and in a

state of being that would do full justice to all.

Harry threw off most of his clothes, reserving only his shirt and a pair

of light summer trowsers. He could not quit the wreck, however, without

taking a sort of leave of Rose. On no account would he awake her, for he

appreciated the agony she would feel during the period of his struggles.

Kneeling at her side, he made a short prayer, then pressed his lips to

her warm cheek, and left her. Rose murmured his name at that instant,

but it was as the innocent and young betray their secrets in their

slumbers. Neither of the party awoke.

It was a moment to prove the heart of man, that in which Harry Mulford,

in the darkness of midnight, alone, unsustained by any encouraging eye,

or approving voice, with no other aid than his own stout arm, and the

unknown designs of a mysterious Providence, committed his form to the

sea. For an instant he paused, after he had waded down on the wreck to a

spot where the water already mounted to his breast, but it was not in

misgivings. He calculated the chances, and made an intelligent use of

such assistance as could be had. There had been no sharks near the wreck

all that day, but a splash in the water might bring them back again in a

crowd. They were probably prowling over the reef, near at hand. The mate

used great care, therefore, to make no noise. There was the distant

object, and he set it by a bright star, that wanted about an hour before

it would sink beneath the horizon. That star was his beacon, and

muttering a few words in earnest prayer, the young man threw his body

forward, and left the wreck, swimming lightly, but with vigor.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

TO IANTHÉ.

Sweetest Ianthé, I can read thy features,

And tell the latent meaning of each look—

Thou most inscrutable of earth’s bright creatures;

Thou unread riddle in an open book—

To me thou art a clear and crystal brook,

And I need be no wonder-raising seer

To tell thee that thy brow of Parian stone

Is radiant with pure thought; that deep and clear

Thine eye is lighted from the soul alone.

That on thy tranquil nostril Courage sleeping

Heeds not the fears that Reason smiles to see;

That from the dimples round thy mouth are peeping

Sweetness and mirth and heavenly charity—

Thy glances—nay, look up—I’ll read them silently.

* * * * *

SPECTRAL AND SUPERNATURAL APPEARANCES.

BY R. BALMANNO.

Belief in the supernatural has obtained credit in the world from the

earliest records with which we are acquainted. The Grecian and Roman

histories are full of it; even the Sacred Volume contains instances of

spectral or preternatural appearances, which can neither be denied nor

explained. In all civilized nations, at all times, up to the present

period, we have testimony of unequivocal authority, giving minute

details of extraordinary facts, on the evidence of individuals of

unimpeachable integrity, which confound experience, elude investigation,

and baffle research. The wisest of our divines, and the most

accomplished of our philosophers are all forced to admit that there are

things, with which human comprehension and reason cannot successfully

grapple.