LUCRETIA.

Thy earthly bonds are tightening,Thy powers are failing fast,Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,And break these chains at last.Thy angel wings are drooping,Earth clogs them all around;The spirit’s flight is heavenward,Why then to earth art bound?Why thou art banished heaven,’Twill yield thee naught to know;Thy duties are before thee,Why sink to rest below?Earth slowly gathers o’er thee,Soon, soon thou wilt be bound,And all thy heavenly beautyIn death’s strong clasp be found.The remembrance of thy heavenly lifeHas’t left no trace with thee?Gone, are the spirit’s longings,The sighing to be free?Oh! raise those wings of beauty,Shake off each earthly clod,And Psyche-like uprising,Seek union with thy God!

Thy earthly bonds are tightening,Thy powers are failing fast,Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,And break these chains at last.

Thy earthly bonds are tightening,

Thy powers are failing fast,

Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,

And break these chains at last.

Thy angel wings are drooping,Earth clogs them all around;The spirit’s flight is heavenward,Why then to earth art bound?

Thy angel wings are drooping,

Earth clogs them all around;

The spirit’s flight is heavenward,

Why then to earth art bound?

Why thou art banished heaven,’Twill yield thee naught to know;Thy duties are before thee,Why sink to rest below?

Why thou art banished heaven,

’Twill yield thee naught to know;

Thy duties are before thee,

Why sink to rest below?

Earth slowly gathers o’er thee,Soon, soon thou wilt be bound,And all thy heavenly beautyIn death’s strong clasp be found.

Earth slowly gathers o’er thee,

Soon, soon thou wilt be bound,

And all thy heavenly beauty

In death’s strong clasp be found.

The remembrance of thy heavenly lifeHas’t left no trace with thee?Gone, are the spirit’s longings,The sighing to be free?

The remembrance of thy heavenly life

Has’t left no trace with thee?

Gone, are the spirit’s longings,

The sighing to be free?

Oh! raise those wings of beauty,Shake off each earthly clod,And Psyche-like uprising,Seek union with thy God!

Oh! raise those wings of beauty,

Shake off each earthly clod,

And Psyche-like uprising,

Seek union with thy God!

Great preparations have been made—the whole house has been in a state of bustling hurry for weeks. Each one has been anxious to perform their part; and the secret of this is, that the son of the family, “the young master,” our Cousin Lewis, is to return home. To-day he is expected. The final touch has been given to every thing. I have just visited every part of the house and grounds with my uncle and aunt, to satisfy them all was right. His rooms are fairy spots. They adjoin his mother’s dressing-room—the same rooms he occupied in childhood, but newly fitted up. Adelan, Aunt Mary and myself have just completed for these rooms a set of furniture covers, of the most beautiful embroidery. Bouquets of the rarest flowers, Sandy has spared from the conservatory, for they all say “Master Lewis is so fond of flowers.” A year has passed since he visited his home—he was here just a few months before I arrived—it has been five years since he has remained any length of time at home, now he has completed his studies, and will have no need to leave his family again. He brings with him a college friend, a Mr. Turner, who will remain with him some time. I dread the change this will make in our quiet life; but I must not, it is selfish; this change, though irksome to me, brings happiness to others.

As I sit writing, I can lift my eyes and see Adelan decking her beautiful head. Her room-door is open, and she has been tripping around for the last half hour, performing hertoilette. A grand dinner-party is to greet this arrival of our cousin and his friend, and Adelan is preparing herself for it. She does not know I am watching her. Now she holds a consultation with little Lizzie about the arrangement of a knot of ribbon, and Lizzie’s face bears such an expression of admiration and anxiety blended that it is amusing. How lovely Adelan looks; her beautiful curls sweep over her finely moulded neck and shoulders, and her bright eyes and cunning, rosy mouth have a more mischievous, saucy expression than ever. Ah! Cousin Adelan, is that little heart looking forward to the approach of a lover in this Cousin Lewis?

Our cousin is here, and his friend. How handsome—how spiritual-looking is he; not the friend, but Lewis. He resembles his mother most; has her high, intellectual brow, and soft, beaming, melting, dark eyes. He is very interesting. They did not arrive until just before dinner, and as many of our friends had assembled in the drawing-room, I was presented to my Cousin Lewis in the midst of this company. Dear Uncle Walter and Aunt Mary introduced me to him as his “Sister Ida.” My heart was full, my eyes became dim, and ears throbbed; but I heard his gentle greeting words with pleasure. His friend Frank Turner is pleasant looking, and agreeable, but is quite thrown in the shade in my cousin’s presence. Who would not be though? Adelan looks very happy and joyous, and Cousin Lewis regards her with evident delight. Blessed—happy girl!

Gay parties have succeeded one another in hasty eagerness for weeks past. All the neighbors for miles around seem anxious to make much of the new comers. At the houses of the most intimate friends I have gone, where I would meet the smallest parties, but my sombre mourning-dress keeps me from general society, and my spirit feels harassed and wearied in large companies. These gayeties bring me many lonely hours. My aunt’s German studies are laid aside for the present, and Adelan is up so late at night she cannot arise early for our morning rambles; even the horseback rides have to be given up partly, so busy are they going here and there. The house is filled with visiters, and all this will last for some weeks I suppose. I wish I could enter into this gayety, but I cannot; my thoughts are with my own dear mother; my heart is heavy, and I pine for rest. Oh how willingly would I lie beside her in the cold, damp grave!

How delightful is it to me to watch the father, mother and son—they are wrapt up in each other. Lewis is indeed the model of a man. He is as calm and gentle in manner as in disposition. He converses most eloquently.—I listen spell bound to his words. I do not think Adelan really loves him as he should be loved. She yawned this evening in the midst of his conversation with a gentleman on modern literature, and rose up from beside him and went into the music-room, as if wearied. I could have listened to him forever, even had the subject been one less interesting. The sound of Adelan’s rich voice, accompanied by the rippling notes of the harp, came sweeping into the drawing-room, like an angel melody, and broke up the conversation. A little after I saw Lewis leaning over Adelan at the harp, and then their voices swelled out in delightful harmony together. They looked so happy, and my uncle and aunt sat near each other with countenances expressive of content. Naughty, melancholy thoughts came brooding over my mind. An aching sense of loneliness crept over me, chilling my very heart, and I abruptly left Mr. Turner, who was kindly endeavoring to entertain me, and came to my own room. As I write, the delicious music from below comes floating in through the windows of the balcony, and mingled with it is the rippling dash of my Undine stream. How strange, Adelan is singing Thekla’s song, which I arranged for her, “Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn”—how true sound the words to my ears—they seem an echo of my heart.

“The heart is dead, the world is empty, and gives me nothing further to desire. Thou holy one! take thy child unto thee. I have enjoyed the happiness of this life—I have lived and have loved.”

Ah, how sad and heavy I feel! Angel mother, hast thou forsaken thy child? Why are evil thoughts and dark spirits brooding around me?

Several weeks have again passed. I have not been well; it pains me to sit writing, and I have, moreover, avoided it, for I fear the sad gloominess that hangs over me may be increased by communings with myself—communings which I dread. At last my eyes are opened, and opened by the trouble of another. A few days since, Mr. Turner, to my amazement, made to me a most fervent declaration of love. I had not imagined I was an object of interest to him, and I felt grieved to hear his avowal. My uncle and aunt, and even Lewis pressed his suit. Rich, good-looking, and intelligent, I suppose they wondered at my refusal; but it was useless—I could not love him, and frankly told him so. Sadly he took his leave of us all, and left me to a misery, a wretchedness, worse, fifty times worse than his. His offer disclosed to me my weakness, my wicked frailty. I love my Cousin Lewis passionately, with all the ardor of an untried heart—and, shame upon me, I love without return. Adelan and he are inseparable. He adapts his conversation and pursuits to her tastes—and they are happy lovers.

I have been reading over this journal, and am filled with mortification. When little was required of me, what self-gratulation I gave myself. Now, when temptation and heart-trials come upon me, I weakly, wickedly yield. Where is that inner voice of my spirit—“thy actions, and thy actions alone determine thy worth.” I will rouse myself and shake off this morbid feeling; I will bring myself to look upon the happiness of others, and be willing to sacrifice my own. I have withdrawn myself so much from the family as to excite attention. All evince a kind, tender earnestness for me; and Aunt Mary’s soft eyes filled with tears to-day when she noticed my paleness; she upbraided herself for having been so occupied with her son. How my heart reproached me for my selfishness. Iwillrouse myself, and shake off this wicked passion. Mother, sweet, angel mother, aid me!

How foolish I have been in seeking and making trouble for myself. My poor head and heart are so filled with wild happiness that I can scarcely command words to express the cause of my great joy. Blessed mother! thou hast, indeed, watched over thy child; and, although undeserving and doubting, great happiness has been reserved for me. Lewis loves me with all the fond earnestness that a woman’s heart can desire. He has loved me from the first; but my own willful selfishness, and suspicious, jealous nature, blinded me. He has never loved Adelan more than as a sister, and she regards him as a dear brother. They all thought I was attached to Frank Turner, because I so freely accepted his attentions. Lewis forbore to press his suit out of regard to his friend; and, moreover, I had always observed such a repelling coldness toward him, he feared he was disagreeable to me.

When I last wrote in here, I resolved to mingle more with the family, and try to overcome my unhappy love. As the circle was smaller, our visiters having left, Lewis and I were thrown more together. The delight of listening to him overcame my fear of love; we rode together; he united in our German studies; joined my morning rambles, and unconsciously, I scarcely know how, my happiness became known to me. A mere chance disclosed his love; he intended waiting patiently. Everyone else knew it but myself—my aunt, uncle, and Adelan; while I, with mock heroism, was determining myself to be very miserable. I do not deserve this good fortune—wicked, selfish, and doubting as I have been; but I will pray for strength to guide my future. As my aunt folded me in her arms this evening, when Lewis with joyful eagerness presented me to his parents, she murmured in my ears, “My blessed child, will you notnowcall me ‘mother!’ ”

My inner spirit praises Heaven for all its mercies, and bows down in serious, confiding gratitude. But the future still lies before me. Suffering I have but indifferently borne; let me pray that strength may be given me to bear my prosperity.

The angel pinions of my blessed spirit mother again float around me. A violet hue is spread before my mental vision, and the clouds of doubt and selfish jealousy, that hung curling around me like the mists on the mountain’s side, are all dissipated and melted away under the soft beams of my rising sun of love and confidence.

A few weeks after I attended the wedding of my dear cousin Ida—Adelan and I officiating as bride-maids to the gentle creature. She trembled at the excess of her happiness, and never realized how like an angel we all deemed her. She gave me this journal, she said, as apenancefor herself, to let me know how wicked she was. Many happy years have been hers, and she still enjoys life. A crowd of beautiful children troop around her; and the violet hue of an angelic atmosphere seems always to pervade her presence, to my fancy.

Her spirit has been one of those which Jean Paul says “falls from heaven like a flower-bud, pure and spotless.” Hers has remained undimmed through life’s toilsome journey, and the pure, fresh bud has opened, exhaling spiritual fragrance on all around her.

LUCRETIA.

———

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

———

Thererolled a howl along the streets of Rome,As if its ancient patron, to the skies,From street, arcade and pillaredcolonnade,Sent up her hungry cries.And there were sounds of trampling feet of menMoving in haste; and each one, as he passed,Glanced in his neighbor’s eye; then onward dashed,Swift as the wild sea-blast.From every hovel-door—each porticoOf marble palaces, pale faces gazedOn the pedestrians, passing to and fro—Mute, trembling and amazed.And, ever and anon, that howl arose—The she wolf’s legacy—long, loud, and hoarse;The voice of men aroused from deep repose,And surging on in force.Rome’s alleys, lanes and streets were all alive;All hurrying toward the Forum, from which cameImpulsive words, followed by moans, that toldThe giver’s heart in flame;And sparks from torches, lit at quiet homes,Waving in answer to the speaker’s tones;And the black crowd, with thunder which was Rome’s,Replied with ominous groans.Occasionally the name of Collatine,In audible whispers, slowly crept about—And ever, as the orator’s form was seen,Went up a mighty shout—Another! and another! as his handUpheld a bloody knife—his figure bent,Regarding them; his aspect of commandLoftily eloquent—A bale fire flashing from his eagle eye!As pointing unto something laid below,He saw a shudder, followed by a sigh,Pass trembling to and froAmong that crowd, with eager faces bentUp on his own; and then came words of peace.As though he painted home, and calm content,And joy unto surcease.Swayed, like the ocean by the hurricane,That sea of men responded as the nameBroke on their ears—the pale polluter’s name,Immortal in its shame!And mingling in a yell that shook old Rome,“Death to the Tarquins!” every voice arose.Women and warriors—all men and all time—Were Tarquin’s foes!As autumn tempests gathering break, so brokeThat crowd in frenzy, rushing to and froWith blazing torches—Tyranny’s iron yokeDissolved like snow.And there were louder cries, and other flamesSprang to the heavens, till Rome was red with fireFrom Tarquin’s palaces; and Freedom roseFrom pale Lucretia’s pyre.

Thererolled a howl along the streets of Rome,As if its ancient patron, to the skies,From street, arcade and pillaredcolonnade,Sent up her hungry cries.

Thererolled a howl along the streets of Rome,

As if its ancient patron, to the skies,

From street, arcade and pillaredcolonnade,

Sent up her hungry cries.

And there were sounds of trampling feet of menMoving in haste; and each one, as he passed,Glanced in his neighbor’s eye; then onward dashed,Swift as the wild sea-blast.

And there were sounds of trampling feet of men

Moving in haste; and each one, as he passed,

Glanced in his neighbor’s eye; then onward dashed,

Swift as the wild sea-blast.

From every hovel-door—each porticoOf marble palaces, pale faces gazedOn the pedestrians, passing to and fro—Mute, trembling and amazed.

From every hovel-door—each portico

Of marble palaces, pale faces gazed

On the pedestrians, passing to and fro—

Mute, trembling and amazed.

And, ever and anon, that howl arose—The she wolf’s legacy—long, loud, and hoarse;The voice of men aroused from deep repose,And surging on in force.

And, ever and anon, that howl arose—

The she wolf’s legacy—long, loud, and hoarse;

The voice of men aroused from deep repose,

And surging on in force.

Rome’s alleys, lanes and streets were all alive;All hurrying toward the Forum, from which cameImpulsive words, followed by moans, that toldThe giver’s heart in flame;

Rome’s alleys, lanes and streets were all alive;

All hurrying toward the Forum, from which came

Impulsive words, followed by moans, that told

The giver’s heart in flame;

And sparks from torches, lit at quiet homes,Waving in answer to the speaker’s tones;And the black crowd, with thunder which was Rome’s,Replied with ominous groans.

And sparks from torches, lit at quiet homes,

Waving in answer to the speaker’s tones;

And the black crowd, with thunder which was Rome’s,

Replied with ominous groans.

Occasionally the name of Collatine,In audible whispers, slowly crept about—And ever, as the orator’s form was seen,Went up a mighty shout—

Occasionally the name of Collatine,

In audible whispers, slowly crept about—

And ever, as the orator’s form was seen,

Went up a mighty shout—

Another! and another! as his handUpheld a bloody knife—his figure bent,Regarding them; his aspect of commandLoftily eloquent—

Another! and another! as his hand

Upheld a bloody knife—his figure bent,

Regarding them; his aspect of command

Loftily eloquent—

A bale fire flashing from his eagle eye!As pointing unto something laid below,He saw a shudder, followed by a sigh,Pass trembling to and fro

A bale fire flashing from his eagle eye!

As pointing unto something laid below,

He saw a shudder, followed by a sigh,

Pass trembling to and fro

Among that crowd, with eager faces bentUp on his own; and then came words of peace.As though he painted home, and calm content,And joy unto surcease.

Among that crowd, with eager faces bent

Up on his own; and then came words of peace.

As though he painted home, and calm content,

And joy unto surcease.

Swayed, like the ocean by the hurricane,That sea of men responded as the nameBroke on their ears—the pale polluter’s name,Immortal in its shame!

Swayed, like the ocean by the hurricane,

That sea of men responded as the name

Broke on their ears—the pale polluter’s name,

Immortal in its shame!

And mingling in a yell that shook old Rome,“Death to the Tarquins!” every voice arose.Women and warriors—all men and all time—Were Tarquin’s foes!

And mingling in a yell that shook old Rome,

“Death to the Tarquins!” every voice arose.

Women and warriors—all men and all time—

Were Tarquin’s foes!

As autumn tempests gathering break, so brokeThat crowd in frenzy, rushing to and froWith blazing torches—Tyranny’s iron yokeDissolved like snow.

As autumn tempests gathering break, so broke

That crowd in frenzy, rushing to and fro

With blazing torches—Tyranny’s iron yoke

Dissolved like snow.

And there were louder cries, and other flamesSprang to the heavens, till Rome was red with fireFrom Tarquin’s palaces; and Freedom roseFrom pale Lucretia’s pyre.

And there were louder cries, and other flames

Sprang to the heavens, till Rome was red with fire

From Tarquin’s palaces; and Freedom rose

From pale Lucretia’s pyre.

THE EARLY TAKEN.

———

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

———

[ADDRESSED TO THE PARENTS OF MY LITTLE FAVORITE, CAROLINE K. CHANDLER, WHOSE DEATH HAS SADDENED MANY HEARTS.]

I stoodwith the childless—A desolate pair—When, drest for the grave,Lay the sinless and fair,Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.Outshone by the curlsThat the slumberer woreWas the mid-summer lightStreaming in at the door;And clung to her lip a more delicate redThan tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.More drear than a desertWhere never is heardThe singing of waters,Or carol of bird,Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sinUncheered by the music of childhood within.And round one frail blossomYour hopes were entwined—One daughter of beautyAffection made blind;Before her ye saw a bright future outspreadBut dreamed not of dirge-note or shroud for the dead.Oh! blest is the spiritUnstained by the clod,That mounts, in the morn,Like a sky-lark to God:A glittering host the new-comer surround,Andwelcomethe harp-strings of Paradise sound.Ye Stricken! oh think,While your wailing is wildThat, above this dim orb,It iswell with the child!And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.

I stoodwith the childless—A desolate pair—When, drest for the grave,Lay the sinless and fair,Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.

I stoodwith the childless—

A desolate pair—

When, drest for the grave,

Lay the sinless and fair,

Who died like a lily that droops on its stem,

And torn were my heart-strings with sorrow for them.

Outshone by the curlsThat the slumberer woreWas the mid-summer lightStreaming in at the door;And clung to her lip a more delicate redThan tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.

Outshone by the curls

That the slumberer wore

Was the mid-summer light

Streaming in at the door;

And clung to her lip a more delicate red

Than tinted the rose-wreath encircling her head.

More drear than a desertWhere never is heardThe singing of waters,Or carol of bird,Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sinUncheered by the music of childhood within.

More drear than a desert

Where never is heard

The singing of waters,

Or carol of bird,

Are homes in this dark world of sorrow and sin

Uncheered by the music of childhood within.

And round one frail blossomYour hopes were entwined—One daughter of beautyAffection made blind;Before her ye saw a bright future outspreadBut dreamed not of dirge-note or shroud for the dead.

And round one frail blossom

Your hopes were entwined—

One daughter of beauty

Affection made blind;

Before her ye saw a bright future outspread

But dreamed not of dirge-note or shroud for the dead.

Oh! blest is the spiritUnstained by the clod,That mounts, in the morn,Like a sky-lark to God:A glittering host the new-comer surround,Andwelcomethe harp-strings of Paradise sound.

Oh! blest is the spirit

Unstained by the clod,

That mounts, in the morn,

Like a sky-lark to God:

A glittering host the new-comer surround,

Andwelcomethe harp-strings of Paradise sound.

Ye Stricken! oh think,While your wailing is wildThat, above this dim orb,It iswell with the child!And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.

Ye Stricken! oh think,

While your wailing is wild

That, above this dim orb,

It iswell with the child!

And pray for reunion with her ye have lost,

Where love knows no heart-ache, the blossom no frost.

SUNSET IN AUTUMN.

———

BY HARRIET MARION WARD.

———

Didstever note how pleasantly the sun of Autumn dies,Leaving a gorgeous legacy upon the evening skies?While quietly the gathering clouds, come trooping wave on wave,To weave bright bowers, with blushing flowers, above the proud one’s grave.Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace,Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace;Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright,Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight.And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies,All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies;While ghosts of clouds in silver shrouds, a world of fairy things,Are grouped around that flowery ground, like doves with snowy wings.Now silently they melt away amid the starry showers,Weaving the while their train of lace festooned with buds and flowers,Gathered in rolls and crimson folds they sweep night’s palace through,Like islands bright with liquid light, drifting in seas of blue.Now all are gone, and in their stead a calm and cloudless heaven,Dimpled with stars whose placid light to earth is freely given,To blend with heart-imaginings in the still evening air,Soft and subdued, with love imbued, an everlasting prayer.So much of faith—so much of hope—so much of trusting love,Seems stereotyped in glowing words on the bright page above,That glad earth grows less beautiful—less mighty in its power,And thoughts of death come soothingly in that calm, holy hour.For who can watch these brilliant wrecks in all their varying formsNor feel a yearning wish to reach God’s haven from life’s storms;To quit this scene of weary strife, of turmoil and unrest,Hushed in a deep, eternal sleep on the Redeemer’s breast.

Didstever note how pleasantly the sun of Autumn dies,

Leaving a gorgeous legacy upon the evening skies?

While quietly the gathering clouds, come trooping wave on wave,

To weave bright bowers, with blushing flowers, above the proud one’s grave.

Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace,Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace;Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright,Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight.

Now here—now there, they flit around, with lithesome, witching grace,

Their shadowy forms, like loving hearts, melting in sweet embrace;

Now bending down with flashing lips they kiss the waters bright,

Till waves have caught the gleam they sought, and murmur wild delight.

And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies,All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies;While ghosts of clouds in silver shrouds, a world of fairy things,Are grouped around that flowery ground, like doves with snowy wings.

And now they build a path of gold across the deep blue skies,

All spanned and arched with Iris bows in ever-changing dies;

While ghosts of clouds in silver shrouds, a world of fairy things,

Are grouped around that flowery ground, like doves with snowy wings.

Now silently they melt away amid the starry showers,Weaving the while their train of lace festooned with buds and flowers,Gathered in rolls and crimson folds they sweep night’s palace through,Like islands bright with liquid light, drifting in seas of blue.

Now silently they melt away amid the starry showers,

Weaving the while their train of lace festooned with buds and flowers,

Gathered in rolls and crimson folds they sweep night’s palace through,

Like islands bright with liquid light, drifting in seas of blue.

Now all are gone, and in their stead a calm and cloudless heaven,Dimpled with stars whose placid light to earth is freely given,To blend with heart-imaginings in the still evening air,Soft and subdued, with love imbued, an everlasting prayer.

Now all are gone, and in their stead a calm and cloudless heaven,

Dimpled with stars whose placid light to earth is freely given,

To blend with heart-imaginings in the still evening air,

Soft and subdued, with love imbued, an everlasting prayer.

So much of faith—so much of hope—so much of trusting love,Seems stereotyped in glowing words on the bright page above,That glad earth grows less beautiful—less mighty in its power,And thoughts of death come soothingly in that calm, holy hour.

So much of faith—so much of hope—so much of trusting love,

Seems stereotyped in glowing words on the bright page above,

That glad earth grows less beautiful—less mighty in its power,

And thoughts of death come soothingly in that calm, holy hour.

For who can watch these brilliant wrecks in all their varying formsNor feel a yearning wish to reach God’s haven from life’s storms;To quit this scene of weary strife, of turmoil and unrest,Hushed in a deep, eternal sleep on the Redeemer’s breast.

For who can watch these brilliant wrecks in all their varying forms

Nor feel a yearning wish to reach God’s haven from life’s storms;

To quit this scene of weary strife, of turmoil and unrest,

Hushed in a deep, eternal sleep on the Redeemer’s breast.

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

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

Travelers must be content.As You Like It.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

———

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

(Continued from page 192.)

The gull has found her place on shore;The sun gone down again to rest;And all is still but ocean’s roar;There stands the man unbless’d.But see, he moves—he turns, as asking whereHis mates? Why looks he with that piteous stare?Dana.

The gull has found her place on shore;

The sun gone down again to rest;

And all is still but ocean’s roar;

There stands the man unbless’d.

But see, he moves—he turns, as asking where

His mates? Why looks he with that piteous stare?

Dana.

Superstitionwould seem to be a consequence of a state of being in which so much is shadowed forth, while so little is accurately known. Our far-reaching thoughts range over the vast fields of created things, without penetrating to the secret cause of the existence of even a blade of grass. We can analyze all substances that are brought into our crucibles, tell their combinations and tendencies, give a scientific history of their formation, so far as it is connected with secondary facts, their properties, and their uses; but in each and all there is a latent natural cause that baffles all our inquiries, and tells us that we are merely men. This is just as true in morals as in physics—no man living being equal to attaining the very faith that is necessary to his salvation, without the special aid of the spirit of the godhead; and even with that mighty support, trusting implicitly for all that is connected with a future that we are taught to believe is eternal, to “the substance of thingshopedfor, and the evidence of things unseen.” In a word, this earthly probation of ours was intended for finite beings, in the sense of our present existence, leaving far more to be conjectured than is understood.

Ignorance and superstition ever bear a close, and even a mathematical relation to each other. The degrees of the one are regulated by the degrees of the other. He who knows the least believes the most; while he who has seen the most, without the intelligence to comprehend that which he has seen, feels, perhaps, the strongest inclination to refer those things which to him are mysteries, to the supernatural and marvelous. Sailors have been, from time immemorial, more disposed than men of their class on the land, to indulge in this weakness, which is probably heightened by the circumstance of their living constantly and vividly in the presence of powers that menace equally their lives and their means, without being in any manner subject to their control.

Spike, for a seaman of his degree of education, was not particularly addicted to the weakness to which we have just alluded. Nevertheless, he was not altogether free from it; and recent circumstances contributed to dispose him so much the more to admit a feeling which, like sin itself, is ever the most apt to insinuate itself at moments of extraordinary moral imbecility, and through the openings left by previous transgression. As his brig stood off from the light, the captain paced the deck, greatly disturbed by what had just passed, and unable to account for it. The boat of the Poughkeepsie was entirely concealed by the islet, and there existing no obvious motive for wishing to return, in order to come at the truth, not a thought to that effect, for one moment, crossed the mind of the smuggler. So far from this, indeed, were his wishes, that the Molly did not seem to him to go half as fast as usual, in his keen desire to get further and further from a spot where such strange incidents had occurred.

As for the men forward, no argument was wanting to makethembelieve that something supernatural had just passed before their eyes. It was known to them all that Mulford had been left on a naked rock, some thirty miles from that spot; and it was not easy to understand how he could now be at the Dry Tortugas, planted, as it might be, on purpose to show himself to the brig, against the tower, in the bright moonlight, “like a pictur’ hung up for his old shipmates to look at.”

Sombre were the tales that were related that night among them, many of which related to the sufferings of men abandoned on desert islands; and all of which bordered, more or less, on the supernatural. The crew connected the disappearance of the boat with Mulford’s apparition, though the logical inference would have been, that the bodywhich required planks to transport it, could scarcely be classed with any thing of the world of spirits. The links in arguments, however, are seldom respected by the illiterate and vulgar, who jump to their conclusions, in cases of the marvelous, much as politicians find an expression of the common mind in the prepared opinions of the few who speak for them, totally disregarding the dissenting silence of the million. While the men were first comparing their opinions on that which, to them, seemed to be so extraordinary, the Señor Montefalderon joined the captain in his walk, and dropped into a discourse touching the events which had attended their departure from the haven of the Dry Tortugas. In this conversation Don Juan most admirably preserved his countenance, as well as his self-command, effectually preventing the suspicion of any knowledge on his part that was not common to them both.

“You did leave the port with the salutes observed,” the Mexican commenced, with the slightest accent of a foreigner, or just enough to show that he was not speaking in his mother tongue; “salutes paid and returned.”

“Do you call that saluting, Don Wan? To me that infernal shot sounded more like an echo than any thing else.”

“And to what doyouascribe it, Don Esteban?”

“I wish I could answer that question. Sometimes I begin to wish I had not left my mate on that naked rock.”

“There is still time to repair the last wrong; we shall go within a few miles of the place where the Señor Enrique was left; and I can take the yawl, with two men, and go in search of him while you are at work on the wreck.”

“Do you believe it possible that he can be still there?” demanded Spike, looking suddenly and intently at his companion, while his mind was strangely agitated between hatred and dread. “If he is there, who and what washethat we all saw so plainly at the foot of the light-house?”

“How should he have left the rock? He was without food or water; and no man, in all his vigor, could swim this distance. I see no means of his getting here.”

“Unless some wrecker, or turtler, fell in with him and took him off. Ay, ay, Don Wan; I left him that much of a chance at least. No man can say Imurderedmy mate.”

“I am not aware, Don Esteban, that any onehassaid so hard a thing of you. Still, we have seen neither wrecker nor turtler since we have been here; and that lessens the excellent chance you left Don Enrique.”

“There is no occasion, señor, to be so particular,” growled Spike, a little sullenly, in reply. “The chance, I say, was agoodone, when you consider how many of them devils of wreckers hang about these reefs. Let this brig only get fast on a rock, and they would turn up, like sharks, all around us, each with his maw open for salvage. But this is neither here nor there; what puzzles me was what we saw at the light, half an hour since, and the musket that was fired back at us! Iknowthat the figure at the foot of the tower did not fire, for my eye was on him from first to last; and he had no arms. You were on the island a good bit, and must have known if the light-house keeper was there or not, Don Wan?”

“The light-house keeperwasthere, Don Esteban—but he was in hisgrave.”

“Ay, ay, one, I know, was drowned, and buried with the rest of them; there might, however, have been more than one. You saw none of the people that had gone to Key West, in or about the house, Don Wan?”

“None. If any persons have left the Tortugas to go to Key West, within a few days, not one of them has yet returned.”

“So I supposed. No, it can be none ofthem. Then I saw his face as plainly as I ever saw it by moonlight, from aft for’ard. What is your opinion about seeing the dead walk on the ’arth, Don Wan?”

“That I have never seen any such thing myself, Don Esteban, and consequently know nothing about it.”

“So I supposed; I find it hard to believe it, I do. It may be a warning to keep us from coming any more to the Dry Tortugas; and I must say I have little heart for returning to this place, after all that has fell out here. We can go to the wreck, fish up the doubloons, and be off for Yucatan. Once in one of your ports, I make no question that the merits of Molly will make themselves understood, and that we shall soon agree on a price.”

“What use could we put the brig to, Don Esteban, if we had her all ready for sea?”

“That is a strange question to ask in time of war! Givemesuch a craft as the Molly, with sixty or eighty men on board her, in a war like this, and her ’arnin’s should not fall short of half a million within a twelvemonth.”

“Could we engage you to take charge of her, Don Esteban?”

“That would be ticklish work, Don Wan. But we can see. No one knows what he will do until he is tried. In for a penny, in for a pound. A fellow never knows! Ha! ha! ha! Don Wan, we live in a strange world—yes, in a strange world.”

“We live in strangetimes, Don Esteban, as the situation of my poor country proves. But let us talk this matter over a little more in confidence.”

And they did thus discuss the subject. It was a singular spectacle to see an honorable man, one full of zeal of the purest nature in behalf of his own country, sounding a traitor as to the terms on which he might be induced to do all the harm he could to those who claimed his allegiance. Such sights, however, are often seen; our own especial objects too frequently blinding us to the obligations that we owe morality, so far as not to be instrumental ineffecting even what we conceive to be good, by questionable agencies. But the Señor Montefalderon kept in view, principally, his desire to be useful to Mexico, blended a little too strongly, perhaps, with the wishes of a man who was born near the sun to avenge his wrongs, real or fancied.

While this dialogue was going on between Spike and his passenger, as they paced the quarter-deck, one quite as characteristic occurred in the galley, within twenty feet of them—Simon, the cook, and Josh, the Steward, being the interlocutors. As they talked secrets, they conferred together with closed doors, though few were ever disposed to encounter the smoke, grease, and fumes of their narrow domains, unless called thither by hunger.

“Whatyout’ink of dis matter, Josh?” demanded Simon, whose skull having the well-known density of his race, did not let internal ideas out, or external ideas in as readily as most men’s. “Our young matewasat de light-house, beyond all controwersy; and how can he be den on dat rock over yonder, too?”

“Dat is imposserbul,” answered Josh; “derefore I says it isn’t true. I surposes you know dat what is imposserbul isn’t true, Simon. Nobody can’t be out yonder and down here at der same time. Dat is imposserbul, Simon. But what I wants to intermate to you will explain all dis difficulty; and it do show de raal super’ority of a colored man over de white poperlation. Now, you mark my words, cook, and be full of admiration! Jack Tier came back along wid de Mexican gentle’em, in my anchor-watch, dis very night! You see, in de first place, ebbery t’ing come to pass in nigger’s watch.”

Here the two dark-skinned worthies haw-haw’d to their heart’s content; laughing very much as a magistrate or a minister of the gospel might be fancied to laugh, the first time he saw a clown at a circus. The merriment of a negro will have its course, in spite of ghosts, or of any thing else; and neither the cook nor the steward dreamed of putting in another syllable until their laugh was fairly and duly ended. Then the cook made his remarks.

“How Jack Tier comin’ back explain der differculty, Josh?” asked Simon.

“Didn’t Jack go away wid Miss Rose and de mate in de boat dat got adrift, you know, in Jack’s watch on deck?”

Here the negroes laughed again, their imaginations happening to picture to each, at the same instant, the mystification about the boat; Biddy having told Josh in confidence, the manner in which the party had returned to the brig, while he and Simon were asleep; which fact the steward had already communicated to the cook. To these two beings, of an order in nature different from all around them, and of a simplicity and of habits that scarce placed them on a level with the intelligence of the humblest white man, all these circumstances had a sort of mysterious connection, out of which peeped much the most conspicuously to their faculties, the absurdity of the captain’s imagining that a boat had got adrift, which had, in truth, been taken away by human hands. Accordingly, they laughed it out; and when they had done laughing, they returned again to the matter before them with renewed interest in the subject.

“Well, how all dat explain dis differculty?” repeated Simon.

“In dis wery manner, cook,” returned the steward, with a little dignity in his manner. “Ebbery t’ing depend on understanding, I s’pose you know. If Mr. Mulford got taken off dat rock by Miss Rose and Jack Tier, wid de boat, and den dey comes here altogedder; and den Jack Tier, he get on board and tell Biddy all dis matter, and den Biddy tell Josh, and den Josh tell the cook—what for you surprise, you black debbil, one bit?”

“Dat all!” exclaimed Simon.

“Dat just all—dat ebbery bit of it, don’t I say.”

Here Simon burst into such a fit of loud laughter that it induced Spike himself to shove aside the galley-door, and thrust his own frowning visage into the dark hole within, to inquire the cause.

“What’s the meaning of this uproar?” demanded the captain, all the more excited because he felt that things had reached a pass that would not permit him to laugh himself. “Do you fancy yourself on the Hook, or at the Five Points?”

The Hook and the Five Points are two pieces of tabooed territory within the limits of the good town of Manhattan, that are getting to be renowned for their rascality and orgies. They probably want nothing but the proclamation of a governor in vindication of their principles, annexed to a pardon of some of their unfortunate children, to render both classical. If we continue to make much further progress in political logic, and in the same direction as that in which we have already proceeded so far, neither will probably long be in want of this illustration. Votes can be given by the virtuous citizens of both these purlieus, as well as by the virtuous citizens of the anti-rent districts, and votes contain the essence of all such principles, as well as of their glorification.

“Do you fancy yourselves on the Hook, or at the Five Points?” demanded Spike, angrily.

“Lor’, no sir!” answered Simon, laughing at each pause with all his heart. “Only laughs a little atghost—dat all, sir.”

“Laugh at ghost? Is that a subject to laugh at? Have a care, you black rascal, or he will visit you in your galley here, when you will least want to see him.”

“No care much forhim, sir,” returned Simon, laughing away as hard as ever. “Sicha ghost oughtn’t to skear little baby.”

“Sucha ghost? And what do you know ofthisghost more than any other?”

“Well, I seed him, Capt. Spike; and what a body sees, he is acquainted wid.”

“You saw an image that looked as much likeMr. Mulford, my late mate, as one timber-head in this brig is like another.”

“Yes, sir, he like enough—must saydat—so wery like, couldn’t see any difference.”

As Simon concluded this remark, he burst out into another fit of laughter, in which Josh joined him, heart and soul, as it might be. The uninitiated reader is not to imagine the laughter of those blacks to be very noisy, or to be raised on a sharp, high key. Theycouldmake the welkin ring, in sudden bursts of merriment, on occasion, but, at a time like this, they rather caused their diversion to be developed by sounds that came from the depths of their chests. A gleam of suspicion that these blacks were acquainted with some fact that it might be well for him to know, shot across the mind of Spike; but he was turned from further inquiry by a remark of Don Juan, who intimated that the mirth of such persons never had much meaning to it, expressing at the same time a desire to pursue the more important subject in which they were engaged. Admonishing the blacks to be more guarded in their manifestations of merriment, the captain closed the door on them, and resumed his walk up and down the quarter-deck. As soon as left to themselves, the blacks broke out afresh, though in a way so guarded, as to confine their mirth to the galley.

“Capt. Spike t’inkdata ghost!” exclaimed Simon, with contempt.

“Guess if he seeraalghost, he find ’e difference,” answered Josh. “One look at raal sperit wort’ two at dis object.”

Simon’s eyes now opened like two saucers, and they gleamed, by the light of the lamp they had, like dark balls of condensed curiosity, blended with awe, on his companion.

“You ebber see him, Josh?” he asked, glancing over each shoulder hurriedly, as it might be, to make sure that he could not see “him,” too.

“How you t’ink I get so far down the wale of life, Simon, and nebber see sich a t’ing? I seed t’ree of the crew of the ‘Maria Sheffington,’ that was drowned by deir boat’s capsizing, when we lay at Gibraltar, jest as plain as I see you now. Then—”

But it is unnecessary to repeat Josh’s experiences in this way, with which he continued to entertain and terrify Simon for the next half hour. This is just the difference between ignorance and knowledge. While Spike himself, and every man in his brig who belonged forward, had strong misgivings as to the earthly character of the figure they had seen at the foot of the light-house, these negroes laughed at their delusion, because they happened to be in the secret of Mulford’s escape from the rock, and of that of his actual presence at the Tortugas. When, however, the same superstitious feeling was brought to bear on circumstances that laywithoutthe sphere of their exact information, they became just as dependent and helpless as all around them; more so, indeed, inasmuch as their previous habits and opinions disposed them to a more profound credulity.

It was midnight before any of the crew of the Swash sought their rest that night. The captain had to remind them that a day of extraordinary toil was before them, ere he could get one even to quit the deck; and when they did go below, it was to continue to discuss the subject of what they had seen at the Dry Tortugas. It appeared to be the prevalent opinion among the people, that the late event foreboded evil to the Swash, and long as most of these men had served in the brig, and much as they had become attached to her, had she gone into port that night, nearly every man forward would have run before morning. But fatigue and wonder, at length, produced their effect, and the vessel was silent as was usual at that hour. Spike himself lay down in his clothes, as he had done ever since Mulford had left him; and the brig continued to toss the spray from her bows, as she bore gallantly up against the trades, working her way to windward. The light was found to be of great service, as it indicated the position of the reef, though it gradually sank in the western horizon, until near morning it fell entirely below it.

At this hour Spike appeared on deck again, where, for the first time since their interview on the morning of Harry’s and Rose’s escape, he laid his eyes on Jack Tier. The little dumpling-looking fellow was standing in the waist, with his arms folded sailor-fashion, as composedly as if nothing had occurred to render his meeting with the captain any way of a doubtful character. Spike approached near the person of the steward, whom he surveyed from head to foot, with a sort of contemptuous superiority, ere he spoke.

“So, Master Tier;” at length the captain commenced, “you have deigned to turn out at last, have you? I hope the day’s duty you’ve forgotten will help to pay for the light-house boat, that I understand you’ve lost for me also.”

“What signifies a great clumsy boat that the brig couldn’t hoist in nor tow,” answered Jack, coolly, turning short round at the same time, but not condescending to “uncoil” his arms as he did so, a mark of indifference that would probably have helped to mystify the captain, had he even actually suspected that any thing was wrong beyond the supposed accident to the boat in question. “If you had had the boat astarn, Capt. Spike, an order would have been given to cut it adrift the first time the brig made sail on the wind.”

“Nobody knows, Jack; that boat would have been very useful to us while at work about the wreck. You never even turned out this morning to let me know where that craft lay, as you promised to do, but left us to find it out by our wits.”

“There was no occasion for my telling you any thing about it, sir, when the mast-heads was to be seen above water. As soon as I heard that them ’ere mast-heads was out of water, I turned over andwent to sleep upon it. A man can’t be on the doctor’s list and on duty at the same time.”

Spike looked hard at the little steward, but he made no further allusion to his being off duty, or to his failing to stand pilot to the brig as she came through the passage in quest of the schooner’s remains. The fact was, that he had discovered the mast-heads himself just as he was on the point of ordering Jack to be called, having allowed him to remain in his berth to the last moment after his watch, according to a species of implied faith that is seldom disregarded among seamen. Once busied on the wreck, Jack was forgotten, having little to do in common with any one on board, but that which the captain termed the “women’s mess.”

“Come aft, Jack,” resumed Spike, after a considerable pause, during the whole of which he had stood regarding the little steward as if studying his person, and through that his character. “Come aft to the trunk; I wish to catechise you a bit.”

“Catechise!” repeated Tier, in an under tone, as he followed the captain to the place mentioned. “It’s a long time since I have done any thing atthat!”

“Ay, come hither,” resumed Spike, seating himself at his ease on the trunk, while Jack stood near by, his arms still folded, and his rotund little form as immovable, under the plunges that the lively brig made into the head-seas that she was obliged to meet, as if a timber-head in the vessel itself. “You keep your sea-legs well, Jack, short as they are.”

“No wonder for that, Capt. Spike; for the last twenty years I’ve scarce passed a twelvemonth ashore; and what I did before that, no one can better tell than yourself since we was ten good years shipmates.”

“So you say, Jack, though I do not rememberyouas well as you seem to rememberme. Do you not make the time too long?”

“Not a day, sir. Ten good and happy years did we sail together, Capt. Spike; and all that time in this very—”

“Hush—h-u-s-h, man, hush! There is no need of telling the Molly’s age to every body. I may wish to sell her some day, and then her great experience will be no recommendation. You should recollect that the Molly is a female, and the ladies do not like to hear of their ages after five-and-twenty.”

Jack made no answer, but he dropped his arms to their natural position, seeming to wait the captain’s communication, first referring to his tobacco-box and taking a fresh quid.

“If you was with me in the brig, Jack, at the time you mention,” continued Spike, after another long and thoughtful pause, “you must remember many little things that I don’t wish to have known; especially while Mrs. Budd and her handsome niece is aboard here.”

“I understand you, Capt. Spike. The ladies shall l’arn no more from me than they know already.”

“Thank ’e for that Jack—thank ’e, with all my heart. Shipmates of our standing ought to be fast friends; and so you’ll find me, if you’ll only sail under the true colors, my man.”

At that moment Jack longed to let the captain know how strenuously he had insisted that very night on rejoining his vessel; and this at a time, too, when the brig was falling into disrepute; but this he could not do, without betraying the secret of the lovers—so he chose to say nothing.

“There is no use in blabbing all a man knows, and the galley is a sad place for talking. Galley news is poor news, I suppose you know, Jack.”

“I’ve hear’n say as much on board o’ man-of-war. It’s a great place for the officers to meet and talk, and smoke, in Uncle Sam’s crafts; and what a body hears in such places, is pretty much newspaper stuff, I do suppose.”

“Ay, ay, that’s it; not to be thought of half an hour after it has been spoken. Here’s a doubloon for you, Jack; and all for the sake of old times. Now, tell me, my little fellow, how do the ladies come on? Doesn’t Miss Rose get over her mourning on account of the mate? Ar’n’t we to have the pleasure of seein’ her on deck soon?”

“I can’t answer for the minds and fancies of young women, Capt. Spike. They are difficult to understand; and I would rather not meddle with what I can’t understand.”

“Poh, poh, man; you must get over that. You might be of great use to me, Jack, in a very delicate affair—for you know how it is with women; they must be handled as a man would handle this brig among breakers; Rose, in partic’lar, is as skittish as a colt.”

“Stephen Spike,” said Jack, solemnly, but on so low a key that it entirely changed his usually harsh and cracked voice to one that sounded soft, if not absolutely pleasant, “do you never think of hereafter? Your days are almost run; a very few years, in your calling it may be a very few weeks, or a few hours, and time will be done with you, and etarnity will commence—do you never think of a hereafter?”

Spike started to his feet, gazing at Jack intently; then he wiped the perspiration from his face, and began to pace the deck rapidly, muttering to himself—“this has been a most accursed night! First the mate, and nowthis! Blast me, but I thought it was a voice from the grave! Graves! can’t they keep those that belong to them, or have rocks and waves no graves?”

What more passed through the mind of the captain must remain a secret, for he kept it to himself; nor did he take any further notice of his companion. Jack, finding that he was unobserved, passed quietly below, and took the place in his berth, which he had only temporarily abandoned.

Just as the day dawned, the Swash reached the vicinity of the wreck again. Sail was shortened, and the brig stood in until near enough for the purpose of her commander, when she was hove-to, sonear the mast-heads that, by lowering the yawl, a line was sent out to the fore-mast, and the brig was hauled close alongside. The direction of the reef at that point formed a lee; and the vessel lay in water sufficiently smooth for her object.

This was done soon after the sun had risen, and Spike now ordered all hands called, and began his operations in earnest. By sounding carefully around the schooner when last here, he had ascertained her situation to his entire satisfaction. She had settled on a shelf of the reef, in such a position that her bows lay in a sort of cradle, while her stern was several feet nearer to the surface than the opposite extremity. This last fact was apparent, indeed, by the masts themselves, the lower mast aft being several feet out of water, while the fore-mast was entirely buried, leaving nothing but the fore-topmast exposed. On these great premises Spike had laid the foundation of the practical problem he intended to solve.

No expectation existed of ever getting the schooner afloat again. All that Spike and the Señor Montefalderon now aimed at, was to obtain the doubloons, which the former thought could be got at in the following manner. He knew that it would be much easier handling the wreck, so far as its gravity was concerned, while the hull continued submerged. He also knew that one end could be raised with a comparatively trifling effort, so long as the other rested on the rock. Under these circumstances, therefore, he proposed merely to get slings around the after body of the schooner, as near her stern-post, indeed, as would be safe, and to raise that extremity of the vessel to the surface, leaving most of the weight of the craft to rest on the bows. The difference between the power necessary to effect this much, and that which would be required to raise the whole wreck, would be like the difference in power necessary to turn over a log with one end resting on the ground, and turning the same log by lifting it bodily in the arms, and turning it in the air. With the stern once above water, it would be easy to come at the bag of doubloons, which Jack Tier had placed in a locker above the transoms.

The first thing was to secure the brig properly, in order that she might bear the necessary strain. This was done very much as has been described already, in the account of the manner in which she was secured and supported in order to raise the schooner at the Dry Tortugas. An anchor was laid abreast and to windward, and purchases were brought to the masts, as before. Then the bight of the chain brought from the Tortugas, was brought under the schooner’s keel, and counter-purchases, leading from both the fore-mast and main-mast of the brig, was brought to it, and set taut. Spike now carefully examined all his fastenings, looking to his cables as well as his mechanical power aloft, heaving in upon this, and veering out upon that, in order to bring the Molly square to her work; after which he ordered the people to knock-off for their dinners. By that time it was high noon.

While Stephen Spike was thus employed on the wreck, matters and things were not neglected at the Tortugas. The Poughkeepsie had no sooner anchored, than Wallace went on board and made his report. Capt. Mull then sent for Mulford, with whom he had a long personal conference. This officer was getting gray, and consequently he had acquired experience. It was evident to Harry, at first, that he was regarded as one who had been willingly engaged in an unlawful pursuit, but who had abandoned it to push dearer interests in another quarter. It was some time before the commander of the sloop-of-war could divest himself of this opinion, though it gradually gave way before the frankness of the mate’s manner, and the manliness, simplicity, and justice of his sentiments. Perhaps Rose had some influence also in bringing about this favorable change.

Wallace did not fail to let it be known that turtle-soup was to be had ashore; and many was the guest our heroine had to supply with that agreeable compound, in the course of the morning. Jack Tier had manifested so much skill in the preparation of the dish, that its reputation soon extended to the cabin, and the captain was induced to land, in order to ascertain how far rumor was or was not a liar, on this interesting occasion. So ample was the custom, indeed, that Wallace had the consideration to send one of the ward-room servants to the light-house, in order to relieve Rose from a duty that was getting to be a little irksome. She was “seeing company” as a bride, in a novel and rather unpleasant manner; and it was in consequence of a suggestion of the “ship’s gentleman,” that the remains of the turtle were transferred to the vessel, and were put into the coppers,secundum artem, by the regular cooks.

It was after tickling his palate with a bowl of the soup, and enjoying a half hour’s conversation with Rose, that Capt. Mull summoned Harry to a final consultation on the subject of their future proceedings. By this time the commander of the Poughkeepsie was in a better humor with his new acquaintance, more disposed to believe him, and infinitely more inclined to listen to his suggestions and advice, than he had been in their previous interviews. Wallace was present in his character of “ship’s gentleman,” or, as having nothing to do, while his senior, the first lieutenant, was working like a horse on board the vessel, in the execution of his round of daily duties.

At this consultation the parties came into a right understanding of each other’s views and characters. Capt. Mull was slow to yield his confidence, but when he did bestow it, he bestowed it sailor-fashion, or with all his heart. Satisfied at last that he had to do with a young man of honor, and one who was true to the flag, he consulted freely with our mate, asked his advice, and was greatly influenced in theformation of his final decision by the opinions that Harry modestly advanced, maintaining them, however, with solid arguments, and reasons that every seaman could comprehend.

Mulford knew the plans of Spike by means of his own communications with the Señor Montefalderon. Once acquainted with the projects of his old commander, it was easy for him to calculate the time it would require to put them in execution, with the means that were to be found on board the Swash. “It will take the brig until near morning,” he said, “to beat up to the place where the wreck lies. Spike will wait for light to commence operations, and several hours will be necessary to moor the brig, and get out the anchors with which he will think it necessary to stay his masts. Then he will hook on, and he may partly raise the hull before night return. More than this he can never do; and it would not surprise me were he merely to get every thing ready for heaving on his purchases to-morrow, and suspend further proceedings until the next day, in preference to having so heavy a strain on his spars all night. He has not the force, however, to carry on such duty to a very late hour; and you may count with perfect security, Capt. Mull, on his being found alongside of the wreck at sunrise the next day after to-morrow, in all probability with his anchors down, and fast to the wreck. By timing your own arrival well, nothing will be easier than to get him fairly under your guns, and once under your guns, the brig must give up. When you chased her out of this very port, a few days since, you would have brought her up could you have kept her within range of those terrible shells ten minutes longer.”

“You would then advise my not sailing from this place immediately,” said Mull.

“It will be quite time enough to get under way late in the afternoon, and then under short canvas. Ten hours will be ample time for this ship to beat up to that passage in, and it will be imprudent to arrive too soon; nor do I suppose you will wish to be playing round the reef in the dark.”

To the justice of all this Capt. Mull assented; and the plan of proceedings was deliberately and intelligently formed. As it was necessary for Mulford to go in the ship, in order to act as pilot, no one else on board knowing exactly where to find the wreck, the commander of the Poughkeepsie had the civility to offer to the young couple the hospitalities of his own cabin, with one of his state-rooms. This offer Harry gratefully accepted, it being understood that the ship would land them at Key West, as soon as the contemplated duty was executed. Rose felt so much anxiety about her aunt, that any other arrangement would scarcely have pacified her fears.

In consequence of these arrangements, the Poughkeepsie lay quietly at her anchors until near sunset. In the interval her boats were out in all directions, parties of the officers visiting the islet where the powder had exploded, and the islet where the tent, erected for the use of the females, was still standing. As for the light-house island, an order of Capt. Mull’s prevented it from being crowded in a manner unpleasant to Rose, as might otherwise have been the case. The few officers who did land there, however, appeared much struck with the ingenuous simplicity and beauty of the bride, and a manly interest in her welfare was created among them all, principally by means of the representations of the second lieutenant and the chaplain. About five o’clock she went off to the ship, accompanied by Harry, and was hoisted on board in the manner usually practiced by vessels of war which have no accommodation-ladder rigged. Rose was immediately installed in her state-room, where she found every convenience necessary to a comfortable though small apartment.

It was quite late in the afternoon when the boatswain and his mate piped “all hands up anchor, ahoy!” Harry hastened into the state-room for his charming bride, anxious to show her the movements of a vessel of war on such an occasion. Much as she had seen of the ocean, and of a vessel, within the last few weeks, Rose now found that she had yet a great deal to learn, and that a ship of war had many points to distinguish her from a vessel engaged in commerce.

The Poughkeepsie was only a sloop-of-war, or a corvette, in construction, number of her guns, and rate; but she was a ship of the dimensions of an old-fashioned frigate, measuring about one thousand tons. The frigates of which we read half a century since, were seldom ever as large as this, though they were differently built in having a regular gun-deck, or one armed deck that was entirely covered, with another above it; and on the quarter-deck and forecastle of the last of which were also batteries of lighter guns. To the contrary of all this, the Poughkeepsie had but one armed deck, and on that only twenty guns. These guns, however, were of unusually heavy calibre, throwing thirty-two pound shot, with the exception of the Paixhans, or Columbiads, which throw shot of even twice that weight. The vessel had a crew of two hundred souls, all told; and she had the spars, anchors, and other equipments of a light frigate.

In another great particular did the Poughkeepsie differ from the corvette-built vessels that were so much in favor at the beginning of the century; a species of craft obtained from the French, who have taught the world so much in connection with naval science, and who, after building some of the best vessels that ever floated, have failed in knowing how to handle them, though not always in that. The Poughkeepsie, while she had no spar, or upper deck, properly speaking, had a poop and a top-gallant-forecastle. Within the last were the cabins and other accommodations of the captain; an arrangement that was necessary for a craft of her construction, that carried so many officers, and so large a crew. Without it, sufficient space wouldnot be had for the uses of the last. One gun of a side was in the main cabin, there being a very neat and amply spacious after cabin between the state-rooms, as is ordinarily the case in all vessels from the size of frigates up to that of three-deckers. It may be well to explain here, while on this subject of construction, that in naval parlance, a ship is called a single-decked vessel; atwo-decker or athree-decker, not from the number of decks she actually possesses, but from the number ofgun-decks that she has, or of those that arefullyarmed. Thus a frigate has four decks, the spar, gun, berth, and orlop (or haul-up) decks; but she is called a “single-decked ship,” from the circumstance that only one of these four decks has a complete range of batteries. The two-decker has two of these fully armed decks, and the three-deckers three; though, in fact, the two-decker has five, and the three-decker six decks. Asking pardon for this little digression, which we trust will be found useful to a portion of our readers, we return to the narrative.

Harry conducted Rose to the poop of the Poughkeepsie, where she might enjoy the best view of the operation of getting so large a craft under way, man-of-war fashion. The details were mysteries, of course, and Rose knew no more of the process by which the chain was brought to the capstan, by the intervention of what is called a messenger, than if she had not been present. She saw two hundred men distributed about the vessel, some at the capstan, some on the forecastle, some in the tops, and others in the waist, and she heard the order to “heave round.” Then the shrill fife commenced the lively air of “the girl I left behind me,” rather more from a habit in the fifer, than from any great regrets for the girls left at the Dry Tortugas, as was betrayed to Mulford by the smiles of the officers, and the glances they cast at Rose. As for the latter, she knew nothing of the air, and was quite unconscious of the sort of parody that the gentlemen of the quarter-deck fancied it conveyed on her own situation.

Rose was principally struck with the quiet that prevailed in the ship, Capt. Mull being a silent man himself, and insisting on having a quiet vessel. The first lieutenant was not a noisy officer, and from these two, every body else on board received their cues. A simple “all ready, sir,” uttered by the first to the captain, in a common tone of voice, was answered by a “very well, sir, get your anchor,” in the same tone, set every thing in motion. “Stamp and go,” soon followed, and taking the whole scene together, Rose felt a strange excitement come over her. There were the shrill, animating music of the fife; the stamping time of the men at the bars; the perceptible motion of the ship, as she drew ahead to her anchor, and now and then the call between Wallace, who stood between the knight-heads, as commander-in-chief on the forecastle, (the second lieutenant’s station when the captain does not take the trumpet, as very rarely happens,) and the “executive officer” aft, who was “carrying on the duty,” all conspiring to produce this effect. At length, and it was but a minute or two from the time when the “stamp and go” commenced, Wallace called out “a short stay-peak, sir.” “Heave and pall,” followed, and the men left their bars.

The process of making sail succeeded. There was no “letting fall” a foretop-sail here, as on board a merchantman, but all the canvas dropped from the yards, into festoons, at the same instant. Then the three topsails were sheeted home and hoisted, all at once, and all in a single minute of time; the yards were counterbraced, and the capstan-bars were again manned. In two more minutes it was “heave and she’s up and down.” Then “heave and in sight,” and “heave and pull again.” The cat-fall was ready, and it was “hook on,” when the fife seemed to turn its attention to another subject as the men catted the anchor. Literally, all this was done in less time than we have taken to write it down in, and in very little more time than the reader has wasted in perusing what we have here written.

The Poughkeepsie was now “free of the bottom,” as it is called, with her anchor catted and fished, and her position maintained in the basin where she lay, by the counterbracing of her yards, and the counteracting force of the wind on her sails. It only remained to “fill away,” by bracing her head yards sharp up, when the vast mass overcame its inertia, and began to move through the water. As this was done, the jib and spanker were set. The two most beautiful things with which we are acquainted, is a graceful and high-bred woman entering or quitting a drawing-room, more particularly the last, and a man-of-war leaving her anchorage in a moderate breeze, and when not hurried for time. On the present occasion, Capt. Mull was in no haste, and the ship passed out to windward of the light, as the Swash had done the previous night, under her three topsails, spanker, and jib, with the light sails loose and flowing, and the courses hanging in the brails.

A great deal is said concerning the defective construction of the light cruisers of the navy, of late years, and complaints are made that they will not sail, as American cruisers ought to sail, and were wont to sail in old times. That there has been some ground for these complaints, we believe; though the evil has been greatly exaggerated, and some explanation may be given, we think, even in the cases in which the strictures are not altogether without justification. The trim of a light, sharp vessel is easily deranged; and officers, in their desire to command as much as possible, often get their vessels of this class too deep. They are, generally, for the sort of cruiser, over-sparred, over-manned, and over-provisioned; consequently, too deep. We recollect a case in which one of these delicate craft, a half rigged brig, was much abused for “having lost her sailing.” She did, indeed, lose her fore-yard, afterwhich she sailed like a witch, until she got a new one! If the facts were inquired into, in the spirit which ought to govern such inquiries, it would be found that even most of the much abused “ten sloops” proved to be better vessels than common. The St. Louis, the Vincennes, the Concord, the Fairfield, the Boston, and the Falmouth, are instances of what we mean. In behalf of the Warren, and the Lexington, we believe no discreet man was ever heard to utter one syllable, except as wholesome crafts. But the Poughkeepsie was a very different sort of vessel from any of the “ten sloops.” She was every way a good ship, and, as Jack expressed it, was “a good goer.” The most severe nautical critic could scarcely have found a fault in her, as she passed out between the islets, on the evening of the day mentioned, in the sort of undress we have described. The whole scene, indeed, was impressive, and of singular maritime characteristics.

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