CHAPTER X.

That same evening Randal heard from Levy (at whose house he staid

late) of that self-introduction to Violante which (thanks to his

skeleton-key) Peschiera had contrived to effect; and the Count seemed

more than sanguine--he seemed assured as to the full and speedy success

of his matrimonial enterprise. "Therefore," said Levy, "I trust I may

very soon congratulate you on the acquisition of your family estates."

"Strange!" answered Randal, "strange that my fortunes seem so bound up

with the fate of a foreigner like Beatrice di Negra and her connection

with Frank Hazeldean." He looked up at the clock as he spoke, and

added--

"Frank, by this time, has told his father of his engagement."

"And you feel sure that the Squire can not be coaxed into consent?"

"No; but I feel sure that the Squire will be so choleric at the first

intelligence, that Frank will not have the self-control necessary for

coaxing; and, perhaps, before the Squire can relent upon this point,

he may, by some accident, learn his grievances on another, which would

exasperate him still more."

"Ay, I understand--the _post obit_?"

Randal nodded.

"And what then?" asked Levy.

"The next of kin to the lands of Hazeldean may have his day."

The Baron smiled.

"You have good prospects in that direction, Leslie: look now to

another. I spoke to you of the borough of Lansmere. Your patron, Audley

Egerton, intends to stand for it."

Randal's heart had of late been so set upon other and more avaricious

schemes, that a seat in Parliament had sunk into a secondary object;

nevertheless, his ambitious and all-grasping nature felt a bitter pang,

when he heard that Egerton thus interposed between himself and any

chance of advancement.

"So!" he muttered sullenly--"so. This man, who pretends to be my

benefactor, squanders away the wealth of my forefathers--throws me

penniless on the world; and, while still encouraging me to exertion and

public life, robs me himself of--"

"No!" interrupted Levy--"not robs you; we may prevent that. The

Lansmere interest is not so strong in the borough as Dick Avenel's."

"But I can not stand against Egerton."

"Assuredly not--you may stand with him."

"How."

"Dick Avenel will never suffer Egerton to come in; and though he can

not, perhaps, carry two of his own politics, he can split his votes

upon you."

Randal's eyes flashed. He saw at a glance, that if Avenel did not

overrate the relative strength of parties, his seat could be secured.

"But," he said, "Egerton has not spoken to me on such a subject; nor

can you expect that he would propose to me to stand with him, if he

foresaw the chance of being ousted by the very candidate he himself

introduced."

"Neither he nor his party will anticipate that possibility. If he ask

you, agree to stand--leave the rest to me."

"You must hate Egerton bitterly," said Randal; "for I am not vain

enough to think that you thus scheme but from pure love to me."

"The motives of men are intricate and complicated," answered Levy, with

unusual seriousness. "It suffices to the wise to profit by the actions,

and leave the motives in shade."

There was silence for some minutes. Then the two drew closer toward

each other, and began to discuss details in their joint designs.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[Illustration]

OCEAN LIFE.

BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT

Sat. Eve, March 20, 1852. Atlantic Ocean.

At precisely seven minutes after 12 o'clock to-day, the steamer Arctic

left New York for Liverpool. Our whole ship's company, passengers and

crew, amounted to one hundred and eighty. The day was clear and cold.

A strong north wind swept from the snow-clad hills over the rough bay.

Icicles were pendent from the paddle-wheels, and the spray was freezing

upon the decks. As the majestic steamship left the wharf, the crowd

assembled there gave three cheers, and two guns were fired from on

board. With the engines in active play, and our sails pressed by the

fresh breeze, we passed rapidly down the narrows. No one can thus leave

his home, to traverse weary leagues of land and sea, without emotion.

Images of the loved, who may never be seen again, will rush upon the

mind. And even if the most resolute retire for a moment to their

state-rooms, throw themselves upon the sofa, bury their faces in the

pillow, and, with a moistened eye, plead with God for a blessing upon

those who are left behind, it is not to be condemned as a weakness. I

soon returned to the deck. It was swept by a bleak wintry wind. There

was not a single individual on board the ship whom I had ever seen

before. Taking a stand in the shelter of the enormous smoke-pipe, so

vast that twenty men could with perfect convenience cluster under its

lee, we watched the receding shores. At half past three o'clock the

gong summoned us to a sumptuous dinner. Again returning to the deck

we watched the dim outline of the land until it disappeared beneath

the horizon of the sea. At seven o'clock we were again summoned to

the tea-table. Returning to the deck, we found dark and gloomy night

brooding over the ocean. The wind, though piercingly cold, was fresh

and fair. The stars shone brilliantly through black masses of clouds.

Our ship rose and fell as it plowed its way over the majestic billows

of the Atlantic. Retiring to the dining-saloon, which is brilliantly

illuminated with carcel lamps, I commenced this journal. And now

"Rocked in the cradle of the deep,

I lay me down in peace to sleep."

Sabbath Eve, Mar. 21. Lat. 43° 50'. Long. 65° 15'.

Miles made at noon 300. We have had truly a magnificent Sabbath day.

The sky has been cloudless, the wind fresh and favorable. At 12 o'clock

each day the captain takes an observation to decide our latitude and

longitude, and the number of miles the ship has made during the last

twenty-four hours. The sea is rough, and it is more comfortable,

or, rather, less uncomfortable to be upon deck than in the saloons.

Sheltered in some degree by the smoke-pipe, round which the wind is

ever circling, I have passed the weary hours of the monotonous day,

looking out upon the solitary ocean and the silent sky; both impressive

emblems of eternity and infinity. Toward night the wind changed into

the east, and blew more freshly. Clouds gathered. Angry waves, black

and foaming, swept madly by. The solitude of stormy night upon the

ocean! What pen can describe! And yet who can be insensible to the

luxury of that solitude--to its melancholy sublimity! As I now write,

our ship plunges and rolls in the heavy sea, and a death-like nausea

comes over me.

Monday Night, Mar. 22. Lat. 42° 23'. Long. 61° 23'.

Miles made 308. The malady of the sea drove me rather suddenly last

night from my pen to the deck. But in an hour the clouds and the gust

passed away. The stars came out in all their brilliance. The wind,

however, has steadily increased, and it has been quite rough all

day. Many are very sick, and nearly all are in a state of decided

discomfort. There is an indescribable charm which the ocean has in

its wide expanse, and in its solitude, and the imagination loves

to revel in its wild scenes, but it is, even in its best estate,

an uncomfortable place for the body to inhabit. Our most poetic

descriptions of ocean life have been written in the enjoyment of warm

and comfortable firesides on the land. Cushioned upon the parlor sofa,

the idea is delightful, upon the ocean wives to be "borne like a bubble

onward." But there is altogether too much prose in the reality. It is

indeed "distance which lends enchantment to the view." Never did there

float upon the ocean a more magnificent palace than that which now

bears us. Our ship is two hundred and eighty-five feet in length, that

is, nearly as long as four ordinary country churches. From the keel to

the deck it is as high as a common five story house. Its width from the

extremities of the paddle wheels is seventy-two feet, which is equal to

length of most churches. The promenade deck, as we now sail, is as high

above the water as the ridge-pole of an ordinary two story house. The

dining-saloon is a large, airy, beautiful room, sixty-two feet long and

thirty feet wide, with windows opening upon the ocean as pleasantly as

those of any parlor, and where two hundred guests can dine luxuriously.

The parlor or saloon is embellished in the very highest style of modern

art. The walls are constructed of the most highly polished satin-wood,

and rosewood, and decorated with paintings of the coats of arms of the

various States of the Union. Magnificent mirrors, stained glass, silver

plate, costly carpets, marble centre tables and pier tables, luxurious

sofas and arm-chairs, and a profusion of rich gilding give an air of

almost Oriental magnificence to a room one hundred feet in length and

twenty-five feet in breadth. When this saloon is brilliantly lighted in

the evening it is gorgeous in the extreme. The state-rooms are really

_rooms_, provided with every comfort which can be desired. There are

beds to accommodate two hundred passengers. Some of these rooms have

large double beds with French bedsteads and rich curtains. There are

nine cooks on board, whose united wages amount to over four thousand

dollars a year. There is the head cook, and the second cook, and the

baker, and the pastry cook, and the vegetable cook, &c. We have our

butcher, our store-keeper, our porter, our steward. The ship's crew

consists of one hundred and thirty-five men. There are four boilers,

each heated by eight furnaces, and unitedly they consume eighty tons

of coal a day. The two engines are of one thousand horse-power, and

the weight of these enormous machines is eight hundred tons. Fifty-two

men are constantly employed in their service. The ship carries about

3000 tons. From the waste steam 1500 gallons of pure soft water can

be condensed each day. This wonderful floating palace, which is built

as strongly as wood and iron can be put together, cost seven hundred

thousand dollars. Even the ancients, endeavoring, with the imagination

to form a craft worthy of Neptune, their god of the ocean, never

conceived of a car so magnificent as this to be driven one thousand

steeds in hand.

The United States have never yet done any thing which has contributed

so much to their honor in Europe, as the construction of this Collins

line of steamers. We have made a step in advance of the whole world.

Nothing ever before floated equal to these ships. Their speed is in

accordance with their magnificence. No one thinks of questioning their

superiority. Every American abroad feels personally ennobled by them,

and participates in his country's glory. There are four ships of this

line, all of equal elegance--the Arctic, Baltic, Pacific, and Atlantic.

It is not to be supposed that such ships should be immediately

profitable to the owners. They were built for national glory. They do

exalt and honor our nation. How much more glorious is such a triumph of

humanity and art, than any celebrity attained by the horrors and the

misery of war. The English government liberally patronizes the Cunard

line of steamers. This line now needs the patronage of the government

of the United States. We had far better sink half a dozen of our

ships of war, important as they may be, than allow these ships to be

withdrawn.

Tuesday Night, Mar. 23, Lat. 44°, Long. 55° 28'.

Miles made 278. We are now about 300 miles south of Nova Scotia, yet

in the "lee of the land," as one of our officers says. Toward morning

we shall reach the western edge of the great bank of Newfoundland,

which is about 200 miles broad. The wind is ahead, and the sea rolls in

heavy billows. Our ship rises and plunges over these vast waves with

much grandeur. It is majestically sickening, sublimely nauseating.

The day is magnificent--clear, cloudless; and this fresh breeze upon

the land would be highly invigorating. The ocean, in its solitude,

spreads every where. We see no sails, no signs of life, except a few

sea-fowl, skimming the cold and dreary waves. Though not absolutely

sick, I am in that state that I must remain upon the wind and spray

swept deck. We are now about a thousand miles from New York. On the

whole, the discomfort of the voyage, thus far, has been less than I

had anticipated. March is a cold and blustering month. We breakfast

at eight o'clock, have an abundant lunch at twelve, dine at half-past

three very sumptuously, take tea at seven, and those who wish it have

supper at ten. The sun has gone down, the twilight has faded away, and

night--cold, black, and stormy--has settled upon us. The wind is in

the east, directly ahead; and, as we drive through it, it sweeps the

deck with hurricane fury. I have been sitting upon deck, behind the

smoke-pipe, around which the wind would most maliciously circle, till

I was pierced through and through with the cold. Life upon the sea

is indeed monotonous, as hour after hour, and day after day, lingers

along, and you look out only upon the chill dreary expanse of wintry

waves, and the silent or stormy sky. The sunset to-night was, however,

magnificent in the extreme, and we made the most of it. As the sun sunk

beneath the perfect horizon, it was expanded by the mist, and resembled

one of the most magnificent domes of fire of which the imagination

can conceive. We have the prospect of a stormy night. The saloon is

brilliantly illumined, and ladies and gentlemen are reclining upon the

sofas, some reading, but more pensively thinking of home and absent

friends. The imagination in such hours will fondly run back to the

fireside and the loved ones there. The voyager who has a home that is

dear to him, pays a very high price for his enjoyments, he finds, in

abandoning that home for the pleasures of the sea.

Wed. Morn., Mar. 24, Lat. 45° 39', Long. 49° 30'

Miles made 270. We have now been out four days, and are 1156 miles

on our way. The sun rose this morning bright and glorious. A strong

east wind sweeps the ocean. The enormous billows rush by, crested with

foam. Our ship struggles manfully against the opposing waves. The _log_

is thrown every two hours, to ascertain our speed. Notwithstanding

the head wind, we are advancing nine miles an hour. The breeze wails

most doleful requiems through our rigging. We are now upon the banks

of Newfoundland. During the day our upper saloon has looked like an

elegant parlor, spacious and luxurious. The sun has shone in brightly

through the windows upon the carpet. Still the ship pitches so

violently that it is with no little difficulty that one staggers from

place to place. During many hours of the day, I stood upon the deck,

watching the black and raging sea. As the sun went down in clouds, and

the darkness of a stormy night came on, it became necessary to _house_

the topmast. It was fearful to see the sailors clinging to the ropes

as the ship rolled to and fro in these vast billows. Suddenly there

was a loud outcry, and terrific groans came from the topmast. A poor

sailor had somehow got his arm caught, and it was being crushed amidst

the ponderous spars, far up in the dark and stormy sky. O! how drearily

those groans fell upon the ear. After some time he was extricated

and helped down, and placed in the care of the surgeon. From this

scene, so sad, so gloomy, I descended to the ladies' saloon. How great

the transition! The gorgeous yet beautiful apartment was brilliant

with light. Its ceiling richly carved and gilded, its walls of the

most precious and highly polished woods, its mirrors, its luxurious

furnishings, presented as cheerful a scene as the heart could crave.

Taking a seat upon the sofa with one of the most accomplished and

agreeable matrons I have ever met, I found the barometer of my spirits

rapidly rising to the region of clear and fair. It was a happy hour.

The dark sea, the storm, the night, all were forgotten, as in that

beautiful saloon, in social converse, time flew on silken wings. It is

now nearly eleven o'clock at night. I have just returned from the deck.

It is sublimely gloomy there. We are pitching about so violently, that

it is with the utmost difficulty that I write. Occasionally my inkstand

takes a rapid slide across the table, when it is caught by a ledge,

which prevents it from falling.

Thursday Night, Mar 25. Lat. 47° 24'. Long. 43° 35'.

Miles passed 267. A dull easterly wind is still rolling a heavy sea

against us which much retards our progress. The day has been cold,

cloudy, and wet. Sheets of mist are sweeping over the sombre and

solitary ocean. It has been so cold, even in the saloons, which are

warmed by steam-pipes, that it has been necessary to sit with an

overcoat on. It is estimated that we are now just about in the middle

of the Atlantic. It is 3055 miles from New York to Liverpool, by the

route which the steamers take. The difference in time between the

two cities is 4 hours 55 minutes. The wind to-night is high, and the

ocean rough. But in our beautiful parlor we have passed a pleasant

evening. Nearly all have now become so accustomed to the motion of

the ship, as to be social and agreeable. We have Jews and Gentiles,

Catholics and Protestants, on board, and all tongues are spoken. Our

fellow-passengers are very pleasant and gentlemanly. Most of them

appear to be clerks or younger partners in mercantile houses going out

to make purchases. There is, however, an amazing fondness for champagne

and tobacco. Were Byron here, he would, without doubt, correct his

celebrated line, "Man, thou pendulum betwixt a smile and a tear," into,

"Man, thou pendulum betwixt the wine glass and the cigar."

Friday Night, Mar. 28. Lat. 49° 38'. Long. 39° 57'.

Miles made 263. The wind still continues in the east, strong and cold.

Nothing has occurred all day to break the monotony of ocean life. We

are so far north that we meet no ships, and nothing relieves the dreary

expanse of the dark clouds above and the angry waves below. Our ship

plows her way majestically through these hostile billows.

"The sea, the sea, the open sea,

The wide, the wild, the ever free."

"Oh!" said a gentleman this morning, as he looked out sadly upon the

gloomy spectacle, "that is a fine song to sing _upon the land_." As

our ship incessantly rises and plunges over these heavy swells, we

become excessively weary of the ceaseless motion, even though no

nausea is excited. One is often reminded of Madame de Stäel's remark,

that "traveling is the most painful of pleasures." Still, by reading

a little, writing a little, talking a little, and thinking much, time

passes quite rapidly. There are moments of exhilaration. There are

hours of contentment. There are many hours of submissive endurance. Now

and then there will come moments of sickness, and pain, and gloom, very

nearly approaching to misery. It, is perhaps, not well to introduce the

reader into these dark chambers of the soul. But, if unintroduced the

untraveled can not know what life upon the ocean is. This evening we

plunged quite suddenly into a dense fog-bank. No one can imagine a more

desolate and dreary scene than the ocean now presents. The rain falls

dripping upon the deck. The fog is so thick that you can see but a few

feet before you. The stormy wind directly ahead, wails through our

moaning shrouds. The sky is black and threatening. The angry waves with

impotent fury dash against the sides of the ship. The gloom without is

delightfully contrasted with the cheerful scene within. The saloon is

brilliantly illuminated. Groups of ladies and gentlemen are gathered

upon the sofas, some reading, some talking, some playing various games.

Saturday Night, Mar. 27. Lat. 50° 56'. Long. 30° 54'.

Miles passed 286. We are now 1962 miles from New York. We have been

out just one week, and, for five days, we have had a strong head wind.

To-day the wind has increased into a violent storm. The decks are swept

with rain and spray. The ocean is white with foam. Our ship, enormous

as it is, is tossed, like a bubble, upon these raging billows. You

start to cross the saloon; a wave lifts the stern of the ship some

twenty feet into the air, and you find yourself pitching down a steep

hill. You lean back as far as possible to preserve your balance, when

suddenly another wave, with gigantic violence, thrusts up the bows of

the ship, and you have a precipitous eminence before you. Just as you

are recovering from your astonishment, the ship takes a lurch, and,

to your utter confusion, you find yourself floundering in a lady's

lap, who happens to be reading upon a sofa on one side of the saloon.

Hardly have you commenced your apology ere another wave comes kindly

to your rescue, and pitches you bodily out of the door. It is with the

utmost difficulty that I write. I have, however, contrived to block

up my inkstand with books, and, by clinging to the table, succeed in

making these hieroglyphics, which I fear that the printer will hardly

be able to read. Many are very sick and very miserable. I am in a state

of submissive endurance. The reader, however, may be fully assured,

that there are many positions far more agreeable than to be on the

middle of the Atlantic ocean in a wet, easterly storm. Our noble ship

is so magnificently strong, that we have no more sense of danger than

when upon the land. There is something in this nausea, which seems to

paralyze all one's mental energies. Never before have I found such an

effort of _will_ requisite to make any mental exertions. There was a

portion of the evening, however, notwithstanding all these discomforts,

passed very pleasantly away. In the boudoir-like magnificence of the

ladies' saloon, with our excellent captain, and a few intelligent and

pleasant companions, gentlemen and ladies, we almost forgot, for an

hour, the storm and the gloom without, and conversed with just as much

joyousness as if we had been in the most luxurious parlor on the land.

These saloons, brilliantly lighted with carcel lamps, look far more

gorgeous and imposing by night than by day. It is now eleven o'clock

at night. Every other moment an enormous billow lifts us high into the

air, and then we go down, down, down, exciting that peculiar sensation

which I remember often to have had in my dreams, when a child. The

scene from the deck is truly sublime. The howling of the tempest, the

rush of the waves, the roar of the sea, the blackness of the night,

the reflection that we are more than a thousand miles from any land,

floating like a bubble upon the vast waves, all combine to invest this

midnight hour upon the ocean with sublimity. The waves to-night will

rock us to sleep, while the winds wail our mournful lullaby.

Sabbath Night, Mar. 28. Lat. 51°, Long. 25° 7'

Miles made 219. Last night our easterly storm increased to a gale,

and blew with hurricane fury. It was utterly impossible to sleep, we

were all so rudely jostled in our berths. The motion of the ship was

so great that we were in constant danger of being rolled from our

beds upon the floor. Every timber in the iron-bound ship creaked and

groaned, and occasionally a sea would strike our bows, which would make

the whole fabric shiver. It was, indeed, an exercise in gymnastics to

perform one's toilet this morning. Every thing which was not a fixture

was rolling hither and thither. It was utterly impossible to stand for

a single moment, without catching hold of something for support. The

ship now keeling in one direction, now in another; at one time rising

ten or fifteen feet into the air, and again as suddenly sinking; now,

apparently stopping, as struck by a heavy sea, and again plunging

forward with the most sullen and determined resolution, presented

a series of movements which defied all calculations. Early in the

morning I clambered upon deck, and leaning against the mast, and

clinging to the ropes, looked out upon the wild, wild scene. The roar

of the gale through our shrouds was almost terrific. It seemed like the

voice of an angry God. But five persons sat down at the breakfast-table

at the usual hour. It was, indeed, a curiosity to see the waiters

attempt to move about upon the unstable footing of our floor. One

would take a cup of coffee, and, clinging to the side of the cabin,

and carefully watching his opportunity, would dart toward a pillar,

to which he would cling, until he was prepared to take another start.

But with all his precautions, he would frequently be thrown upon one

of the cushioned seats of the dining-room, and the liquid contents of

his dishes would be any where. A gentleman would attempt to raise a cup

of tea to his lips. Alas! there is many a slip. A sudden lurch of the

ship ejects the hot beverage into his bosom instead of his mouth. It is

almost dangerous to attempt to move about, you are thrown to and fro

with so much violence. Every thing is made fast which can be secured.

It is a wild scene of uproar and confusion, and I have no desire again

to witness a storm at sea. Nausea sadly detracts from all conceptions

of the sublime. Very many are sick. I am very far from feeling

comfortable. As I look around me upon this tumultuous scene, listening

to the uproar of the elements, I feel how utterly impossible it is for

the pen to communicate to the distant reader any idea of this midnight

ocean-storm. By clinging to the table, so as to become, as it were,

a part of it, I succeed, with much difficulty, in writing. The wind

seems still to be rising as we advance into the hours of the night, and

the ship struggles and plunges more and more violently. We have had

a dismal, dismal day. There is no comfort any where. One can neither

walk, nor stand, nor sit, nor lie. I have spent many hours of the day

wrapped in my cloak, shivering upon the bleak and storm-swept deck. And

now I dread to return to my state-room, for there can be no sleep upon

these angry billows. The head aches, the stomach remonstrates. As the

night, black and stormy, settled down upon the cold, bleak, wet deck, I

thought of home, of the pleasant songs of our Sabbath evening, of those

lines, written by a sainted one, and ever sung in the peaceful twilight

of the Lord's day:

"'Tis Sabbath eve and all is still,

Hushed is the passing throng,

Oh, Lord, our hearts with praises fill

And tune our lips to song."

I hummed the familiar tune, in the midst of the dirges of the ocean.

And as memories of the past came rushing over me the subdued spirit

vanquished the sternness of manhood. Who can not sympathize with the

childish emotions of the pilgrim of three score years and ten, as he

loved to place his gray hairs upon his pillow, and to repeat the infant

prayer his mother taught him:

"Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take."

Monday Night, Mar. 29. Lat. 50° 52'. Long. 19° 35'.

Miles made 209. Toward morning the wind abated and _backed_ round into

the north, and with a clear sky and a fresh breeze, we bounded over

the agitated ocean. About two o'clock, however, the wind returned

again to the east, and dim masses of clouds were rolled up into the

sky. The barometer rapidly fell, and we were threatened with another

gale. The sea was rising, the rain beginning to fall, and the ship

was rolling and pitching, each moment more heavily, in the waves. We

plunged suddenly into a dense fog bank, and prepared for a dreary and

stormy afternoon and night. But after two or three hours of cold,

and wet and dismal sailing, we suddenly emerged from the fog bank,

and came out into pleasant weather on the other side. The moon shone

out resplendently. Just as the evening twilight was fading away

we descried, far off in the northern horizon, a large steamship,

undoubtedly the Africa, which left Liverpool yesterday. Two signal

rockets were thrown up from our ship, but they were probably not seen,

as we obtained no response. I was quite amused with a little incident

which occurred this evening. A large party of gentlemen were clustered

upon the deck, talking together. A ship was dimly discerned in the

distance. A gentleman looked through the telescope at the faint speck

in the horizon, and very confidently said, "It is an English ship."

"How can you tell?" another inquired "Because," he replied, "she has

so little sail set. An American captain would have every sheet spread

in such a wind as this." Some doubt was expressed whether one could

thus accurately judge. "Ask the captain," said he, "whether that is an

English or an American ship." The captain was at some distance from us,

and had not heard our conversation. He had, however, silently examined

the ship with his glass. "Captain," one called out, "what ship is

that?" "It is an English ship," he quietly replied. "How can you tell?"

was immediately asked. "Because," he answered, "she has so little sail

spread. No Yankee would be creeping along at that pace in this breeze."

It was afterward stated that the English captains are paid only while

their ships are at sea, and that the payment is quite small. They

are therefore rather under the inducement to make long voyages. The

Americans, on the contrary, are paid while the ship is in port, and

they drive their voyages with the utmost speed. Whether there be any

foundation for this opinion, I know not. The incident however was quite

interesting.

Tuesday Night, Mar. 30. Lat. 50° 53'. Long. 11° 54'.

Miles made 219. The captain informed us that we were 95 miles from Cape

Clear at noon to-day, and that we might expect to see the coast of

Ireland about six o'clock. The day has been magnificently beautiful. We

have seen many ships in the horizon, indicating that we were leaving

the solitudes of the ocean behind us. Immediately after dinner all the

passengers assembled upon deck to catch the first glimpse of land. At

just a quarter before six o'clock we saw the highlands of the Irish

coast looming through the haze before us. No one who has not crossed

the ocean can conceive of the joyous excitement of the scene. All the

discomfort of ocean life was forgotten in the exhilaration of the hour.

As twilight faded away, the outline of the shore became more visible

under the rays of a most brilliant moon. Soon the light from Cape Clear

beamed brilliantly before us. It is now half-past ten o'clock at night,

and the night is clear, serene, and gorgeously beautiful. The dim

outline of the Irish coast looks dark and solitary. Upon those gloomy

headlands, and in those sombre valleys what scenes of joy and woe have

transpired during centuries which have lingered away. We are rapidly

sailing up the channel, having still some two hundred and fifty miles

to make, before we land in Liverpool. But our ocean life is ended. We

have crossed the Atlantic. At seven o'clock to-morrow evening we expect

to leave the ship.

Wednesday Night, March 31. Waterloo House, Liverpool, 12 o'clock.

This last day, much to my surprise, has been one of the most cheerless

and disagreeable days of our whole voyage. A chilling east wind has

swept the cold and foggy ocean. The decks were wet and slippery. Drops

of water were falling upon us from the drenched shrouds. Nothing

could be seen but the dense mist around us, and the foamy track of

our majestic steamer. It was a great annoyance to think that, were

the sky clear, we might be almost enchanted by the view of the green

hills and the cottages of England. For a few moments, about noon, we

caught a glimpse, through the sheet of mist sweeping the ocean, of the

coast of Wales, but in a few moments the vail was again drawn over it,

and wailing winds and rain and gloom again enveloped us. At about six

o'clock in the evening we discerned, through the fog the steeples and

the docks of Liverpool. The whole aspect of the scene was too dingy,

wet, and sombre for either beauty or sublimity. We were long delayed

in our attempts to get into the dock, and finally had to relinquish

our endeavor for the night, and to cast anchor in the middle of the

river. About half-past seven o'clock a small steamer came on board

bringing several custom-house officers. All our trunks were placed in

the dining-saloon in a row, and the officers employed three tedious

hours in searching our trunks for contraband goods. Faithfully they

did their duty. Every thing was examined. Many of our passengers were

much annoyed and complained bitterly. I saw however, no disposition

whatever, on the part of the custom-house, to cause any needless

trouble. So far as I could judge they performed an unpleasant duty

faithfully, and with as much courtesy as the nature of the case would

allow. There is a very heavy duty imposed upon tobacco and cigars.

There is a strong disposition to smuggle both of these articles into

the kingdom. If it is understood that writing desks are not to be

unlocked, and that packages are not to be opened, and that the mere

word of any stranger is to be taken, the law at once sinks into

contempt. The long delay was tedious, very tedious; but the fault was

ours. Had every man honestly, so arranged his trunk, as to show at

once what was _dutyable_, the work might have been accomplished in

one-third of the time. At eleven o'clock by a long step-ladder, we

descended the sides of the ship to a little steamer, and were landed in

the darkness of the fog upon the wet docks. Taking hacks, nearly all

of our passengers soon found themselves in more comfortable quarters

at the Waterloo Hotel. It is now midnight. Most of my companions are

mirthfully assembled around the supper table. If songs and laughter

constitute enjoyment, they are happy. I, in enjoyment more congenial

with my feelings, am alone in my comfortable little chamber, in an

English Inn, penning these last lines of our ocean life. But I can not

close without a tribute of respect and gratitude to our most worthy

commander, Capt. Luce. By his social qualities, and his untiring

vigilance, he won the esteem of all in the ship. Our shipmates were

friendly and courteous, and though of sundry nations, and creeds, and

tongues, dwelt together in singular harmony.

Reader, forgive me for the apparent egotism of this journal. I have

wished to give the thousands in our country who have never traversed

the ocean, an idea of ocean life. I could not do so, but by giving free

utterance to the emotions which the varied scenes excited in my own

heart. I have only to add, that if you ever wish to cross the Atlantic,

you will find in the Arctic one of the noblest of ships, and in Capt.

Luce one of the best of commanders.

DROOPING BUDS.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

In Paris, Berlin, Turin, Frankfort, Brussels, and Munich; in Hamburgh,

St. Petersburg, Moscow, Vienna, Prague, Pesth, Copenhagen, Stuttgart,

Grätz, Brünn, Lemberg, and Constantinople, there are hospitals for sick

children. There was not one in all England until the other day.

No hospital for sick children! Does the public know what is implied

in this? Those little graves two or three feet long, which are so

plentiful in our church-yards and our cemeteries--to which, from home,

in absence from the pleasures of society, the thoughts of many a young

mother sadly wander--does the public know that we dig too many of them?

Of this great city of London--which, until a few weeks ago, contained

no hospital wherein to treat and study the diseases of children--more

than a third of the whole population perishes in infancy and childhood.

Twenty-four in a hundred die during the two first years of life;

and, during the next eight years, eleven die out of the remaining

seventy-six.

Our children perish out of our homes: not because there is in them an

inherent dangerous sickness (except in the few cases where they are

born of parents who communicate to children heritable maladies), but

because there is, in respect of their tender lives, a want of sanitary

discipline and a want of medical knowledge. What should we say of a

rose-tree in which one bud out of every three dropped to the soil dead?

We should not say that this was natural to roses; neither is it natural

to men and women that they should see the glaze of death upon so many

of the bright eyes that come to laugh and love among them--or that

they should kiss so many little lips grown cold and still. The vice is

external. We fail to prevent disease; and, in the case of children, to

a much more lamentable extent than is well known, we fail to cure it.

Think of it again. Of all the coffins that are made in London, more

than one in every three is made for a little child: a child that has

not yet two figures to its age. Although science has advanced, although

vaccination has been discovered and brought into general use, although

medical knowledge is tenfold greater than it was fifty years ago,

we still do not gain more than a diminution of two per cent in the

terrible mortality among our children.

It does not at all follow that the intelligent physician who has

learnt how to treat successfully the illnesses of adults, has only to

modify his plans a little, to diminish the proportions of his doses,

for the application of his knowledge to our little sons and daughters.

Some of their diseases are peculiar to themselves; other diseases,

common to us all, take a form in children varying as much from their

familiar form with us as a child varies from a man. Different as the

ways are, or ought to be, by which we reach a fault in a child's mind,

and reach a fault in the mind of an adult; so, not less different, if

we would act successfully, should be our action upon ailments of the

flesh. There is another thing, also, which puzzles the physician who

attends on children. He comes to us when we are ill, and questions us

of this symptom, and of that; and on our answers he is taught, in very

many cases, to base a large part of his opinion. The infant can only

wail; the child is silenced by disease; or, when it answers, wants

experience, and answers incorrectly. Again, for life or death, all the

changes in the sickness of a child are commonly very rapid: so rapid,

that a child which suffers under an acute disease should be seen at

least every five or six hours by its medical attendant. He knows this

quickness of action; he knows how swiftly and how readily the balance

may be turned upon which hang life and death. He may have been to Paris

or to Vienna, and have studied in an hospital for children; and, out

of his experience, he may know how to restore the child whole to the

mother's bosom. But all English students can not go abroad for this

good knowledge; nor is it fit that they have need to do so. They have

need at present. In a rough way, English practitioners of medicine no

doubt administer relief to many children; but, that they are compelled

to see those perishing continually whom a better knowledge might have

saved, none are more ready than themselves--the more skillful the more

ready--to admit and to deplore.

The means of studying the diseases of children in London have been

confined to one dispensary, and the general hospitals. In these, the

hours, the management, and discipline are not readily adapted to the

wants of children. It was found, when a committee of the Statistical

Society, in 1843, inquired into such matters, that only one in a

hundred of the inmates of hospital wards was a child suffering from

internal disease. Can we wonder, then--when we call to mind the

peculiar characteristics of disease in a child, and the sagacity and

close observation they demand--can we wonder that the most assiduous

students, growing into medical advisers, can in so many cases, do no

more than sympathize with the distress of parents, look at a sick

child's tongue, feel its pulse, send powders, and shake their heads

with vain regret over the little corpse, around which women weep so

bitterly?

The want of a Child's Hospital in London is supplied. The Hospital for

Sick Children, lately established and now open, is situated in Great

Ormond-street, Queen-square.

London, like a fine old oak, that has lived through some centuries, has

its dead bits in the midst of foliage. When we had provided ourselves

with the address of the Child's Hospital, and found it to be No. 49

Great Ormond-street, Queen-square, we were impressed with a sense of

its being very far out of the way. Great Ormond-street belonged to

our great-grandfathers; it was a bit of London full of sap a great

number of years ago. It is cut off, now, from the life of the town--in

London, but not of it--a suburb left between the New Road and High

Holborn. We turned out of the rattle of Holborn into King-street, and

went up Southampton-row through a short passage which led us into a

square, dozing over its own departed greatness. Solitude in a crowd

is acknowledged by the poets to be extremely oppressive, and we felt

so much scared in Queen-square at finding ourselves all alone there,

that we had not enough presence of mind to observe more than space and

houses, and (if our vague impression be correct) a pump. Moreover,

there were spectral streets, down which the eye was drawn. Great

Ormond-street was written on a corner house in one of them. It was the

enchanter's label by which we were bidden forward; so we went into

Great Ormond-street--wondering who lived in its large houses, some of

them mansions--and looking hazily for No. 49. That was a mansion too

broad, stuccoed front, quite fresh and white, bearing the inscription

on its surface, "Hospital for Sick Children." A woman with a child in

her arms was finding ready admission at the great hall-door. The neat

and new appearance of the hospital walls from the outside, restored

our thoughts to our own day; and we presently resolved, and carried,

that the committee had shown great judgment in their selection of a

situation--quiet (very quiet), airy, and central.

At the hall-door there was a porter, so new to his new work that the

name of a surgeon to the institution was a strange sound in his ears.

Crossing a spacious hall, we were ushered into a fine old ancestral

parlor, which is now the board-room of the institution; and there,

before a massive antique chimney-piece, we found a young house-surgeon.

Many stiff bows and formal introductions had those old walls seen, when

Great Ormond-street was grand, and when frills and farthingales lent

state to the great mansion. Many a minuet had been solemnly danced

there; many hearts and fans had fluttered, many buckram flirtations had

had their little hour; many births, marriages, and deaths had passed

away, in due and undue course, out of the great hall-door into the

family vaults--as old-fashioned now as the family mansion. Many little

faces, radiant in the wintry blaze, had looked up in the twilight,

wondering at the great old monument of a chimney-piece, and at the

winking shadows peeping down from its recesses. Many, far too many

pretty house-fairies had vanished from before it, and left blank spaces

on the hearth, to be filled up nevermore.

O! baby's dead, and will be never, never, never seen among us any more!

We fell into a waking dream, and the Spring air seemed to breathe the

words. The young house-surgeon melted out of the quaint, quiet room;

in his place, a group of little children gathered about a weeping

lady; and the lamentation was familiar to the ancient echoes of the

house. Then, there appeared to us a host of little figures, and cried,

"We are baby. We were baby here, each of us in its generation, and

were welcomed with joy, and hope, and thankfulness; but no love, and

no hope, though they were very strong, could keep us, and we went

our early way!"--"And we," said another throng of shades, "were that

little child who lived to walk and talk, and to be the favorite, and

to influence the whole of this great house, and make it very pleasant,

until the infection that could not be stopped, was brought here from

those poor houses not far off, and struck us one day while we were

at play, and quenched the light of our bright eyes, and changed our

prattle into moaning, and killed us in our promise!"--"And I," said

another shadow, "am that girl who, having been a sick child once, grew

to be a woman, and to love and to be blessed with love, and then--oh,

at that hardest time! began to fade, and glided from the arms of my

young husband, never to be mine on earth!"--"And I," said another

shadow, "am the lame mis-shapen boy who read so much by this fireside,

and suffered so much pain so patiently, and might have been as active

and as straight as you, if any one had understood my malady; but I said

to my fond father, carrying me in his arms to the bed from which I

never rose: 'I think, oh dear papa, that it is better I should never

be a man, for who could then carry me like this, or who could be so

careful of me when you were gone!'" Then all the shadows said together:

"We belonged to this house, but others like us have belonged to every

house, and many such will come here now to be relieved, and we will put

it in the hearts of mothers and fathers to remember them. Come up, and

see!"

We followed, up the spacious stairs into a large and lofty room, airy

and gay. It had been the drawing-room of the old house. A reviving

touch had passed over its decorations; and the richly-ornamented

ceiling, to which little eyes looked up from little beds, was quite a

cheerful sight. The walls were painted, in panel, with rosy nymphs and

children; and the light laughter of children welcomed our entrance.

There was nothing sad here. Light iron cribs, with the beds made in

them, were ranged, instead of chairs, against the walls. There were

half-a-dozen children--all the patients then contained in the new

hospital; but, here and there, a bed was occupied by a sick doll. A

large gay ball was rolling on the floor, and toys abounded. From this

cheerful place we looked into a second room--the other drawing-room,

furnished in a like manner, but as yet unoccupied.

There were five girls and a boy. Five were in bed near the windows; two

of these, whose beds were the most distant from each other, confined

by painful maladies, were resting on their arms, and busily exporting

and importing fun. A third shared the profits merrily, and occasionally

speculated in a venture on its own account. The most delightful music

in this world, the light laughter of children floated freely through

the place. The hospital had begun with one child. What did _he_ think

about, or laugh about? Maybe those shadows who had had their infant

home in the great house, and had known in those same rooms the needs

now sought to be supplied for him, told him stories in his sleep.

One of the little patients followed our movements with its eyes, with a

sad, thoughtful, peaceful look; one indulged in a big stare of childish

curiosity and wonder. They had toys strewn upon their counterpanes.

A sick child is a contradiction of ideas, like a cold summer. But to

quench the summer in a child's heart is, thank God! not easy. If we

do not make a frost with wintry discipline, if we will use soft looks

and gentle words; though such an hospital be full of sick and ailing

bodies, the light, loving spirits of the children will fill its wards

with pleasant sounds, contrasting happily with the complainings that

abound among our sick adults. Suffer these little ones to come to such

a Christian House, and forbid them not! They will not easily forget it.

Around the gates of the Child's Hospital at Frankfort, hangs a crowd

of children who have been discharged, lying in wait to pounce with a

loving word upon any of those who tended them when sick. They send

little petitions in to the hospital authorities to be allowed, as a

special favor, to come into the garden again, to play. A child's heart

is soon touched by gentle people; and a Child's Hospital in London,

through which there should pass yearly eight hundred children of the

poor, would help to diffuse a kind of health that is not usually got

out of apothecaries' bottles.

We have spoken only of five children; the sixth was not in bed and

not at rest. He was a literary character, studiously combining into

patterns letters of the alphabet; but he had removed his work so far

out of the little world to which he belonged, that he attracted no

attention from his neighbors. There are larger children in a greater

world who do the like. The solitary child was lonely--not from want of

love--its thoughts were at home wandering about its mother; it had not

yet learned to reconcile itself to temporary separation. We seemed to

leave the shadows of our day-dream in attendance on it, and to take up

our young surgeon again.

Having paid as we were able brief respects to each member of the little

company, and having seen the bath-rooms on this floor, we continued our

progress upward. Of course there were no more stately drawing-rooms,

but all the rooms were spacious, and, by modern care, had been,

moreover, plentifully furnished with the means of ventilation. There

were bath-rooms, of course; there were wards cut off from the rest for

fever cases. Good thought had been evidently directed to a good purpose

every where.

Having seen all these things, we came downstairs again, and passing

trough the surgery--upon whose jars and bottles our eyes detected many

names of compounds palatable to little mouths--we were shown through

an excellent consulting-room, into a wide hall, with another of the

massive chimney-pieces. This hall is entered from a side street, and is

intended for a waiting-room for out-patients. It had always belonged to

the brave house in Great-Ormond-street, and had been used at one time

for assemblies.

What we have said of the few patients admitted at the early period

of our visit, will have shown the spirit in which a Child's Hospital

should be conducted. Of course, to such an institution a garden

and play-ground for the convalescent is an essential requisite. We

inquired, therefore, for the garden in Great Ormond-street. We were

shown out through a large door under a lattice, and found a terrace

in the old style, descending by steps to a considerable space of

ground. The steps were short, suited to little feet; so also in the

house, according to the old style, which curiously fits itself to the

modern purpose. We found that an air of neatness had been given to

that portion of the ground immediately near the house; but the space

generally is very ample, and is at present a mere wilderness. The funds

of the hospital have only sufficed to authorize the occupation of a

building, and the preparation for a great useful work. For means to

plant the roses in the garden, and to plant the roses in the cheeks of

many children besides those who come under their immediate care, the

Hospital Committee has support to find.

So large a piece of garden-ground waiting for flowers, only a quarter

of a mile from Holborn, was a curious thing to contemplate. When we

looked into the dead house, built for the reception of those children

whom skill and care shall fail to save, and heard of the alarm which

its erection had excited in the breasts of some "particular" old ladies

in the neighborhood, we felt inclined to preach some comfort to them.

Be of good heart, particular old ladies! In every street, square,

crescent, alley, lane, in this great city, you will find dead children

too easily. They lie thick all around you. This little tenement will

not hurt you; there will be the fewer dead-houses for it; and the place

to which it is attached may bring a saving health upon Queen-square, a

blessing on Great Ormond-street!

THE LAST REVEL.

A TALE OF THE COAST-GUARD.

When I was quite a lad, a servant lived with us of the name of Anne

Stacey. She had been in the service of William Cobbett, the political

writer, who resided for some years at Botley, a village a few miles

distant from Itchen. Anne might be about two or three and twenty years

of age when she came to us; and a very notable, industrious servant

she was, and remarked, moreover, as possessing a strong religious

bias. Her features, every body agreed, were comely and intelligent.

But that advantage in the matrimonial market was more than neutralized

by her unfortunate figure, which, owing, as we understood, to a fall

in her childhood, was hopelessly deformed, though still strongly set

and muscular. Albeit a sum of money--about fifty pounds--scraped

together by thrifty self-denial during a dozen years of servitude,

amply compensated in the eyes of several idle and needy young fellows

for the unlovely outline of her person; and Anne, with an infatuation

too common with persons of her class and condition, and in spite

of repeated warning, and the secret misgivings, one would suppose,

of her own mind, married the best-looking, but most worthless and

dissipated of them all. This man, Henry Ransome by name, was, I have

been informed, constantly intoxicated during the first three months

of wedlock, and then the ill-assorted couple disappeared from the

neighborhood of Itchen, and took up their abode in one of the hamlets

of the New Forest. Many years afterward, when I joined the Preventive

Service, I frequently heard mention of his name as that of a man

singularly skillful in defrauding the revenue, as well as in avoiding

the penalties which surround that dangerous vocation. One day, he was

pointed out to me when standing by the Cross-House near the Ferry,

in company with a comparatively youthful desperado, whose real name

was John Wyatt, though generally known among the smuggling fraternity

and other personal intimates, by the _sobriquet_ of Black Jack--on

account, I suppose, of his dark, heavy-browed, scowling figure-head,

one of the most repulsive, I think, I have ever seen. Anne's husband,

Henry Ransome, seemed, so far as very brief observation enabled me to

judge, quite a different person from his much younger, as well as much

bigger and brawnier associate. I did not doubt that, before excessive

indulgence had wasted his now pallid features, and sapped the vigor

of his thin and shaking frame, he had been a smart, good-looking chap

enough; and there was, it struck me, spite of his reputation as "a

knowing one," considerably more of the dupe than the knave, of the fool

than the villain, in the dreary, downcast, skulking expression that

flitted over his features as his eye caught mine intently regarding

him. I noticed also that he had a dry, hard cough, and I set down in

my own mind as certain that he would, ere many months passed away, be

consigned, like scores of his fellows, to a brandy-hastened grave.

He indicated my presence--proximity, rather--to Wyatt, by a nudge on

the elbow, whereupon that respectable personage swung sharply round,

and returned my scrutinizing gaze by one of insolent defiance and

bravado, which he contrived to render still more emphatic by thrusting

his tongue into his cheek. This done, he gathered up a coil of rope

from one of the seats of the Cross-House, and said: "Come, Harry,

let's be off. That gentleman seems to want to take our pictures--on

account that our mugs are such handsome ones, no doubt; and if it was

a mildish afternoon, I shouldn't mind having mine done; but as the

weather's rather nippy like, we'd better be toddling, I think." They

then swaggered off, and crossed the Ferry.

Two or three weeks afterward, I again met with them, under the

following circumstances: I landed from the _Rose_ at Lymington, for

the purpose of going by coach to Lyndhurst, a considerable village

in the New Forest, from which an ex-chancellor derives his title.

I had appointed to meet a confidential agent there at the Fox and

Hounds Inn, a third-rate tavern, situate at the foot of the hill upon

which the place is built; and as the evening promised to be clear

and fine, though cold, I anticipated a bracing, cross-country walk

afterward in the direction of Hythe, in the neighborhood whereof dwelt

a person--neither a seaman nor a smuggler--whose favor I was just

then very diligently cultivating. It was the month of November; and

on being set down at the door of the inn somewhere about six o'clock

in the evening, I quietly entered and took a seat in the smoking-room

unrecognized, as I thought, by any one--for I was not in uniform. My

man had not arrived; and after waiting a few minutes, I stepped out

to inquire at the bar if such a person had been there. To my great

surprise, a young woman--girl would be a better word, for she could

not be more than seventeen, or at the utmost eighteen years old--whom

I had noticed on the outside of the coach, was just asking if one

Dr. Lee was expected. This was precisely the individual who was to

meet me, and I looked with some curiosity at the inquirer. She was a

coarsely, but neatly attired person, of a pretty figure, interesting,

but dejected cast of features, and with large, dark, sorrowing eyes.

Thoughtfulness and care were not less marked in the humble, subdued

tone in which she spoke. "Could I sit down any where till he comes?"

she timidly asked, after hearing the bar-woman's reply. The servant

civilly invited her to take a seat by the bar-fire, and I returned,

without saying any thing, to the smoking-room, rang the bell, and

ordered a glass of brandy and water, and some biscuits. I had been

seated a very short time only, when the quick, consequential step,

and sharp, cracked voice of Dr. Lee sounded along the passage, and

after a momentary pause at the bar, his round, smirking, good-humored,

knavish face looked in at the parlor-door, where, seeing me alone, he

winked with uncommon expression, and said aloud: "A prime fire in the

smoking-room, I see; I shall treat myself to a whiff there presently."

This said, the shining face vanished, in order, I doubted not, that

its owner might confer with the young girl who had been inquiring for

him. This Lee, I must observe, had no legal right to the prefix of

doctor tacked to his name. He was merely a peripatetic quacksalver

and vender of infallible medicines, who, having wielded the pestle in

an apothecary's shop for some years during his youth, had acquired a

little skill in the use of drugs, and could open a vein or draw a tooth

with considerable dexterity. He had a large, but not, I think, very

remunerative practice among the poaching, deer-stealing, smuggling

community of those parts, to whom it was of vital importance that the

hurts received in their desperate pursuits should be tended by some one

not inclined to babble of the number, circumstances, or whereabouts

of his patients. This essential condition Lee, hypocrite and knave as

he was, strictly fulfilled; and no inducement could, I think, have

prevailed upon him to betray the hiding-place of a wounded or suffering

client. In other respects, he permitted himself a more profitable

freedom of action, thereto compelled, he was wont apologetically to

remark, by the wretchedly poor remuneration obtained by his medical

practice. If, however, specie was scarce among his clients, spirits, as

his rubicund, carbuncled face flamingly testified, were very plentiful.

There was a receipt in full painted there for a prodigious amount of

drugs and chemicals, so that, on the whole, he could have had no great

reason to complain.

He soon reappeared, and took a chair by the fire, which, after civilly

saluting me, he stirred almost fiercely, eying as he did so the blazing

coals with a half-abstracted and sullen, cowed, disquieted look

altogether unusual with him. At least, wherever I had before seen him,

he had been as loquacious and boastful as a Gascon.

"What is the matter, doctor?" I said. "You appear strangely down upon

your luck all at once."

"Hush--hush! Speak lower, sir, pray. The fact is, I have just heard

that a fellow is lurking about here--You have not, I hope, asked for me

of any one?"

"I have not; but what if I had?"

"Why, you see, sir, that suspicion--calumny, Shakspeare says, could

not be escaped, even if one were pure as snow--and more especially,

therefore, when one is not quite so--so--Ahem!--you understand?"

"Very well, indeed. You would say, that when one is _not_ actually

immaculate--calumny, suspicion takes an earlier and firmer hold."

"Just so; exactly--and, in fact--ha!--"

The door was suddenly thrown open, and the doctor fairly leaped to his

feet with ill-disguised alarm. It was only the bar-maid, to ask if

he had rung. He had not done so, and as it was perfectly understood

that I paid for all on these occasions, that fact alone was abundantly

conclusive as to the disordered state of his intellect. He now ordered

brandy and water, a pipe, and a screw of tobacco. These ministrants

to a mind disturbed somewhat calmed the doctor's excitement, and his

cunning gray eyes soon brightly twinkled again through a haze of

curling smoke.

"Did you notice," he resumed, "a female sitting in the bar? She knows

you."

"A young, intelligent-looking girl. Yes. Who is she?"

"Young!" replied Lee, evasively, I thought. "Well, it's true she is

young in years, but not in experience--in suffering, poor girl, as I

can bear witness."

"There are, indeed, but faint indications of the mirth and lightness of

youth or childhood in those timid, apprehensive eyes of hers."

"She never had a childhood. Girls of her condition seldom have. Her

father's booked for the next world, and by an early stage, too, unless

he mends his manners, and that I hardly see how he's to do. The girl's

been to Lymington to see after a place. Can't have it. Her father's

character is against her. Unfortunate; for she's a good girl."

"I am sorry for her. But come, to business. How about the matter you

wot of?"

"Here are all the particulars," answered Lee, with an easy transition

from a sentimental to a common-sense, business-like tone, and, at the

same time, unscrewing the lid of a tortoise-shell tobacco-box, and

taking a folded paper from it. "I keep these matters generally here;

for if I were to drop such an article--just now, especially--I might as

well be hung out to dry at once."

I glanced over the paper. "Place, date, hour correct, and thoroughly to

be depended upon, you say, eh?"

"Correct as Cocker, I'll answer for it. It would be a spicy run for

them, if there were no man-traps in the way."

I placed the paper in my waistcoat-pocket, and then handed the doctor

his preliminary fee. The touch of gold had not its usual electrical

effect upon him. His nervous fit was coming on again. "I wish," he

puffed out--"I wish I was safe out of this part of the country, or else

that a certain person I know was transported; then, indeed--"

"And who may that certain person be, doctor?" demanded a grim-looking

rascal, as he softly opened the door. "Not me, I hope?"

I instantly recognized the fellow, and so did the doctor, who had again

bounded from his chair, and was shaking all over as if with ague,

while his very carbuncles became pallid with affright. "You-u-u," he

stammered--"You-u-u, Wyatt: God forbid!"

Wyatt was, I saw, muddled with liquor. This was lucky for poor Lee.

"Well, never mind if it _was_ me, old brick," rejoined the fellow; "or,

at least, you have been a brick, though I'm misdoubting you'll die a

pantile after all. But here's luck; all's one for that." He held a

pewter pot in one hand, and a pipe in the other, and as he drank, his

somewhat confused but baleful look continued leveled savagely along the

pewter at the terrified doctor. There was, I saw, mischief in the man.

"I'd drink yours," continued the reckless scamp, as he paused for

breath, drew the back of his pipe-hand across his mouth, and stared as

steadily as he could in my face--"I'd drink your health, if I only knew

your name."

"You'll hear it plainly enough, my fine fellow, when you're in the dock

one of these days, just before the judge sends you to the hulks, or,

which is perhaps the likelier, to the gallows. And this scamp, too," I

added, with a gesture toward Lee, whom I hardly dared venture to look

at, "who has been pitching me such a pretty rigmarole, is, I see, a

fellow-rogue to yourself. This house appears to be little better than

a thieves' rendezvous, upon my word."

Wyatt regarded me with a deadly scowl as he answered: "Ay, ay, you're

a brave cock. Master Warneford, upon your own dunghill. It maybe my

turn someday. Here, doctor, a word with you outside." They both left

the room, and I rang the bell, discharged the score, and was just going

when Lee returned. He was still pale and shaky, though considerably

recovered from the panic-terror excited by the sudden entrance of Wyatt.

"Thank Heaven, he's gone!" said the doctor; "and less sour and

suspicious than I feared him to be. But tell me, sir, do you intend

walking from here to Hythe?"

"I so purpose. Why do you ask?"

"Because the young girl you saw in the bar went off ten minutes ago by

the same road. She was too late for a farmer's cart which she expected

to return by. Wyatt, too, is off in the same direction."

"She will have company, then."

"Evil company, I fear. Her father and he have lately quarreled; and

her, I know, he bears a grudge against, for refusing, as the talk goes,

to have any thing to say to him."

"Very well; don't alarm yourself. I shall soon overtake them, and you

may depend the big drunken bully shall neither insult nor molest her.

Good-night."

It was a lonely walk for a girl to take on a winter evening, although

the weather was brilliantly light and clear, and it was not yet

much past seven o'clock. Except, perchance, a deer-keeper, or a

deer-stealer, it was not likely she would meet a human being for two

or three miles together, and farm and other houses near the track were

very sparsely scattered here and there. I walked swiftly on, and soon

came within sight of Wyatt; but so eagerly was his attention directed

ahead, that he did not observe me till we were close abreast of each

other.

"You here!" he exclaimed, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage. "I only

wish--"

"That you had one or two friends within hail, eh? Well, it's better for

your own health that you have not, depend upon it. I have four barrels

with me, and each of them, as you well know, carries a life, one of

which should be yours, as sure as that black head is on your shoulders."

He answered only by a snarl and a malediction, and we proceeded on

pretty nearly together. He appeared to be much soberer than before:

perhaps the keen air had cooled him somewhat, or he might have been

shamming it a little at the inn to hoodwink the doctor. Five or six

minutes brought us to a sharp turn of the road, where we caught sight

of the young woman, who was not more than thirty or forty yards ahead.

Presently, the sound of footsteps appeared to strike her ear, for she

looked quickly round, and an expression of alarm escaped her. I was in

the shadow of the road, so that, in the first instance, she saw only

Wyatt. Another moment, and her terrified glance rested upon me.

"Lieutenant Warneford!" she exclaimed.

"Ay, my good girl, that is my name. You appear frightened--not at me,

I hope!"

"O no, not at you," she hastily answered, the color vividly returning

to her pale cheeks.

"This good-looking person is, I daresay, a sweetheart of yours; so I'll

just keep astern out of ear-shot. My road lies past your dwelling."

The girl appeared to understand me, and, reassured, walked on, Wyatt

lopping sullenly along beside her. I did not choose to have a fellow of

his stamp, and in his present mood, walking behind _me_.

Nothing was said that I heard for about a mile and a half, when Wyatt,

with a snarling "good-night" to the girl, turned off by a path on the

left, and was quickly out of sight.

"I am not very far from home now, sir," said the young woman,

hesitatingly. She thought, perhaps, that I might leave her, now Wyatt

had disappeared.

"Pray go on, then," I said; "I will see you safe there, though somewhat

pressed for time."

We walked side by side, and after awhile she said in a low tone, and

with still downcast eyes: "My mother lived servant in your family once,

sir."

"The deuce! Your name is Ransome, then, I suspect."

"Yes, sir--Mary Ransome." A sad sigh accompanied these words. I pitied

the poor girl from my heart, but having nothing very consolatory to

suggest, I held my peace.

"There is mother!" she cried in an almost joyful tone. She pointed to

a woman standing in the open doorway of a mean dwelling at no great

distance, in apparently anxious expectation. Mary Ransome hastened

forward, and whispered a few sentences to her mother, who fondly

embraced her.

"I am very grateful to you, sir, for seeing Mary safely home. You do

not, I daresay remember me?"

"You are greatly changed, I perceive, and not by years alone."

"Ah, sir!" Tears started to the eyes of both mother and daughter.

"Would you," added the woman, "step in a moment. Perhaps a few words

from you might have effect." She looked while thus speaking, at her

weak, consumptive-looking husband, who was seated by the fire-place

with a large green baize-covered Bible open before him on a round

table. There is no sermon so impressive as that which gleams from an

apparently yawning and inevitable grave; and none, too, more quickly

forgotten, if by any resource of art, and reinvigoration of nature, the

tomb-ward progress be arrested, and life pulsate joyously again. I was

about to make some remark upon the suicidal folly of persisting in a

course which almost necessarily led to misery and ruin, when the but

partially-closed doorway was darkened by the burly figure of Wyatt.

"A very nice company, by jingo!" growled the ruffian; "you only want

the doctor to be quite complete. But hark ye, Ransome," he continued,

addressing the sick man, who cowered beneath his scowling gaze like

a beaten hound--"mind and keep a still tongue in that calf's head of

yourn, or else prepare yourself to--to take--to take--what follows. You

know me as well as I do you. Good-night."

With this caution, the fellow disappeared, and after a few words, which

the unfortunate family were too frightened to listen to, or scarcely to

hear, I also went my way.

The information received from Dr. Lee relative to the contemplated

run near Hurst Castle proved strictly accurate. The surprise

of the smugglers was in consequence complete, and the goods,

the value of which was considerable, were easily secured. There

occurred also, several of the ordinary casualties that attend such

encounters--casualties which always excited in my mind a strong feeling

of regret that the revenue of the country could not be assured by

other and less hazardous expedients. No life was, however, lost, and

we made no prisoners. To my great surprise I caught, at the beginning

of the affray, a glimpse of the bottle-green coat, drab knee-cords,

with gaiter continuations, of the doctor. They, however, very quickly

vanished; and till about a week afterward, I concluded that their owner

had escaped in a whole skin. I was mistaken.

I had passed the evening at the house whither my steps were directed

when I escorted Mary Ransome home, and it was growing late, when the

servant-maid announced that a young woman, seemingly in great trouble,

after inquiring if Lieutenant Warneford was there, had requested to

see him immediately, and was waiting below for that purpose. It was,

I found, Mary Ransome, in a state of great flurry and excitement. She

brought a hastily scribbled note from Dr. Lee, to the effect that

Wyatt, from motives of suspicion, had insisted that both he and Ransome

should be present at the attempt near Hurst Castle; that the doctor,

in his hurry to get out of harm's way, had attempted a leap, which,

owing to his haste, awkwardness, and the frosty atmosphere and ground,

had resulted in a compound fracture of his right leg; that he had been

borne off in a state of insensibility; on recovering from which he

found himself in Wyatt's power, who, by rifling his pockets, had found

some memoranda that left no doubt of Lee's treason toward the smuggling

fraternity. The bearer of the note would, he said, further explain,

as he could not risk delaying sending it for another moment--only he

begged to say his life depended upon me.

"Life!" I exclaimed, addressing the pale, quaking girl; "nonsense! Such

gentry as Wyatt are not certainly particular to a shade or two, but

they rarely go that length."

"They will make away with father as well as Dr. Lee," she shudderingly

replied: "I am sure of it. Wyatt is mad with rage." She trembled so

violently as hardly to be able to stand, and I made her sit down.

"You can not mean that the scoundrel contemplates murder?"

"Yes--yes! believe me, sir, he does. You know the _Fair Rosamond_, now

lying off Marchwood?" she continued, growing every instant paler and

paler.

"The trader to St. Michael's for oranges and other fruits?"

"That is but a blind, sir. She belongs to the same company as the boats

you captured at Hurst Castle. She will complete landing her cargo early

to-morrow morning, and drop down the river with the ebb-tide just about

dawn."

"The deuce they will! The cunning rascals. But go on. What would you

further say?"

"Wyatt insists that both the doctor and my father shall sail in her.

They will be carried on board, and--and when at sea--you know--you

understand--"

"Be drowned, you fear. That is possible, certainly; but I can not think

they would have more to fear than a good keel-hauling. Still, the

matter must be looked to, more especially as Lee's predicament is owing

to the information he has given the king's officers. Where are they

confined?"

She described the place, which I remembered very well, having searched

it not more than a fortnight previously. I then assured her that I

would get her father as well as Lee out of the smugglers' hands by

force, if necessary; upon hearing which the poor girl's agitation came

to a climax, and she went off into strong hysterics. There was no time

to be lost, so committing her to the care of the servant, I took leave

of my friends, and made the best of my way to Hythe, hard off which a

boat, I knew, awaited me; revolving, as I sped along, the best mode

of procedure. I hailed the boat, and instructed one of the men--Dick

Redhead, he was generally called, from his fiery poll--a sharp, clever

fellow was Dick--to proceed immediately to the house I had left, and

accompany the young woman to the spot indicated, and remain in ambush,

with both eyes wide open, about the place till I arrived. The _Rose_

was fortunately off Southampton Quay; we soon reached her, shifted to

a larger boat, and I and a stout crew were on our way, in very little

time, to have a word with that deceitful _Fair Rosamond_, which we

could still see lying quietly at anchor a couple of miles up the river.

We were quickly alongside, but, to our great surprise, found no one

on board. There was, however, a considerable quantity of contraband

spirits in the hold; and this not only confirmed the girl's story,

but constituted the _Fair Rosamond_ a lawful prize. I left four men

in her, with strict orders to lie close and not show themselves, and

with the rest hastened on shore, and pushed on to the doctor's rescue.

The night was dark and stormy, which was so far the better for our

purpose; but when we reached the place, no Dick Redhead could be seen!

This was queer, and prowling stealthily round the building, we found

that it was securely barred, sheltered, and fastened up, although by

the light through the chinks, and a confused hum, it seemed, of merry

voices, there was a considerable number of guests within. Still, Master

Dick did not show, and I was thoroughly at a loss how to act. It would

not certainly have been difficult to force an entrance, but I doubted

that I should be justified in doing so; besides, if they were such

desperadoes as Mary Ransome intimated, such a measure must be attended

with loss of life--a risk not to be incurred except when all less

hazardous expedients had failed, and then only for a sufficient and

well-defined purpose. I was thus cogitating, when there suddenly burst

forth, overpowering the howling of the wind and the pattering of the

rain, a rattling and familiar chorus, sung by at least a dozen rough

voices; and I had not a doubt that the crew of the _Fair Rosamond_ were

assisting at a farewell revel previous to sailing, as that Hope, which

tells so many flattering tales, assured them they would, at dawn.

Such merriment did not certainly sound like the ferocious exultations

of intending assassins; still, I was very anxious to make ten or a

dozen among them; and continued to cast about for the means of doing

so, our attention was at length fixed upon a strange object, not unlike

a thirty-six pounder red-hot round shot, not in the least cooled by

the rain, projecting inquiringly from a small aperture, which answered

for a window, half-way up the sloping roof. It proved to be Master

Dick's fiery head, but he made us out before we did him. "Is that Bill

Simpson?" queried Dick, very anxiously. The seaman addressed, as soon

as he could shove in a word edgewise with the chorus and the numerous

wind-instruments of the forest, answered that "it was Bill Simpson;

and who the blazes was that up there?" To which the answer was, that

"it was Dick, and that he should be obliged, if Bill had a rope with

him, he would shy up one end of it." Of course we had a rope; an end

was shied up, made fast, and down tumbled Master Dick Redhead without

his hat, which, in his hurry, it appeared, he had left behind in

the banqueting-room. His explanation was brief and explicit. He had

accompanied the young woman to the present building, as I ordered;

and being a good deal wrought upon by her grief and lamentations, had

suggested that it might be possible to get Dr. Lee and her father to

a place of safety without delay, proverbially dangerous. This seemed

feasible; inasmuch as the fellow left in charge by Wyatt was found

to be dead-drunk, chiefly owing, I comprehended, to some powerful

ingredients infused in his liquor by Dr. Lee. All was going on

swimmingly, when, just as Dick had got the doctor on his back, an alarm

was given that the crew of the _Fair Rosamond_ were close at hand, and

Dick had just time to climb with great difficulty into the crazy loft

overhead, when a dozen brawny fellows entered the place, and forthwith

proceeded to make merry.

A brief council was now held, and it was unanimously deemed advisable

that we should all climb up to Dick's hiding-place by means of the

rope, and thence contrive to drop down upon the convivial gentlemen

below, in as convenient a manner as possible, and when least expected.

We soon scaled the loft, but after-proceedings were not so easy. The

loft was a make-shift, temporary one, consisting of loose planks

resting upon the cross rafters of the roof, and at a considerable

height from the floor upon which the smugglers were carousing. It

would, no doubt, have been easy enough to have slid down by a rope;

but this would place the first three or four men, if no more, at the

mercy of the contrabandists, who, I could see, through the wide chinks,

were all armed, and not so drunk but that they thoroughly knew what

they were about. It behooved us to be cool, and consider well the

best course to pursue. While doing so, I had leisure to contemplate

the scene below. Wyatt was not there; but around a table, lighted by

two dip-candles stuck in the necks of black bottles, and provided

with abundance of liquor, tobacco, tin pannikins, and clay-pipes, sat

twelve or thirteen ill-favored fellows, any one of whom a prudent man

would, I am very sure, have rather trusted with a shilling than a

sovereign. The unfortunate doctor, pale and sepulchral as the death he

evidently dreaded to be near at hand, was sitting propped up in a rude

arm-chair; and Ransome, worse, I thought, than when I had seen him

a few weeks previously, was reclining on a chest, in front of which

stood his wife and daughter in a condition of feverish excitement.

There at first appeared, from the temper of the roisterers, to be

no cause for any very grave apprehension; but the aspect of affairs

soon changed, and I eagerly availed myself of a suggestion of Dick

Redhead's, and gave directions that preparation for its execution

should be instantly and silently commenced. The thought had struck

Dick when perched up there alone, and naturally looking about for all

available means of defense, should he be discovered. Let me restate

my position and responsibilities. It was my duty to rescue Lee, the

agent of the Customs, from the dangerous predicament in which he was

placed; and the question was, how to effect this without loss of

life. It would no doubt have been easy enough to have turned up one

or two of the loose planks, and have shot half the smugglers before

they could have made their escape. This, however, was out of the

question, and hence the adoption of Dick's proposal. It was this: in

the loft where we lay, for stand upright we could not, there was among

several empty ones, one full cask, containing illicit spirits of some

kind, and measuring, perhaps, between forty and fifty gallons. It was

wood-hooped, and could be easily unheaded by the men's knives, and at

a given signal, be soused right upon the heads of the party beneath,

creating a consternation, confusion, and dismay, during which we might

all descend, and end the business, I hoped, without bloodshed.

This was our plan, and we had need to be quick about it, for, as I have

said, the state of affairs below had suddenly changed, and much for

the worse. A whistle was heard without; the front entrance was hastily

unbarred, and in strode Wyatt, Black Jack, and well did he on this

occasion vindicate the justice of his popular designation. Every body

was in a moment silent, and most of those who could stood up. "What's

this infernal row going on for?" he fiercely growled. "Do you want to

get the sharks upon us again?" There was no answer, and one of the men

handed him a pannikin of liquor, which he drank greedily. "Lee," he

savagely exclaimed, as he put down the vessel, "you set out with us in

half an hour at latest."

"Mercy, mercy!" gasped the nerveless, feeble wretch: "mercy!"

"Oh, ay, we'll give you plenty of that, and some to spare. You, too,

Ransome, prepare yourself, as well as your dainty daughter here--" He

stopped suddenly, not, it seemed, checked by the frenzied outcries of

the females, but by a renewed and piercing whistle on the outside. In

the mean time, our fellows were getting on famously with the hoops of

the huge spirit-cask. "Why, that is Richard's whistle," he exclaimed.

"What the furies can this mean? Unbar the door!" This was instantly

done, and a man, a sailor by his dress, rushed in. "The _Fair Rosamond_

is captured, and the preventive men are in possession of her."

My "Quick! quick!" to the men, though uttered too loud, from the

suddenness of the surprise, was happily lost in the rageful outburst of

Wyatt. "Hell-fire!" he roared out. "But you lie; it can not be."

"It is true" rejoined the man. "I and Clarke went on shore about an

hour ago in the punt, just to get a nip of brandy this cold night, as

you won't let us break bulk on board. When we returned, Tom went up the

side first, was nabbed, and I had hardly time, upon hearing him sing

out, to shove off and escape myself."

We were now ready, and two of the planks just over Wyatt's head were

carefully turned over. He seemed for a moment paralyzed--for a moment

only. Suddenly he sprang toward Mary Ransome, grasped her hair with one

hand, and in the other held a cocked pistol: "You," he shouted--"you,

accursed minx, have done this. You went out two hours ago--"

I lifted my hand. "Hurra! Take that, you cowardly lubber!" roared Dick

Redhead; and down went the avalanche of liquid, knocking not only the

pistol out of Wyatt's hand, but himself clean off his legs, and nearly

drowning Mary Ransome, her mother, and half-a-dozen others. A rope had

been made fast to one of the rafters, down which we all quietly slid

before the astonished smugglers could comprehend what had happened.

Resistance was then out of the question, and they did not attempt it.

I took Wyatt and one or two others into custody, for having contraband

spirits in their possession; and the others were permitted to make

themselves scarce as quickly as might be--a license they promptly

availed themselves of.

I have but a few words to add. Henry Ransome died, I heard, not

long afterward, of pulmonary consumption, brought on by the abuse

of alcoholic liquors, and his wife and daughter ultimately got into

respectable service. Mary Ransome married in due time, and with

better discretion than her mother, for she does, or did, keep one of

the branch post-offices in Bermondsey. Dr. Lee disappeared from the

neighborhood the instant the state of his leg enabled him to do so,

and I have never seen him since. John Wyatt, _alias_ Black Jack, was

transported for life, under the _alias_ of John Martin, for a highway

robbery near Fareham, in the year 1827. Lately I saw him on board the

convict hulk at Portsmouth.

DROPS OF WATER.

As all, or very nearly all, the animalcules found in water are

invisible to the naked eye, no subject can be more interesting than

that of these wonderful atoms, which, we have every reason to suppose,

are by far the most numerous of those beings possessing life. The

variety of form, the extraordinary construction, the rapid movement

of some, the stationary life of others, and many other peculiarities,

will prove subjects of interest and delight to the thinking mind. The

one idea that a single drop of water may afford amusement and excite

astonishment for hours to the investigator, is sufficient proof of the

wonderful powers of the Creator in this minute portion of his works.

These little creatures prove quite fascinating; and hour after hour

will be spent in watching their habits and movements, till the powers

of the student are exhausted. A good microscope, in fact, opens a new

world to the possessor, a world of beings totally different from any

thing we have been accustomed to see; and the substance of which they

are composed is in general so transparent, that the internal structure

is visible to the eye--even the act of digestion can be perceived, and

the food traced from its entrance at the mouth to its passage into the

internal cavities; the eggs, also, can be seen within the body. These

and many other peculiarities have been discovered only by very patient

investigation, and several naturalists, both English and foreign, have

almost devoted their lives to the study; and let no one say it is a

useless one, for whatever can help to prove the power and wisdom with

which this world was created can not be time thrown away. To those who

only use the microscope as an amusement (and it is a never-ending one),

a short time occasionally is well bestowed on one of the most beautiful

parts of the creation.

There are upward of seven hundred species of Infusoria known and

described. These are of all shapes and forms, some even assuming a

variety in themselves; many possess eyes, others have none; some move

so rapidly that the eye can not follow them, and others are attached

to various substances; some have very many stomachs, or internal sacs,

and others have only one; others, again, form a compound mass, that is,

many individuals live in the same transparent case, and some are so

minute, that by the aid of the best microscopes they can not be clearly

discerned. Many people are disgusted after viewing water through a

microscope, and suppose that all water abounds in living creatures,

and that, consequently, we drink them in myriads. This is an error:

there are none, or very few, in spring water, and, as no one would

think of drinking from a ditch or stagnant pool where plants abound,

there is little to fear. If necessitated to partake of water abounding

in life, the person is either ignorant of its state, or the want is

so urgent that the thought does not occur; and even should it arise,

these delicate transparent little atoms would not be perceived by the

taste--this fear or disgust may therefore be dismissed. Many waters

abound in the larvæ of gnats and other insects, and minute creatures

of the crustaceous order, but these can generally be seen by the naked

eye.

In all parts of the world, and in most waters where aquatic plants in

a healthy state abound, these invisible creatures may be met with,

and not only in stagnant pools, but in running streams and the broad

ocean. Among water-plants these little beings find shelter and food;

therefore, when water is brought from these localities, some of the

vegetation peculiar to the pool or stream should be procured at the

same time. They swarm among duckweed. Many are found also in clear

shallow pools, particularly in the spring. When a pond is observed

to have a stratum of dust on the surface, or a thin film, it will

generally be found almost entirely composed of living creatures. This

dust-like appearance consists nearly exclusively of species of the

most beautiful colors, such as _Pandorina_, _Gonium_, &c. A shining

film of various colors is also occasionally seen on standing water:

this is composed of Infusoria; a red appearance being often given

to water by some species, and by others a yellowish hue. Sheets of

water often assume an intense green, from the presence of many of

these minute bodies. Lakes have been known to change their color very

mysteriously, and to have caused some alarm in the superstitious; but

it is now known to arise from Infusoria, as they are attracted to

the surface by the sun in the middle of the day, and descend as that

luminary declines--thus the lake will be clear, morning and evening,

and turbid, or of different colors, in the course of the day. If stalks

of flowers are steeped for a few days in water, it will be found to

swarm with life; even a few dead leaves, or a bit of dry hay, will

produce the same effect. At first monads will appear; these will be

succeeded by specimens of the genera _Paramecium_, _Amoeba_, and those

of the class _Rotatoria_. I have tried these experiments, and always

with success. If the infusion be kept a few weeks (particularly that

formed with leaves), one peculiar kind of animalcule will swarm to

a most astonishing degree, so that a drop will contain hundreds, so

close together that they form quite a crowd, and yet all are in a state

of activity, and feeding from the vegetable matter disengaged from

the decaying leaves. They are not even confined to these localities,

for lakes and rivers, the fluids found in animals and vegetables,

strong acids, and also the briny ocean, are full of these interesting

creatures. One kind of phosphorescence (an appearance which is so often

observed by the seaside and at sea) is occasioned by some species; and,

when we remember that this luminosity often extends for miles, we are

lost in astonishment at the immensity of their numbers.

And here I may mention the evident use of these wonderful beings. They

appear wherever decaying animal or vegetable substances are found in

water, and are extremely useful in destroying what would otherwise

taint the air with noxious gasses and smells. Minute algæ also assist

in preserving the purity of the water in which they live; they serve as

food, also, to animals higher in the scale of creation than themselves.

Captain Sir James Ross, in his Antarctic Voyage, speaking of a small

fish found by him in the South Seas, and stating by what means it and

many others are fed, says, "All are eventually nourished and sustained

by the minute infusorial animalcules, which we find filling the ocean

with an inconceivable multitude of the minutest forms of organic life."

We may infer from this, the immense importance of the Infusoria in the

scale of existence, for although only remotely supporting the higher

animals, yet the want of them would be greatly felt. Ehrenberg states,

that a single drop of water may hold five hundred millions of the

smallest animalcules. What, then, can be the population of a lake or of

the ocean?

I have watched specimens of the genera _Floscularia_, _Vorticella_,

and _Stentor_, for hours at a time, and they have never ceased to

feed on minute portions of animal and vegetable substances, brought

to them by the current they are enabled to make in the water; others

eagerly pursue their prey, or feed on the decaying vegetable matter

floating about: indeed, the appetite of these little creatures seems

insatiable. Many genera have a strong chewing apparatus, like a mouth

armed with teeth. All seem employed in the same way, though using

different methods. Much decaying matter must thus be taken away by

this insatiable, though miniature army, provided for the purpose.

They, in their turn, afford sustenance to aquatic insects, which are

again preyed on by fishes; and thus food is prepared for more highly

organized animals, and lastly for man.

Animalcules have never been observed to rest, or at least to sleep; but

this may be partly owing to the light necessarily used in viewing them,

which forms an artificial sunlight, exciting their powers of motion:

they may rest during darkness, when they can not be seen by us. Many

are only attracted to the surface of the water by the light of the sun,

and are difficult to be obtained on a dull day; they are, however, not

much affected by cold or heat, for they are procurable in winter as in

summer, though not in such profusion: they are found even under thick

ice, and I have frequently broken, in severe frost, the frozen surface

of a pond, and, inserting a bottle, have obtained some most interesting

kinds. Many of the _Polygastrica_ will bear a great degree of cold,

even more so than those of the class _Rotatoria_, whose organization is

of a higher order.

It has, I believe, been generally observed, that the more simple the

organization of animals, the more retentive is the creature of life,

and this is the case with these minute beings. The _Rotifer vulgaris_

will even bear revivification several times. Dr. Carpenter relates

that he tried the experiment six times with twelve specimens, and each

time some were perfectly restored to animation. By allowing the drop

of water which held them to evaporate, and at the end of twenty-four

hours giving them a fresh supply, he succeeded six times in restoring

some of them: at last two only were left, and these unfortunately he

lost. Ehrenberg affirms, that if thoroughly desiccated they can not

revive, but that they may remain in a lethargic condition if deprived

of water for a certain time only. The same naturalist observes that

when an animalcule is frozen with the water, it is surrounded by an

exceedingly small portion which is unfrozen, occasioned probably by the

animal heat of its body; but, should the cold be so great as to freeze

this, the creature dies. Animal heat in such an atom! how marvelous!

Yet they will bear a great degree of heat also. The same naturalist

says, that the _Polygastrica_, will bear the temperature _gradually_

raised to 120° of Fahrenheit, and some even to 200°, but if raised

_suddenly_ they die at 140°. Now, if we consider that water raised to

212° is boiling, we shall be as much astonished at their powers of

enduring heat as cold. Sir James Ross, in his Antarctic Expedition,

found upward of seventy species of _Polygastrica_ with _loricæ_, or

silicious shells, in fragments of ice.

It will, therefore, be seen, that animalcules are obtainable at all

seasons, and in every place where there are ponds or pools of water;

or they may be procured from water-butts, or by placing leaves, hay,

or almost any vegetable substance in a little water, which has been

previously found to have nothing living in it.

EDWARD DRYSDALE.

A LEAF FROM THE DIARY OF A LAW-CLERK.

About the year 1798, James Bradshaw and William Drysdale, both

invalided masters of the Royal Navy, cast anchor for the remainder

of their lives at about twelve miles' distance from Exeter, on the

London road. Bradshaw named his domicile, an old-fashioned straggling

building, "Rodney Place," in honor of the Admiral in whose great

victory he had fought. Drysdale's smaller and snugger dwelling,

about half a mile away from "Rodney Place," was called "Poplar

Cottage," and about midway between them stood the "Hunter's Inn," a

road-side public-house, kept by one Thomas Burnham, a stout-hearted,

jolly-bellied individual, the comeliness of whose rubicund figure-head

was considerably damaged by the loss of an eye, of which, however,

it is right to say, the extinguished light appeared to have been

transferred in undiminished intensity to its fiery, piercing fellow.

The retired masters, who had long known each other, were intimate as

brothers, notwithstanding that Bradshaw was much the richest of the

two, having contrived to pick up a considerable amount of prize-money,

in addition to a rather large sum inherited from his father. Neither

did the difference of circumstances oppose, in Bradshaw's opinion,

the slightest obstacle to the union of his niece and heiress, Rachel

Elford, with Edward Drysdale, his fellow-veteran's only surviving

offspring. The precedent condition, however, was, that Edward should

attain permanent rank in the Royal Navy, and with this view, a

midshipman's warrant was obtained in '99 for the young man, then in his

eighteenth year, and he was dispatched to sea.

The naval profession proved to be, unfortunately, one for which Edward

Drysdale was altogether unfitted by temperament and bent of mind, and

sad consequences followed. He had been at sea about eighteen months,

when news reached England of a desperate, but successful cutting-out

affair by the boats of the frigate to which he belonged. His name was

not mentioned in the official report--but that could hardly have been

hoped for--neither was it in the list of killed and wounded. A map

of the coast where the fight took place was procured; the battle was

fought over and over again by the two veterans, and they were still

indulging in those pleasures of the imagination in the parlor of the

"Hunter's Inn," when the landlord entered with a Plymouth paper in his

hand, upon one paragraph in which his single orb of vision glared with

fiery indignation. It was an extract from a letter written by one of

the frigate's officers, plainly intimating that midshipman Drysdale had

shown the white feather in the late brush with the enemy, and would be

sent home by the first opportunity. The stroke of a dagger could have

been nothing compared with the sharp agony which such an announcement

inflicted on the young man's father, and Bradshaw was for a few moments

equally thunder-stricken. But he quickly rallied. William Drysdale's

son a coward! Pooh! The thing was out of nature--impossible; and very

hearty were his maledictions, savagely echoed by Burnham, with whom

young Drysdale was a great favorite, of the lying lubber that wrote the

letter, and the newspaper rascals that printed it.

Alas! it was but too true! On the third evening after the appearance of

the alarming paragraph the two mariners were sitting in the porch of

Poplar Cottage, separated only by a flower-garden from the main-road,

conversing upon the sad, and constantly-recurring topic, when the

coach from London came in sight. A youthful figure in naval uniform

on the box-seat instantly riveted their attention, as it did that

of Rachel Elford, who was standing in the little garden, apparently

absorbed till that moment by the shrubs and flowers. The coach rapidly

drew near, stopped, and Edward Drysdale alighted from it. The two

seamen, instead of waiting for his approach, hastily arose from

their seats and went into the cottage, as much perhaps to avoid the

humiliating, though compassionate glances of the outside passengers,

as from any other motive. The young man was deadly pale, and seemed

to have hardly sufficient strength to move back the light wicket-gate

which admitted to the garden. He held by it till the coach had passed

on, and then turned with a beseeching, half-reproachful look toward

Rachel. She, poor girl, was as much agitated as himself, and appeared

to be eagerly scanning his countenance, as if hopeful of reading

there a contradiction of the dishonoring rumor that had got abroad.

In answer to his mute appeal, she stepped quickly toward him, clasped

his proffered hand in both hers, and with a faint and trembling voice

ejaculated--"Dear, dear Edward! It is not true--I am sure it is not,

that you--that you--"

"That I, Rachel, have been dismissed the naval service, as unfit to

serve his majesty, is quite true," rejoined Edward Drysdale, slowly,

and with partially-recovered calm--"quite true!"

The young woman shrank indignantly from him--fire glanced in her

suffused eyes, and her light, elegant figure appeared to grow and

dilate with irrepressible scorn, as this avowal fell upon her ear.

"A coward!" she vehemently exclaimed; "you that--but no," she added,

giving way again to grief and tenderness, as she looked upon the fine,

intelligent countenance of her lover, "it can not be; there must be

some error--some mistake. It is impossible!"

"There _is_ error and mistake, Rachel; but the world will never, I

fear, admit so much. But, come, let us in: you will go with me?"

We will not follow them till the first outburst of angry excitement

is past; till the father's passionate, heart-broken reproaches have

subsided to a more patient, subdued, faintly-hopeful sorrow, and

Rachel's wavering faith in the manhood of her betrothed has regained

something of its old firmness. Entering then, we shall find that only

Mr. Bradshaw has remained obstinately and contemptuously deaf to what

the young man has falteringly urged in vindication of his behavior in

the unhappy affair which led to his dismissal from the service. He had,

it appeared, suddenly fainted at the sight of the hideous carnage in

which, for the first time in his life, he found himself involved.

"You have a letter, you say, from Captain Otway," said Mr. Drysdale,

partially raising his head from his hands, in which it had been buried

while his son was speaking. "Where is it? Give it to Rachel--I can not

see the words."

The note was directed to Mr. Drysdale, whom Captain Otway personally

knew, and was no doubt kindly intended to soften the blow, the return

of his son under such circumstances must inflict. Although deciding

that Edward Drysdale was unfit for the naval profession, he did not

think that the failure of the young man's physical nerve in one of

the most murderous encounters that had occurred during the war, was

attributable to deficiency of true courage, and as a proof that it was

not, Captain Otway mentioned that the young man had jumped overboard

during half a gale of wind, and when night was falling, and saved,

at much peril to himself, a seaman's life. This was the substance

of the note. As soon as Rachel ceased reading, Mr. Drysdale looked

deprecatingly in his friend's face and murmured, "You hear?"

"Yes, William Drysdale, I do. I never doubted that your son was a good

swimmer, no more than I do that coward means coward, and that all the

letters in the alphabet can not spell it to mean any thing else. Come,

Rachel," added the grim, unreasoning, iron-tempered veteran, "let

us be gone. And God bless, and if it be possible, comfort you, old

friend! Good-by! No, thank-ye, young sir!" he continued, with renewed

fierceness, as Edward Drysdale snatched at his hand. "That hand was

once grasped by Rodney in some such another business as the letter

speaks of, when its owner did _not_ faint! It must not be touched by

you!"