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the trough of the sea, and shut out the faint horizon, the succeeding wave overshadowed, and its crest seemed to curl in anger above them. Sometimes a wave, like some monster rising from the deep, looked down black and threatening upon the tiny boat, and then rolling its seething foam along the sides, it rushed ahead, and gathering into a mass, seemed to await her coming. Thinly clad, and soon wet to the skin, as they rode upon the tops of the waves, they suffered bitterly from the coldness of the wind. In the hollow of the sea, they were sheltered one moment only to be more exposed the next. Sometimes riding upon the broken crest of a wave, they felt upon their bed of foam, as insignificant and far more helpless than the gulls which, disturbed in their slumber, screamed around them. The oars were of little service, save to steady the boat in the dreadful pitchings and careerings to which it was every instant sub

meat was thrown in, which rendered the water | The swell rapidly increased, and as they sunk into greasy and unfit for its destined use. The master'smate was therefore directed to have more drawn from the hold. Accordingly he came upon the lower or birth-deck, and as he stepped from the ladder, said, sufficiently loud for Talbot to hear, who was reclined beside it, "Look out!" and passed immediately on. The latter, taking the hint, but uncertain how to apply it, remained for a few moments in great suspense, when the master's-mate called the sentry forward to hold the light for him. As the latter moved forward, Talbot availed himself of the opportunity, and instantly hurried up the ladder, although yet uncertain if such were the plan concerted by his friends. He was very soon assured, however, for nearly abreast of him, from the shadow between two of the guns, a figure advanced a few steps and immediately retired again. It proved to be Gonzalez, and together they clambered out over one of the guns, and found themselves by the small skiff of the priva-jected. One managed the oars, or sculls rather, while teer, which had been saved and hoisted up immediately under the anchor in the waist. Fortunately, the wind had hauled nearly ahead, and with the yards sharp-braced up, the ship was sailing sluggishly along, with her head rather diagonally inclined toward the shore.

the other steered and occasionally bailed. There could be no transfer of labor, for it was certain death to attempt a change of position. Although the current set along the land, the wind and the heave of the sea, drove them indirectly toward it. After five hours incessant fatigue, cold, cramped and

"We must remain quiet here," whispered Gon-wearied to exhaustion, they reached the near vicinity zalez, "until some movement be made on deck, in the noise of which we can lower the skiff undetected."

The wind was gradually freshening, and the ship began to plunge with the increasing swell. After a while the topgallant-sails were taken in, but it was an operation so quickly performed, that before the boat was lowered half the distance it was suspended from the water, the noise ceased, and they were obliged to hold on. In about half an hour after, which seemed to them an almost interminable space of time, they were cheered with the welcome order,

of the shore, and running along it for about a mile, in increased danger, for the boat was now nearly broadside to the sea, they made the mouth of a small harbor, into which, as their frames thrilled with gratitude, they pulled with all their might. As the peace and the joys of heaven are to the wrangling and contumelies of this world, so was the placid stillness of that sheltered nook to the fierce wind and troubled sea without. The transition was as sudden as it was delightful, and with uncovered heads and upturned gaze, each paid his heartfelt tribute of thankfulness.

On one side of the sequestered little bay, through the dim and uncertain light, they discovered two or three huts, embowered and almost concealed by groves of the umbrageous and productive banana, whose large pendent-leaves waving in the wind, seemed at one time to beckon them on, and at another to warn them from approaching. It was evidently a fishing settlement, for there were some boats hauled up on the shore, and a long seine was hung upon a number of upright poles. Pulling toward what seemed the usual landing, their light skiff grated

"Man the main clew-garnets and buntlines," preparatory to hauling up the mainsail. As the men ran away with the ropes, and clued and gathered the large and loudly flapping sail to the yard, Talbot and Gonzalez lowered the boat, and casting her loose, the ship passed by without any one observing them and was soon lost to view in the obscurity of the night. They had exchanged apprehended evils from human malignity for instant and appalling danger. The moon, struggling through a bank of clouds and shorn of her brilliancy by the opposing mist, cast her fur-upon the pebbly beach, and they leaped, overjoyed, tive beams upon the fretted sea. Instead of the prolonged and easy swell of the mid-ocean, the gulf, as if moved by adverse tides, whirled its waves about like some huge Briareus, tossing his hundred arms in the wildest and most furious contortions. The skiff was so light, so frail, and so difficult of trim, that they were every moment in danger of upsetting.

upon the silent shore-silent and mute in all that pertains to human action or the human voice, but eloquent, most eloquent, in the outpourings of a rich and teeming earth, and the gushing emotions of thankfulness it awakened in the bosoms of those two weary and persecuted men.

[To be continued.

VICTORY AND DEFEAT.

TO-DAY, with loud acclaim the welkin rings
In praise of deeds the shout of VICTORY brings:

To-morrow, not e'en Echo will repeat
The praise of deeds then canceled by DEFEAT.

TO MOTHER.

BY ANNIE GREY.

OH! wake, my mother! wake! and hail

With me this dawning day;

Oh wake, my mother! wake and list
Thy daughter's fervent lay.

She comes to seek thy blessing,

And to whisper in thine ear-
That warmer glows her love for thee
With every added year.

Wake, mother! wake! while faintly steal
The sunbeams pure and bright,
And playful throw around thy couch
Their most bewitching light.

For this is a hallowed day, mother!

A hallowed day to me;

'T was at its dawn, four years ago,
That first I greeted thee.

We love the sunbeams, mother,
And wheresoe'er they rest,
We feel their sacred influence,
As though some angel guest
Concealed itself mid golden rays,
That from God's holy shrine

Fall as night-dews or summer-showers,
Refreshing and divine.

We love the sunbeams, mother!
What beauties they awake,

When first from the clear eastern sky
All gloriously they break.

Oh! how the flowers delight to feel
Their warm kiss from above,
And brighten 'neath it as the heart
Beneath a kiss of love;

And merrier dance the waters,
When every ripple shows

A sparkling crown like diamond gems,
As carelessly it flows.

But wake, my mother! wake and list
The strain I have to sing;

'Tis not of these glad sunbeams,
Though joy around they fling,

But of a sunbeam brighter,

That cheers me all the while,

And never knoweth change, mother!

The sunbeam of thy smile.

How often, oh! how often,

When my heart feels lone and drear,

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ON A DIAMOND RING.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

RARE is the diamond's lustre, and the mine
No richer treasure hath than yellow gold;
Yet were its jewels of a price untold,
Still dearer charms this little ring doth shrine.
Circling thy taper finger, how divine

Its lot; oft to thy fair cheek prest,
And by such contact past expression blest,

Or sparkling inid those sunny locks of thine! Oh! these are uses which might consecrate The basest metal, or the dull, vile earth; Enhance the diamond's price, or elevate The clod to an inestimable worth. Would that so dear a gem, which thus hath shone Upon thy snowy hand, might ever bless my own!

THE RECLUSE. NO. I.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

In the series of papers (and they will have the rare merit of being short) which I am about to offer to the reader, I shall not so far follow the ill fashion of the day as to strive to be "original." I do not mean by this remark to signify that I shall not give my own thoughts in my own way. But I shall not twist the English language out of all shape and comeliness; I shall not Germanize and Frenchize and Italianize; I shall express my ideas in the simplest possible words; I shall always choose the Saxon rather than the Norman; I shall endeavor to write so that "he, who runs may read." Were I a teacher of youth, I should recommend as the best models of style Swift and Southey, Addison, Steele, Channing, Sir James Macintosh, Irving, not Carlyle, Gibbon, Johnson, Emerson. I set plain Nature above gorgeous Art. The epithet "natural" conveys to my mind the highest praise of verse or prose. A style may indeed be eminently artistic, but still appear to be natural.

I have said enough to show the manner in which I shall try to convey my ideas. Fewer words will set forth the character of my matter.

I have no subject. I think, in my solitude, of many things. As thoughts occur to me I put them down. Though a Recluse, and having but little society except that of woods and fields, rocks and waters, I am fond of contemplating the events of the hour. Many of my topics will therefore be of immediate interest. They will at least have the charm of variety, and my "mode of treatment," to use an expression of physicians, the merit of brevity. This is sufficient introduction. Courteous reader, I salute you.

1. THE CROTON CELEBRATION.

ing as silently as those aboriginal lords of the soil whose lives thou commemoratedst!

I have seen a great many multitudes, but never so quiet, so orderly, so well-dressed, so happy a concourse as that which filled the windows and balconies and door-steps, and absolutely covered the sidewalks, on the morning of the Croton celebration. Throngs of gayly clad women and children moved merrily about; for there was not a solitary drunkard that day in all the streets of the city to molest or make them afraid. An individual under the influence of any liquor more potent than that which was gushing from a thousand fountains, would have been an anomaly too hideous to be borne. Braver than Julius Cæsar or Zachary Taylor must he have been who dared to look upon wine red in the cup on such a day as that.

I well remember the reflections which passed through my mind as I stood gazing on that happy and soul-comforting scene. The treaty of peace, as it might well have been called, establishing the NorthEastern boundary of the United States, settling a questio vexata of long continuance, which had again and again threatened war, had just been concluded between this country and Great Britain-thanks to the pacific dispositions and noble talents of the nego tiators. Thinking of this, as I looked at the mighty civic array, at the procession, which was like an endless chain of human beings, the head of it, after having traveled through six miles of streets, meeting the tail of it, which had not yet drawn an inch of its slow length along, below the Park-as I looked at the smiling faces and the sporting fountains-I exclaimed to myself How glorious a scene is this! How much worthier of a free people than the mar tial triumphs of old! A great good has been done. Energy and Skill have effected a stupendous work. Thousands and thousands are met together on an ap

shall prove a blessing to many generations yet unborn. Indeed, indeed this is more to be desired than the most complete of victories.

Of all public displays, that which affected me most deeply was the celebration of the opening of the Cro-pointed day, to commemorate an achievement which ton river into the great city of New York. A day had been appointed by the powers in being. Arrangements were made for a mighty civic procession. It was a jubilee of Cold Water. The Temperance Societies figured chiefly on the occasion. Those trades which best flourish by the practice of temperance were numerously represented, bearing before them their symbols and instruments. I remember a printing-press on a platform, borne triumphantly along, working as it went, throwing off handbills, on which odes were printed, to the eager and amused crowd on both sides of the way. By the side of that printing-press sat, in smiling dignity, Colonel Stone, as everybody called him, then editor of the Commercial Advertiser. Kind-hearted, conscientious, hospitable, credulous, verbose gentleman! thou art sleep

I went on thus with my cogitations. Let me suppose that these negotiations between two nations, strong in men and the resources of warfare, negotiations skillfully conducted to a most fortunate issue, and the establishment of a peace in which all the world is interested, had proved to be unsuccessful. Suppose that war had been declared, that we had no longer ago than yesterday received intelligence of a conquest on the sea, that a fierce battle had been fought, and that our ships had come into port laden with spoils and crowded with prisoners. How dif ferent to-day would have been our rejoicings! The outward demonstrations might, in some respects,

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have been the same. The streets would have been filled with multitudes of men; the bells of the churches (oh sacrilege!) would have pealed long and loudly; the flag of our country would have waved from many a house-top and "liberty-pole”—yet, in the midst of all this, there would have been distinguished the trophies of wo and of disaster. The cannon, which had dealed death to the brave, would have been borne through the streets, and the banners of the conquered trailed in the dust. Execrations would have mingled with shouts, and frowns of hatred with smiles of joy. Sorrow and anguish would have been comates with exultation and delight, and the hilarity of all hearts deeply subdued by the sad faces of many mourners.

And how different would have been our inward emotions! Instead of "calm thoughts regular as infant's breath," we should have experienced a tumultuous rapture, a demoniac triumph, an uneasy and restless joy, a trembling pride, a satisfaction with the present embittered by fears for the future. Now we rejoice with cheerful consciences. No "coming events cast their shadows before" to cloud the horizon of hope. We look upon a cloudless firmament above us and around us. We are indeed proud of the task which has been accomplished; but ours is a pride unmixed with any baser emotion-a pride honorable to humanity. Ah, how much more glorious is this than a victory! It is a sight to make the old young-a sight worthy of perpetual commemoration. It will be always recollected. We shall tell it to our children's children. From time to time our authors shall write of it-so that it may always live in the memory of the age.

II.-ON A BIBLE.

Could this outside beholden be
To cost and cunning equally,
Or were it such as might suffice
The luxury of curious eyes-
Yet would I have my dearest look
Not on the cover, but the Book.

If thou art merry, here are airs;
If melancholy, here are prayers;
If studious, here are those things writ
Which may deserve thy ablest wit;
If hungry, here is food divine;
If thirsty, Nectar, Heavenly wine.

Read then, but first thyself prepare
To read with zeal and mark with care;
And when thou read'st what here is writ,
Let thy best practice second it;
So twice each precept read shall be,
First in the Book, and next in thee.

Much reading may thy spirits wrong,
Refresh them therefore with a song;
And, that thy music praise may merit,
Sing David's Psalms with David's spirit,
That, as thy voice doth pierce men's ears,
So shall thy prayers and vows the spheres.

Thus read, thus sing, and then to thee
The very earth a Heaven shall be;
If thus thou readest, thou shalt find
A private Heaven within thy mind,

And, singing thus, before thou die

Thou sing'st thy part to those on high.

233

I have modernized the orthography of the foregoing quaint and beautiful stanzas, from the dress in which they are clothed in the second part of the Diary of Lady Willoughby, just published by John Wiley, bookseller, in New York. They are happily imitative of the style of the poets of olden time. They remind one of George Herbert-that "sweet singer in the Israel" of the English church, of Donne, of Wotton, and of other lyrists, who chanted the praises of our God. To my ear, much dearer are such simple, tuneful verses than the grandiloquent outpourings of the more modern muse. They come home, as it were, to one's child-like sympathies. They awaken the thoughts of "youthly years;" they freshen the withered feelings of the heart, as heaven's dew freshens the dried leaves in summer.

Let me recommend this most tender, most soultouching of "late works"-these passages from the Diary of Lady Willoughby. It is not a real "aunciente booke," but an imitation; yet, like certain copies of a picture by an old master, it may boast some touches better than the original. Chatterton's forgeries were not more perfect in their way, though this be no forgery, but what it pretends to be—namely, an invention. I feared, when I took up the second part of this remarkable production, that would deteriorate in interest, that the hand of the artist would become manifest. But it is not so. Here, throughout, is the ars celare artem in perfection.

How touching a lesson do the feigned sorrows of the Lady Willoughby present to her sex. What absence of repining! What reliance on the justice and mercy of God! What trust in the merits of her Redeemer! Her faith is never shaken. Her soul is never dismayed. With an expression holier than Raphael has imparted to his pictures of the Madonna, she looks upward and is comforted. Ever into the troubled waters of her soul descends the angel of peace. Perfect pattern is she for wives and mothers. Excellent example of a Christian woman.

III.

Are not some of the prophecies being fulfilled in these latter days? Trace we not in the decay of old empires the tempest of God's wrath? Is not the arm of the Lord stretched out over the people and over the nations of the earth? Breaks he not thrones to pieces as if they were potter's vessels? Where are the kings and princes who were born and chosen to rule over men? "How are the mighty fallen!" Even now, as by the mouth of his holy prophet, Isaiah, may the Lord say, "Is not this the fast that I have chosen. To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdened, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?"

Truly has my mind, shut out as I am from commune with the busy world-truly has my mind been deeply, solemnly affected by the wondrous events which are passing in those realms, the pages of whose history are printed in blood. I see the hand of God in all. I trace the fulfillment of prophecies

contained in the Book of books. I am oppressed by a sensation of awe as I read the words of inspiration and discern their truth in these latter days.

Was not the heart of Louis Philippe before his sudden and terrible overthrow as stout as the heart of the King of Assyria? Did not he, too, say of his monarchy, his rule and his riches-not only to himself, but even to the stranger in his land

"By the strength of my hand I have done it and by my wisdom; for I am prudent; and I have removed the bounds of the people, and have robbed

their treasures, and I have put down the inhabitants like a valiant man; and my hand hath found as a nest the riches of the people."

And was he not likewise cast down? Was not a burning kindled under his glory like the burning of a fire? "And behold at evening-tide, trouble, and before the morning he was not.”

"This is the portion of them that spoil us," shouted the people of France at the overthrow of the family of Orleans. "This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob us."

ROME.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

In the heart of Rome eternal, the Coliseum stands sublime,, Sick of this, I turned and looking out the arches in the Lofty in the midst of ruins, like a temple built to Time.

Vast, colossal, 't is with piles of broken arches reared on high,

But the dome is gone, and nothing roofs it but the summer sky.

And the walls are rent, and gaping wide, and crumbling fast away,

And the columns waste, but moss and grasses cover their decay.

When the sky of June was bluest, melting as the eye of love, And the breezes from Campagnia bore the city's hum above; Poring o'er the rich and classic authors of the Age of Gold, Virgil, Horace, Terence, Plautus, Livy and historians old,

I imagined Rome restored as in the glorious days of yore, Peopled by the great and mighty, as it shall be nevermore. I beheld the Past before me, and the fallen circus rose, And the leaning columns righted, and the ruins seemed to close;

Flags were streaming on the lofty walls, and standards of

renown,

Plucked from out some hostile army, or some sacked and burning town;

Proud patricians filled the boxes, judges, senators, in white,

Consuls from remotest provinces, and hosts of ladies bright;

And the emperor sat among them, in his regal purple proud,

And below a countless sea of heads, the common plebeian crowd;

Wrestlers struggled in the ring, and athlete and equestrians bold,

And the steeds and dashing chariots raised a cloud of dusty gold;

Troops of sworded gladiators, Dacian captives, fought and bled,

And the lists were strewn with wretches lying on their bucklers dead;

And in the arena Christian saints and martyrs, old and gray,

street,

I beheld a mighty multitude, a crowd with hurrying feet ; Nobles with their flowing togas, simple artisans bedight In their holyday attire and badges, maids with eyes of light, Waving hands to lovers distant, and the little children clung

To their mother's gowns, and nurses held aloft their infants young,

And afar and pouring through the city gates a long array, And in front, in his triumphal car, the hero of the day; And his coursers champed their frosted bits and pranced, but all in vain,

Braced he stood, with streaming robe, and checked them with a tightened rein:

And a mournful group of kingly captives, dusty, drooping low,

Followed, fettered to his chariot, gracing his triumphal show;

Augurs and soothsayers, flamen, tribunes, lictors bearing rods,

And gray-bearded priests, with olive boughs and statues of the gods,

Shaking from their brazen censers clouds of incense to the skies,

Leading lowing steers, in wreaths and garlands decked, to sacrifice.

Sacred nymphs from temples near, in spotless white, and vestal throngs

Followed solemn, dancing mystic dances, singing choral

songs.

Cohorts of the Roman soldiers conquering legions marched behind,

With their burnished armor shining and their banners on the wind;

And, with distance faint, the brattling drums, the trumpet's mighty blast,

And the clarion rung and sounded like an echo from the Past.

All at once the glorious vision melted, faded in the air, Like a desert exhalation, leaving all its ruin bare.

Were trampled in the dust, and torn by savage beasts of And, in place of glory and the beauty of the olden day, I beheld the Queen of Cities wasted, fallen in decay.

prey.

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