RIENDS, ahoy! Here I am once more ataunt-o, to thank you heartily for the unlooked for success which has attended the first launch of my JOLLY BOAT. To the Public generally I am under great obligations for the many years of favour and patronage which has been bestowed upon me; to the gentlemen of the press, my gratitude is most sincerely given for the numerous aids which I have experienced through their friendly notices. Once more I have been indulged by all. Hurrah! then, "JOLLY BOAT!" and her crew. Here we

for my

are, afloat for a second trip; and that it may be as fortunate as the

preceding one, is the earnest desire of

THE OLD SAILOR.

TO JUNE.

MONTH of the merry face! mirth-loving June!
Thou'rt with us once more, not a moment too soon,
For the sky has been weeping that thou wert away,
And the earth scarcely smiled at the presence of May.
The trees were all drooping, and blushed to be seen,
They were waiting for thee, to break out into green,
Poor Flora stood nursing her lilacs and sloes,
But lo at thy bidding she puts on the rose;
Here and there, a poor daisy besprinkled the ground,
But now, all the meadows her beauties have crown'd,

G

The king-cup, the poppy, the clover, the bean,
The lily, the crowfoot, all bloom with their queen;
The pinks and sweet-williams are daintily drest,
And the earth at thy presence seems happy and blest.
The sky-lark awoke at the coming of May,
And the mavis and linnet enlivened the day,
But the nightingale tarried, to welcome thy birth,
And burst into song as thy foot touched the earth;
Oh! welcome! thrice welcome! thou mirth-loving June,
Thou'rt with us once more, not a moment too soon.

But where hast thou been since we parted last year? ?
Our roses soon withered, our leaves they turned sear,
And friends that we cherished who smiled in thy ray,
Since then have grown cold or been taken away,
And eyes that we loved for affection's sweet light,

When we look on them now, they have ceased to look bright;
The music of voices that prattled all day,

Has grown full of discords or melted away;

The earth has been changing from beauty and bloom,

To heart-ache and sadness, to darkness and gloom;

Not winter alone, since we saw thee depart,

But the winter that sunk on the desolate heart!

Thy suns are as bright, and thy skies are as clear!
Can'st thou give us the raptures we tasted last year?,
The flame of affection thy beams may impart,
And kindle the love that lies cold in the heart,
The chill of distrust at thy presence may melt,
And friends may yet feel as aforetime they felt,
But again to our hearts thou canst never restore
The joy of our youth when its season is o'er!
The eye may seem bright, and the cheek wear a smile,
But where is the joy of the heart all the while?
The voice may be blithe, and the spirit be gay,
But the lightness of youth and its magic's away,
We try, back and back, to recover the strain,
But the music of youth we can never regain;
Yet welcome! thrice welcome! thou mirth-loving June,
Thou'rt here once again, not a moment too soon.

Yet why should we pine though the seasons roll on,
Since the dark days along with the bright ones are gone;
If the season of sunshine has fled from our view,

Its sins and its sadness have died away too,
The June of the past may not gladden our sight,
Yet the June of the future is teeming with light;
Then let us enjoy the bright month as it flies,
And look for the good that each season supplies;

If the spring time of youth cannot gladden the heart,
The wisdom of age greater peace may impart,

And to look for the change which we know may come soon,
Will be better than waiting for roses in June.

S. M.

JEANETTE DURAND.

A TRUE TALE OF TRAFALGAR.

"Sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;
And, after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with its wrathful nipping cold:
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet."

SHAKSPERE.

INCARCERATED within the walls of the citadel, Pierre Durand passed the remainder of the night in excruciating pain of body from the torture he had undergone, but still greater agony of mind, when he reflected upon the unprotected state in which he had left Jeanette; nor were her mother or his own parents forgotten. A heavy pressure of affliction had come suddenly upon him, and though he was a lad of great firmness and quick invention, yet the accumulation of so many misfortunes within such a short space of time almost overpowered his faculties. The dungeon-like place in which he had been thrust was tenanted by many more unhappy creatures, destined for the same service as himself; the hardy, industrious canal-men, the crews of all the fishing-boats and schuyts, (a great portion of whom had fled from the coast to Ghent, under a vain hope that they should escape the general muster)-fathers of families, tenderly loving their children, husbands torn from fondly attached wives, sons who venerated their parents, brothers united in the firmest bonds of fraternal regard, each and all, with heavy hearts and bowed-down spirits, mourning over their calamity, and contemplating the dark future with sickly apprehension. Not a ray of light illumined the spacious apartment; a black gloom enveloped them, and loud were the groans and imprecations that burst forth from the assembled multitude.

When day-light came-oh! what a scene of misery was there! and yet the sun shone warmly and brightly—the face of the heavens was calm and clear, Nature was smiling and cheerful in her aspect, whilst those to whom the Creator had given understanding to love and enjoy His works, were crushed with a weight of wretchedness that rendered them incapable of noticing the glories by which they were surrounded. During the forenoon the incarcerated mariners-more than three hundred in number-were paraded in the grand square, preparatory to marching; other parties, of a similar description, were brought in to join them; they were encompassed by a strong escort, and soon after noon they commenced their march. On emerging from the citadel the wailings and lamentations of relatives, kindred and friends, were heart-piercing

and terrible; nor could the bayonets of the guards, though unsparingly applied, enforce the continuance of silence-indignant anathemas and hootings from thousands of voices rose fearfully in the air as the mournful procession moved along through the streets, and had a less forbearing man commanded the troops, many lives would have been sacrificed to the fury of the escort, who were with difficulty restrained from firing upon the people. Numbers pressed forward to take one farewell look-to bid one last adieu to objects dear to their souls, and whom they never could expect to see again, and though thrust violently back, struck, and even wounded, they still persisted in their endeavours to obtain a parting, and as all believed, a final embrace. Thus they proceeded, and with them was the brave and resolute Pierre Durand.

In the solitary loneliness of her humble apartment, poor Jeanette recalled to her remembrance the melancholy occurrences that had so hurriedly succeeded each other during the few days that had recently passed; the destruction of her father's property; his flight; the breaking up of her home; the unprincipled conduct of Laisson-by turns occupied her agitated mind; and then her thoughts naturally reverted to the evident attachment and fervent devotion of Pierre, who now clung more fondly round the cherished feelings of her young heart-so closely allied is gratitude to love. As the night advanced, she became more and more uneasy at the protracted absence of Durand, and busy conjecture, with all its attendant tortures, deprived her of one moment's respite from keen distress. She was well aware that he had gone to try and save her mother, and at his departure hope prevailed that not many hours would elapse before they should be restored to each other; but the time passed on, the night wore away, and still no intelligence of Pierre or her injured and distracted mother. Oh! how trying to the mind, and how difficult to bear up against, are the agonies of suspense, when the heart, knowing its own bitterness and sorrow, can cling to nothing certain but misery; and the poor girl experienced this to its utmost extent.

The first faint light of early morning came streaming through the window of the room, and but too strongly enforced upon the conviction of Jeanette, the length of time that had elapsed since she had been left alone. Feverish and restless through the absence of sleep, and acutely alive to the situation in which she was placed, yet the poor girl did not want for firmness or intrepidity, and now that the occasion called for the free exercise of both, she endeavoured to nerve herself with courage and determination equal to the task she was about to undertake. The sun ascended the heavens in gorgeous majesty, Jeanette no longer hesitated as to what course she should pursue, and therefore, summoning the woman of the house, she requested that all her beautiful tresses should

be cut off close to her head; the aged female at first declined, but the entreaties of the poor girl were so earnest, that at length her solicitations were complied with, and the hair that remained was stained by some liquid to a dark brown, her fair skin was changed in its colour by a similar process, and then arraying herself in a rough flannel shirt, jacket, and trousers, blue worsted stockings, heavy shoes, with large buckles in them, and a red woollen cap, no soul breathing could have detected under this disguise the interesting and lovely Jeanette Berghaume.

The splendid luminary of day ascended higher in the heavens, it reached its topmost altitude, and the agitated girl having received no information would not delay a moment longer; she quitted her place of shelter, and was proceeding towards her once happy home for the purpose of ascertaining the fate of her mother, when on turning the angle of a street, she suddenly met the coerced mariners, who, under a strong escort were quitting the city, and among the leading division, she in an instant recognised her attached lover Pierre Durand. To speak to him was impossible, as the guards rudely thurst every one away, but she inquired of a bystander the meaning of the spectacle, and being apprised of its intent, the struggles in her bosom were for a few minutes most acute and painful. Unacquainted with the real nature of her own sentiments towards Pierre, she had been accustomed to treat him as a brother, but recent events had shown her the true character of her regard, and now she loved him with a fervency that was quickly developed. The officer of the escort observed a stripling in a sailor's garb looking on, and fancying that he must belong to his detachment, rode up, and commanded him to join the prisoners. The intuitive quickness of her sex took advantage of the mistake.

“I am no slavish cur," said she with boldness, "to be dragged into the service of the republic against my will. It is true my years are few, but that will be amended in the course of time. No, no, monsieur, if I go at all it must be as a volunteer, and that I am ready to do should you not consider me too young."

"Bravely spoken, my lad," exclaimed the officer, "I like your humour, and will give it play, you have a stout heart in your little frame. Come then, young Samson, if you wish it, and according to your behaviour so shall you be free from restraint; they must want boys as well as men."

For an instant Jeanette remained irresolute, the thoughts of her mother rushed upon her remembrance, but love prevailed, and springing forward with alacrity, the murmurs and disapprobation of the crowd never reached her ears. But as they proceeded forwards, and the city faded gradually from the view, often she turned with melancholy