“It may turn out to be the key to the Gulf of Mexico, one of these days,

ma’am. Uncle Sam is surveying the reef, and intends to do something

here, I believe. When Uncle Sam is really in earnest he is capable of

performing great things.”

Mrs. Budd was satisfied with this explanation, though she told Biddy

that evening, that “locks and keys go together, and that the person who

christened the island to which they were going, must have been very weak

in his upper story.” But these reflections on the intellects of her

follow-creatures, were by no means uncommon with the worthy relict; and

we cannot say that her remarks made any particular impression on her

Irish maid.

In the meantime, the Mexican schooner behaved quite to Mulford’s

satisfaction. He thought her a little tender in the squalls, of which

they had several that afternoon, but he remarked to Rose, who expressed

her uneasiness at the manner in which the vessel lay over in one of

them, that “she comes down quite easy to her bearings, but it is hard

forcing her beyond them. The vessel needs more cargo to ballast her,

though, on the whole, I find her as stiff as one could expect. I am now

glad that I reefed, and reduced the head sails, though I was sorry at

having done so when we first came out. At this rate of sailing, we ought

to be up with Key West by morning.”

But that rate of sailing did not continue. Toward evening, the breeze

lessened almost to a calm again, the late tornado appearing to have

quite deranged the ordinary stability of the trades. When the sun set,

and it went down into the broad waters of the Gulf a flood of flame,

there was barely a two-knot breeze, and Mulford had no longer any

anxiety on the subject of keeping his vessel on her legs. His

solicitude, now, was confined to the probability of falling in with the

Swash. As yet, nothing was visible, either in the shape of land or in

that of a sail. Between the islets of the Dry Tortugas and the next

nearest visible keys, there is a space of open water, of some forty

miles in width. The reef extends across it, of course; but nowhere does

the rock protrude itself above the surface of the sea. The depth of

water on this reef varies essentially. In some places, a ship of size

might pass on to it, if not across it; while in others a man could wade

for miles. There is one deep and safe channel—safe to those who are

acquainted with it—through the centre of this open space, and which is

sometimes used by vessels that wish to pass from one side to the other;

but it is ever better for those whose business does not call them in

that direction, to give the rocks a good berth, more especially in the

night.

Mulford had gleaned many of the leading facts connected with the

channels, and the navigation of those waters, from Spike and the older

seamen of the brig, during the time they had been lying at the Tortugas.

Such questions and answers are common enough on board ships, and, as

they are usually put and given with intelligence, one of our mate’s

general knowledge of his profession, was likely to carry away much

useful information. By conversations of this nature, and by consulting

the charts, which Spike did not affect to conceal after the name of his

port became known, the young man, in fact, had so far made himself

master of the subject, as to have tolerably accurate notions of the

courses, distances, and general peculiarities of the reef. When the sun

went down, he supposed himself to be about half way across the space of

open water, and some five-and-twenty miles dead to windward of his port

of departure. This was doing very well for the circumstances, and

Mulford believed himself and his companions clear of Spike, when, as

night drew its veil over the tranquil sea, nothing was in sight.

A very judicious arrangement was made for the watches on board the

Mexican schooner, on this important night. Mrs. Budd had a great fancy

to keep a watch, for once in her life, and, after the party had supped,

and the subject came up in the natural course of things, a dialogue like

this occurred:

“Harry must be fatigued,” said Rose, kindly, “and must want sleep. The

wind is so light, and the weather appears to be so settled, that I think

it would be better for him to ‘turn in,’ as he calls it,”—here Rose

laughed so prettily that the handsome mate wished she would repeat the

words—“better that he should ‘turn in’ now, and we can call him, should

there be need of his advice or assistance. I dare say Jack Tier and I

can take very good care of the schooner until daylight.”

Mrs. Budd thought it would be no more than proper for one of her

experience and years to rebuke this levity, as well as to enlighten the

ignorance her niece had betrayed.

“You should be cautious, my child, how you propose any thing to be done

on a ship’s board,” observed the aunt. “It requires great experience and

a suitable knowledge of rigging to give maritime advice. Now, as might

have been expected, considering your years, and the short time you have

been at sea, you have made several serious mistakes in what you have

proposed. In the first place, there should always be a mate on the deck,

as I have heard your dear departed uncle say, again and again; and how

can there be a mate on the deck if Mr. Mulford ‘turns in,’ as you

propose, seeing that he’s the only mate we have. Then you should never

laugh at any maritime expression, for each and all are, as a body might

say, solemnized by storms and dangers. That Harry is fatigued I think is

very probable; and he must set our watches, as they call it, when he can

make his arrangements for the night, and take his rest as is usual. Here

is my watch to begin with; and I’ll engage he does not find it two

minutes out of the way, though yours, Rosy dear, like most girl’s

time-pieces, is, I’ll venture to say, dreadfully wrong. Where is your

chronometer, Mr. Mulford? Let us see how this excellent watch of mine,

which was once my poor departed Mr. Budd’s, will agree with that piece

of yours, which I have heard you say is excellent.”

Here was a flight in science and nautical language that poor Mulford

could not have anticipated, even in the captain’s relict! That Mrs. Budd

should mistake “setting the watch” for “setting our watches,” was not so

very violent a blunder that one ought to be much astonished at it in

_her_; but that she should expect to find a chronometer that was

intended to keep the time of Greenwich agreeing with a watch that was

set for the time of New York, betrayed a degree of ignorance that the

handsome mate was afraid Rose would resent on him, when the mistake was

made to appear. As the widow held out her own watch for the comparison,

however, he could not refuse to produce his own. By Mrs. Budd’s watch it

was past seven o’clock, while by his own, or the Greenwich-set

chronometer, it was a little past twelve.

“How very wrong your watch is, Mr. Mulford,” cried the good lady,

“notwithstanding all you have said in its favor. It’s quite five hours

too fast, I do declare; and now, Rosy dear, you see the importance of

setting watches on a ship’s board, as is done every evening, my departed

husband has often told me.”

“Harry’s must be what he calls a dog-watch, aunty,” said Rose, laughing,

though she scarce knew at what.

“The watch goes, too,” added the widow, raising the chronometer to her

ear, “though it is so very wrong. Well, set it, Mr. Mulford; then we

will set Rose’s, which I’ll engage is half an hour out of the way,

though it can never be as wrong as yours.”

Mulford was a good deal embarrassed, but he gained courage by looking at

Rose, who appeared to him to be quite as much mystified as her aunt. For

once he hoped Rose was ignorant; for nothing would be so likely to

diminish the feeling produced by the exposure of the aunt’s mistake as

to include the niece in the same category.

“My watch is a chronometer, you will recollect, Mrs. Budd,” said the

young man.

“I know it; and they ought to keep the very best time—_that_ I’ve

always heard. My poor Mr. Budd had two, and they were as large as

compasses, and sold for hundreds after his lamented decease.”

“They were ship’s chronometers, but mine was made for the pocket. It is

true, chronometers are intended to keep the most accurate time, and

usually they do; this of mine, in particular, would not lose ten seconds

in a twelvemonth, did I not carry it on my person.”

“No, no, it does not seem to lose any, Harry; it only gains,” cried

Rose, laughing.

Mulford was now satisfied, notwithstanding all that had passed on a

previous occasion, that the laughing, bright-eyed, and quick-witted girl

at his elbow, knew no more of the uses of a chronometer than her

unusually dull and ignorant aunt; and he felt himself relieved from all

embarrassment at once. Though he dared not even seem to distrust Mrs.

Budd’s intellect or knowledge before Rose, he did not scruple to laugh

at Rose herself, to Rose. With _her_ there was no jealousy on the score

of capacity, her quickness being almost as obvious to all who approached

her as her beauty.

“Rose Budd, you do not understand the uses of a chronometer, I see,”

said the mate, firmly, “notwithstanding all I have told you concerning

them.”

“It is to keep time, Harry Mulford, is it not?”

“True, to keep time—but to keep the time of a particular meridian; you

know what meridian means I hope?”

Rose looked intently at her lover, and she looked singularly lovely, for

she blushed slightly, though her smile was as open and amicable as

ingenuousness and affection could make it.

“A meridian means a point over our heads—the spot where the sun is at

noon,” said Rose, doubtingly.

“Quite right; but it also means longitude, in one sense. If you draw a

line from one pole to the other, all the places it crosses are on the

same meridian. As the sun first appears in the east, it follows that he

rises sooner in places that are east, than in places that are further

west. Thus it is, that at Greenwich, in England, where there is an

observatory made for nautical purposes, the sun rises about five hours

sooner than it does here. All this difference is subject to rules, and

we know exactly how to measure it.”

“How can that be, Harry? You told me this but the other day, yet have I

forgotten it.”

“Quite easily. As the earth turns round in just twenty-four hours, and

its circumference is divided into three hundred and sixty equal parts,

called degrees, we have only to divide 360 by 24, to know how many of

these degrees are included in the difference produced by one hour of

time. There are just fifteen of them, as you will find by multiplying 24

by 15. It follows that the sun rises just one hour later, each fifteen

degrees of longitude, as you go west, or one hour earlier each fifteen

degrees of longitude as you go east. Having ascertained the difference

by the hour, it is easy enough to calculate for the minutes and

seconds.”

“Yes, yes,” said Rose, eagerly, “I see all that—go on.”

“Now a chronometer is nothing but a watch, made with great care, so as

not to lose or gain more than a few seconds in a twelvemonth. Its whole

merit is in keeping time accurately.”

“Still I do not see how that can be any thing more than a very good

watch.”

“You _will_ see in a minute, Rose. For purposes that you will presently

understand, books are calculated for certain meridians, or longitudes,

as at Greenwich and Paris, and those who use the books calculated for

Greenwich get their chronometers set at Greenwich, and those who use the

Paris, get their chronometers set to Paris time. When I was last in

England, I took this watch to Greenwich, and had it set at the

Observatory by the true solar time. Ever since it has been running by

that time, and what you see here is the true Greenwich time, after

allowing for a second or two that it may have lost or gained.”

“All that is plain enough,” said the much interested Rose, “but of what

use is it all?”

“To help mariners to find their longitude at sea, and thus know where

they are. As the sun passes so far north, and so far south of the

equator each year, it is easy enough to find the latitude, by observing

his position at noon-day; but for a long time seamen had great

difficulty in ascertaining their longitudes. That, too, is done by

observing the different heavenly bodies, and with greater accuracy than

by any other process; but this thought of measuring the time is very

simple, and so easily put in practice, that we all run by it now.”

“Still I cannot understand it,” said Rose, looking so intently, so

eagerly, and so intelligently into the handsome mate’s eyes, that he

found it was pleasant to teach her other things besides how to love.

“I will explain it. Having the Greenwich time in the watch, we observe

the sun, in order to ascertain the true time, wherever we may happen to

be. It is a simple thing to ascertain the true time of day by an

observation of the sun, which marks the hours in his track; and when we

get our observation, we have some one to note the time at a particular

instant on the chronometer. By noting the hour, minutes, and seconds, at

Greenwich, at the very instant we observe here, when we have calculated

from that observation the time here, we have only to add, or subtract,

the time here from that of Greenwich, to know precisely how far east or

west we are from Greenwich, which gives us our longitude.”

“I begin to comprehend it again,” exclaimed Rose, delighted at the

acquisition in knowledge she had just made. “How beautiful it is, yet

how simple—but why do I forget it?”

“Perfectly simple, and perfectly sure, too, when the chronometer is

accurate, and the observations are nicely made. It is seldom we are more

than eight or ten miles out of the way, and for them we keep a look-out.

It is only to ascertain the time where you are, by means that are easily

used, then look at your watch to learn the time of day at Greenwich, or

any other meridian you may have selected, and to calculate your

distance, east or west, from that meridian,by the difference in the two

times.”

Rose could have listened all night, for her quick mind readily

comprehended the principle which lies at the bottom of this useful

process, though still ignorant of some of the details. This time she was

determined to secure her acquisition, though it is quite probable that,

woman-like, they were once more lost, almost as easily as made. Mulford,

however, was obliged to leave her, to look at the vessel, before he

stretched himself on the deck, in an old sail; it having been previously

determined that he should sleep first, while the wind was light, and

that Jack Tier, assisted by the females, should keep the first watch.

Rose would not detain the mate, therefore, but let him go his way, in

order to see that all was right before he took his rest.

Mrs. Budd had listened to Mulford’s second explanation of the common

mode of ascertaining the longitude, with all the attention of which she

was capable; but it far exceeded the powers of her mind to comprehend

it. There are persons who accustom themselves to think so superficially,

that it becomes a painful process to attempt to dive into any of the

_arcana_ of nature, and who ever turn from such investigations wearied

and disgusted. Many of these persons, perhaps most of them, need only a

little patience and perseverance to comprehend all the more familiar

phenomena, but they cannot command even that much of the two qualities

named to obtain the knowledge they would fain wish to possess. Mrs. Budd

did not belong to a division as high in the intellectual scale as even

this vapid class. Her intellect was unequal to embracing any thing of an

abstracted character, and only received the most obvious impressions,

and those quite half the time it received wrong. The mate’s reasoning,

therefore, was not only inexplicable to her, but it sounded absurd and

impossible.

“Rosy dear,” said the worthy relict, as soon as she saw Mulford stretch

his fine frame on his bed of canvas, speaking at the same time in a low,

confidential tone to her niece, “what was it that Harry was telling you

a little while ago. It sounded to me like rank nonsense; and men _will_

talk nonsense to young girls, as I have so often warned you, child. You

must never listen to their _nonsense_, Rosy; but remember your catechism

and confirmation vow, and be a good girl.”

To how many of the feeble-minded and erring do those offices of the

church prove a stay and support, when their own ordinary powers of

resistance would fail them. Rose, however, viewed the matter just as it

was, and answered accordingly.

“But this was nothing of that nature, aunty,” she said, “and only an

account of the mode of finding out where a ship is, when out of sight of

land, in the middle of the ocean. We had the same subject up the other

day.”

“And how did Harry tell you, this time, that was done, my dear?”

“By finding the difference in the time of day, between two places—just

as he did before.”

“But there is no difference in the time of day, child, when the clocks

go well.”

“Yes, there is, aunty dear, as the sun rises in one place before it does

in another.”

“Rose, you’ve been listening to nonsense now! Remember what I have so

often told you about young men, and their way of talking. I admit Harry

Mulford is a respectable youth, and has respectable connections, and

since you like one another, you may have him, with all my heart, as soon

as he gets a full-jiggered ship, for I am resolved no niece of my poor

dear husband’s shall ever marry a mate, or a captain even, unless he has

a full-jiggered ship under his feet. But do not talk nonsense with him.

Nonsense is nonsense, though a sensible man talks it. As for all this

stuff about the time of day, you can see it is nonsense, as the sun

rises but once in twenty-four hours, and of course there cannot be two

times, as you call it.”

“But, aunty dear, it is not always noon at London when it is noon at New

York.”

“Fiddle-faddle, child; noon is noon, and there are no more too noons

than two suns, or two times. Distrust what young men tell you, Rosy, if

you would be safe, though they should tell you you are handsome.”

Poor Rose sighed, and gave up the explanation in despair. Then a smile

played around her pretty mouth. It was not at her aunt that she smiled;

this she never permitted herself to do, weak as was that person, and

weak as she saw her to be; she smiled at the recollection how often

Mulford had hinted at her good looks—for Rose was a female, and had her

own weaknesses, as well as another. But the necessity of acting soon

drove these thoughts from her mind, and Rose sought Jack Tier, to confer

with him on the subject of their new duties.

As for Harry Mulford, his head was no sooner laid on its bunch of sail

than he fell into a profound sleep. There he lay, slumbering as the

seaman slumbers, with no sense of surrounding things. The immense

fatigues of that and of the two preceding days,—for he had toiled at

the pumps even long after night had come, until the vessel was

clear,—weighed him down, and nature was now claiming her influence, and

taking a respite from exertion. Had he been left to himself, it is

probable the mate would not have arisen until the sun had reappeared

some hours.

It is now necessary to explain more minutely the precise condition, as

well as the situation of the schooner. On quitting his port, Mulford had

made a stretch of some two leagues in length, toward the northward and

eastward, when he tacked and stood to the southward. There was enough of

southing in the wind, to make his last course nearly due south. As he

neared the reef, he found that he fell in some miles to the eastward of

the islets,—proof that he was doing very well, and that there was no

current to do him any material harm, if, indeed, there were not actually

a current in his favor. He next tacked to the northward again, and stood

in that direction until near night, when he once more went about. The

wind was now so light that he saw little prospect of getting in with the

reef again, until the return of day; but as he had left orders with Jack

Tier to be called at twelve o’clock, at all events, this gave him no

uneasiness. At the time when the mate lay down to take his rest,

therefore, the schooner was quite five-and-twenty miles to windward of

the Dry Tortugas, and some twenty miles to the northward of the Florida

Reef, with the wind quite light at east-southeast. Such, then, was the

position or situation of the schooner.

As respects her condition, it is easily described. She had but the three

sails bent,—mainsail, foresail and jib. Her topmasts had been struck,

and all the hamper that belonged to them was below. The mainsail was

single reeled, and the foresail and jib were without their bonnets, as

has already been mentioned. This was somewhat short canvas, but Mulford

knew that it would render his craft more manageable in the event of a

blow. Usually, at that season and in that region, the east trades

prevailed with great steadiness, sometimes diverging a little south of

east, as at present, and generally blowing fresh. But, for a short time

previously to, and ever since the tornado, the wind had been unsettled,

the old currents appearing to regain their ascendancy by fits, and then

losing it, in squalls, contrary currents, and even by short calms.

The conference between Jack Tier and Rose was frank and confidential.

“We must depend mainly on you,” said the latter, turning to look toward

the spot where Mulford lay, buried in the deepest sleep that had ever

gained power over him. “Harry is _so_ fatigued! It would be shameful to

awaken him a moment sooner than is necessary.”

“Ay, ay; so it is always with young women, when they lets a young man

gain their ears,” answered Jack, without the least circumlocution; “so

it is, and so it always will be, I’m afeard. Nevertheless, men is

willians.”

Rose was not affronted at this plain allusion to the power that Mulford

had obtained over her feelings. It would seem that Jack had got to be so

intimate in the cabins, that his sex was, in a measure, forgotten; and

it is certain that his recent services were not. Without a question, but

for his interference, the pretty Rose Budd would, at that moment, have

been the prisoner of Spike, and most probably the victim of his design

to compel her to marry him.

“All men are not Stephen Spikes,” said Rose, earnestly, “and least of

all is Harry Mulford to be reckoned as one of his sort. But, we must

manage to take care of the schooner, the whole night, and let Harry get

his rest. He wished to be called at twelve, but we can easily let the

hour go by, and not awaken him.”

“The commanding officer ought not to be sarved so, Miss Rose. What he

says is to be done.”

“I know it, Jack, as to ordinary matters; but Harry left these orders

that we might have our share of rest, and for no other reason at all.

And what is to prevent our having it? We are four, and can divide

ourselves into two watches; one watch can sleep while the other keeps a

lookout.”

“Ay, ay, and pretty watches they _would_ be! There’s Madam Budd, now;

why, she’s quite a navigator, and knows all about weerin’ and haulin’,

and I dares to say could put the schooner about, to keep her off the

reef on a pinch; though which way the craft would come round, could best

be told a’ter it has been done. It’s as much as _I’d_ undertake myself,

Miss Rose, to take care of the schooner, should it come on to blow; and

as for you, Madam Budd, and that squalling Irish woman, you’d be no

better than so many housewives ashore.”

“We have strength, and we have courage, and we can pull, as you have

seen. I know very well which way to put the helm now, and Biddy is as

strong as you are yourself, and could help me all I wished. Then we

could always call you, at need, and have your assistance. Nay, Harry

himself can be called, if there should be a real necessity for it, and I

_do_ wish he may not be disturbed until there is that necessity.”

It was with a good deal of reluctance that Jack allowed himself to be

persuaded into this scheme. He insisted, for a long time, that an

officer should be called at the hour mentioned by himself and declared

he had never known such an order neglected, “marchant-man, privateer, or

man-of-war.” Rose prevailed over his scruples, however, and there was a

meeting of the three females to make the final arrangements. Mrs. Budd,

a kind-hearted woman, at the worst, gave her assent most cheerfully,

though Rose was a little startled with the nature of the reasoning, with

which it was accompanied.

“You are quite right, Rosy dear,” said the aunt, “and the thing is very

easily done. I’ve long wanted to keep one watch, at sea; just one watch;

to complete my maritime education. Your poor uncle used to say, ‘Give my

wife but one night-watch, and you’d have as good a seaman in her as

heart could wish.’ I’m sure I’ve had night-watches enough with him and

his ailings; but it seems that _they_ were not the sort of watches he

meant. Indeed, I didn’t know till this evening there were so many

watches in the world, at all. But this is just what I want, and just

what I’m resolved to have. Tier shall command one watch, and I’ll

command the other. Jack’s shall be the ‘dog-watch,’ as they call it, and

mine shall be the ‘middle-watch,’ and last till morning. You shall be in

Jack’s watch, Rose, and Biddy shall be in mine. You know a good deal

that Jack don’t know, and Biddy can do a good deal I’m rather too stout

to do. I don’t like pulling ropes, but as for _ordering_, I’ll turn my

back on no captain’s widow out of York.”

Rose had her own misgivings on the subject of her aunt’s issuing orders

on such a subject to any one, but she made the best of necessity, and

completed the arrangements without further discussion. Her great anxiety

was to secure a good night’s rest for Harry, already feeling a woman’s

care in the comfort and ease of the man she loved. And Rose did love

Harry Mulford warmly and sincerely. If the very decided preference with

which she regarded him before they sailed, had not absolutely amounted

to passion, it had come so very near it as to render that access of

feeling certain, under the influence of the association and events which

succeeded. We have not thought it necessary to relate a tithe of the

interviews and intercourse that had taken place between the handsome

mate and the pretty Rose Budd, during the month they had now been

shipmates, having left the reader to imagine the natural course of

things, under such circumstances. Nevertheless, the plighted troth had

not been actually given until Harry joined her on the islet, at a moment

when she fancied herself abandoned to a fate almost as serious as death.

Rose had seen Mulford quit the brig, had watched the mode and manner of

his escape, and in almost breathless amazement, and felt how dear to her

he had become, by the glow of delight which warmed her heart, when

assured that he could not, would not, forsake her, even though he

remained at the risk of life. She was now, true to the instinct of her

sex, mostly occupied in making such a return for an attachment so

devoted as became her tenderness and the habits of her mind.

As Mrs. Budd chose what she was pleased to term the ‘middle-watch,’

giving to Jack Tier and Rose her ‘dog-watch,’ the two last were first on

duty. It is scarcely necessary to say that the captain’s widow got the

names of the watches all wrong, as she got the names of every thing else

about a vessel; but the plan was to divide the night equally between

these _quasi_ mariners, giving the first half to those who were first on

the look-out, and the remainder to their successors. It soon became so

calm, that Jack left the helm, and came and sat by Rose, on the trunk,

where they conversed confidentially for a long time. Although the reader

will, hereafter, be enabled to form some plausible conjectures on the

subject of this dialogue, we shall give him no part of it here. All that

need now be said, is to add, that Jack did most of the talking, that his

past life was the principal theme, and that the terrible Stephen Spike,

he from whom they were now so desirous of escaping, was largely mixed up

with the adventures recounted. Jack found in his companion a deeply

interested listener, although this was by no means the first time they

had gone over together the same story, and discussed the same events.

The conversation lasted until Tier, who watched the glass, seeing that

its sands had run out for the last time, announced the hour of midnight.

This was the moment when Mulford should have been called, but when Mrs.

Budd and Biddy Noon were actually awakened in his stead.

“Now, dear aunty,” said Rose, as she parted from the new watch to go and

catch a little sleep herself, “remember you are not to awaken Harry

first, but to call Tier and myself. It would have done your heart good

to have seen how sweetly he has been sleeping all this time. I do not

think he has stirred once since his head was laid on that bunch of

sails, and there he is, at this moment, sleeping like an infant!”

“Yes,” returned the relict, “it is always so with your true maritime

people. I have been sleeping a great deal more soundly, the whole of the

dog-watch, than I ever slept at home, in my own excellent bed. But it’s

your watch below, Rosy, and contrary to rule for you to stay on the

deck, after you’ve been relieved. I’ve heard this a thousand times.”

Rose was not sorry to lie down; and her head was scarcely on its pillow,

in the cabin, before she was fast asleep. As for Jack, he found a place

among Mulford’s sails, and was quickly in the same state.

To own the truth, Mrs. Budd was not quite as much at ease, in her new

station, for the first half hour, as she had fancied to herself might

prove to be case. It was a flat calm, it is true; but the widow felt

oppressed with responsibility and the novelty of her situation. Time and

again had she said, and even imagined, she should be delighted to fill

the very station she then occupied, or to be in charge of a deck, in a

“middle-watch.” In this instance, however, as in so many others, reality

did not equal anticipation. She wished to be doing every thing, but did

not know how to do any thing. As for Biddy, she was even worse off than

her mistress. A month’s experience, or for that matter a twelvemonth’s,

could not unravel to her the mysteries of even a schooner’s rigging.

Mrs. Budd had placed her “at the wheel,” as she called it, though the

vessel had no wheel, being steered by a tiller on deck, in the

’long-shore fashion. In stationing Biddy, the widow told her that she

was to play “tricks at the wheel,” leaving it to the astounded Irish

woman’s imagination to discover what those tricks were. Failing in

ascertaining what might be the nature of her “tricks at the wheel,”

Biddy was content to do nothing, and nothing, under the circumstances,

was perhaps the very best thing she could have done.

Little was required to be done for the first four hours of Mrs. Budd’s

watch. All that time, Rose slept in her berth, and Mulford and Jack Tier

on their sail, while Biddy had played the wheel a “trick,” indeed, by

lying down on deck, and sleeping, too, as soundly as if she were in the

county Down itself. But there was to be an end of this tranquillity.

Suddenly the wind began to blow. At first, the breeze came in fitful

puffs, which were neither very strong nor very lasting. This induced

Mrs. Budd to awaken Biddy. Luckily, a schooner without a topsail could

not very well be taken aback, especially as the head-sheets worked on

travelers, and Mrs. Budd and her assistant contrived to manage the

tiller very well for the first hour that these varying puffs of wind

lasted. It is true, the tiller was lashed, and it is also true, the

schooner ran in all directions, having actually headed to all the

cardinal points of the compass, under her present management. At length,

Mrs. Budd became alarmed. A puff of wind came so strong, as to cause the

vessel to lie over so far as to bring the water into the lee scuppers.

She called Jack Tier herself, therefore, and sent Biddy down to awaken

Rose. In a minute, both these auxiliaries appeared on deck. The wind

just then lulled, and Rose, supposing her aunt was frightened at

trifles, insisted on it that Harry should be permitted to sleep on. He

had turned over once, in the course of the night, but not once had he

raised his head from his pillow.

As soon as reinforced, Mrs. Budd began to bustle about, and to give

commands, such as they were, in order to prove that she was unterrified.

Jack Tier gaped at her elbow, and by way of something to do, he laid his

hand on the painter of the Swash’s boat, which boat was towing astern,

and remarked that “some know-nothing had belayed it with three

half-hitches.” This was enough for the relict. She had often heard the

saying that “_three_ half hitches lost the king’s long-boat,” and she

busied herself, at once, in repairing so imminent an evil. It was far

easier for the good woman to talk than to act; she became what is called

“all fingers and thumbs,” and in loosening the third half-hitch, she

cast off the two others. At that instant, a puff of wind struck the

schooner again, and the end of the painter got away from the widow, who

had a last glimpse at the boat, as the vessel darted ahead, leaving its

little tender to vanish in the gloom of the night.

Jack was excessively provoked at this accident, for he had foreseen the

possibility of having recourse to that boat yet, in order to escape from

Spike. By abandoning the schooner, and pulling on to the reef, it might

have been possible to get out of their pursuer’s hands, when all other

means should fail them. As he was at the tiller, he put his helm up, and

ran off, until far enough to leeward to be to the westward of the boat,

when he might tack, fetch and recover it. Nevertheless, it now blew much

harder than he liked, for the schooner seemed to be unusually tender.

Had he the force to do it, he would have brailed the foresail. He

desired Rose to call Mulford, but she hesitated about complying.

“Call him—call the mate, I say,” cried out Jack, in a voice that proved

how much he was in earnest. “These puffs come heavy, I can tell you, and

they come often, too. Call him—call him, at once, Miss Rose, for it is

time to tack if we wish to recover the boat. Tell him, too, to brail the

foresail, while we are in stays—that’s right; another call will start

him up.”

The other call was given, aided by a gentle shake from Rose’s hand.

Harry was on his feet in a moment. A passing instant was necessary to

clear his faculties, and to recover the tenor of his thoughts. During

that instant, the mate heard Jack Tier’s shrill cry of “hard a-lee—get

in that foresail—bear a-hand—in with it, I say.”

The wind came rushing and roaring, and the flaps of the canvas were

violent and heavy.

“In with the foresail, I say,” shouted Jack Tier. “She flies round like

a top, and will be off the wind on the other tack presently. Bear

a-hand!—bear a-hand! It looks black as night to windward.”

Mulford then regained all his powers. He sprang to the fore-sheet,

calling on the others for aid. The violent surges produced by the wind

prevented his grasping the sheet as soon as he could wish, and the

vessel whirled round on her heel, like a steed that is frightened. At

that critical and dangerous instant, when the schooner was nearly

without motion through the water, a squall struck the flattened sails,

and bowed her down as the willow bends to the gale. Mrs. Budd and Biddy

screamed as usual, and Jack shouted until his voice seemed cracked, to

“let go the head-sheets.” Mulford did make one leap forward, to execute

this necessary office, when the inclining plane of the deck told him it

was too late. The wind fairly howled for a minute, and over went the

schooner, the remains of her cargo shifting as she capsized, in a way to

bring her very nearly bottom upward.

-----

[3] We suppress the names used by Mrs. Budd, out of delicacy to the

individuals mentioned, who are still living.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

TO MRS. P——, OF CHESTNUT STREET.

Gentle as Aurora’s dawning,

Ere she wakes the blushing day,

Broke the light of girlhood’s morning

O’er her bright exulting way:

All her hopes were buoyant—glowing;

Rapture plumed the winged hours;

And, with mirth and music flowing,

Every foot-print filled with flowers.

Such was E—’s spring-day dreaming

As her path, through smiles and tears,

Beckoned her to visions beaming

On the front of after years:

O’er her form while Time was breathing

All of Beauty’s affluence now,

Grace and loveliness were wreathing

Garlands round her sunny brow.

’Midst her tresses archly smiling,

Love, the wily urchin, played;

Through her eyes he peered beguiling,

Round her lips he ever strayed:

In each limb, o’er every feature,

Unrestrained he seemed to move,

Till at length the peerless creature

Yielded all her soul to love!

Again her bark is on the billow,

Where the pageant Pleasure glides;

Not a thought disturbs her pillow

As she skims its sparkling tides:

Not a shade of earthly sorrow

Dims the wonder of her eye,

While its lustre seems to borrow

Radiance from tranquillity!

Still, at times, a touch of sadness

In its calm expressive beam

Strives to pale the light of gladness

That illumed her early dream:

And ’tis said she’s lost to feeling—

Spurning Nature’s high behest:

Ne’er by look or word revealing

Aught of passion in her breast!

Nay! though summer’s pride may wither;

Azure skies may lose their blue,

And the bee no longer gather

From the flower the honey-dew;

In her world of bright emotion,

Woman’s heart must beat the same,

Cherishing some deep devotion

With a pure undying flame!

* * * * *

SEA-SIDE MUSINGS.

BY ADALIZA CUTTER.

I stood beside the moaning sea one bright autumnal day,

And careless as a singing-bird whiled golden hours away;

Above me was a sunny sky, the winds were hushed to rest,

Gently the waves arose and fell, upon old ocean’s breast.

I gazed into the blue above and saw the sun’s rich glow,

I turned, and saw another sun gleam in the blue below,

One fleecy cloud like fairy robe upon the air did ride,

One little cloud, its own fair mate, sailed o’er the glassy tide.

A bright plumed bird was in the sky, its glitt’ring pinions free,

Another tiny bird I saw, for in the azure sea,

Down flew the one, the other up from ocean’s coral floor,

They kissed, then lightly flew away, and they were seen no more.

I almost thought a mermaid’s form would greet my eager view,

That water nymphs would rise and dance upon the waves so blue,

Or that some little fairy queen, with all her elfin train,

Would come and hold their festivals upon the sunlit main.

As on that sunny beach I stood, I fancied I could hear

Their voices low and musical, their silvery laughter clear;

I almost wished myself a fay, that I might join their throng,

To laugh, and dance, and dive with them, and sing the merry song.

I wished I had a little boat—a tiny painted oar,

That I might float upon the sea, far from that sandy shore,

Far, far away, until no sight would meet my kindling eye,

Save the blue ocean at my feet, and the blue boundless sky.

Far off, as far as eye could see, the white-sailed ships did glide

Like spirits o’er the bounding deep, in glory and in pride,

Like light clouds on the ocean’s breast these vessels seemed to be,

For thousand times ten thousand waves rolled between them and me.

O pleasant, pleasant were the hours I spent upon that shore,

Their memory within my heart will linger evermore,

Ay, they will live within this heart among the bright and fair,

The beautiful and sunny things which I have garnered there.

* * * * *

A DREAM.

BY FANNY FORESTER.

There is a great deal of reading in the world now-a-days, and some

strange reading—reading that furnishes food for dreams, and not a

little that would starve the intellect of a sleeping butterfly—the

_pâté de fois gras_ for the _gourmand_, and the wholesome brown bread

for the multitude. The most, however, is of the first and second kind;

both very useful—for even a famine has its uses. Last night I chanced

upon a long article which lulled me to sleep in the third paragraph; but

its soporific qualities were not sufficiently powerful to put the mind

at rest entirely. Oh! how the busy little sprites from dream-land raced

through the corridors and tripped it in the dark saloons of my poor

brain! And what queer phantasies they braided! As it pleaseth thee,

reader mine, a page or two shall be broidered with the shreds they left,

when they scampered off at the first day-dawn of waking reason peeping

through the windows of their festal palace. It will serve as a clue to

the kind of printed lullaby which furnished the wine for their revels.

It seemed a day in winter, chilly and boisterous, and as I drew my

stuffed-chair to the window, I mentally thanked God for the comforts of

a quiet, happy fireside; and thought with more uneasiness than I should

have cared to express of one who, could he have divined my thoughts,

would have laughed at me for the womanly sympathy. It is impossible to

comprehend a strength or power of endurance beyond our own; and my young

brother, with his ready scoff, on the very mention of the word

_fatigue_, and his strong hand playfully pinioning me as with a chain of

iron, had always been a perfect marvel to me. I looked out upon the

scudding clouds, and whirling snow, and upon the trackless road, and

wondered if there were any sufferers abroad; but before the thought had

fairly flitted across my brain I caught a glimpse of the figure of a

woman. A woman out on such a day! poor creature! Yet—_could_ I be

mistaken? No, it was—it surely was—my Cousin ’Bel! I did not wait to

wonder whence she came; it was enough to see her there, and in such

woful plight. On she came, now nearly buried in an enormous snow-drift,

now rising, the mark for the bold wind’s buffetings, her cloak

unclasped, and flapping about her like the wings of some great bird, her

hood made fast to the back of her neck by the strings which seemed

cutting into her reddened throat, her loosened hair streaming out in

every direction, all powdered over with the fleecy snow, and her veil

caracoling high in air, performing all the antics of a tumbler’s pony.

The snow was deep—_so_ deep! ugh! it makes me shiver to think of it!

But flouncing on she came, her beautiful face distorted and purple with

the cold and exertion—on, unaided, but not alone. Close behind her,

leisurely walking in the path she was making, who should I see but _big

Sam Jones_! Everybody knows Sam Jones, at least everybody about

Alderbrook, with his brawny shoulders and long, strong locomotives. He

might have tucked poor ’Bel into the hollow of his arm, and fancied he

was carrying a kitten. But not he. He folded his arms on his tough

sinewy chest, and sauntered along, till ’Bel, worn out with toiling and

tugging and battling with wind and storm, sunk down at last exhausted.

“Lost footing, Miss? It isn’t much of a storm,” observed Sam, with the

most good-natured, though contemptuous indifference; and on he passed,

leaving the lady to _find footing_ as best she might. Poor ’Bel! She was

(not poetically, but literally) in “snowy vestments, pure and white,”

when, panting and struggling, she resumed her way; and, by that time,

the tracks of big Sam, “far between” at best, were nearly filled with

snow.

“Bless me! ’Bel Forester! What _can_ have brought you out on such a day

as this?” I exclaimed, drawing her through the half-opened door, and

shivering as the cold air burst in at the gap, and whisked about my

ears. “Anybody sick? Any—”

“No-h! no! wait—till—uh!—till—I—get breath—uh!”

Great alarm were we in, and there was rubbing of hands, and chafing of

temples, and screaming among the children, and running for salts, till

finally the steaming cup was brought from the kitchen, and poor ’Bel was

scalded back to life.

“What is it, ’Bella?” I again inquired, when a proper time had elapsed.

“Do tell us what has happened!”

“Nothing. I thought I would just step in and bring you a paper. The

critics have taken you up.”

“ME!”

There _was_ something shocking in it, inconceivably shocking; and my

heart cut an involuntary pigeon-wing, (it hasn’t learned the Polka,)

while I mechanically stretched out my hand for the paper. But there was

a look on the face of Cousin ’Bel, unlike the one she wore when she

first encouraged my first timid sketch; and I felt that I should have

but partial sympathy. (Thank Heaven, it was only a dream!) Under such

circumstances, it was best not to appear too anxious.

“Is the criticism so very important,” I inquired, turning my eyes with

desperate resolution from the paper, which rustled in my shaking hand,

“that you should come to bring it me on such a day as this?”

“Pretty important, as things go now; and, of course, the storm would

have no influence in keeping me in doors.”

“_Of course!_”

“Ay! you act as though you had not heard of the Great Reform.”

How my curiosity was divided between the news and the criticism!

“Alderbrook is an out-of-the-way place,” interposed my mother.

“And so you really have not heard of the mighty revolution—the

establishment of principles of equality—the practical adoption of that

great first truth upon the face of our constitution, which is the

corner-stone of our liberties, declaring that not merely all men, but

all mankind are created free and equal.”

How eloquent ’Bel had grown! what _could_ it mean!

“In a word,” said my mother, rather entreatingly, “soberly and simply,

’Bella, we do not understand all this. What is the Great Reform?”

“In a word, then, aunty,” (’Bel forgot for a moment her pompous tone,)

“the establishment of Woman’s Rights.”

“Indeed!” (I thought I detected a pleased look even in my mother’s calm

eye; and for myself I turned a _pirouette_. Why, I did not exactly know,

but there was something in the words to tickle the ear.) “Indeed! and

what has that to do with your exposing your health in such a storm as

this?” (Ah! I was mistaken. My mother was older and wiser than ’Bel and

I.)

“Health! Never fear; we are not to be so whimsical as to mind those

things any more. Since we have succeeded in making men acknowledge, not

only our intellectual equality, but our entire fitness for the

performance of all the duties which have hitherto devolved on them

exclusively, we have set about establishing another point. Indeed, we

never shall be secure in the possession of our _rights_ till this point

is gained. We find that the general impression concerning our physical

weakness and delicacy of constitution is of great disadvantage to us, a

drawback on our enterprise, and we intend now to prove that we have as

much muscular strength as the other sex. We are their equals _in every

respect_; and if the truth be not willingly acknowledged, it must be

done upon compulsion.”

“Bless me, ’Bel!” But I broke off suddenly. _Could_ that be Cousin ’Bel?

If so, how metamorphosed! What an unnatural expression had crept over

her face! And how completely indurated were the once flexible muscles!

“Our new theory concerning this,” resumed my cousin, “is that the

imagination—”

But I lost ’Bel’s explanation, for by this time I had dipped into the

criticism, and the Great Reform, thrilling as the news had been, was

forgotten. She talked on, and my mother replied, but their voices

sounded like the murmur of a sea-shell I had no ear nor eye for any

thing but the great iron-shod foot that had suddenly planted itself on

my violet-bank.

“Sentimental.” True; but is sentiment, pure sentiment, a sin?

“Young-womanly.” Well, what else should the doings of a young woman be?

“Commonplace.” Ay; so is the poetry written by God the world over. I did

not profess to bring original creations—I but copied, here and there, a

touch from the simple things I loved.

“No depth of thought or strength of expression.”

I read on. Heavier and thicker came down the stunning blows, till I

could think of nothing so like it as Saturn among the poor frightened

fairies. I finished, and lifted my hand to see if my head were safe.

“Why this is preposterous!” at last I exclaimed, gaping in utter

amazement at the Procrustean bed on which I found my poor little fancies

stretched. “Every word is true; but who would think of whipping the poor

fawn into becoming an elephant, or of _faulting_ (as the New-lights say)

the same timid little trembler for not having the strength and courage

of the lion? Robin-red-breasts will not be allowed to fly hereafter,

because, forsooth, they have not wings fit to battle with the whirlwind,

eyes of flame, and hoarse screaming voices. Why I never professed to be

more than a Robin-red-breast, ’Bella.”

“True, but you must profess it _now_; and attain to something higher,

too, or feel your inferiority. Since the Great Reform, women do not talk

of one thing’s being proper for _them_ and another improper—every thing

is proper that they can do; and they _must do every thing that man has

done_, for it has been decided that they are fully his equals.

Henceforth in literature you must cultivate _strength_ at the expense

of—”

“But _our tastes_, ’Bel—if there were nothing else in the way—”

“We must correct our false feminine tastes. Recollect that hereafter we

are not to be the toys of the drawing-room, nor dawdle away our time in

the practice of airs and graces—”

“Ah! ’Bel, ’Bel! that’s a masculine accusation—don’t copy.”

“Well, then, we are not to lounge by the fireside—rocking cradles,

tending flowers, and arranging pretty dresses. Our influence is

extended, our sphere is widened. Our voices are to be heard—”

“What a pity, ’Bel, that the election is over; it would be such a

charming thing to ‘Hurrah for Polk and Dallas!’”

“Time enough for that four years hence; and, by the way, you may as well

begin to prepare for the next campaign. I intend to adopt oratory as a

profession; and you would do very respectably in that line, too, I

think.”

I looked despairingly at the paper in my hand, and wondered if I _could_

make a speech! At any rate, my literary career was ended. I _spoke_ of

the simplicity of my tastes, but I _felt_

(“My gentle boy, remember this

Is nothing but a dream.”)

a conscious weakness, as though I had suddenly been called upon to swing

an axe or lift a sledge-hammer. I could admire St. Paul’s, but (I speak

guardedly, lest my capabilities should be questioned,) it would not be

in accordance with my taste to conceive the plan or perform the labor of

building. So, though I might read some pages of Lord Verulam—nay,

actually admire them—their production would not have been to

me—_agreeable_. But the plea would do no longer: the mantle of feminine

tastes had suddenly been torn from me, and the wren was to be measured

by the king of birds.

“To the stump then,” thought I. “What a glorious reform this is, after

all! From being a scribbler in a small way, who knows but I may in time

become the first orator in the land? Women are proverbial for tonguely

gifts, and orators do not require very great depth. Like the belle with

her chit-chat, it is the tone and manner which do execution. To the

stump! Hur—”

I didn’t finish the hurrah. I might have done so, but for a little

womanly squeamishness, which could not be overcome all in a moment. Then

such influences! Up started my birdie with a rustle and twitter, shaking

its pretty wing, to tell me I must feed it if I would have it give me

music; a “wee toddling thing” tugged at my skirt, and lisped in a way

that I thought particularly bright and precocious, “take me up, sissy;”

and there was many a thing about the room—the work of my own fingers,

the charmed companions of holy hours—many things that laid a finger

upon the lip of my spirit. There is an atmosphere hovering about the

altar of a happy, love-guarded home, which—no matter! it had a very

troublesome, _hush-up_ way, in my dream of the Great Reform.

“I must get away from these reminiscences of past days,” said I, “before

I can _whoop_ or _hurrah_ to any purpose. I will get father to take me

to the city—”

“_Take_ you to the city! Take you, you say! And why not take yourself

there? What an arrant simpleton! I thought you would have more spirit,

Fan.”

“And—can I go alone?”

“Alone! certainly; alone and independently. Why, everybody would laugh

now-a-days to see you hanging to your father’s arm, like a child that is

just learning to walk.”

“Bless me, ’Bel! how could I—excellent! Then I never shall be obliged

to stay at home for lack of company, but can go when and where I please.

And I am not to be annoyed any more by officious collectors and captains

putting themselves every half hour in my way, to know if I am

‘comfortable, Miss?’ Alone and independently! Jubilate!”

“Thoughts have wings,” poets say; and they have said it so often that

parrot prose has taken up the echo, and thinks the sentiment its own

property. But “thoughts have wings,” nevertheless; and, at a flap of the

wing of that last exultant thought, home, Cousin ’Bel, and all vanished;

and I was on board a North River steamer, “alone and independent.” But

did I shout “_jubilate_” now? It was the least bit in the world

forlorn—that standing on the deck, with crowds of people all about me,

no one caring a clay pipe-stem, whether I was happy or miserable,

comfortable or suffering from fatigue and chilliness. I looked down into

the water, up at the sky, gazed at the shore (rather vacantly, I must

own,) and then turned to the people jostling past each other with a

care-for-naught air, as though “number one is the first law of nature”

had been the creed of everybody. “Independence may be a fine thing,”

thought I, “no doubt it is a fine thing, but—heigho!”

Somebody stepped on my dress. “Pardon, Miss!” The words popped pertly

from the lips, as men make a kind of pretence for an apology to each

other, with the head turned the other way. Dear me! what had I done to

forfeit my claim to that respectful deference of manner which I had

always considered a woman’s birth-right? My face reddened, half with

anger, half mortification; but luckily I soon remembered that “we were

_equal_ now;” and that the sacrifice could not all be on one side. There

was a _leveling up_, and a _leveling down_ in the Reform. Of course, we

could not gain an equality of strength and independence and maintain a

superiority of delicacy. That would be giving us a decided advantage. On

reflection I became reconciled; but the incident had disconcerted me a

little, and my position was not made more comfortable by observing that

staring had become quite the fashion. It was one of the fruits of

_equality_, to be sure; but while I drew my thick green veil, and turned

away to gaze into the water, I was very nearly guilty of the heresy of

wondering if we had not lost almost as much as we had gained. While I

stood here, the bell rang for supper, and there was a general rush to

the cabin. I hesitated a moment, (for I was afraid of being knocked down

in the confusion,) and then stepped along very timidly behind.

“It will be so awkward to go in and brush about for a seat!” said

bashfulness, pinching at my cheeks until there seemed to have been a

fire kindled on each.

“Pooh!” answered the Reform-spirit, “elbow your way through the crowd,

and allow yourself to be bullied by nobody.”

Bashfulness attempted another faint remonstrance, but I choked down the

foolish suggestions, as quite unworthy a woman of spirit, and made my

way resolutely along. My troublesome timidity had made me slow of foot;

for, by the time I gained the door, all the passengers were seated, and

the earnest clatter of knife and fork made my heart quake. “It is

nothing,” thought I, “I _will_ go in.” But I didn’t; _I was alone_.

“This is foolish,” urged common sense, “just step in quietly; nobody

will mind it.”

Ah! that was the thing. Nobody would mind it, except to look up with

that rude stare which I had already learned to dread; and if there

_should_ be any trouble about finding a vacant seat—oh, it would be

_too_ much! An ounce more of mortification, and I should jump into the

river. I was pretty hungry, but supper was nothing in comparison, and I

retreated to the deck. By and by, the passengers returned; and by this

time I had become sufficiently composed to watch others instead of

thinking all the time of myself. Men were sitting, and women standing

all about the deck, engaged in arguments which I found partook not a

little of the tone and manner which characterized most of the

contentions of last autumn. There is less of courtesy; men are more

bitter and vituperative in an argument on politics than on any other

subject, for the reason that they have not merely that one proposition

to defend, but pride of party to support; they are not holding an

argument with one man simply to establish a truth, but they are opposing

a party which it is conducive to their interest—whether right or not,

they _think so_—to put down. Precisely so was it in this case; though a

few of the more magnanimous among men, or a few, tired of “making

themselves slaves to keep their wives and daughters on a throne,” as

somebody has it, might not have been annoyed by the Great Reform, yet

the generality felt the party-spirit strong within them, and a theory

did not gain any thing in their eyes by being broached by a woman. I

remembered that in former days women were always the winners in a

controversy; though sometimes there was a biting of lips, and a forcing

of smiles, and bows, to let it be so; but now it was exactly the

reverse. Perhaps you will think the cause of truth gained by the change.

No such thing. There was no more impartiality than before. The

volubility of the women tried hard to match itself against the

stentorian voices of the men, and sometimes succeeded; the former were

gainers in the light-artillery of wit, but the latter invariably came in

with a heavy cannonade of _put-down-ism_, which would never have been

attempted even by a stage-driver, in such a presence, under the _old

régime_. While I was watching these doings, and wondering what would

become of myself in this new state of things, we were all of us startled

by a sudden bustle in another part of the boat—loud, angry voices in

altercation, accompanied by blows. The confusion lasted but a moment,

and I saw the combatants separated—a very pretty, spirited woman, and a

fat elderly gentleman, who looked as though he might, in general, be

quite temperate in the matter of treating himself to a fit of anger. But

this time he had been provoked beyond endurance, by taunts that would

have roused the good old Doubter, and had resorted to _caning_. The lady

did not carry a _cane_, but she used the sharp point of her _parasol_ to

very good purpose, until the spectators interfered, and the combatants

were obliged to content themselves with _looking_ canes and parasols.

The next _stirring_ incident was the jingling of a bell along the

saloon, by way of an accompaniment to “Those passengers as has not paid

their fare, please step to the cap’n’s office and se-et-tle!” What next?

I had hoped for a few moments of quiet, and now to commit myself to the

tender mercies of the crowd! I saw a great broad-shouldered woman thrust

a baby into the arms of a sheepish-looking man, probably her husband,

and pull from her capacious pocket, with some ostentation, an enormous

leathern-wallet. “She is going to the cap’n’s office,” thought I, and I

twitched her sleeve.

“Will—will you, madam, be kind enough to procure a ticket for me?” To

make such a request of a woman! But she smiled and bowed very

condescendingly, flattered by the compliment I had paid her superiority.

“This is a little too bad,” thought I, as the woman put the ticket in my

hand. “I do not care to pass for an idiot, and I must make an effort; I

see what it is that I need.” So I thought all night of the landing, and

resolved, and re-resolved to “act worthy of myself” on that occasion.

“Have a cab?” “’ve cab?” “’ve cab?” “cab?” “carriage?” “cab?” Fifty

voices, and fifty whips pointing, and twice fifty arms extended in a

manner which seemed to me at least threatening. Oh! what could “a poor

lone woman” do? I was stunned, frightened—it was very silly, and I knew

it was, but that consciousness did not make me wiser. Trifles became

matters of mighty import, now that I was alone, and should be obliged to

look after every thing myself. I made a great effort, and at last got

ashore, my baggage beside me.

“’Ve cab?” “’ve cab?” “_have_ a cab?” Somebody was peremptory, and I

might as well answer. I opened my mouth, but something choked back the

sound.

“’Ve cab?” “carriage?” “cab?” It was like being amid a troop of yelling

savages; I could bear it no longer, and I pronounced “_yes!_” with

something between a shriek and a howl. On the instant, together went a

half dozen bent heads with a tremendous thump; five recoiled—_not_

speaking very gently—and left my trunk the prey of one, who was

probably superior to the others in hardness of skull. I was very glad to

escape that test of equality, at least. The man whisked my trunk lightly

over his shoulder, took my carpet-bag in hand, and strode away. If I

should lose sight of him! He went very fast, and my trembling limbs were

nearly helpless. Then all the men looked alike; all had trunks on their

shoulders, and carpet-bags in their hands, and all had very funny caps,

and very red ears, so—if I _should_ lose sight of him!—If he should

carry off my trunk! was my next practice in the use of the mood

subjunctive. (Lest it should be thought that ladies are subject to such

fears, which everybody knows would be, like mine of the cabman, a

wrongful suspicion, I must again remind the reader that this is _only a

dream_.) If he should carry off my trunk! There was something alarming

in the supposition; I was sufficiently fatigued and excited before; my

limbs were trembling, my face burning, and my heart fluttering; I gave a

bound forward and—_fell headlong_. I heard a coarse burst of laughter,

and thought of all those red, bloated faces turned toward me; and then

my dream became a kind of nightmare, and so ended or changed.

Next, I was before a large public building, around which a crowd of

people had gathered, and I was trying to force my way in. Nobody moved.

Some dreamer, whose remembrance of past things was assisted by good

nature, said something about “a lady;” but the crowd, instead of parting

and standing back, as in other times, at the talismanic word, laughed my

Don Quixote in the face. How I got in I know not, but I was in, at last.

“Better ’ave staid on the outside!” said a burly individual near me,

“there aint no seats to be had for love nor money.”

It was easy enough to be seen that nobody would owe a seat to courtesy.

So I leaned against a pillar, and tried to forget that I had a body. It

was no easy task, for here was an ache, and there a tremor, and there a

faintness, which made me very sensible of not being all spirit. I seemed

to be in a court-room, and a woman was speaking with great earnestness

in behalf of her client, a dog-stealer. She was very red in the face,

and very fierce in the eye; her voice, which was roused to its topmost

pitch, had a shrill squeak to it, which grated on my nerves like the

finger-nail upon dried plaster; and I could see the eyes of her

“honorable colleague” intently regarding her dress, from which two or

three hooks had bounded, apparently scared from their post by the

vehemence of her eloquence. He was undoubtedly meditating a joke at her

expense. One of the judges was a very pretty woman, who seemed to have

just come in possession of a new bracelet; for she kept up a constant

clasping and unclasping, and was evidently very well satisfied with the

curve of her arm, whatever she might have thought of the lawyer’s

speech. Another one observed the arm too—a neighbor on the bench, whom

I suspected of being a susceptible sort of a widower—and I thought to

myself that I should be very sorry to be a prisoner, looking for justice

to those two pre-occupied judges. The jury were half men, half women.

But I will not record my observations, lest it should be thought that I

dreamed very perversely. Suffice it, that I again pitied the poor

prisoner.

Oh! the difficulty of imagining oneself a spirit, with such fleshly

reminders! _Could_ I stand another moment? I looked as pleadingly as I

could about me, but nobody moved. Getting out seemed impossible, for the

passage was crowded. Oh! how I longed for “the good old days, the dear

old time, and all my peace of mind”—not forgetting somebody to find me

the _best seat_! It was no place to be in love with _equality_. I was

(it was very wrong, I know, and I might not be so tempted when awake,) I

was ready to sign myself Esau, jun.—barter my birthright of intellect,

and power, and independence, in short, every thing we had gained by the

Reform, for but the strong arm and protecting presence to take me

through that crowd. Luckily, I lacked the means of making my madness

practical, for not an arm offered itself, and not a face turned toward

me for any better purpose than to favor me with a familiar stare—an

expressive acknowledgment of _equality_, which had been one of the first

features of the Reform.

“Rather tiresome standing,” observed the burly individual before

mentioned, seeing me balance on my toes, and twist from side to side,

and try by various other methods of equal importance to rid myself of my

fatigue. “Rather tiresome standing,” and he changed his comfortable

position for one of like comfort; and stretched his arms along the back

of his seat with provoking complacency. I assented with a sigh.

“Missed it not coming earlier,” and he lolled back, resting his big head

on his own shoulders. Wouldn’t I have liked to be Robin Goodfellow, to

give him a pinch or two? There was no prospect of any body’s vacating a

seat; my limbs ached, I gasped for breath, reeled, and clutched

instinctively at the nearest object. It was the shaggy locks adorning

the big head; and they shook like a lion’s mane, recalling me to my

senses in time to evade the compliment of a doubled fist, which the

bewildered and resentful owner seemed inclined to offer me.

“I wonder if anybody would carry me out if I should faint,” thought I;

but I was not given to fainting, and I doubted whether I could do it

with the proper grace, though to be sure, gracefulness was a matter of

little moment, since (pardon! sleeping ears are dull, and my harsh word

is from Dreamland) _help one’s-self-fulness_ came into vogue. “What

_will_ become of me?”

“You little trembling simpleton,” whispered the Reform-spirit,

“strengthen up your head, and plant your foot firmly. Your fatigue is

all in the imagination. See how patiently those men are standing

yonder!—_imitate them_.”

“If I could. But what a hero the imagination must be to bring upon me

all these tortures!”

“You must control it—though, perhaps, it is expecting rather too much

of you at once; particularly as regards the physical woman.” (Woman was

the new name for the human race, not that the arguments in favor of its

adoption had been so very potent, but, luckily, the women had the

majority in the Senate.) “There is a barber’s shop over the way; you had

better walk in and rest yourself.”

“But how shall I get out? the passage is crowded.”

“Oh, never mind that—you can easily make an opening. Just put on a look

of resolution and walk straight-forward. They will grumble and push

some, but they will let you pass.”

“Ah! the look of resolution! Where am I to get it?”

“Why, if you are a miserable, paltry coward, of course, the meanness

will be visible on your countenance, and you cannot hope to deceive

anybody. The truth is, modesty has been stripped of its false charms

lately, and shown to be nothing more nor less than rank cowardice. What

is it that makes your head droop, and your cheeks redden? Are you afraid

anybody will harm you?”

This was a little too much; and my cheeks grew redder, but my head

elevated itself. “No! it is a something which God planted in my bosom,

something of which no Reform can rob me, an inherent principle to which

that judge, that lawyer, and those jury-women, are all doing violence

to-day—a light electric chain circling the fairy ring, which Heaven

intended should be our sphere; a chain which makes its subtle fluid tell

on every nerve, when it is handled too rudely, and which, when

broken—oh, wo to those who have the strength or daring to break it!”

“Heresy! rank heresy! Why, you would be hooted at, mobbed in the

streets, if you were heard to avow such sentiments.”

“Ay, I know it. That is one of our _rights_, secured to us by the

Reform—the right to be mobbed—and behold, another!”

The lungs of the _lawyeress_ had been exerted until her voice had broken

and sunk into a hoarse whisper. “Louder!” “Louder!” “Louder!” came the

cries from every part of the court-room. “Order!” “Order!” “Order!” rung

out the echo. The court put on all its dignity, and looked very

portentous; the constables exerted themselves manfully (_womanfully_;)

the _lawyeress_ raised a last screech, and the crowd hissed and groaned.

“Carry her out! carry her out! she has swooned!” shouted several voices;

and an old seaman at my elbow, gave, with a round oath, his opinion that

it was “only a woman’s trick to steer clear of the breakers.” He added a

grumbling word or two about the doings of a certain _captainess_ in a

late storm; but at this moment I caught a glimpse of the face of the

lady-lawyer as she was borne past me; I started with surprise, and

awoke. That I should have such a vision of _my cousin_ “_’Bel_!” Well,

“If it comes three times, I thought, I’ll take it for a sign.” Oh! if it

should!

* * * * *

“ARE THEY NOT ALL MINISTERING SPIRITS?”

BY S. DRYDEN PHELPS.

’Tis sweet to think that spirits pure and holy,

Are often hovering round the pilgrim here,

To banish thoughts of grief and melancholy,

And bid the trembling heart forget to fear.

Bright angel forms, on soft and airy pinions,

Like carrier birds, the messengers of love,

Leave the fair precincts of the blest dominions,

With choicest favors from the world above.

They come, and give to solitude its pleasures,

And throw a hallowed charm around the heart;

Bear up the thoughts to heaven’s unfading treasures,

Where kindred spirits meet no more to part.

They come, from those celestial hills descending,

Sent by the bounteous Ruler of the skies;

We feel their presence with our spirits blending,

When evening orisons to heaven arise.

They come, when o’er the sorrowing heart is stealing

The wasting blight of earth’s consuming wo;

They come, a ray of heavenly light revealing,

Amidst the darkness of our path below.

They come to dry the mourner’s fount of sadness,

To pour their blessings on the drooping head;

And bid the soul awake to hope and gladness,

Along the vistas of the future spread.

The mother, whose beloved infant slumbers,

Cold, in the silent chamber of the tomb,

Oft hears its pleasing voice, like seraph’s numbers,

Fall on her ear amidst surrounding gloom.

The lonely orphan, by the world forsaken,

Oft seems the kindness of the dead to share;

And feels a thrill of new-born joy awaken,

As if embraced with fond, parental care.

The saddened lover, and the joyless maiden,

Stript of their cherished ones by death’s chill hand,

Commune with their returning spirits, laden

With love undying from the glorious land.

Joy for the mission of those guileless creatures—

That Heaven to us such guardians should send;

Oh, wear they not the well-remembered features

Of many an early loved and long lost friend?

Ye sainted forms of dearest ones departed,

Methinks I hear your music in the breeze;

And oft, ’mid scenes of sadness, lonely-hearted,

My spirit’s eye your joyful presence sees.

Still, still around my chequered pathway hover—

’Tis sweet to hold communion with the pure;

And welcome me at last, when life is over,

Where love and joy eternal shall endure!

* * * * *

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. VI.

[Illustration]

VELVET DUCK. (_Oidemia fusca._ Fleming.)

Another of the family of the Anatidæ, common to the waters of the

Chesapeake, is the Velvet Duck. This species, like the Scoter Duck, with

which it is often confounded, feeds entirely upon shell-fish, which it

procures by diving. Though the flesh of the old birds has a rank, fishy

flavor, they are much sought after in some parts of the country; and the

young birds, whose flesh affords better eating, meet with a ready sale

in our markets. The Velvet Duck is distinguished from the other dark

species of the sub-genus Oidemia, by the name of the White-winged Coot.

The Velvet Duck is nearly related to the Black, or Surf Duck, which

breeds along the shores of Hudson’s Bay, and extends its migrations as

far south as Florida. Its flesh is remarkably red and dark when cooked,

is fishy, and has little to recommend it; the young birds are better

flavored, but the whole are of little consequence as game. Commonly

associated with the Velvet Duck is another kindred species, the Scoter.

They are common in the bay and sounds near New York, and in the

Chesapeake. Like the American Scoter and the Velvet Duck, their flesh

has a rank and oily taste—the young birds only being considered

palatable by epicures. All these fishy flavored birds, in the times when

the use of flesh was prohibited with great strictness during Lent, were

decided by the ecclesiastical authorities to be a sort of fish which

might be eaten with impunity. They all have the bill broad and gibbous

above the nostrils; its margins dilated; camelliform teeth, coarse; the

nostrils large and elevated, and nearly in the middle of the bill; the

tail numbers fourteen feathers. The prevailing color of the plumage is

black in the males, in the females brown. They do not come much upon the

fresh waters, but keep the shores of the sea, and find great part of

their food by diving. Their breeding places are not much known, but it

is supposed that they resort far to the northward. Most of them are

common to the northern parts of both hemispheres.

THE SUMMER OR WOOD DUCK. (_Anas Sponsa._ Wilson.)

Linnæus has justly conferred upon this most beautiful of all the species

of Duck the name of _Sponsa_, or the Bride. The name of Summer Duck it

has derived from the circumstance of its remaining with us all the

summer; and its habit of breeding in hollow trees, has gained for it the

appellation of Wood Duck. It rarely visits the sea-shore, or salt

marshes; its favorite haunts being the solitary, deep, and muddy creeks,

ponds, and mill-dams of the interior, making its nest in old trees that

overhang the water, and carrying its young to the ground in its bill.

The food of this duck consists principally of acorns, seeds of the wild

oats, and insects. Their flesh is inferior to that of the Blue-Winged

Teal; and they are not uncommon in the market of Philadelphia. Latham

says that they are often kept in European Menageries, and will breed

there. Wilson, from whose account we have extracted the above

statements, furnishes a description of the plumage of this duck, which

we subjoin, as it is so exceedingly accurate as not to admit of any

improvement. The Wood Duck is nineteen inches in length, and two feet

four in extent; bill red, margined with black; a spot of black lies

between the nostrils, reaching nearly to the tip, which is also of the

same color, and furnished with a large hooked nail; irides, orange red;

front crown, and pendent crest, rich glossy bronze green, ending in

violet, elegantly marked with a line of pure white running from upper

mandible over the eye, and with another band of white proceeding from

behind the eye, both mingling their long, pendent plumes with the green

and violet ones, producing a rich effect; cheeks and sides of the upper

neck, violet; chin, throat, and collar round the neck, pure white,

curving up in the form of a crescent nearly to the posterior part of the

eye; the white collar is bounded below with black; breast, dark violet

brown, marked on the fore part with minute triangular spots of white,

increasing in size until they spread into the white of the belly; each

side of the breast is bounded by a large crescent, and again by a

broader one of deep black; sides under the wings thickly and beautifully

marked with fine undulating parallel lines of black, on a ground of

yellowish-drab; the flanks are ornamented with broad alternate

semicircular bands of black and white; sides of the vent rich, light

violet; tail-coverts, long, of a hair-like texture at the sides, over

which they descend, and of a deep black, glossed with green; back,

dusky-bronze, reflecting green; scapulars, black; tail tapering, dark,

glossy-green above, below, dusky; primaries, dusky, silvery-hoary

without, tipped with violet blue; secondaries, greenish-blue, tipped

with white; wing-coverts, violet blue, tipped with black; vent, dusky;

legs and feet, yellowish-red; claws, strong and hooked.

[Illustration]

AMERICAN TEAL. (_Anas Crecca._ Wilson.)

The Green-Winged, or American Teal, (_Anas Crecca, Wilson_,) has

received the name of American Teal from the naturalists of Europe, as

being a distinct species from their own, an error exposed in a

satisfactory manner by Wilson. Like the Summer Duck, it prefers fresh

water, and frequents ponds, marshes, and the reedy shores of creeks and

rivers. It is very abundant among the rice plantations of the Southern

States; and its flesh is accounted excellent food. It is said to breed

in Hudson’s Bay, and to have from five to seven young at a time. It is

known, according to Latham and Bewick, to build in France and England,

but, so far as we know, it does not breed in the United States. The

Common Teal is so highly esteemed in England as to bring five shillings

a pound in the London market. We believe that as our sportsmen become in

a greater degree scientific naturalists, an advance which cannot be much

longer delayed in this progressive age, the highly interesting class of

the Anatidæ will become accurately known, the concealment with which it

has hitherto been suffered to cloak its habits and its history, will be

torn away, and the artifices of the naturalists exposed, who are far too

prone, when unable to point out the proper locality of any duck, at any

season, to “send it to Siberia,” and put it into sort of Arctic

parchment. Thus with many of the ducks, but of those that have been said

to rear their broods in the inhospitable climes of the north, very many

have never been seen there; and we are greatly inclined to believe that

many described as winter visitants are resident birds, passing the

summer dispersedly, and in places where they have but little chance of

being seen. After the pairing time, the males are peculiarly retired and

silent; and the close sitting females do not come abroad until they are

able to launch their young ducklings upon that element of which they are

in future to be so much the ornament.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte. By William Hazlitt. New York:

Wiley & Putnam. 6 Parts, 12mo._

Hazlitt never mistook his powers more than when he aspired to write

history and biography. As a critic and essayist his brilliancy and

acuteness compensate, in a considerable degree, for his bitterness and

prejudice; but as a historian, his faults of mind and disposition are

too glaringly evident to pass without rebuke. He could not have selected

a subject where his unfitness was more apparent than that of Napoleon.

His admiration of the “child and champion of the Revolution,” and his

hatred of the established governments of Europe, amounted to a disease.

His production, therefore, though containing many striking thoughts, and

some splendid composition, reads more like a vigorous party pamphlet

than an impartial history. Every thing is seen through a distorting

medium of rage and prejudice. The political sins of the monarchs he

condemns and inveighs against, were of the same kind which Napoleon

himself had no scruple in committing, and we see no reason why an

usurper of superior power and abilities, should be puffed for the same

crimes for which his adversaries are hooted at. Falsehood and perfidy

should be especially branded when they are committed by apostate

patriots, and champions of the rights of man. It is well known that

Napoleon, among the many “infirmities” of his genius, was one of the

greatest liars that ever existed. He not only disregarded truth, but had

a contempt for it. One would suppose that such a quality as this ought

to give a slightly dark shade to his character, even as delineated by a

servile biographer. But Hazlitt’s faith in his hero is proof against all

sense and propriety; and, in the name of democracy, he baptizes the most

tyrannical and infamous acts committed by the most despotic of modern

sovereigns.

This book resembles Carlyle’s Cromwell in its object—and its object is

detestable. If history is to be written to any good purpose, the

historian must not adopt the passions of the time he describes as the

principles by which he judges of persons and events. History, written on

the model of Hazlitt or Carlyle, would become more corrupting than the

most licentious novels. Men of great abilities, loaded though they be

with offences against human nature, would be held up as appropriate

examples; and every ambitious politician would be practically told, that

the way to win the gratitude of posterity was to trample on the rights

of the governed, and violate every principle of legislation and morals.

No historian of any acuteness can be at a loss for plausible excuses for

crimes if his love for the criminal exceeds his love for justice and

truth. The course by which Carlyle makes Cromwell out the wisest and

most religious of men, and reconciles morality with massacre, might be

advantageously employed to extenuate the offences of many an unfortunate

gentleman whom society exhibits on a gallows, or employs in the business

of pounding stone in its prisons. There are already too many temptations

in the way of selfish ambition to make it desirable that historians

should add another.

* * * * *

_American Comedies. By James K. Paulding and William Irving

Paulding. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume contains four comedies, the first of which, entitled “The

Bucktails, or Americans in England,” is the production of James K.

Paulding, and the remaining three of W. I. Paulding, a young man

scarcely one-and-twenty. “The Bucktails” was written shortly after the

last war with England. The sentiment of the play, and a good portion of

the humor, are somewhat old. The ignorance of the English characters is

somewhat overcharged, and the nationality of the American too

obtrusively impertinent. The fun of the piece is apt to run either into

mere caricature or jokes “which no young lady should read.” There is,

however, with many defects in plot and characterization, considerable

merit in the dialogue, which is sharp, brisk, and terse, and explodes at

times, like a series of percussion caps. The last act is very clumsy,

and the patches of blank verse put into the mouths of Frank and Jane,

positively ridiculous. We are surprised that Mr. Paulding did not

re-write the play, and prune it of many obvious absurdities. It contains

a great deal that is excellent.

The remaining comedies are “The Noble Exile,” “Madmen All,” and

“Antipathies, or The Enthusiasts by the Ears.” They are the production

of a young man of evident talent, and give promise of much excellence in

the department of literature to which he has devoted his powers; but

they are crude in their present shape, and many of the faults and

follies they satirize have been repeatedly ridiculed in the same way. We

should judge, also, that the writer’s favorite author was Ben Jonson—a

bad model, though a man of great talents and remarkable character. The

most laughable piece of comic writing in the plays, is the second scene

in the second act of Madmen All, in which Phil, assuming the character

of a Vicksburg “screamer,” bamboozles an Englishman with stories of the

character and manners of the South and West. Phil is asked what were his

sensations on being blown up in a Mississippi steamer, and he

replies—“Why, sir, it is the pleasantest and most elevating feeling you

can imagine. May I be scalped, sir, if it is not just like being kicked

into chaos. No man, sir, knows what the sublimity of life is until he

has had a biler burst under him.” The whole scene is exceedingly

spirited and effective. Indeed, Mr. Paulding wants but culture and

practice to make a good dramatist. The present volume is rather an

indication than an exponent of his capacity. He does individual scenes

well, and here and there hits off a character happily; but he does not

so combine his plot and personages as to produce an artistical effect

upon the mind.

* * * * *

_History of the Roman Republic. By J. Michelet. Translated by

William Hazlitt. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

In this work Michelet displays his usual qualities of style, with,

perhaps, more condensation of remark and peremptoriness of judgment. He

never writes without having studied his subject thoroughly, and he seems

to conceive that this elaborate preparation qualifies him to decide all

debateable points. His intellect has some vices of system, and he is too

apt to run his facts into the forms of his theories, and generalize

where he ought to narrate. He states an event in language which also

contains an opinion of the event. He also bothers the unlearned reader

by narrating occasionally by allusion and implication, and thus is

condensed at the expense of simplicity and clearness. The present work,

though very able and interesting, requires a previous knowledge of Roman

history to be appreciated, as much almost as Carlyle’s “French

Revolution” demands a previous acquaintance with French history. It is

rather an addition to the other histories of the republic, by a man of

original and splendid powers, than a work embodying a complete history

in itself.

Michelet’s power of picturesque description and delineation of

character, and his faculty of applying principles to events, are

displayed prominently in this work. His sympathy with the Roman people

and their objects, is also strikingly manifested. Nothing but an

extended review of the book could do justice to its mingled wisdom and

extravagance. The chief defect in this, as in every work of the author,

is the obtrusion of his own peculiar personality into every picture and

reflection. We cannot get a view of Hannibal, Scipio, Cæsar, Brutus, or

Anthony, without seeing Michelet by his side, doing the honors of

introduction, and warning us that his is the only shop where the true

article may be obtained.

* * * * *

_Spaniards and their Country. By Richard Ford. Part 2. New York:

Wiley & Putnam._

The second portion of this work is as amusing as the first. It does not

give us a high opinion of the author, if we except the gratitude we

naturally feel to a person who sacrifices his personal dignity for the

pleasure of his reader. The book is flippant, light-hearted, and often

shallow, with the egotism and arrogance of the Englishman, modified by

the graceful impudence of the Parisian; but it is singularly acute in

the detection of the qualities which immediately underlie the

superficies of national character, and singularly brilliant in style and

description. Without any very sparkling passages, its tone of pleasantry

is uniformly sustained, and draws the reader on to the conclusion by the

fascination of its volatile spirit. The subject is comparatively new,

and rich in materials of interest. These advantages the author has

skillfully improved, and made a book worth a hundred “Tours in Spain,”

written by gentlemen with a philosophical tone of mind. There is a

spirit of enjoyment in the book which is communicated to the mind of the

reader. As the author, good-naturedly, takes the world as it is, the

reader is content to take him as he is; and thus his coxcombry excites

no anger, and his pleasantry is left to operate undisturbed.

* * * * *

_Hyperion. By H. W. Longfellow. Fourth Edition. Boston: Wm. D.

Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an elegant and tasteful edition of an exquisite book. It has

been deservedly the most successful of the author’s prose compositions.

Indeed, as a proof of the fertility of Longfellow’s imagination, the

delicacy and sweetness of his sentiment, and his general poetic view of

nature and life, we should appeal to this romance as readily as to his

poems. It is full of delicious imagery, beautiful description, and

striking thoughts, and the style is richly sensuous and musical. The

strain of sentiment running through the book, however, is not strong and

bracing enough for our climate. Its general tone is too much that of a

sad sweetness, though passages are replete with a firmer and sterner

feeling. It reminds one more of Fletcher than Milton; of the “Faithful

Shepherdess” than of “Comus.” The leading characteristic of Longfellow’s

mind is that peculiar blending of sensation with imagination, commonly

called sensuousness—a characteristic of all poetic genius, but which is

apt to bewitch the soul with a sense of the beauty of things, to the

forgetfulness of their other qualities and relations, and by this

forgetfulness to lead the mind away from the contemplation of the

highest intellectual and moral beauty. “Hyperion,” however, ranks among

the first books of its kind in English letters, and might be

appropriately entitled, “Prose, by a Poet.”

* * * * *

_Chefs-d’Œuvre Dramatiques de la Langue Française. Par A. G.

Collot. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is an excellent French Reader, worth a thousand of the common

collections going under the name. It contains whole dramas by Corneille,

Racine, Voltaire, Molière, Piron, Scribe, and Berquin, carefully edited,

with explanations to facilitate the progress of the student. Such a work

has long been wanted. It enables the student to study the French

language as used by some of the master-spirits among Frenchmen. As a

collection of five dramas, also, it will be interesting to many who

understand the language, but are unable to purchase the whole works of

the authors from whom the plays are selected.

* * * * *

_Probabilities: An Aid to Faith. By the Author of “Proverbial

Philosophy.” New York: Wiley & Putnam._

Tupper seems to have been a little crazed by his popularity, and to have

obtained the idea that he was a great philosopher. The result of this

self-deceit is contained in the present little book. We confess we have

been unable to wade through it. To compel a critic to read a series of

works like this, would drive him into the insane hospital in a month.

One of the probabilities of Tupper is, that the star Acyone, which Dr.

Madier considers the central sun of the systems of stars known to us, is

the place of the Christian Heaven, and that our moon is Hell. This may

be classed under those probabilities which are important, if true. To

use an austere remark of Dr. Johnson, the elaborate consideration of all

the trash in this volume, would be to “waste criticism on unresisting

imbecility.”

* * * * *

_The Amenities of Literature, consisting of Sketches and

Characters of English Literature. By J. D’Israeli. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

This is the fourth edition of a work peculiarly valuable to the student

of English literature. It consists of original investigations into the

mines of English letters, with some curious speculations grounded upon

the results. D’Israeli, however, with all his merit as a literary

antiquary, will never be an interesting author. His works are

labor-saving machines to all critics and miscellaneous writers, and will

always be read; but they are incurably dull. It is fortunate that he did

not write a history of English literature. There is no juice in the man.

The dust of old folios has entered into his soul, and given an arid

character to every opinion and expression. We say this with many twinges

of conscience, for he has spent his life in researches which have saved

better writers years of toilsome investigation.

* * * * *

_Froissart Ballads. By Philip Pendleton Cooke. Phila.: Carey &

Hart._

This is one of the most delightful volumes which we have met with for

many a day. We have long known and admired the fugitive poems of Mr.

Cooke, and now heartily welcome our old favorites, with their new

companions, in the beautiful dress which the publishers have given them.

In the “Proem To Emily” there is an exquisite freshness which delights

us exceedingly. We hardly know how to characterize the peculiar beauty

of its spirit; but it seems, while reading it, as if we were dreaming in

the delicious shade of quiet trees, and looking down upon golden

valleys, wherein pass to and fro the valiant knights, stately dames, and

lovely maids of the misty days of chivalry. So it _seems_ while perusing

the proem, but in the “Master of Bolton,” we have the reality, and it no

longer seems. This poem, while being in Mr. Cooke’s peculiar and

happiest vein, has about it a dash, which strikes us as Scott-like, and

a spice of the “Christabel;” not in a degree, however, which could be

said to amount to imitation, but evincing rather, a mind sensitive to

the same romantic impressions. What could be more beautiful and graphic

than the following characteristic sketch—or rather let us say picture,

which we extract from the “Master of Bolton?”

“All heard a merry signal cry,

And a swift heron, from a marsh,

Mounted with sudden scream, and harsh,

Beating the air in wild alarm.

Then hawks were cast from many an arm;

And it was a gallant sight to see

The fleet birds tower so valiantly,

Each for the vanguard challenging,

But none went forth so swift of wing—

Mounted so boldly on the wind,

As the brave bird of Jocelind.

With winnow and soar he won the height

At point above the quarry’s flight,

And balanced in air, and made his stoop;

But the swift heron shunned the swoop,

And, wheeling aside, a moment stayed,

Just over the gazing cavalcade;

A wild-eyed, terror-stricken bird

The Kentish hawk had canceliered,

But now drove back upon his prey,

Ire-whetted for the fresh assay.

The lady’s heart with pity filled,

The quarry’s mortal dread to see,

And in her gentleness she willed

To ward its dire extremity;

With uplift hands and eager eyes,

And cheeks bereft of their rosy dyes,

‘Gawen, my Gawen! come back,’ she cried,

The hawk, true vassal, turned aside,

Doubtful, upon his pinions wide,

Then, like a servant of a charm,

Sank to his perch on the lady’s arm,

The damsel in her loveliness,

Made lovelier by that kind distress,

Repaid the bold bird’s loyalty

With gentleness of hand and eye.

That silver call, so sweet to hear,

When will it die on the master’s ear?

‘My Gawen—come back!’ the truth to say,

He pondered the words for many a day.”

It must be remembered that the bird had been named in honor of his

former owner, the Master of Bolton, and this was he

“Who pondered the words for many a day.”

Mark, too, a little further on, how gloriously our author reproduces the

iron-rattle and fiery jostle of the tourney:

“Into the lists Sir Gawen rides,

Manful upon his charger black,”

to break a lance for his lady’s sake.

“At signal of a bugle blast—

Sharp and sudden sound,

The knights set forward, fiery fast,

And met in middle ground;

Met with stern shock of man and horse,

And din of crashing spears;

But neither champion won the course,

They parted there like peers.

Again! again! and respite none

Will not Lord Siampi yield,

Swift he demands, with haughty tone,

Renewal of the field!

Whereto, Sir Gawen urged to speak,

Answers as haughtily,

‘By God! sir knight, I nothing seek

So much as strife with thee.’

Thus spake he, and his visor closed,

As to his post he passed;

Again the armed men opposed

Await the signal blast!

Sudden it came, with hearts of flame,

The champions, at the sound,

Drove each his steed at furious speed,

And met in middle ground.

The Frankish champion struck amain—

Struck with a force so dire—

On Gawen’s helmet, that his brain

Streamed with a flood of fire.

But Gawen smote the knight of France,

Full on his sturdy breast,

And driven, perforce, the trusty lance

Through shield and corselet prest—

Crashing through steel, the weapon good,

Lord Siampi’s bosom found,

Nor broke until the sudden blood

Gushed darkly from the wound.

Manful against the lance’s force

Lord Siampi bore him well,

And passed Sir Gawen in the course,

All upright in his selle—

But with the gallop of his horse,

He reeled—and swayed—and fell!”

“The Mountains,” “Florence Vane,” the poem of “The Bards,” and “Young

Rosalie Lee,” are exquisite gems. Altogether, this volume of “Froissart

Ballads, and Other Poems,” fully deserves the hearty reception, which we

are glad to see so universally extended to it by the press.

* * * * *

_A System of Intellectual Philosophy. By Rev. Asa Mahan. Second

Edition. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

This work is written by one who has evidently studied intellectual

philosophy with all the ardor of a lover. The book presents, in a

compact form, a system of metaphysics, whose basis is spiritualism. The

author acknowledges his indebtedness to Coleridge, Kant, and Cousin. The

leading ideas of these philosophers frequently appear in the work. We

are aware of no book which gives in a small space, so much that is

valuable to the student and thinker. We have been particularly pleased

with the analysis of Imagination and Fancy, and the accounts of the

various German systems of metaphysics.

* * * * *

_An Exposition of the Apocalypse. By David N. Lord. New York:

Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This work is valuable to all theologians, and also to all who desire

light on the dark topics it discusses. It is very able, and does honor

to the author’s learning and ingenuity. We especially admire the courage

with which Mr. Lord grapples with the difficulties of his subject. Such

a work must have been the result of the patient toil of many years.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has been

corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below.

For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to

condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook. A

cover has been created for this eBook and is placed in the public

domain.

page 266, Frith about noon, ==> Firth about noon,

page 267, and unforseen event. ==> and unforeseen event.

page 270, posssessed of an art, ==> possessed of an art,

page 274, the _attacheé_, or the financier. ==> the _attaché_, or the

financier.

page 275, the rich farmers’s house, ==> the rich farmer’s house,

page 277, they eat enough, ==> they ate enough,

page 279, enough; and and if it’s ==> enough; and if it’s

page 281, The blackberrys grow by ==> The blackberries grow by

page 281, And its grown to a ==> And it’s grown to a

page 282, baldric and the feather ==> baldrick and the feather

page 284, boddice of her dark ==> bodice of her dark

page 289, supper-bell rung, which ==> supper-bell rang, which

page 290, she answerd, “a mere ==> she answered, “a mere

page 296, assembled at Beverley ==> assembled at Beverly

page 296, relatives of the Beverly’s, ==> relatives of the Beverlys,

page 296, I am _une de trop_. ==> I am _un de trop_.

page 297, Frank felt irresistably ==> Frank felt irresistibly

page 297, sung well. Frank ==> sang well. Frank

page 297, Never sung so sweet ==> Never sang so sweet

page 300, it be Byron’s, Shelly’s, ==> it be Byron’s, Shelley’s,

page 301, captal willian, I call ==> capital willian, I call

page 303, his own arrangemants. He ==> his own arrangements. He

page 317, under the _old regimé_ ==> under the _old régime_

page 317, gingling of a bell ==> jingling of a bell

page 319, raised a last screach, ==> raised a last screech,

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 5, May 1847]