GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. April, 1847. No. 4.

Table of Contents

Fiction, Literature and Articles

Poetry, Music, and Fashion

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

Robert Hinshelwood Smillie & Hinshelwood

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXX. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1847. No. 4.

THE FIELDS OF STILLWATER AND SARATOGA.

IN PART FROM ORIGINAL DOCUMENTS.

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BY N. C. BROOKS, A. M.

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In the Revolutionary war the plan of operations adopted by the British Ministry for the close of the year 1777 was as follows. General Howe, with a portion of the troops, was to occupy New York, and occasionally act toward the South; while General Burgoyne would descend from Canada and the lakes, reduce the contiguous country on his way, and by forming near Albany a junction with a part of the forces from New York, cut off all communication between the Eastern and Western States. As it was confidently expected that the several fortresses in the descent of General Burgoyne would fall into his hands, he was instructed by the ministry to leave garrisons in them, and thus, by a chain of posts, bind the entire country, while, from time to time, as occasion required, he could make excursions for provisions into the Eastern Provinces adjacent. General Burgoyne himself went over to England for the express purpose of concerting this plan with the ministry, and every thing relative to the expedition was arranged upon an extensive and liberal scale. His troops, exclusive of the artillery, consisted of seven thousand two hundred regulars, of whom three thousand two hundred were Germans, and several regiments of Provincials and Canadians, with great bodies of Indians. Besides these, he had a large number of batteaux-men and axe-men, to transport and clear the way for the troops, and a powerful train of battering and field artillery. This was about the force which General Burgoyne considered necessary, and had stipulated for, in the plan which he submitted to the British Minister.

The commander himself was a man of great ability and experience, active in enterprise, and ambitious of military glory; and those appointed to second his exertions, were officers of distinction. Major General Phillips, of the artillery, had gained great renown in Germany, as also Brigadier Frazer. The other Brigadiers, Hamilton and Powell, were valuable officers. The Brunswickers, Major General Baron Reidesel, and Brigadiers Specht and Gall, had also seen much service. And lastly, the Indians were under the directions of Langdall and St. Luc, great partisans of the French in the late war, the former of whom planned with the nations he was to lead, the defeat of General Braddock. Consequently, from the experience and bravery of the commander, and the generals under him, the number of his troops, his splendid train of artillery, and the magnitude of the entire appointments of his army, the most sanguine expectations were entertained of the entire success of the expedition.

Having detached Colonel St. Leger with a considerable force of regulars, Continentals, and Indians, by way of Oswego, to make a diversion on the Mohawk river, in favor of the army, General Burgoyne set out with his troops from St. John’s on the 16th of June, 1777. Arrived at Crownpoint, he entertained the Indians with a war-feast, according to the ceremonial established among them, and addressed them relative to the objects of his campaign, and the character of their own expected services. At Ticonderoga, he issued a manifesto, in which it is difficult to say, whether vanity or ferocity were the more conspicuous. After parading his multitudinous titles, he recited the many delinquencies of the Americans, set forth in a vaunting style the force of that power now put forth, by sea and land, to crush the insurrection of the Colonies, and, in the most appalling and sanguinary manner, denounced against the enemies of the mother country, the terrible vengeance of the Indian scalping-knife and tomahawk.

Carrying terror and ruin as they passed, the invaders steadily advanced. Harassed and panic-struck, the people fled before them; the American troops entrusted with the defence of passes and fortifications, were unable to prevent the progress of so formidable an expedition; and the fortresses of Ticonderoga, Mount Independence, Fort Anne, and others, fell successively into the hands of the British. But the troops left to occupy these works, reduced the forces of General Burgoyne in some degree, the difficulties of obtaining provisions, became more perplexing, and events shortly took place which turned the tide of war against the invaders, and inspirited the Americans, while they carried dismay to the breasts of their enemies.

General Burgoyne had learned that there was a large deposit of provisions of every kind at Bennington, and anxious to procure these for his troops, as well as to obtain carriages for his baggage, and horses for mounting Reidesel’s dragoons, he dispatched for that purpose Colonel Baum, with five hundred German troops, one hundred Indians, and two pieces of artillery; to reinforce which he afterward sent five hundred troops, under Lieutenant Colonel Breyman, with two additional pieces of artillery. These forces, without accomplishing any thing, were beaten, in two separate engagements, by the Massachusetts and New Hampshire militia, under General Stark, and a body of Continentals, under Colonel Warner, with the loss of the brave Colonel Baum, and two hundred and seven others killed, and seven hundred wounded and prisoners, four brass field-pieces, and a large quantity of small arms. This first reverse of the invading army took place August 16th, and was followed on the 22d by another.

Colonel St. Leger, dispatched up the Mohawk river some time before, after investing Fort Stanwix with his regulars, Sir John Johnson’s regiment of Tories, and a party of Indians, suffered so severely by the American militia, under Gen. Herkimer, which came to succor the garrison, that he himself was dispirited, and his Indian allies, who had joined him in expectation of but little fighting and much plunder, began to abandon him. At this conjuncture, opportunely for the garrison, Gen. Arnold advanced with troops to raise the siege of Fort Stanwix, and by a well-executed stratagem, so terrified the investing forces, that the Indians deserted the British, and St. Leger himself, on the 22d, fled with so much precipitation, that he left his tents standing in the field; and all his artillery and stores fell into the hands of the Americans. These two events reversed, in an extraordinary degree, the spirits of the people, and disposed the militia with alacrity to flock to the American camp at Stillwater, near Saratoga.

Gen. Burgoyne had hitherto been successful, but he had now reached that point in the expedition, in which the position of the country, the state of the troops, and the season of the year, all favored the American cause, and insured the downfall of the British chieftain. But the brave Gen. Schuyler, who, with great diligence and ability, had directed the affairs of the northern department during so many difficulties and discouragements, was not permitted to enjoy the triumph which his labors had contributed so much to insure. He was at this time superseded by Gen. Gates, and compelled to resign the fruits of his labors and the well-earned fame that was about to crown them. Of him it may be truly said, “he had labored, and others had entered into his reward.”

Confident of the success of the expedition of Baum, Gen. Burgoyne had already pushed on with the advance of his troops to Saratoga, on his way to Stillwater; but learning the loss of the detachment, he suddenly drew back from his advanced position. At length, by great exertions, having procured about thirty days’ provision, constructing a bridge of boats over the Hudson, he crossed over on the 13th and 14th of September with his array and artillery, and occupied the heights and plain of Saratoga.

Changing his position from near the village of Stillwater for one two or three miles in front, Gen. Gates took possession of Bemis’ Heights, a range of hills so called, from the owner of a tavern near the ground, and threw up breast-works and batteries, under the direction of his chief engineer, Thaddeus Koszkiusko, the Polish patriot. The position was a strong one. A range of hills extended on the right bank of the Hudson, between which and the river were alluvial flats, about half a mile in width at the centre, and tapering toward the extremities. A spur of the hills jutting out at the southern extremity of these flats, formed a narrow defile, through which passed, near Bemis’ tavern, the public road along the river margin. The encampment, in shape like the segment of a semicircle, with its convex turned to the north, threatening the advance of the enemy, extended from the narrow defile by the river-side to a steep height at the west, about three-quarters of a mile. In front, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, from right to left of the centre, which it covered, ran a closely wooded ravine; from this to the heights, at the western extremity of the encampment, the ground was level and partially cleared, some of the trees being felled, others girdled and still standing; north of this, in front of the extreme left, to the distance of a mile and a half or two miles, were small fields in imperfect cultivation, obstructed with the stumps and trunks of trees, with a steep eminence forming the western boundary of the whole. A line of breast-works formed of felled trees, logs, rails, and brush, covered with dirt, ran around the encampment, and strong batteries at the extremities, and in the centre, were planted so as to sweep the advance of the enemy, and especially the road by the river side leading through the defile, where the artillery of the enemy would be compelled to pass. A breast-work also extended across the flats, near the defile, having a strong battery immediately upon the river, with another breast-work and battery somewhat in advance, where the road crossed Mill-creek.

The American troops were disposed within their intrenchments as follows: the main body, composing the right wing, and consisting of Glover’s, Nixon’s, and Patterson’s brigades, was under the immediate command of Gates, the general-in-chief and occupied the defile by the river side and the adjacent hills; Gen. Learned, with Bailey’s, Weston’s, and Jackson’s regiments of Massachusetts, and James Livingston’s, of New York, occupied the plain or centre; and Poor’s brigade, consisting of Cilly’s, Scammel’s, and Hale’s regiments, of New Hampshire, Van Courtlandt’s and Henry Livingston’s, of New York, and Latimer’s and Cook’s, of the Connecticut militia, and Morgan’s riflemen, and Dearborn’s light infantry, were posted upon the left, and occupied the heights. The troops of the centre and left, constituted a division, and were under the command of Gen. Arnold, who had his quarters upon the extreme left. Thus arranged, the American troops awaited the advance of the British army.

Leaving Saratoga on the 15th, Burgoyne marched to Coveville, and halting to repair the bridges and roads, he moved on the 17th to a place called Sword’s House. Gen. Arnold, who was sent out on this day to gain intelligence of the enemy, and harass him on his march, after some ineffectual skirmishing, returned with two or three prisoners, from whom he learned the intentions of the British. On the 18th, the British general-in-chief continued his march till he came within a short distance of the “North Ravine,” which forms Wilber’s Basin, at the northern extremity of the flats afore-mentioned, and encamped about three miles from the Americans, his left, consisting mainly of the artillery and German dragoons, under Majors General Phillips and Reidesel, resting on the river; the centre, under Burgoyne himself, extending at right angles to it across the low grounds five or six hundred yards to a range of lofty hills, which were occupied by his left, consisting of the grenadiers under Frazer, and the light infantry of Breyman, who formed the élite of the army.

Determined to force his way through the American lines, the British general formed his army in order of march, about ten o’clock on the morning of the 19th of September. While Burgoyne with the centre, and Frazer with the right wing were to make a circuitous route, concentrate their forces near the head of Middle Ravine, (so called from being equidistant from the North Ravine and South Ravine, in the rear of the American camp,) and having turned the left wing of the Americans fall upon their rear, Generals Phillips and Reidesel, with the artillery, which moved slowly, were to advance along the river road, and, when within half a mile of the American lines, at the time of the junction between Burgoyne and Frazer, to be announced by two signal guns, make an attack in front, and force their way through.

Information having been received through Col. Colburn that the enemy were on their march, Gen. Arnold, anticipating the intentions of the British commander, and anxious to derange his plan of operations by checking the progress of his right wing, pressed upon Gen. Gates the propriety of an attack in advance, and was ordered to detach Col. Morgan’s rifle corps, and some infantry, to observe the motions of the enemy, and harass their advance, and to support Morgan himself, if necessary, with the entire troops of his division. Expecting upon his right a powerful attack from the British artillery and the troops of Reidesel, Gen. Gates was unwilling to weaken that wing by any drafts of troops whatever.

In pursuance of the arrangement of the British commander, Frazer, with the right wing, making a long circuit, arrived where the road to Wilber’s Basin and that to Bemis’ Heights intersect each other, and thence continued south to an eminence about half a mile west of Freeman’s Cottage. At the same time Burgoyne, with a picket in advance, and flankers, composed of Canadians, Provincials and Indians, following the course of the North Ravine about three fourths of a mile, and then marching in a southwest direction, had arrived a little south of Freeman’s Cottage.

At this moment the advance of Morgan, under Major Morris, fell in with the picket of Burgoyne, which had reached the Middle Ravine, and attacking with that impetuosity for which he was remarkable, drove them back till reinforced by a strong party under Major Forbes. The British now advanced with spirit; a sharp conflict commenced, and they were driven back to their line, which was forming beyond the Cottage. Now pressing on again with vivacity, they repulsed the Americans in their turn, and Morgan coming up with the rear, found the van of his command broken and scattered in every direction. Capt. Van Swearingen, Lieut. Moore, and twenty privates fell into the hands of the British.

Collecting his riflemen, and reinforced by a battalion of light infantry under Major Dearborn, the battle was renewed again, about one o’clock, and was vigorously maintained on both sides for some time, with varied success. Forming upon the left of Morgan, the regiments of Scammel and Cilley advanced to his support, and the contest proceeded with redoubled energy.

There seemed to be a generous emulation between the commanders of these regiments, in which their gallant troops fully participated. Col. Scammel is cool and determined, and leads on his men close to the enemy before he will suffer them to fire; Cilley is all vivacity and animation, and dashes into the fight with the enthusiasm of a fox-chase: they are equally brave, and the indomitable obstinacy of the one and energy of the other alike make a serious impression upon the enemy.

Frazer, who by this time had joined with his command the centre under Burgoyne, advanced with great resolution and attempted to cut off a portion of the American troops, when Gen. Arnold, who now appeared upon the field with the New York regiments and a part of Gen. Learned’s brigade, rushed impetuously forward and endeavored to break the British line, by penetrating between the right wing and the centre, and thus to cut off and surround the troops of Frazer. Arnold exhibited his usual bravery; his form towered before his troops; his voice, animating them, resounded along the line like the notes of a trumpet; his men now spring forward, and the fiery contest is close and bloody; the discharges of musketry are quick, incessant and deadly; the Americans press on steadily and close with their adversaries; the enemy resort to their bayonets, but soon falter and give way till the Americans are drawn within the shot of some regiments of German light infantry upon the extreme right. These pour upon the American flank a murderous fire; and after an obstinate resistance of more than an hour, in which the ground is disputed inch by inch, the Americans fall back, sullenly firing, and resume their place in the line.

About three o’clock in the afternoon, the troops were drawn up on each side for a regular engagement. There was an oblong clearing in front of Freeman’s Cottage, about sixty rods in length from east to west, and containing from fifteen to eighteen acres. This field sloped gently down toward the south and east, and was bounded upon the north by an eminence, and a thin grove of pines, and on the south by a dense woods. The British line, with Burgoyne at its head, was formed within the grove of pines upon the north of the clearing mentioned above; and the American line under Arnold within the dense woods. The British advanced to the attack with the most determined bravery, and the action began with great spirit, and was maintained with animation.

Preferring to receive the enemy with the advantages of their position, the Americans kept, in a measure, within cover of the wood in which they were posted, and poured upon the advancing British a destructive fire, which compelled them to falter. Now pressing upon the enemy, the Americans advanced in their turn, till they came within the fire of the British line, and fell back toward their position in the wood. The engagement waxed hot and obstinate, and a destructive fire was kept up, principally between Hamilton’s brigade, consisting mainly of the twentieth, twenty-first, and sixty-second British infantry, and the brigade of Poor, and Morgan’s corps on the part of the Americans. The British centre was severely pressed, and began at length to give way, when General Phillips, who, with infinite labor, had made his way from the left through the intervening woods, brought up a brigade of artillery under the brave Captain Jones, and some grenadiers, and restored the action. The artillery was posted near Freeman’s Cottage, and gave the enemy a decided advantage, for, owing to the impracticable nature of the ground, the Americans could not bring up any artillery during the day to support their fire.

The action now became general. A quick fire ran from right to left along the whole line of battle; the musketry peeled like the continuous roll of a thousand drums; the heavy discharges of artillery with the roar of thunder shook the hills around, and died in sullen echoes down the valleys; while the battle raged tumultuous, like a stormy sea, over the plain intervening between the woods. The contest was obstinate and bloody—a succession of advances and retreats; a scene of daring and destruction; of blood and carnage. The British rushed forward to the very woods, but fled before the murderous fire of the Americans from their covert. The latter in their turn pursued the British to their line, but fell back from the resistance in front and the hot fire that assailed them on the flanks. Major Hull, with a bravery that is some relief to his dark cowardice in the late war, repeatedly charged and took the enemy’s guns; but as the Americans had no means to bring them off, or turn them against their owners, they remained at length with the British.

The action continued without the least intermission, and Arnold in directing the movements of the troops did every thing that a skillful and active officer could accomplish. Finding the enemy reinforced by Gen. Phillips from the left, he ordered out the remaining regiments of Learned’s brigade, and sent to Gen. Gates for a part of the troops under his command. But the general either still fearing the advance of the enemy’s left upon him, and unwilling to weaken his right, or not wishing to give Arnold any efficient support, merely sent him a single regiment, Col. Marshall’s, of Patterson’s brigade. Had he promptly supported Arnold’s division by either of the three brigades under his command, there is no doubt the action would have been a decisive one.

The arrival of the last reinforcements infused a degree of renewed vigor into the Americans; the contest deepened, maddened into a final effort, and raged with destructive fury as the sun set upon the scene of carnage, and the pall of night came down upon the dead and dying. The last troops engaged were those of the brave Lieut. Col. Brooks, in command of Jackson’s regiment, the eighth Massachusetts. He penetrated as far as the extreme right of the British, and became engaged with a part of Breyman’s riflemen, who had acted before but occasionally during the action. Waiting for orders to return, he did not leave the field of battle till near ten o’clock at night. This was the most obstinate battle that had yet been fought, in which the Americans, both regulars and militia, displayed all the bravery of the most hardy veterans.

The American loss fell chiefly upon Morgan’s corps and Poor’s brigade. The regiment of Colonel Cilley, of New Hampshire, and that of Col. Cook, of the Connecticut militia, suffered the most severely. Major Hull’s detachment sustained a loss of nearly one half in killed and wounded. The twentieth and twenty-first regiments of the enemy encountered severe loss, and the sixty-second, under the brave Col. Anstruther, was literally cut to pieces. The colonel himself, and the major, Harnaye, were both wounded, and, of the six hundred men which the regiment numbered on leaving Canada, but sixty men and five or six officers remained fit for duty. The gallant Captain Jones, who commanded the enemy’s artillery with so much effect, fell at the side of his guns, and thirty-six of his forty-eight artillerists, and all the officers, except Lieutenant Hadden, were killed or disabled. His escape was remarkable, for the cap was shot off his head by a musket ball, while engaged in spiking the guns.

The Americans had about three thousand men in the engagement, the British three thousand five hundred. Both parties claimed the victory; though it is evident all the advantages of the contest were in favor of the Americans. The British lay upon their arms, with the intention of renewing the battle next day, but abandoned that design in the morning, and within cannon-shot of the Americans threw up a line of intrenchments, with strong redoubts across the plain to the hills; with an intrenchment also and batteries across the defile at the northern extremity of the flats. The Americans, in the meantime, made great exertions to complete their defences, and render them impregnable.

The position of the Americans was the same as before; the British troops were posted within their intrenchments in the following order: Col. Breyman with the Hessian rifle corps occupied the extreme right, or flank defence; the light infantry, under Lord Balcarras, and the élite of Frazer, were encamped around Freeman’s Cottage, and extended toward the north ravine, flanked by Hamilton’s brigade and the grenadiers; Phillips and Reidesel, with their respective commands, occupied the plain and the ground north of Wilber’s Basin; while, for the protection of the batteaux and hospitals, the Hessians of Hanau, the forty-seventh regiment and a detachment of loyalists, were encamped upon the flats by the river-side.

A serious difference now arose between Generals Gates and Arnold, owing to the jealousy of the former, and the intriguing disposition of his adjutant, Col. Wilkinson. Although the late action had commenced at the instance of Arnold, had been fought under his direction, and by the troops of his division alone, with the exception of a single regiment, yet in his dispatches to Congress, General Gates simply stated the action was fought by detachments from the army, without mentioning either Arnold or his division. In addition to this injustice, Gen. Gates, at the suggestion of Wilkinson, in his general orders immediately after the battle, required that Col. Morgan, whose troops had been for some time a part of Arnold’s command, and by whose assistance, in a great measure, the late battle was won, should “make returns and reports to head-quarters only; from whence alone he is to receive orders.” A correspondence and an angry conference took place that resulted in Gates’ depriving Arnold of the command of his division, which he assumed himself, assigning to Gen. Lincoln, who arrived on the twenty-ninth, the command of the right wing. I will more particularly refer to this misunderstanding, at the close of this article.

The two armies lay encamped within sight of each other from the nineteenth of September till the seventh of October, without any thing taking place, except an occasional affair of pickets. In expectation of a coöperation with Sir Henry Clinton, from New York, and of aid from St. Leger, the British commander was compelled, by the difficulties of procuring provisions, to put his troops upon short allowance, which they bore with a patience and cheerfulness that did them great honor. The American troops in the meantime, fearful of the expedition from New York in favor of Burgoyne, were clamorous for action, and Gen. Arnold, forgetting all the injustice and indignity with which he had been treated, addressed a letter to General Gates, which any generous mind would have considered, in the circumstances, as an overture for reconciliation, made known to him the impatience of the troops for battle, and suggested the dangers of delay and the necessity of an immediate attack. General Gates still remained inactive within his intrenchments, till Gen. Burgoyne, pressed to extremity for provisions, and despairing of assistance, prepared for a second attempt upon the American lines, which gave him the advantage of a defensive action.

It had been necessary, for some time, to send out large parties to cover any provisions destined for the British camp; General Burgoyne determined, therefore, to select a heavy detachment of his best troops, for the ostensible purpose of covering a forage, which should move to the left of the American lines, and, after making a reconnaissance, endeavor to dislodge the Americans, or force a passage through the intrenchments: in the event of being successful, the whole army was to follow.

Entrusting the guard of the camp upon the heights near Freeman’s farm to Brigadiers Hamilton and Specht, and the intrenchments and redoubts upon the flats to Brigadier Gall, about eleven o’clock on the seventh of October, Gen. Burgoyne placed himself at the head of fifteen hundred regulars, the flower of his army, with two twelve-pounders, two howitzers, and six six-pounders, and moved toward the American left. His best officers, Majors-General Phillips and Reidesel and Brigadier Frazer, accompanied the detachment, and seconded the command of the general-in-chief. Having proceeded within three-fourths of a mile of the American camp at the northwest, they displayed and sat down in double ranks, with their arms between their legs. While the foragers of the party were cutting straw in a wheat-field, several officers from the top of a cabin were engaged in reconnoitering, with their glasses, the American left, which was concealed in a great measure from their view by the intervening woods.

General Gates having received intelligence of the movements and position of the enemy, and penetrating his intentions, made arrangements for an immediate attack. In the meantime, a party of Indians, Canadians and Provincials, scouring the woods on the British flank, fell in with the American pickets near the Middle Ravine; a sharp conflict ensued, which drew to the support of the scouting party a strong corps of grenadiers, when the Americans were driven back to the intrenchments. A brisk action ensued, without any material advantage on either side, when a corps of Morgan’s riflemen appeared, whom the Indians and Canadians always held in great terror, and the British retreated to their line, which was forming, pursued by the Americans.

Gen. Burgoyne formed his line of battle across an open field; the left wing consisting of the grenadiers, under Major Ackland, and the artillery, under Major Williams, resting upon a ridge of ground bordered with wood, and covered in front by the head of the Middle Ravine; the centre, under Generals Phillips and Reidesel, was composed of British and German battalions; the right wing, consisting of the light infantry under Lord Balcarras, extended toward the southwest to the foot of a hill densely wooded, and was covered by a worm fence; while, in advance of the right wing, a strong body of flankers was posted under the brave General Frazer, to fall upon the American flank and rear, as the other troops made the attack upon the left.

General Gates ordered Col. Morgan with his corps to commence the action. That sagacious officer proposed and was permitted with his command to march by a circuitous route, and under cover of the woods to gain the hill that ran near the enemy’s right and its advance, and to make an attack in front and flank upon the advanced party under Frazer, and the British right, while the brigade of General Poor opened its fire upon the British left. Allowing time for Morgan to reach his destination, Gen. Poor led on his brigade to the British left, having ordered his men to reserve their fire till some time after they began to rise the hill on and around which the artillery and a part of the grenadiers were posted. As soon as they came in sight they were saluted by the enemy with a shower of grape-shot and musket balls, which overshot them, however, and spent their fury upon the tops of the trees. The Americans rushed on with a shout, and delivering their fire, in quick succession, opened to the right and left, that they might gain the cover of the trees that enclosed the ridge on which the artillery was placed. Here a close and bloody conflict ensued, with the continual discharge of artillery and small arms. Nothing could exceed the bravery of the Americans; they rushed upon the enemy’s guns, which, by repeated charges, were taken and retaken, till the dead and dying were strewed all around. One field-piece was taken for the fifth time, when the brave Cilley in a fit of exultation mounted astraddle of it, and having “sworn it true to the American cause,” turned it upon the enemy, and galled them with their own ammunition, which in their precipitancy they had left behind them. After a long and obstinate contest, in which the grenadiers and artillerists suffered very severely, Major Ackland, the commander of the former, was wounded, and Major Williams, the commander of the latter, was taken prisoner, upon which they broke and fled with consternation.

Simultaneously with the opening of the fire of Poor’s brigade upon the British left, the gallant Col. Morgan, like a torrent, rushed down from the hills that skirted the advance of the British right, and pouring in a rapid and destructive fire, soon drove it back upon the right wing, then, wheeling suddenly to the left, he took the British right in flank, with irresistible impetuosity, and threw their ranks into confusion. While thus disordered, Major Dearborn led up two regiments of fresh troops against them, when, assailed both in flank and front, they broke and fled. The Earl of Balcarras rallied them again, and re-formed them, but overpowered by superior numbers, the whole right wing vacillated and gave way.

While the two wings were thus closely engaged, the centre, composed principally of Hessian troops, had as yet taken no part in the action, for the British commander feared, as the American front extended beyond the grenadiers, that, by breaking his centre, he would give an opportunity to the Americans to cut off and surround a part of his forces. As the battle was thus going on, and indecisive, Gen. Arnold, who found it impossible to restrain himself, swore that he would “put an end to the action,” and galloped off in hot haste to the field, upon a magnificent coal-black steed. Gen. Gates, fearful lest he might “do some rash action,” as he expressed himself, sent Major Armstrong after him to recall him, but the messenger could not reach him to deliver his summons, so quick and varied were his motions, and so perilous the track of his onward course. Placing himself at the head of three regiments, who readily obeyed their former commander, Gen. Arnold advanced with great vigor and attacked the British centre. The Hessians received the assailants with becoming spirit, and, at first, made a brave resistance; but the second charge upon them was furious and irresistible; Arnold with some daring followers dashed into their thickest ranks, carrying with them death and dismay, and the Hessians broke and fled with great precipitancy and consternation.

While the two wings and centre were thus engaged, and the battle was hotly maintained along the whole line, the bravery and skill of the gallant Gen. Frazer was everywhere conspicuous. When the troops began to waver, he encouraged them; when falling back, he rallied them again; when broken, he re-formed them. On his magnificent iron-grey steed, he passed along the line continually, and wherever he appeared he restored order and inspired confidence; the fate of the battle seemed to hang upon his energy, skill and bravery. The sagacious Col. Morgan saw this, and, with more prudence than generosity, called a file of his best marksmen, and said to them, “That gallant officer is General Frazer; I admire and honor him, but it is necessary that he should die—take your stations in that cluster of bushes, and when he passes down the line again, do your duty.” In a few moments the brave and accomplished Frazer fell mortally wounded, and was carried to the camp, a grenadier on each side of his horse supporting him. At his fall a panic pervaded the enemy, and a reinforcement of three thousand New York militia simultaneously arriving, under Gen. Ten Broeck, the whole line under Gen. Burgoyne broke and fled to their encampment, covered in their retreat by Generals Phillips and Reidesel. The Americans pursued them in hot haste to their very intrenchments, and assaulted the works, though possessed neither of battering nor field artillery.

Along the whole line of the British encampment there now rages a storm of grape-shot and musketry; yet the brave Americans, exposed to the deadly fire, or sheltered in part by trees, stumps, and rocks, or covered in gullies formed by the rains, continue the fight with great obstinacy, and many brave men fall on both sides. In this scene of blood and carnage, Arnold was a conspicuous actor. Incited by wounded pride, anger, and military enthusiasm, he fought with reckless bravery, exposed himself with inconsiderate rashness, furiously at times brandished his sword to the danger of his own men, animated his soldiers by the most impassioned appeals, and leading them on, snatched laurels from the very hands of death and danger. With a part of Glover’s and Patterson’s brigades, he rushed on to the works possessed by the light infantry under Lord Balcarras, and a portion of the line, and assaulting, a large abattis which he carried at the point of the bayonet, endeavored to make an opening into the British camp; but, after a sanguinary contest, he was forced to fall back. Leaving the troops now engaged at a greater distance, he dashes furiously on toward the right flank defence, receiving as he passes the fire of the contending armies unhurt.

Gen. Learned, with his brigade, sheltered by a sudden depression of the ground, which covered his men breast high, had been engaged at a long fire with the Germans of the right flank defence, who poured upon them a continual discharge of grape-shot. He now advanced, for nearer contest, his brigade in open column, with Col. Jackson’s regiment in front, in command of Lieut Col. Brooks, to make an assault at an opening between the light infantry, under Lord Balcarras, and the German right flank defence. This part of the lines was occupied by Canadians and Provincials, and was defended by two stockade redoubts. Arnold, in passing on to the British right, met Learned’s brigade advancing, and placing himself at the head of the brigade, orders Brooks, with two platoons, to attack the stockades, while the other troops assault in front. The engagement is now general and sanguinary, the cannon thunder along the line, the peals of musketry are continuous, and the sharp rattle of the rifle is incessant, while the bomb lights up with its red glare, the atmosphere darkened with the smoke of battle and the shades of coming eve.

While the battle thus rages, the intrepid Brooks leads his party, as ordered, against the stockades, which are carried in a moment at the point of the bayonet; and the rest of the brigade assault the lines, though manned by twice their number. After an ineffectual resistance, the enemy are compelled to abandon their position and flee, which lays open the flank of the right defence, consisting of the Germans under Col. Breyman. It consists of a breast-work of timbers piled in a horizontal manner between pickets driven perpendicularly into the earth, and is covered on the right by a battery of two guns, posted on an eminence.

Galloping on to the left, Arnold orders Weston’s and Livingston’s regiments, with Morgan’s corps, to advance and make a general assault, and then returning, he places himself at the head of the regiment under Brooks, and leading it on himself, makes a furious attack upon the German works, which is vigorously resisted. Undismayed, he pushes forward a platoon, and having found the sallyport, forces his way through with his men, and rides triumphantly into the encampment of the enemy. The terrified Germans retreat, yet deliver a fire as they run, by which the steed of the dauntless general is killed, and himself wounded. The same leg which was wounded in storming Quebec, is again shattered by a musket ball. Here Maj. Armstrong, who had been sent by Gen. Gates to order him back from the field, first comes up with him and delivers his message. Retiring to their tents the Germans find the assault general, throw down their arms, or retreat hurriedly to the interior part of the camp, leaving their commander, Col. Breyman, mortally wounded on the field, with many privates killed and wounded, and their tents, artillery, and baggage in possession of the victors. The dislodgement of the German troops effected an opening into the British lines, which exposed the entire encampment. Gen. Burgoyne, therefore, immediately ordered its recovery, but the darkness of the night, and the fatigue of the troops, prevented this attempt at recovery on the part of the British, or any effort on the part of the Americans to improve the advantages it offered. About 12 o’clock at night, Gen. Lincoln, who, during the action, had remained in camp with his command, marched out to relieve the troops that had been engaged, and to possess the ground they had gained. The American loss in this action was about one hundred and fifty, killed and wounded; that of the enemy was much greater, among which were some of their best officers. The enemy lost in addition nine pieces of artillery, and the encampment and equipage of a German brigade.

As the Americans, with fresh troops prepared for action, held possession of a part of the British camp, which exposed their entire defences, a change of position, before the following morning, was rendered necessary to the British commander. During the night, therefore, he executed a removal of his army, camp and artillery, to his former position, about a mile further north, in view of a retreat. To guard against this, Gen. Gates had detached a party higher up the Hudson to hang upon his rear, should he attempt to force a passage.

During the 8th of October, the troops were under arms, in expectation of an attack, and a cannonade was kept up at intervals during the day. About sunset, according to directions which he had given, the corpse of the brave Gen. Frazer, attended by his suite, and by the Generals Phillips, Reidesel, and Burgoyne, was carried to the great redoubt, and there buried. A cannonade was kept up for some time on the procession, till the Americans discovered its character, when they ceased, and fired minute guns in honor of the deceased. The following description of the melancholy scene is from the pen of Gen. Burgoyne himself.

“The incessant cannonade during the solemnity; the steady attitude, and unaltered voice with which the clergyman officiated, though frequently covered with dust, which the shot threw up on all sides of him; the mute but expressive mixture of sensibility and indignation on every countenance; these objects will remain to the last of life on the mind of every man who was present. The growing duskiness, added to the scenery, and the whole marked a character of this juncture, that would make one of the finest subjects for the pencil of a master that the field ever presented. To the canvas and to the page of a more important historian, gallant friend, I consign thy memory. There may thy talents, thy manly virtues, their progress and their period, find due distinction; and long may they survive, long after the frail record of my pen shall be forgotten.”

In relation to the death-wound of Gen. Frazer, it is generally believed to have been from Timothy Murphy, a celebrated marksman, with a double rifle, whose aim was unerring as fate. The death of Frazer is said to have made a deep impression upon Morgan, and to have given him uneasiness even on his dying-bed. I receive the account coming through his minister. Gen. Frazer himself said that he saw the rifleman that shot him, and that he was up in a tree. The range of the wound proved this to be a fact. Consequently, it could not have been one of the file Morgan selected, unless we suppose they ascended trees.

A romantic interest is thrown around the incidents of this campaign by the sufferings of several accomplished and excellent ladies, that followed the fortunes of their husbands, who were officers in the army. On the 19th of September, they followed the route of the artillery and baggage, and when the action began, the Baroness Reidesel, Lady Harriet Ackland, and the wives of Maj. Harnaye, and Lieut. Reynell, of the sixty-second regiment, had possession of a small hut which the surgeons soon occupied. Their sensibility was continually affected by the pitiable sights that were presented as the wounded were brought in, while their terrified imaginations looked forward to similar calamities to their husbands. How afflicting were their circumstances when, during the day, Maj. Harnaye was brought in severely wounded, and intelligence came that Lieut. Reynell was killed. The Lady Harriet’s husband was wounded in the action of the 7th of October, and fell into the hands of the Americans, when, with the greatest heroism, she solicited permission from Gen. Burgoyne, and went over to the American army, that she might wait upon her husband. She accompanied Maj. Ackland to Canada in 1776, and was called to attend on him, while sick in a miserable hut at Chamblee. In the march upon Ticonderoga she was left behind and enjoined not to expose herself to the hazards of the expedition, but joined her husband immediately after his receiving a wound at the battle of Hubberdton, and would not leave him afterward, but shared his fortunes and fatigues. The narrative of the Baroness Reidesel, which gives an account of the expedition, and their own particular sufferings, is as interesting as a romance.

Fearing from some movements of the Americans that they would turn his right and surround him, Gen. Burgoyne, on the 8th, abandoned his hospital with the sick and wounded, whom he recommended to the humanity of Gen. Gates, and commenced a night retreat toward Saratoga, immediately after the burial of Gen. Frazer. In preparation for the retreat they felt severely the loss of this accomplished officer, who prided himself upon generalship in this respect. During the war in Germany, he made good his retreat with 500 chasseurs, in sight of the French army, and often said that if, in the present expedition the troops were compelled to retreat, he would insure, with the advanced corps, to bring them off in safety. About 9 o’clock at night the army began to move, Gen. Reidesel in command of the van-guard, and Gen. Phillips in command of the rear-guard. Delayed by the darkness of the night, the incessant rains, and the bad condition of the roads, liable at any time to an attack in flank, front, or rear, the royal troops reached Saratoga late at night on the 9th, so harassed and weary, that without strength even to cut wood and make fires, the men lay down upon the cold ground in their wet clothes, and the generals themselves lay upon their matresses with no other covering than an oil-cloth.

Gen. Burgoyne detached from this place a working party, under a strong escort, to repair the roads and bridges toward Fort Edward; but on finding the Americans in force on the heights south of Saratoga creek, and evincing a disposition to cross over and attack him, the escort was recalled, and the Provincials, sent to cover the working party, fled at the first attack. The general-in-chief now resolved to abandon his artillery, baggage, and encumbrances of every kind, and make a night march to Fort Edward. The soldiers were to carry their arms and provisions upon their backs, and force a passage at the fording, either above or below the fort. But learning from his scouts that the Americans had a camp in force on the high grounds between Fort Edward and Fort George, as well as parties along the whole shore, he was compelled to abandon the design.

Worn down by a series of toils and attacks; abandoned by the Indians, Provincials, and Canadians; the regulars greatly reduced by the late heavy losses, and by sickness; disappointed of aid from Sir Henry Clinton; suffering from want of provisions; invested and almost surrounded by an army of triple numbers, without the possibility of retreat; exposed to an incessant cannonade, and receiving in camp even the musket balls of his enemy, the British general perceiving that future efforts would be unavailing, convened a council of the generals, field-officers, and commanders of corps, in which it was unanimously resolved to send a communication to Gen. Gates, touching a surrender. A treaty was accordingly opened, and a convention agreed upon on the 16th of October, embracing the following prominent conditions.

The British were to march out of their encampment with the honors of war, and ground their arms by order of their own officers. They were not to be detained as captives, but be permitted to return to England, and not serve again during the war, unless exchanged. The number of men received in surrender to the United States was 5791. Besides this, the United States received an immense park of brass artillery, 7000 stand of arms, clothing for seven thousand recruits; with tents, and great quantities of ammunition, and other military stores.

Some few exchanges of officers were effected. An effort was made to exchange Maj. Ackland for Col. Ethan Allen, then held in rigorous confinement in New York, but the British commander, Lord Howe, refused the proposal. Maj. Ackland was then exchanged for Maj. Otho Holland Williams, of Rawling’s rifle corps, who, after a brave resistance, was wounded and made prisoner at Fort Washington, in 1776, and had since suffered severely in his captivity. Some time after the fall of Charleston, Gen. Phillips was exchanged for Gen. Lincoln. Congress, fearful that good faith would not be kept relative to the soldiers not being employed again in the war, did not permit the British soldiers to embark for England. They were detained till after the close of the war. When information was received of the surrender of Burgoyne and his army, Congress passed a vote of thanks to Gen. Gates, and the troops under his command, and ordered a gold medal to be struck in commemoration of the event, and presented to him in the name of the United States. I have some valuable original documents, throwing strong light upon the history and the men of this eventful period, which I may submit in a second paper.

THE ORIOLE’S RETURN.

Hast thou come back, loved oriole,

Thy stay has been so long,

To flit among the garden flowers,

And cheer me with thy song.

Yes, yes, my pretty oriole,

Thou’st left thy distant bowers,

And come to make thy dwelling-place,

In this green land of ours.

For cheerful spring, my oriole,

Returns to us again,

And soon shall summer’s balmy breath

Spread fragrance o’er the plain.

The fields that late, dear oriole,

Were white with fleecy snow,

Are green, and the refreshing breeze

Has bid the fountains flow.

And budding shrubs, sweet oriole,

Bedeck this blooming scene,

And the wide-spreading willow

Is clothed in living green.

Then with thy mate, my oriole,

Come sit upon this tree,

And tune thy gay and lively notes,

So long unheard by me.

And there, my gentle oriole,

From thy long journey rest,

Then to the drooping branches, love,

Suspend thy downy nest.

For all is beauteous, oriole,

Around, beneath, above,

And little birds are warbling,

Far in the waving grove.

And the soft rill, my oriole,

Where oft I have seen thee light,

To drink the waters murmuring by,

Now sparkles clear and bright.

And thou hast come, loved oriole,

To glad me with thy voice,

And verdant spring again returns,

To bid our hearts rejoice.

MISS C. MITCHELL.

MRS. BELL’S BALL.

[A CHAPTER FROM “LEVY LAWRENCE’S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.”]

It was about this time, (meaning the time I began to realize that if silver and gold could do every thing, brass could do much,) and shortly after my return to P⁠——, I received an invitation to attend a ball, to be given by the lady of a gallant naval officer, at a public hall, the only one with which the town of P⁠—— was blessed.

To one who had absented himself from such gayeties for some time, and who was particularly fond of them, the thought of a ball was exciting, to say the least—and such a ball! I knew very well what it would be, given by Mrs. Bell, in a fine large hall. Nothing sham. No—Mrs. Bell had too much pride, and so had Mr. Bell, to have any thing to do with an entertainment that was not of the very first order; and Mrs. Bell was too ambitious, and so was Mr. Bell, not to make some endeavor to go a little beyond any of their neighbors.

“I will go to this ball,” said I, and immediately confirmed my determination by writing an acceptance. “I will go, I will rust no longer. Why should I suffer myself to grow mouldy, and hide my light under a bushel, when I might illume, perhaps dazzle, the gay world with my brightness?” I said this, being in a particularly self-satisfied mood, for that morning I had made one dollar, and had the money, the hard specie, in my pocket. Any young man, who is beginning to make his own living, will appreciate my self-satisfaction, for he well knows the pleasure—how great it is—which is experienced from the first fruits of his own exertion, however small they may be.

The ball was to take place in a week, and in the interim, wherever I went, I heard nothing else talked of. Everybody was going—and everybody was full of it. How glad was I that I had accepted! Everybody seemed determined on making an impression, for everybody was planning and arranging, and their lives, for that week, were bound up in the ball—the ball was the end to which their whole present existence was directed. Never since my childhood, on the occasion of an annual visit to the theatre, had I looked forward to any thing with such delightful anticipations as to this ball. What blessings did I not invoke upon the united heads of Mrs. and Mr. Bell, as I heard of some new contrivance for the pleasure of those who were to be their guests on this great occasion. To think that I was going, was happiness enough. I am afraid I did not pay so much attention as I ought to my business. I may have neglected it, but I could not help it.

The week passed. The day of the ball came. The evening—almost the hour. People were beginning to prepare themselves. Not more than time enough remained for me to make my toilet. Many a lady was by this time fully arrayed, and doubtless many a gentleman.

Then it was that I experienced one of those dreadful revulsions of feeling, which no words can describe, and which only those who possess an extraordinary share of moral courage can bear up under. If the sun had gone out at noonday, I should not have been more overwhelmed; if I had waked some morning, and found myself a husband and a father, I should not have wondered more.

I had no clothes to wear!

The moment which brought me to the verge of an earthly Elysium, which was to be introductory to an age of delights, had arrived, and not a decent coat, not a passable pair of pants, not even a respectable pair of boots. I might have known it all before. O fool! fool! I should have wept if I had had any tears to shed; but I had none. My excess of feeling was beyond tears. I sat down like one dumb and stricken. I had clean shirts, and though they had often served me in good stead, they would do me no good now. What could have possessed me, that, on this occasion, when I needed it so much, I should have neglected to provide myself with proper attire? I might as well be in Patagonia without any clothes, as here with my shabby ones.

The clock struck nine. The ball must have begun; and I fancied the gay music, the bright throng, and the sound of dancing feet, and almost smiled as I fancied, the fancy was so pleasant. I tried to reason with myself. Supposing I had not forgotten the clothes, how could I have paid for a new suit, with but one dollar in my pocket? (I hadn’t earned a cent since the day I received the invitation.) Oh! approved credit was as good as money. I had been on tick before now, and might do so again. It was no comfort to think what I might have done. What could be done now? Buying was out of the question; all the money in the world could not in a moment have procured me a new suit. Borrowing? That was out of the question. Whose coats would fit me, and who was there to borrow from? Everybody had gone—gone to the ball.

To the melancholy conclusions of my reasoning succeeded what would, in a child, have been called a temper-fit; and it was no more or less in me. I swore audibly. I wilfully, intentionally, and maliciously kicked over a table, thereby doing serious detriment to its contents, for a glass lamp being broken by the fall, they, together with the carpet, were covered with a plentiful sprinkling of oil. I nearly put the fire out by giving it a severe poking, broke a penknife by energetic use, and if there had been a bell-rope, (I didn’t enjoy the luxury of a bell,) I should have broken that.

Then came a calm; a calm which proceeded from a resolution I had suddenly taken—to go, at any rate.

When Cinderella stood by the magnificent equipage which was to take her to the king’s palace, she reflected upon the inconsistency of her mean apparel, with the gorgeousness before her, and that she was about to encounter. “What,” sighed she, “and must I go thither in these dirty, nasty rags?” Scarcely had she spoken, when her godmother, who was a fairy, touched her with her wand, and in an instant her rags were changed into the most beautiful robes ever beheld by mortal woman.

No gilded chariot waited before me. I had no godmother, with one stroke to put nap upon a thread-bare coat, and make worn-out boots new. There was no magic to be employed upon me, but that of an unflinching spirit, a brazen face, and the little that might be effected by brushes and Day & Martin.

Having dressed with as much care as if I had been putting on regal robes, I started to walk—no such extravagance as a carriage for me—laying this flattering unction to my soul, that perhaps the hall might not be very well lighted, and in the crowd I should escape critical observation. I fortunately found a drygoods shop open, where I stopped to purchase gloves. I paid that dollar for a pair of a light straw color, and felt elegantly dressed when I had encased my left hand in one; alas! the right hand glove, as right hand gloves often do, tore when I gave it the final pull. This additional ill-luck did not trouble me—my mind was steeled.

My hope of a twilight apartment was born, like all other hopes, “but to fade and die.” When I entered, my eyes were blinded with the glare from six dozen solar burners.

I will pass over my entree, my compliments to the hostess, to a corner where I found myself ensconced, back to the wall with P., Mrs. Bell’s cousin. Mrs. Bell was a charming woman, and her cousin P. was another, and so was her cousin Mary. Three more charming cousins could not be found, if you searched that numerous class of relations through. Cousin P. was the woman I delighted in above all others, she had fascinated me in my early youth, and I had maintained a sort of attachment, though time had separated us, married her, and brought me into love with fifty other cousins. I cannot tell how our conversation in the corner commenced, but very soon, almost too soon to be natural, it turned upon dress, and gentlemen’s dress in particular. I remarked that I considered him a fool who said “clothes make the man.” It was no such thing, the man makes the clothes. I cited instances of great geniuses who were very slovenly in their dress. P. seemed much amused; perhaps she thought I wanted to pass myself off for a genius. Heavens! my attempt to look well dressed was too palpable. Being in rather a jocose mood, I asked her how she liked my coat; and the smile with which she replied assured me that she was not insensible to its shabbiness, and saw all its defects as plainly as myself. So I made a clean breast of it, and told her the whole story, and described in a graphic manner the scene I had lately enacted at my room. She was delighted, and thought it the best joke in the world, at the same time expressing a wish that I should exhibit myself to the company. A waltz had just commenced, so what could I do but waltz. P. and I took our places. I knew that the attention of several people was attracted toward us, and two young ladies were seen to exchange glances which said louder than words, “Coat.”

It is astonishing how well navy officers always waltz, also ladies who have been under their training. I liked to watch their short, quick steps, taken with a precision and exactness truly enviable. But though I had been accounted an indifferent waltzer, I now had something new to teach them. I had a relative in Europe, and they had not, or if they had, what use was he, since he made them no communications on the subject of waltzing, my relative had lately sent me valuable advice upon the subject. “Take very long steps,” wrote he, “and never lift your feet from the floor. Slide along, but on no account jump.” These hints I had acted on, though my opportunities for practice had been limited to an occasional evening with a friend, or a few turns with some brother companion, in the small circle of my own apartment. Now had my hour arrived. I communicated my style to P.; and thank fortune she was not unprepared for it. The three cousins were fresh from a visit to the metropolis, where this change had already been adopted. Now we would make a trial, with such brilliant music, and such a glorious smooth spring-floor, who could fail? Down we swept, the whole length of the hall, and all round it, not confining ourselves to the more contracted circle with which the navy, and people in general were satisfied. Down, up, round again—all eyes upon us, as we rounded our rapid way. My coat did not look quite so shabby now. All the young ladies were breathless, the navy stood aghast—they didn’t know what it meant. But how much wider did their eyes open, and their mouths, too, when I took another partner, cousin Mary, and repeated the performance. How can I express their mingled wonder and indignation when I advanced with Mrs. Bell, for a third waltz. What assurance in shabby-coat! But shabby-coat is not to be daunted by trifles. Navy, stand back. They did stand back, and we had the floor all to ourselves; for the few who had commenced to waltz soon stopped, and fell back among the crowd of lookers-on. Shabby-coat and Mrs. Bell were by this time half round. It was a tug—a tug, no other word will express it. Mrs. Bell was more than slightly inclined to embonpoint; but thanks to my strength of arm, I was able to sustain her. Just as we passed the orchestra, I heard a young middy give an order to the leader of the band, “Faster, faster.” Faster played the waltz, and faster, faster waltzed shabby and Mrs. Bell. I was in good time, and could not be got out of it. Our course was exciting—it was tremendous. I look to nature for a comparison, and the great whirlpool on the coast of Norway, roars with a mighty rushing sound in my ear. Shabby-coat had done it. Shabby? It was no longer shabby, not even threadbare; a new nap had extended over its surface, at least it seemed so to the eyes of envying young ladies. What were my boots? Better than Hobb’s best. Coat, boots, and all, were forgotten, to think only of the genius that could achieve such wonders. No more glances of scorn, but glances of desire from ladies, both married and single. The navy scowled malignantly, and many a lieutenant, and many a middy thought of pistols and challenges. I surveyed with a calm smile of satisfaction the revolution I had accomplished. The navy was down, had become at once old-fashioned, and several rather advanced belles boldly talked of their “minnikin diddling steps.”

My triumph was not yet completed. Supper had to be gone through—and such a supper. When I am bidden to a feast, I go and make the most of it. So I did here, and found myself one of the lingerers who still have another glass of champagne, and another glass of sherry to take before the cravings of their stomachs will be satisfied. I was interrupted in my discussion of another delicate bit of quail, by the music of a Strauss waltz. I had engaged P. for the German Quadrille, and it was soon to begin. I reeled down stairs into the dancing hall, and was luckily enabled, by immense ocular exertion, to distinguish the tall figure and blue head-dress of P., amid the blur of sizes and colors which was before me. Soon was I at her side, and soon the dance began. I followed my friend’s advice, to keep my heels to the floor and not jump; but certainly never was so light a pair of heels kept down. It may have been that the head they carried bore the same proportion to them as corks do to feathers; sure it is, that winged Mercury never glided over the earth with a lightness that surpassed mine, as I glided over that ball-room floor. We waltzed several figures of the German Quadrille, till we came to that one where a chair is placed in the centre of the circle, in which each lady in turn sits, and has the opportunity of refusing or accepting every gentleman in the set as a partner in a waltz. It was here the crown was put upon my glory of that evening. Every gentleman was refused but me, and by every lady too. The unfortunate rejected ones stood in a long row behind the chair, while I, shabby, was the only favored one. As for the real state of my dress and appearance, it was as much worse as possible, than when I first entered the hall and was sniffed at—for I had become very much heated by my exertions; my hair was flying in every direction, and my dickey, which in the earlier part of the evening had stood with a dignified erectness, now hung wet and flabby, as when it dangled the previous Monday morning from my washerwoman’s line.

Shall I tell of my dreams that night? I had none, for I slept too sound. But on some future occasion I will relate how I became a great beau, and how I waltzed with a foreign countess, and more than all about my new clothes.

L. L.

THE SKATER’S SONG

Away! on the glist’ning plain we go,

With our steely feet so bright;

Away! for the north winds keenly blow

And winter’s out to-night.

With the stirring shout of the joyous rout

To the ice-bound stream we hie;

On the river’s breast, where snow flakes rest,

We’ll merrily onward fly!

Our fires flame high; by their midnight glare

We will wheel our way along;

And the white woods dim, and the frosty air,

Shall ring with the skater’s song.

With a crew as bold as ever was told

For the wild and daring deed,

What can stay our flight by the fire’s red light,

As we move with lightning speed.

We heed not the blast who are flying as fast

As deer o’er the Lapland snow;

When the cold moon shines on snow-clad pines

And wintry breezes blow.

The cheerful hearth, in the hall of mirth,

We have gladly left behind⁠—

For a thrilling song is borne along

On the free and stormy wind.

Our hearts beating warm—we’ll laugh at the storm

When it comes in a fearful rage⁠—

“While with many a wheel on the ringing steel

A riotous game we will wage.”

By the starry light of a frosty night

We trace our onward way;

While on the ground with a splintering sound

The frost goes forth at play.

Then away! to the stream, in the moonlight’s beam,

For the night it waneth fast,

And the silent tread of the ghostly dead

At the midnight hour hath passed.

H. B. T.

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

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,” &c.

———

[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.)

PART VI.

At the piping of all hands,

When the judgment signal’s spread⁠—

When the islands and the land,

And the seas give up their dead,

And the south and the north shall come;

When the sinner is dismayed,

And the just man is afraid,

Then heaven be thy aid,

Poor Tom.

Brainard.

The people had now a cessation from their toil. Of all the labor known to sea-faring men, that of pumping is usually thought to be the most severe. Those who work at it have to be relieved every minute, and it is only by having gangs to succeed each other, that the duty can be done at all with any thing like steadiness. In the present instance, it is true, that the people of the Swash were sustained by the love of gold, but glad enough were they when Mulford called out to them to “knock off, and turn in for the night.” It was high time this summons should be made, for not only were the people excessively wearied, but the customary hours of labor were so far spent, that the light of the moon had some time before begun to blend with the little left by the parting sun. Glad enough were all hands to quit the toil; and two minutes were scarcely elapsed ere most of the crew had thrown themselves down, and were buried in deep sleep. Even Spike and Mulford took the rest they needed, the cook alone being left to look out for the changes in the weather. In a word, everybody but this idler was exhausted with pumping and bailing, and even gold had lost its power to charm, until nature was recruited by rest.

The excitement produced by the scenes through which they had so lately passed, caused the females to sleep soundly, too. The death-like stillness which pervaded the vessel contributed to their rest, and Rose never woke, from the first few minutes after her head was on her pillow, until near four in the morning. The deep quiet seemed ominous to one who had so lately witnessed the calm which precedes the tornado, and she arose. In that low latitude and warm season, few clothes were necessary, and our heroine was on deck in a very few minutes. Here she found the same grave-like sleep pervading every thing. There was not a breath of air, and the ocean seemed to be in one of its profoundest slumbers. The hard-breathing of Spike could be heard through the open windows of his state-room, and this was positively the only sound that was audible. The common men, who lay scattered about the decks, more especially from the mainmast forward, seemed to be so many logs, and from Mulford no breathing was heard.

The morning was neither very dark, nor very light, it being easy to distinguish objects that were near, while those at a distance were necessarily lost in obscurity. Availing herself of the circumstance, Rose went as far as the gangway, to ascertain if the cook were at his post. She saw him lying near his galley, in as profound a sleep as any of the crew. This she felt to be wrong, and she felt alarmed, though she knew not why. Perhaps it was the consciousness of being the only person up and awake at that hour of deepest night, in a vessel so situated as the Swash, and in a climate in which hurricanes seem to be the natural offspring of the air. Some one must be aroused, and her tastes, feelings, and judgment, all pointed to Harry Mulford as the person she ought to awaken. He slept habitually in his clothes—the lightest summer dress of the tropics; and the window of his little state-room was always open for air. Moving lightly to the place, Rose laid her own little, soft hand on the arm of the young man, when the latter was on his feet in an instant. A single moment only was necessary to regain his consciousness, when Mulford left the state-room and joined Rose on the quarter-deck.

“Why am I called, Rose,” the young man asked, attempering his voice to the calm that reigned around him; “and why am I called by you?”

Rose explained the state of the brig, and the feeling which induced her to awaken him. With woman’s gentleness she now expressed her regret for having robbed Harry of his rest; had she reflected a moment, she might have kept watch herself, and allowed him to obtain the sleep he must surely so much require.

But Mulford laughed at this; protested he had never been awoke at a more favorable moment, and would have sworn, had it been proper, that a minute’s further sleep would have been too much for him. After these first explanations, Mulford walked round the decks, carefully felt how much strain there was on the purchases, and rejoined Rose to report that all was right, and that he did not consider it necessary to call even the cook. The black was an idler in no sense but that of keeping watch, and he had toiled the past day as much as any of the men, though it was not exactly at the pumps.

A long and a semi-confidential conversation now occurred between Harry and Rose. They talked of Spike, the brig, and her cargo, and of the delusion of the captain’s widow. It was scarcely possible that powder should be so much wanted at the Havanna as to render smuggling, at so much cost, a profitable adventure; and Mulford admitted his convictions that the pretended flour was originally intended for Mexico. Rose related the tenor of the conversation she had overheard between the two parties, Don Juan and Don Esteban, and the mate no longer doubted that it was Spike’s intention to sell the brig to the enemy. She also alluded to what had passed between herself and the stranger.

Mulford took this occasion to introduce the subject of Jack Tier’s intimacy and favor with Rose. He even professed to feel some jealousy on account of it, little as there might be to alarm most men in the rivalry of such a competitor. Rose laughed, as girls will laugh when there is question of their power over the other sex, and she fairly shook her rich tresses as she declared her determination to continue to smile on Jack, to the close of the voyage. Then, as if she had said more than she intended, she added with woman’s generosity and tenderness,—

“After all, Harry, you know how much I promised to you even before we sailed, and how much more since, and have no just cause to dread even Jack. There is another reason, however, that ought to set your mind entirely at ease on his account. Jack is married, and has a partner living at this very moment, as he does not scruple to avow himself.”

A hissing noise, a bright light, and a slight explosion, interrupted the half-laughing girl, and Mulford, turning on his heel, quick as thought, saw that a rocket had shot into the air, from a point close under the bows of the brig. He was still in the act of moving toward the forecastle, when, at the distance of several leagues, he saw the explosion of another rocket high in the air. He knew enough of the practices of vessels of war, to feel certain that these were a signal and its answer from some one in the service of government. Not at all sorry to have the career of the Swash arrested, before she could pass into hostile hands, or before evil could befall Rose, Mulford reached the forecastle just in time to answer the inquiry that was immediately put to him, in the way of a hail. A gig, pulling four oars only, with two officers in its stern-sheets, was fairly under the vessel’s bows, and the mate could almost distinguish the countenance of the officer who questioned him, the instant he showed his head and shoulders above the bulwarks.

“What vessels are these?” demanded the stranger, speaking in the authoritative manner of one who acted for the state, but not speaking much above the usual conversational tone.

“American and Spanish,” was the answer. “This brig is American—the schooner alongside is a Spaniard, that turned turtle in a tornado, about six-and-thirty hours since, and on which we have been hard at work trying to raise her, since the gale which succeeded the tornado has blown its pipe out.”

“Ay, ay, that’s the story, is it? I did not know what to make of you, lying cheek by jowl, in this fashion. Was anybody lost on board the schooner?”

“All hands, including every soul aft and forward, the supercargo excepted, who happened to be aboard here. We buried seventeen bodies this afternoon on the smallest of the Keys that you see near at hand, and two this morning alongside of the light. But what boat is that, and where are you from, and whom are you signaling?”

“The boat is a gig,” answered the stranger, deliberately, “and she belongs to a cruiser of Uncle Sam’s, that is off the reef, a short bit to the eastward, and we signaled our captain. But I’ll come on board you, sir, if you please.”

Mulford walked aft to meet the stranger at the gangway, and was relieved, rather than otherwise, at finding that Spike was already on the quarter-deck. Should the vessel of war seize the brig, he could rejoice at it, but so strong were his professional ideas of duty to the craft he sailed in, that he did not find it in his heart to say aught against her. Were any mishap to befall it, or were justice to be done, he preferred that it might be done under Spike’s own supervision, rather than under his.

“Call all hands, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, as they met. “I see a streak of day coming yonder in the east—let all hands be called at once. What strange boat is this we have alongside?”

This question was put to the strangers, Spike standing on his gangway-ladder to ask it, while the mate was summoning the crew. The officer saw that a new person was to be dealt with, and in his quiet, easy way, he answered, while stretching out his hands to take the man-rope⁠—

“Your servant, sir—we are man-of-war’s men, belonging to one of Uncle Sam’s craft, outside, and have just come in to pay you a visit of ceremony. I told one, whom I suppose was your mate, that I would just step on board of you.”

“Ay, ay—one at a time, if you please. It’s wartime, and I cannot suffer armed boats’ crews to board me at night, without knowing something about them. Come up yourself, if you please, but order your people to stay in the boat. Here, muster about this gangway, half a dozen of you, and keep an eye on the crew of this strange boat.”

These orders had no effect on the cool and deliberate lieutenant, who ascended the brig’s side, and immediately stood on her deck. No sooner had he and Spike confronted each other, than each gave a little start, like that of recognition, and the lieutenant spoke.

“Ay, ay—I believe I know this vessel now. It is the Molly Swash, of New York, bound to Key West, and a market; and I have the honor to see Capt. Stephen Spike again.”

It was Mr. Wallace, the second lieutenant of the sloop-of-war that had boarded the brig in the Mona Passage, and to avoid whom Spike had gone to the southward of Jamaica. The meeting was very mal-à-propos, but it would not do to betray that the captain and owner of the vessel thought as much as this; on the contrary, Wallace was warmly welcomed, and received, not only as an old acquaintance, but as a very agreeable visiter. To have seen the two, as they walked aft together, one might have supposed that the meeting was conducive of nothing but a very mutual satisfaction, it was so much like that which happens between those who keep up a hearty acquaintance.

“Well, I’m glad to see you again, Capt. Spike,” cried Wallace, after the greetings were passed, “if it be only to ask where you flew to, the day we left you in the Mona Passage? We look’d out for you with all our eyes, expecting you would be down between San Domingo and Jamaica, but I hardly think you got by us in the night. Our master thinks you must have dove, and gone past loon-fashion. Do you ever perform that manœuvre?”

“No, we’ve kept above water the whole time, lieutenant,” answered Spike, heartily; “and that is more than can be said of the poor fellow alongside of us. I was so much afraid of the Isle of Pines, that I went round Jamaica.”

“You might have given the Isle of Pines a berth, and still have passed to the northward of the Englishmen,” said Wallace, a little drily. “However, that island is somewhat of a scarecrow, and we have been to take a look at it ourselves. All’s right there, just now. But you seem light; what have you done with your flour?”

“Parted with every barrel of it. You may remember I was bound to Key West, and a market. Well, I found my market here, in American waters.”

“You have been lucky, sir. This ‘emporium’ does not seem to be exactly a commercial emporium.”

“The fact is, the flour is intended for the Havanna; and I fancy it is to be shipped for slavers. But I am to know nothing of all that, you’ll understand, lieutenant. If I sell my flour in American waters, at two prices, it’s no concern of mine what becomes of it a’terwards.”

“Unless it happen to pass into enemy’s hands, certainly not; and you are too patriotic to deal with Mexico, just now, I’m sure. Pray, did that flour go down when the schooner turned turtle?”

“Every barrel of it; but Don Wan, below there, thinks that most of it may yet be saved, by landing it on one of those Keys to dry. Flour, well packed, wets in slowly. You see we have some of it on deck.”

“And who may Don Wan be, sir, pray? We are sent here to look after Dons and Donas, you know.”

“Don Wan is a Cuban merchant, and deals in such articles as he wants. I fell in with him among the reefs here, where he was rummaging about in hopes of meeting with a wrack, he tells me, and thinking to purchase something profitable in that way; but finding I had flour, he agreed to take it out of me at this anchorage, and send me away in ballast at once. I have found Don Wan Montefalderon ready pay, and very honorable.”

Wallace then requested an explanation of the disaster, to the details of which he listened with a sailor’s interest. He asked a great many questions, all of which bore on the more nautical features of the event, and day having now fairly appeared, he examined the purchases and backings of the Swash with professional nicety. The schooner was no lower in the water than when the men had knocked off work the previous night; and Spike set the people at the pumps and their bailing again, as the most effectual method of preventing their making any indiscreet communications to the man-of-war’s men.

About this time the relict appeared on deck, when Spike gallantly introduced the lieutenant anew to his passengers. It is true he knew no name to use, but that was of little moment, as he called the officer “the lieutenant,” and nothing else.

Mrs. Budd was delighted with this occasion to show-off, and she soon broke out on the easy, indolent, but waggish Wallace, in a strain to surprise him, notwithstanding the specimen of the lady’s skill from which he had formerly escaped.

“Capt. Spike is of opinion, lieutenant, that our cast-anchor here is excellent, and I know the value of a good cast-anchor place; for my poor Mr. Budd was a sea-faring man, and taught me almost as much of your noble profession as he knew himself.”

“And he taught you, ma’am,” said Wallace, fairly opening his eyes, under the influence of astonishment, “to be very particular about cast-anchor places!”

“Indeed he did. He used to say, that roads-instead were never as good, for such purposes, as land that’s locked havens, for the anchors would return home, as he called it, in roads-instead.”

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Wallace, looking very queer at first, as if disposed to laugh outright, then catching a glance of Rose, and changing his mind; “I perceive that Mr. Budd knew what he was about, and preferred an anchorage, where he was well land-locked, and where there was no danger of his anchors coming home, as so often happens in your open roadsteads.”

“Yes, that’s just it! That was just his notion! You cannot feel how delightful it is, Rose, to converse with one that thoroughly understands such subjects! My poor Mr. Budd did, indeed, denounce roads-instead, at all times calling them ‘savage.’”

“Savage, aunt,” put in Rose, hoping to stop the good relict by her own interposition—“that is a strange word to apply to an anchorage!”

“Not at all, young lady,” said Wallace gravely. “They are often wild berths, and wild berths are not essentially different from wild beasts. Each is savage, as a matter of course.”

“I knew I was right!” exclaimed the widow. “Savage cast-anchors come of wild births, as do savage Indians. Oh! the language of the ocean, as my poor Mr. Budd used to say, is eloquence tempered by common sense!”

Wallace stared again, but his attention was called to other things, just at that moment. The appearance of Don Juan Montefalderon y Castro on deck, reminded him of his duty, and approaching that gentleman he condoled with him on the grave loss he had sustained. After a few civil expressions on both sides, Wallace made a delicate allusion to the character of the schooner.

“Under other circumstances,” he said, “it might be my duty to inquire a little particularly as to the nationality of your vessel, Señor, for we are at war with the Mexicans, as you doubtless know.”

“Certainly,” answered Don Juan, with an unmoved air and great politeness of manner, “though it would be out of my power to satisfy you. Every thing was lost in the schooner, and I have not a paper of any sort to show you. If it be your pleasure to make a prize of a vessel in this situation, certainly it is in your power to do it. A few barrels of wet flour are scarce worth disputing about.”

Wallace now seemed a little ashamed, the sang froid of the other throwing dust in his eyes, and he was in a hurry to change the subject. Señor Don Juan was very civilly condoled with again, and he was made to repeat the incidents of the loss, as if his auditor took a deep interest in what he said, but no further hint was given touching the nationality of the vessel. The lieutenant’s tact let him see that Señor Montefalderon was a person of a very different calibre from Spike, as well as of different habits, and he did not choose to indulge in the quiet irony that formed so large an ingredient in his own character, with this new acquaintance. He spoke Spanish himself with tolerable fluency, and a conversation now occurred between the two, which was maintained for some time with spirit and a very manifest courtesy.

This dialogue between Wallace and the Spaniard gave Spike a little leisure for reflection. As the day advanced the cruiser came more and more plainly in view, and his first business was to take a good survey of her. She might have been three leagues distant, but approaching with a very light breeze, at the rate of something less than two knots in the hour. Unless there was some one on board her who was acquainted with the channels of the Dry Tortugas, Spike felt little apprehension of the ship’s getting very near to him; but he very well understood that, with the sort of artillery that was in modern use among vessels of war, he would hardly be safe could the cruiser get within a league. That near Uncle Sam’s craft might certainly come without encountering the hazards of the channels, and within that distance she would be likely to get in the course of the morning, should he have the complaisance to wait for her. He determined, therefore, not to be guilty of that act of folly.

All this time the business of lightening the schooner proceeded. Although Mulford earnestly wished that the man-of-war might get an accurate notion of the true character and objects of the brig, he could not prevail on himself to become an informer. In order to avoid the temptation so to do, he exerted himself in keeping the men at their tasks, and never before had pumping and bailing been carried on with more spirit. The schooner soon floated of herself, and the purchases which led to the Swash were removed. Near a hundred more barrels of the flour had been taken out of the hold of the Spanish craft, and had been struck on the deck of the brig, or sent to the Key by means of the boats. This made a material change in the buoyancy of the vessel, and enabled the bailing to go on with greater facility. The pumps were never idle, but two small streams of water were running the whole time toward the scuppers, and through them into the sea.

At length the men were ordered to knock off, and to get their breakfasts. This appeared to arouse Wallace, who had been chatting, quite agreeably to himself, with Rose, and seemed reluctant to depart, but who now became sensible that he was neglecting his duty. He called away his boat’s crew, and took a civil leave of the passengers; after which he went over the side. The gig was some little distance from the Swash, when Wallace rose and asked to see Spike, with whom he had a word to say at parting.

“I will soon return,” he said, “and bring you forty or fifty fresh men, who will make light work with your wreck. I am certain our commander will consent to my doing so, and will gladly send on board you two or three boats’ crews.”

“If I let him,” muttered Spike between his teeth, “I shall be a poor, miserable cast-anchor devil, that’s all.”

To Wallace, however, he expressed his hearty acknowledgments; begged him not to be in a hurry, as the worst was now over, and the row was still a long one. If he got back toward evening it would be all in good time. Wallace waved his hand, and the gig glided away. As for Spike, he sat down on the plank-sheer where he had stood, and remained there ruminating intently for two or three minutes. When he descended to the deck his mind was fully made up. His first act was to give some private orders to the boatswain, after which he withdrew to the cabin, whither he summoned Tier, without delay.

“Jack,” commenced the captain, using very little circumlocution in opening his mind, “you and I are old shipmates, and ought to be old friends, though I think your natur’ has undergone some changes since we last met. Twenty years ago there was no man in the ship on whom I could so certainly depend as on Jack Tier; now, you seem given up altogether to the women. Your mind has changed even more than your body.”

“Time does that for all of us, Capt. Spike,” returned Tier coolly. “I am not what I used to be, I’ll own, nor are you yourself for that matter. When I saw you last, noble captain, you were a handsome man of forty, and could go aloft with any youngster in the brig; but, now, you’re heavy, and not over active.”

“I!—Not a bit of change has taken place in me for the last thirty years. I defy any man to show the contrary. But that’s neither here nor there; you are no young woman, Jack, that I need be boasting of my health and beauty before you. I want a bit of real sarvice from you, and want it done in old-time’s fashion; and I mean to pay for it in old-time’s fashion, too.”

As Spike concluded, he put into Tier’s hand one of the doubloons that he had received from Señor Montefalderon, in payment for the powder. The doubloons, for which so much pumping and bailing were then in process, were still beneath the waters of the gulf.

“Ay, ay, sir,” returned Jack, smiling and pocketing the gold, with a wink of the eye, and a knowing look; “this does resemble old times sum’at. I now begin to know Capt. Spike, my old commander again, and see that he’s more like himself than I had just thought him. What am I to do for this, sir; speak plain, that I may be sartain to steer the true course?”

“Oh, just a trifle, Jack—nothing that will break up the ground tier of your wits, my old shipmate. You see the state of the brig, and know that she is in no condition for ladies.”

“’Twould have been better all round, sir, had they never come aboard at all,” answered Jack, looking dark.

Spike was surprised, but he was too much bent on his projects to heed trifles.

“You know what sort of flour they’re whipping out of the schooner, and must understand that the brig will soon be in a pretty litter. I do not intend to let them send a single barrel of it beneath my hatches again, but the deck and the islands must take it all. Now I wish to relieve my passengers from the confinement this will occasion, and I have ordered the boatswain to pitch a tent for them on the largest of these here Tortugas; and what I want of you, is to muster food and water, and other woman’s knickknacks, and go ashore with them, and make them as comfortable as you can for a few days, or until we can get this schooner loaded and off.”

Jack Tier looked at his commander as if he would penetrate his most secret thoughts. A short pause succeeded, during which the steward’s mate was intently musing, then his countenance suddenly brightened; he gave the doubloon a fillip, and caught it on the palm of his hand as it descended, and he uttered the customary “Ay, ay, sir,” with apparent cheerfulness. Nothing more passed between these two worthies, who now parted, Jack to make his arrangements, and Spike to “tell his yarn,” as he termed the operation in his own mind, to Mrs. Budd, Rose, and Biddy. The widow listened complacently, though she seemed half doubting, half ready to comply. As for Rose, she received the proposal with delight—the confinement of the vessel having become irksome to her. The principal obstacle was in overcoming the difficulties made by the aunt, Biddy appearing to like the notion quite as much as “Miss Rosy.” As for the light-house, Mrs. Budd had declared nothing would induce her to go there; for she did not doubt that the place would soon be, if it were not already, haunted. In this opinion she was sustained by Biddy; and it was the knowledge of this opinion that induced Spike to propose the tent.

“Are you sure, Capt. Spike, it is not a desert island?” asked the widow; “I remember that my poor Mr. Budd always spoke of desert islands as horrid places, and spots that every one should avoid.”

“What if it is, aunty,” said Rose, eagerly, “while we have the brig here, close at hand. We shall suffer none of the wants of such a place, so long as our friends can supply us.”

“And such friends, Miss Rose,” exclaimed Spike, a little sentimentally for him, “friends that would undergo hunger and thirst themselves, before you should want for any comforts.”

“Do, now, Madam Budd,” put in Biddy, in her hearty way, “it’s an island, ye’ll remimber; and sure that’s just what ould Ireland has ever been, God bless it! Islands make the pleasantest risidences.”

“Well, I’ll venture to oblige you and Biddy, Rosy, dear,” returned the aunt, still half reluctant to yield; “but you’ll remember, that if I find it at all a desert island, I’ll not pass the night on it on any account whatever.”

With this understanding the party was transferred to the shore. The boatswain had already erected a sort of a tent, on a favorable spot, using some of the old sails that had covered the flour-barrels, not only for the walls, but for a carpet of some extent also. This tent was ingeniously enough contrived. In addition to the little room that was entirely enclosed, there was a sort of piazza, or open verandah, which would enable its tenants to enjoy the shade in the open air. Beneath this verandah, a barrel of fresh water was placed, as well as three or four ship’s stools, all of which had been sent ashore with the materials for constructing the tent. The boat had been going and coming for some time, and the distance being short, the “desert island” was soon a desert no longer. It is true that the supplies necessary to support three women for as many days, were no great matter, and were soon landed, but Jack Tier had made a provision somewhat more ample. A capital caterer, he had forgotten nothing within the compass of his means, that could contribute to the comfort of those who had been put especially under his care. Long before the people “knocked off” for their dinners, the arrangements were completed, and the boatswain was ready to take his leave.

“Well, ladies,” said that grum old salt, “I can do no more for you, as I can see. This here island is now almost as comfortable as a ship that has been in blue water for a month, and I don’t know how it can be made more comfortabler.”

This was only according to the boatswain’s notion of comfort; but Rose thanked him for his care in her winning way, while her aunt admitted that, “for a place that was almost a desert island, things did look somewhat promising.” In a few minutes the men were all gone, and the islet was left to the sole possession of the three females, and their constant companion, Jack Tier. Rose was pleased with the novelty of her situation, though the islet certainly did deserve the opprobrium of being a “desert island.” There was no shade but that of the tent, and its verandah-like covering, though the last, in particular, was quite extensive. There was no water, that in the barrel and that of the ocean excepted. Of herbage there was a very little on this islet, and that was of the most meagre and coarse character, being a long wiry grass, with here and there a few stunted bushes. The sand was reasonably firm, however, more especially round the shore, and the walking was far from unpleasant. Little did Rose know it, but a week earlier, the spot would have been next to intolerable to her, on account of the mosquitoes, gallinippers, and other similar insects of the family of tormentors, but every thing of the sort had temporarily disappeared in the currents of the tornado. To do Spike justice, he was aware of this circumstance, or he might have hesitated about exposing females to the ordinary annoyances of one of these spots. Not a mosquito, or any thing of the sort was left, however, all having gone to leeward, in the vortex which had come so near sweeping off the Mexican schooner.

“This place will do very well, aunty, for a day or two,” cried Rose cheerfully, as she returned from a short excursion, and threw aside her hat, one made to shade her face from the sun of a warm climate, leaving the sea-breeze, that was just beginning to blow, to fan her blooming and sunny cheeks. “It is better than the brig. The worst piece of land is better than the brig.”

“Do not say that, Rose—not if it’s a desert island, dear; and this is desperately like a desert island; I am almost sorry I ventured on it.”

“It will not be deserted by us, aunty, until we shall see occasion to do so. Why not endeavor to get on board of yonder ship, and return to New York in her; or at least induce her captain to put us ashore somewhere near this, and go home by land. Your health never seemed better than it is at this moment; and as for mine, I do assure you, aunty, dear, I am as perfectly well as I ever was in my life.”

“All from this voyage. I knew it would set you up, and am delighted to hear you say as much. Biddy and I were talking of you this very morning, my child, and we both agreed that you were getting to be yourself again. Oh, ships, and brigs, and schooners, full-jigger or half-jigger, for pulmonary complaints, say I! My poor Mr. Budd always maintained that the ocean was the cure for all diseases, and I determined that to sea you should go, the moment I became alarmed for your health.”

The good widow loved Rose most tenderly, and she was obliged to use her handkerchief to dry the tears from her eyes as she concluded. Those tears sprung equally from a past feeling of apprehension, and a present feeling of gratitude. Rose saw this, and she took a seat at her aunt’s side, touched herself, as she never failed to be on similar occasions, with this proof of her relative’s affection. At that moment even Harry Mulford would have lost a good deal in her kind feelings toward him, had he so much as smiled at one of the widow’s nautical absurdities. At such times, Rose seemed to be her aunt’s guardian and protectress, instead of reversing the relations, and she entirely forgot herself the many reasons which existed for wishing that she had been placed in childhood, under the care of one better qualified than the well-meaning relict of her uncle, for the performance of her duties.

“Thank you, aunty—thank’ee, dear aunty,” said Rose, kissing the widow affectionately. “I know that you mean the best for me, though you are a little mistaken in supposing me ill. I do assure you, dear,” patting her aunt’s cheek, as if she herself had been merely a playful child, “I never was better; and if I have been pulmonary, I am entirely cured, and am now ready to return home.”

“God be praised for this, Rosy. Under His divine providence, it is all owing to the sea. If you really feel so much restored, however, I do not wish to keep you a moment longer on a ship’s board than is necessary. We owe something to Capt. Spike’s care, and cannot quit him too unceremoniously; but as soon as he is at liberty to go into a harbor, I will engage him to do so, and we can return home by land—unless, indeed, the brig intends to make the home voyage herself.”

“I do not like this brig, aunty, and now we are out of her, I wish we could keep out of her. Nor do I like your Capt. Spike, who seems to me any thing but an agreeable gentleman.”

“That’s because you aren’t accustomed to the sea. My poor Mr. Budd had his ways, like all the rest of them; it takes time to get acquainted with them. All sailors are so.”

Rose bent her face involuntarily, but so low as to conceal the increasing brightness of her native bloom, as she answered,

“Harry Mulford is not so, aunty, dear—and he is every inch a sailor.”

“Well, there is a difference, I must acknowledge, though I dare say Harry will grow every day more and more like all the rest of them. In the end, he will resemble Capt. Spike.”

“Never,” said Rose, firmly.

“You can’t tell, child. I never saw your uncle when he was Harry’s age, for I wasn’t born till he was thirty, but often and often has he pointed out to me some slender, genteel youth, and say, ‘just such a lad was I at twenty,’ though nothing could be less alike, at the moment he was speaking, than they two. We all change with our years. Now I was once as slender, and almost—not quite, Rosy, for few there are that be—but almost as handsome as you yourself.”

“Yes, aunty, I’ve heard that before,” said Rose, springing up, in order to change the discourse; “but Harry Mulford will never become like Stephen Spike. I wish we had never known the man, dearest aunty.”

“It was all your own doings, child. He’s a cousin of your most intimate friend, and she brought him to the house; and one couldn’t offend Mary Mulford, by telling her we didn’t like her cousin.”

Rose seemed vexed, and she kept her little foot in motion, patting the sail that formed the carpet, as girls will pat the ground with their feet when vexed. This gleam of displeasure was soon over, however, and her countenance became as placid as the clear, blue sky that formed the vault of the heavens above her head. As if to atone for the passing rebellion of her feelings, she threw her arms around her aunt’s neck; after which she walked away, along the beach, ruminating on her present situation, and of the best means of extricating their party from the power of Spike.

It requires great familiarity with vessels and the seas, for one to think, read, and pursue the customary train of reasoning on board a ship that one has practiced ashore. Rose had felt this embarrassment during the past month, for the whole of which time she had scarcely been in a condition to act up to her true character, suffering her energies, and in some measure, her faculties to be drawn into the vortex produced by the bustle, novelties, and scenes of the vessel and the ocean. But, now she was once more on the land, diminutive and naked as was the islet that composed her present world, and she found leisure and solitude for reflection and decision. She was not ignorant of the nature of a vessel of war, or of the impropriety of unprotected females placing themselves on board of one; but gentlemen of character, like the officers of the ship in sight, could hardly be wanting in the feelings of their caste; and any thing was better than to return voluntarily within the power of Spike. She determined within her own mind that voluntarily she would not. We shall leave this young girl, slowly wandering along the beach of her islet, musing on matters like these, while we return to the vessels and the mariners.

A good breeze had come in over the reef from the gulf, throwing the sloop-of-war dead to leeward of the brigantine’s anchorage. This was the reason that the former had closed so slowly. Still the distance between the vessels was so small, that a swift cruiser, like the ship of war, would soon have been alongside of the wreckers, but for the intervening islets and the intricacies of their channels. She had made sail on the wind, however, and was evidently disposed to come as near to the danger as her lead showed would be safe, even if she did not venture among them.

Spike noted all these movements, and he took his measures accordingly. The pumping and bailing had been going on since the appearance of light, and the flour had been quite half removed from the schooner’s hold. That vessel consequently floated with sufficient buoyancy, and no further anxiety was felt on account of her sinking. Still a great deal of water remained in her, the cabin itself being nearly half full. Spike’s object was to reduce this water sufficiently to enable him to descend into the state-room which Señor Montefalderon had occupied, and bring away the doubloons that alone kept him in the vicinity of so ticklish a neighbor as the Poughkeepsie. Escape was easy enough to one who knew the passages of the reef and islets; more especially since the wind had so fortunately brought the cruiser to leeward. Spike most apprehended a movement upon him in the boats, and he had almost made up his mind, should such an enterprise be attempted, to try his hand in beating it off with his guns. A good deal of uncertainty on the subject of Mulford’s consenting to resist the recognized authorities of the country, as well as some doubts of a similar nature in reference to two or three of the best of the foremast hands, alone left him at all in doubt as to the expediency of such a course. As no boats were lowered from the cruiser, however, the necessity of resorting to so desperate a measure did not occur, and the duty of lightening the schooner had proceeded without interruption. As soon as the boatswain came off from the islet, he and the men with him were directed to take the hands and lift the anchors, of which it will be remembered the Swash had several down. Even Mulford was shortly after set at work on the same duty; and these expert and ready seamen soon had the brig clear of the ground. As the schooner was anchored, and floated without assistance, the Swash rode by her.

Such was the state of things when the men turned to, after having had their dinners. By this time, the sloop-of-war was within half a league of the bay, her progress having been materially retarded by the set of the current, which was directly against her. Spike saw that a collision of some sort or other must speedily occur, and he determined to take the boatswain with him, and descend into the cabin of the schooner in quest of the gold. The boatswain was summoned, and Señor Montefalderon repeated in this man’s presence, the instructions that he thought it necessary for the adventurers to follow, in order to secure the prize. Knowing how little locks would avail on board a vessel, were the men disposed to rob him, that gentleman had trusted more to secreting his treasure, than to securing it in the more ordinary way. When the story had again been told, Spike and his boatswain went on board the schooner, and, undressing, they prepared to descend into the cabin. The captain paused a single instant to take a look at the sloop-of-war, and to examine the state of the weather. It is probable some new impression was made on him by this inquiry, for, hailing Mulford, he ordered him to loosen the sails, and to sheet home, and hoist the foretopsail. In a word, to “see all ready to cast off, and make sail on the brig at the shortest notice.” With this command he disappeared by the schooner’s companion-way.

Spike and his companion found the water in the cabin very much deeper than they had supposed. With a view to comfort, the cabin-floor had been sunk much lower than is usual on board American vessels, and this brought the water up nearly to the arm-pits of two men as short as our captain and his sturdy little boatswain. The former grumbled a good deal, when he ascertained the fact, and said something about the mate’s being better fitted to make a search in such a place, but concluding with the remark, that “the man who wants ticklish duty well done, must see to it himself.”

The gold-hunters groped their way cautiously about the cabin for some time, feeling for a drawer, in which they had been told they should find the key of Señor Montefalderon’s state-room door. In this Spike himself finally succeeded, he being much better acquainted with cabins and their fixtures, than the boatswain.

“Here it is, Ben,” said the captain, “now for a dive among the Don’s val’ables. Should you pick up any thing worth speaking of, you can condemn it for salvage, as I mean to cast off, and quit the wrack the moment we’ve made sure of the doubloons.”

“And what will become of all the black flour that is lying about, sir?” asked the boatswain with a grin.

“It may take care of itself. My agreement will be up as soon as the doubloons are found. If the Don will come down handsomely with his share of what will be left, I may be bought to put the kegs we have in the brig ashore for him somewhere in Mexico; but my wish is to get out of the neighborhood of that bloody sloop-of-war, as soon as possible.”

“She makes but slow headway ag’in the current, sir; but a body would think she might send in her boats.”

“The boats might be glad to get back again,” muttered Spike. “Ay, here is the door unlocked, and we can now fish for the money.”

Some object had rolled against the state-room door, when the vessel was capsized, and there was a good deal of difficulty in forcing it open. They succeeded at last, and Spike led the way by wading into the small apartment. Here they began to feel about beneath the water, and by a very insufficient light, in quest of the hidden treasure. Spike and his boatswain differed as to the place which had just been described to them, as men will differ even in the account of events that pass directly before their eyes. While thus employed, the report of a heavy gun came through the doors of the cabin, penetrating to the recess in which they were thus employed.

“Ay, that’s the beginning of it!” exclaimed Spike. “I wonder that the fool has put it off so long.”

“That gun was a heavy fellow, Capt. Spike,” returned the boatswain; “and it sounded in my ears as if ’twas shotted.”

“Ay, ay, I dare say you’re right enough in both opinions. They put such guns on board their sloops-of-war, now-a-days, as a fellow used to find in the lower batteries of a two-decker only in old times; and as for shot, why Uncle Sam pays, and they think it cheaper to fire one out of a gun, than to take the trouble of drawing it.”

“I believe here’s one of the bags, Capt. Spike,” said the boatswain, making a dip, and coming up with one-half of the desired treasure in his fist. “By George, I’ve grabbed him, sir; and the other bag can’t be far off.”

“Hand that over to me,” said the captain, a little authoritatively, “and take a dive for the next.”

As the boatswain was obeying this order, a second gun was heard, and Spike thought that the noise made by the near passage of a large shot was audible also. He called out to Ben to “bear a hand, as the ship seems in ’arnest.” But the head of the boatswain being under water at the time, the admonition was thrown away. The fellow soon came up, however, puffing like a porpoise that has risen to the surface to blow.

“Hand it over to me at once,” said Spike, stretching out his unoccupied hand to receive the prize; “we have little time to lose.”

“That’s sooner said than done, sir,” answered the boatswain, “a box has driven down upon the bag, and there’s a tight jam. I got hold of the neck of the bag, and pulled like a horse, but it wouldn’t come no how.”

“Show me the place, and let me have a drag at it. There goes another of his bloody guns!”

Down went Spike, and the length of time he was under water, proved how much he was in earnest. Up he came at length, and with no better luck than his companion. He had got hold of the bag, satisfied himself by feeling its outside that it contained the doubloons, and hauled with all his strength, but it would not come. The boatswain now proposed to take a jamming hitch with a rope around the neck of the bag, which was long enough to admit of such a fastening, and then to apply their united force. Spike assented, and the boatswain rummaged about for a piece of small rope to suit his purpose. At this moment Mulford appeared at the companion-way to announce the movements on the part of the sloop-of-war. He had been purposely tardy, in order to give the ship as much time as possible; but he saw by the looks of the men that a longer delay might excite suspicion.

“Below there,” called out the mate.

“What’s wanting, sir?—what’s wanting, sir?” answered Spike; “let’s know at once.”

“Have you heard the guns, Capt. Spike?”

“Ay, ay, every grumbler of them. They’ve done no mischief, I trust, Mr. Mulford?”

“None as yet, sir; though the last shot, and it was a heavy fellow, passed just above the schooner’s deck. I’ve the topsail sheeted home and hoisted, and it’s that which has set them at work. If I clewed up again, I dare say they’d not fire another gun.”

“Clew up nothing, sir, but see all clear for casting off and making sail through the South Pass. What do you say, Ben, are you ready for a drag?”

“All ready, sir,” answered the boatswain, once more coming up to breathe. “Now for it, sir; a steady pull, and a pull all together.”

They did pull, but the hitch slipped, and both went down beneath the water. In a moment they were up again, puffing a little, and swearing a great deal. Just then another gun, and a clatter above their heads, brought them to a stand.

“What means that, Mr. Mulford?” demanded Spike, a good deal startled.

“It means that the sloop-of-war has shot away the head of this schooner’s foremast, sir, and that the shot has chipp’d a small piece out of the heel of our maintop-mast—that’s all.”

Though excessively provoked at the mate’s cool manner of replying, Spike saw that he might lose all by being too tenacious about securing the remainder of the doubloons. Pronouncing in very energetic terms on Uncle Sam, and all his cruisers, an anathema that we do not care to repeat, he gave a surly order to Ben to “knock-off,” and abandoned his late design. In a minute he was on deck and dressed.

“Cast off, lads,” cried the captain, as soon as on the deck of his own brig again, “and four of you man that boat. We have got half of your treasure, Señor Wan, but have been driven from the rest of it, as you see. There is the bag; when at leisure we’ll divide it, and give the people their share. Mr. Mulford, keep the brig in motion, hauling up toward the South Pass, while I go ashore for the ladies. I’ll meet you just in the throat of the passage.”

This said, Spike tumbled into his boat, and was pulled ashore. As for Mulford, though he cast many an anxious glance toward the islet, he obeyed his orders, keeping the brig standing off and on, under easy canvas, but working her up toward the indicated passage.

Spike was met by Jack Tier on the beach of the little island.

“Muster the women at once,” ordered the captain, “we have no time to lose, for that fellow will soon be firing broadsides, and his shot now range half a mile beyond us.”

“You’ll no more move the widow and her maid, than you’ll move the island,” answered Jack, laconically.

“Why should I not move them? Do they wish to stay here and starve?”

“It’s little that they think of that. The sloop-of-war no sooner begun to fire than down went Mrs. Budd on the canvas floor of the tent, and set up just such a screaming as you may remember she tried her hand at the night the revenue craft fired into us. Biddy lay down alongside of her mistress, and at every gun, they just scream as loud as they can, as if they fancied they might frighten off Uncle Sam’s men from their duty.”

“Duty!—You little scamp, do you call tormenting honest traders in this fashion the duty of any man?”

“Well, captain, I’m no ways partic’lar about a word or two. Their ‘ways,’ if you like that better than duty, sir.”

“Where’s Rose? Is she down too, screaming and squalling?”

“No, Capt. Spike, no. Miss Rose is endeavoring, like a handsome young Christian lady as she is, to pacify and mollify her aunt and Biddy; and right down sensible talk does she give them.”

“Then she at least can go aboard the brig,” exclaimed Spike, with a sudden animation, and an expression of countenance that Jack did not at all like.

“I ray-y-ther think she’ll wish to hold on to the old lady,” observed the steward’s-mate, a little emphatically.

“You be d—d,” cried Spike, fiercely; “when your opinion is wanted, I’ll ask for it. If I find you’ve been setting that young woman’s mind ag’in me, I’ll toss you overboard, as I would the offals of a shark.”

“Young women’s minds, when they are only nineteen, get set ag’in boys of fifty-six without much assistance.”

“Fifty-six yourself.”

“I’m fifty-three—that I’ll own without making faces at it,” returned Jack, meekly; “and, Stephen Spike, you logged fifty-six your last birthday, or a false entry was made.”

This conversation did not take place in the presence of the boat’s crew, but as the two walked together toward the tent. They were now in the verandah, as we have called the shaded opening in front, and actually within sound of the sweet voice of Rose, as she exhorted her aunt, in tones a little louder than usual for her to use, to manifest more fortitude. Under such circumstances Spike did not deem it expedient to utter that which was uppermost in his mind, but, turning short upon Tier, he directed a tremendous blow directly between his eyes. Jack saw the danger and dodged, falling backward to avoid a concussion which he knew would otherwise be fearful, coming as it would from one of the best forecastle boxers of his time. The full force of the blow was avoided, though Jack got enough of it to knock him down, and to give him a pair of black eyes. Spike did not stop to pick the assistant steward up, for another gun was fired at that very instant, and Mrs. Budd and Biddy renewed their screams. Instead of pausing to kick the prostrate Tier, as had just before been his intention, the captain entered the tent.

A scene that was sufficiently absurd met the view of Spike, when he found himself in the presence of the females. The widow had thrown herself on the ground, and was grasping the cloth of the sail on which the tent had been erected with both her hands, and was screaming at the top of her voice. Biddy’s imitation was not exactly literal, for she had taken a comfortable seat at the side of her mistress, but in the way of cries, she rather outdid her principal.

“We must be off,” cried Spike, somewhat unceremoniously. “The man-of-war is blazing away, as if she was a firin’ minute-guns over our destruction, and I can wait no longer.”

“I’ll not stir,” answered the widow—“I can’t stir—I shall be shot if I go out. No, no, no—I’ll not stir an inch.”

“We’ll be kilt!—we’ll be kilt!” echoed Biddy, “and a wicket murther ’twill be in that same man, war or no war.”

The captain perceived the uselessness of remonstrance at such a moment, and perhaps he was secretly rejoiced thereat; but it is certain that he whipped Rose up under his arm, and walked away with her, as if she had been a child of two or three years of age. Rose did not scream, but she struggled and protested vehemently. It was in vain. Already the captain had carried her half the distance between the tent and the boat, in the last of which, a minute more would have deposited his victim, when a severe blow on the back of his head caused Spike to stumble, and he permitted Rose to escape from his grasp, in the effort to save himself from a fall. Turning fiercely toward his assailant, whom he suspected to be one of his boat’s crew, he saw Tier standing within a few yards, leveling a pistol at him.

“Advance a step, and you’re a dead man, villain!” screamed Jack, his voice almost cracked with rage, and the effort he made to menace.

Spike muttered an oath too revolting for our pages; but it was such a curse as none but an old salt could give vent to, and that in the bitterness of his fiercest wrath. At that critical moment, while Rose was swelling with indignation and wounded maiden pride, almost within reach of his arms, looking more lovely than ever, as the flush of anger deepened the color in her cheeks, a fresh and deep report from one of the guns of the sloop-of-war drew all eyes in her direction. The belching of that gun seemed to be of double the power of those which had preceded it, and jets of water, that were twenty feet in height, marked the course of the formidable missile that was projected from the piece. The ship had, indeed, discharged one of those monster-cannons that bear the name of a distinguished French engineer, but which should more properly be called by the name of the ingenious officer who is at the head of our own ordnance, as they came originally from his inventive faculties, though somewhat improved by their European adopter. Spike suspected the truth, for he had heard of these “Pazans,” as he called them, and he watched the booming, leaping progress of the eight-inch shell that this gun threw, with the apprehension that unknown danger is apt to excite. As jet succeeded jet, each rising nearer and nearer to his brig, the interval of time between them seeming fearfully to diminish, he muttered oath upon oath. The last leap that the shell made on the water was at about a quarter of a mile’s distance of the islet on which his people had deposited at least a hundred and fifty barrels of his spurious flour, thence it flew, as it might be without an effort, with a grand and stately bound into the very centre of the barrels, exploding at the moment it struck. All saw the scattering of flour, which was instantly succeeded by the heavy though slightly straggling explosion of all the powder on the island. A hundred kegs were lighted, as it might be, in a common flash, and a cloud of white smoke poured out and concealed the whole islet, and all near it.

Rose stood confounded, nor was Jack Tier in a much better state of mind, though he still kept the pistol leveled, and menaced Spike. But the last was no longer dangerous to any there. He recollected that piles of the barrels encumbered the decks of his vessel, and he rushed to the boat, nearly frantic with haste, ordering the men to pull for their lives. In less than five minutes he was alongside, and on the deck of the Swash—his first order being to—“Tumble every barrel of this bloody powder into the sea, men. Over with it, Mr. Mulford, clear away the midship ports, and launch as much as you can through them.”

Remonstrance on the part of Señor Montefalderon would have been useless, had he been disposed to make it; but, sooth to say, he was as ready to get rid of the powder as any there, after the specimen he had just witnessed of the power of a Paixhan gun.

Thus it is ever with men. Had two or three of those shells been first thrown without effect, as might very well have happened under the circumstances, none there would have cared for the risk they were running; but the chance explosion which had occurred, presented so vivid a picture of the danger, dormant and remote as it really was, as to throw the entire crew of the Swash into a frenzy of exertion.

Nor was the vessel at all free from danger. On the contrary, she ran very serious risk of being destroyed, and in some degree, in the very manner apprehended. Perceiving that Spike was luffing up through one of the passages nearest the reef, which would carry him clear of the group, a long distance to windward of the point where he could only effect the same object, the commander of the sloop-of-war opened his fire in good earnest, hoping to shoot away something material on board the Swash, before she could get beyond the reach of his shot. The courses steered by the two vessels, just at that moment, favored such an attempt, though they made it necessarily very short lived. While the Swash was near the wind, the sloop-of-war was obliged to run off to avoid islets ahead of her, a circumstance which, while it brought the brig square with the ship’s broadside, compelled the latter to steer on a diverging line to the course of her chase. It was in consequence of these facts, that the sloop-of-war now opened in earnest and was soon canopied in the smoke of her own fire.

Great and important changes, as has been already mentioned, have been made in the armaments of all the smaller cruisers within the last few years. Half a generation since, a ship of the rate—we do not say of the size—of the vessel which was in chase of Spike and his craft, would not have had it in her power to molest an enemy at the distance these two vessels were now apart. But recent improvements have made ships of this nominal force formidable at nearly a league’s distance; more especially by means of their Paixhans and their shells.

For some little time the range carried the shot directly over the islet of the tent, Jack Tier and Rose, both of whom were watching all that passed with intense interest, standing in the open air the whole time, seemingly with no concern for themselves, so absorbed was each, notwithstanding all that had passed, in the safety of the brig. As for Rose, she thought only of Harry Mulford, and of the danger he was in by those fearful explosions of the shells. Her quick intellect comprehended the peculiar nature of the risk that was incurred by having the flour-barrels on deck, and she could not but see the manner in which Spike and his men were tumbling them into the water, as the quickest manner of getting rid of them. After what had just passed between Jack Tier and his commander, it might not be so easy to account for his manifest, nay, intense interest in the escape of the Swash. This was apparent by his troubled countenance, by his exclamations, and occasionally by his openly expressed wishes for her safety. Perhaps it was no more than the interest the seaman is so apt to feel in the craft in which he has long sailed, and which to him has been a home, and of which Mulford exhibited so much, in his struggles between feeling and conscience—between a true and a false duty.

As for Spike and his people, we have already mentioned their efforts to get rid of the powder. Shell after shell exploded, though none very near the brig, the ship working her guns as if in action. At length the officers of the sloop-of-war detected a source of error in their aim, that is of very common occurrence in sea-gunnery. Their shot had been thrown to ricochet, quartering a low, but very regular succession of little waves. Each shot striking the water at an acute angle to its agitated surface, was deflected from a straight line, and described a regular curve toward the end of its career; or, it might be truer to say, an irregular curvature, for the deflection increased as the momentum of the missile diminished.

No sooner did the commanding officer of the sloop-of-war discover this fact, and it was easy to trace the course of the shots by the jets of water they cast into the air, and to see as well as to hear the explosions of the shells, than he ordered the guns pointed more to windward, as a means of counteracting the departure from the straight lines. This expedient succeeded in part, the solid shot falling much nearer to the brig the moment the practice was resorted to. No shell was fired for some little time after the new order was issued, and Spike and his people began to hope these terrific missiles had ceased their annoyance. The men cheered, finding their voices for the first time since the danger had seemed so imminent, and Spike was heard animating them to their duty. As for Mulford, he was on the coach-house deck, working the brig, the captain having confided to him that delicate duty, the highest proof he could furnish of confidence in his seamanship. The handsome young mate had just made a half-board, in the neatest manner, shoving the brig by its means through a most difficult part of the passage, and had got her handsomely filled again on the same tack, looking right out into open water, by a channel through which she could now stand on a very easy bowline. Every thing seemed propitious, and the sloop-of-war’s solid shot began to drop into the water, a hundred yards short of the brig. In this state of things one of the Paixhans belched forth its angry flame and sullen roar again. There was no mistaking the gun. Then came its mass of iron, a globe that would have weighed just sixty-eight pounds, had not sufficient metal been left out of its interior to leave a cavity to contain a single pound of powder. Its course, as usual, was to be marked by its path along the sea, as it bounded half a mile at a time, from wave to wave. Spike saw by its undeviating course that this shell was booming terrifically toward his brig, and a cry to “look out for the shell,” caused the work to be suspended. That shell struck the water for the last time, within two hundred yards of the brig, rose dark and menacing in its furious leap, but exploded at the next instant. The fragments of the iron were scattered on each side, and ahead. Of the last, three or four fell into the water so near the vessel as to cast their spray on her decks.

“Overboard with the rest of the powder!” shouted Spike. “Keep the brig off a little, Mr. Mulford—keep her off, sir; you luff too much, sir.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate. “Keep her off, it is.”

“There comes the other shell!” cried Ben, but the men did not quit their toil to gaze this time. Each seaman worked as if life and death depended on his single exertions. Spike alone watched the course of the missile. On it came, booming and hurtling through the air, tossing high the jets, at each leap it made from the surface, striking the water for its last bound, seemingly in a line with the shell that had just preceded it. From that spot it made its final leap. Every hand in the brig was stayed and every eye was raised as the rushing tempest was heard advancing. The mass went muttering directly between the masts of the Swash. It had scarcely seemed to go by when the fierce flash of fire and the sharp explosion followed. Happily for those in the brig, the projectile force given by the gun carried the fragments from them, as in the other instance it had brought them forward; else would few have escaped mutilation, or death, among their crew.

The flashing of fire so near the barrels of powder that still remained on their deck, caused the frantic efforts to be renewed, and barrel after barrel was tumbled overboard, amid the shouts that were now raised to animate the people to their duty.

“Luff, Mr. Mulford—luff you may, sir,” cried Spike.

No answer was given.

“D’ye hear there, Mr. Mulford?—it is luff you may, sir.”

“Mr. Mulford is not aft, sir,” called out the man at the helm—“but luff it is, sir.”

“Mr. Mulford not aft! Where’s the mate, man? Tell him he is wanted.”

No Mulford was to be found! A call passed round the decks, was sent below, and echoed through the entire brig, but no sign or tidings could be had of the handsome mate. At that exciting moment the sloop-of-war seemed to cease her firing, and appeared to be securing her guns.

[To be continued.

LOVE UNREQUITED.

———

BY ALICE G. LEE.

———

A sister’s quiet love

Stirs my heart for thee,

Ask me for none other,

For it paineth me.

Schiller’s Ballads.

I can but listen to thy words in sorrow⁠—

Words that are poured from a full, bursting heart.

Thou couldst not thus the form of passion borrow;

I know thou dost not act a studied part.

For even now thine eyes, so true and earnest,

Are seeking mine with such a pleading look;

And as that searching gaze on me thou turnest,

I know that falsehood thou couldst never brook.

Yet I could almost wish deceit were dwelling

Within the soul laid bare before me now,

That false, false words within thy breast were swelling,

That I might read it on thy pallid brow.

Or rather, that thou deemedst true and stainless

The vows that have just trembled to mine ear;

If then thy love could pass away all painless,

And leave thee much of hope for gloomy fear.

I did not dream that love so high and holy

Was nursed so long in silence; and for me!

My heart is far too humble, far too lowly,

To think that such a passion e’er could be.

I read within thine eyes the calm affection

A brother feels for one who, wild and weak,

Looks up to a strong arm for kind protection;

No other language did they seem to speak.

And when my hand was warmly grasped at meeting,

An answering pressure to thine own it gave.

I did not mark thy pulse was wildly beating;

How could I think from hopeless love to save?

And till I met this eve thy look so thrilling,

My spirit had not been by sorrow stirred;

But now with tears my heavy eyes are filling,

Tears, for the hopes which I this hour have heard.

For all the dreams thy soul so long hath cherished,

’Tis mine to bid them vanish at a sound,

—Would, rather, that my own high hopes had perished!

The spell of love not yet my heart has bound,

And ’twould be sin to claim thy high devotion,

When I could not return one half its worth;

For calmest friendship is the sole emotion

That for thee, brother! in that heart hath birth.

AUTUMN.

[PRIZE POEM—for which the Premium of $150 was awarded by the Committee.]

———

BY JESSE E. DOW.

———

————————For him the hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.

Akenside.

Season of fading glory! Oh how sad,

When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale,

Shaking the ripen’d nuts from loftiest bough,

And down the forest side and sylvan road

Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound.

Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild,

Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green;

The summer flowers are withered, save a few

Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door,

That linger, relics of the roseate band,

Till icy winter, wandering from the pole,

Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills.

Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky,

The sun at evening shines with tempered heat,

The solitary flicker bores the tree⁠—

The carpenter of birds; and in the path,

The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head,

And tongue of crimson darting from his mouth,

Watches the idle bird that marks his form,

Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries,

Drops on his fangs, the vile seducer’s prey.

The hunter takes his way amid the woods,

Or by the ocean side, when far away

The wave that roll’d upon the beach has gone,

To lave a thousand isles of beauty ere

It breaks again in thunder on that shore.

The well-trained setter through the covert seeks

The bird the sportsman’s fancy prizes o’er

The feathered songsters of the woodland wild;

The covey starts, and soon the murd’rous aim

Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun,

Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man,

And finds, as all have found, the trust abused.

On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits,

Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain,

While in the thicket near the rabbit glides,

And as his foot falls on the withered leaves,

A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard,

Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay,

And startling from the dead pines naked top,

With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow.

The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights

On the old field, and sings her favorite strain⁠—

A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy⁠—

A little urchin stealing by his side,

With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles,

And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun⁠—

Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak

The voice of death on wars victorious fields,

Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat,

Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw,

Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back,

Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires!

Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around,

The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke,

The cat-bird cries “for shame!” and darts away

Before her leafy resting-place is seen;

And when the cloud of death has floated on,

The victim bird is found a gory thing,

While the proud hero of this manly sport,

Struts down the lane like Cæsar entering Rome.

The patient Angler threads the winding brook,

Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait;

And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds

Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts

From the cool shadows of some mossy bank,

Swallows the bait with one convulsive act,

And learns too late that death was at the feast;

While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk,

And plays his victim with extended line,

Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings

The silken line is drawn with ringing sound,

Till wearied out with struggling that but serves

To drive the barbed weapon deeper still,

He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank,

And thence in triumph to the shore is borne,

A prize that well rewards a day of toil.

Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite,

Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring,

Or o’er the commons with a bound and shout,

Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch.

Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night

Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep.

Bearing his hazel wand of curious form,

The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth,

Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught,

Or later follower of the magic school.

Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds

The Indian warriors raise above their slain,

Then down in valleys, where the sun ne’er shines,

Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank,

He trudges, looking wiser than the one

Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand,

And wraps the senses in a sleep profound.

At length, above a vale where willows bend,

And grass grows greenest in the waning year,

His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth;

He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims

The long sought spot where living water runs,

And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain.

The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke

Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood,

Now shaking ’mid the scions that have towered

Beneath its shade for years. At length it falls,

And with terrific crash, bears down to earth

Each minor object that obstructs its way⁠—

Down on the verdant carpet that has spread

Beneath its branches in the summer heat,

Behold it lying like a warrior stern,

Who, having grappled in the deadly fray,

Has sank amid his fellows in his pride⁠—

But not to die, tho’ robbed of all its green,

Still shall it in the lofty steeple live,

Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks

The voice of freedom on her ocean way.

The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride,

By it is held to catch the willing gale,

And on its giant breast the fabric rests,

That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep,

And floats them on in sunshine and in storm.

Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given,

And by the fire that feeds and grows on them

The chilly air is changed to breath of spring.

Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed,

And thousands bless the hand that laid thee low.

Above the purple peaks that fringe the west

The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call,

And rear their domes and battlements of mist,

With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold;

Now changing into shapes of demon form,

With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows,

And now, like waves of darkness from old night,

Scowling and breaking on the misty hills.

A drowsy stillness steals along the plain,

The leaves are motionless on every tree,

The twitt’ring swallow glides along the ground,

While the more cautious pigeon seeks the eaves.

The geese that o’er the green so stately stalked,

Take flight toward the west with heavy wing,

And scream a welcome to the coming rain.

The cattle from the hills come early home,

And from the fallow ground the lab’rer turns,

Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye

That reads the secrets of the heavens as well

As though it opened first in Chaldea’s land.

Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs,

And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust;

The town-returning wagon faster moves,

And down the hill, and o’er the sandy plain,

The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin;

And while the plover whistles on the moor,

The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear.

But, hark! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge;

The groaning forest feels its rushing breath,

And bends its yellow head to let it pass;

The vivid lightning takes its errant way,

While echoing, ’mid the sparkling balls of hail,

Is heard the sound of its descending feet

In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around,

Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain,

Wounds man and beast amid the open fields,

And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down.

Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene,

And answering thunder speaks from every cloud;

While the deep caverns of the ocean swell

Their mystic voices in the chorus grand.

Men sit in silence now with anxious looks,

While timid mothers seek their downy beds,

And press their wailing infants to their breasts.

From her low lattice by the cottage-door,

The bolder housewife marks the pelting storm;

Sees the adventurous traveler onward go,

Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night

Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene.

Swiftly the steed bounds o’er the woodland plain,

While hope beams brightly from the rider’s eye,

When lo! a crimson flash, with peal sublime,

Instant as thought, and terrible as death,

Around her bursts. Blinded, she starts, then seeing,

Looks again. The horse and his bold rider lie

Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time.

And while the wind howls mournfully around,

The forest owns the baptism of fire.

The onset o’er, in mingled fire and hail,

Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls.

The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide

The earth’s brown bosom; and the foaming brooks

Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,

Like happy children when their task is done.

A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,

And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,

O’er western hills, a golden spot appears,

That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,

Like Heaven’s first smile upon the dying’s face.

’Tis gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels

Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;

While waves that roll’d in music on the shore,

Lashed into angry surges, foam and break

In notes of terror on the rocky lee.

’Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild

The bow of God is hung, in colors bright

And beautiful as morning’s blushing tints,

When the ark rested on the mountain top,

And the small remnant of a deluged world,

Looked out upon the wilderness, and wept.

—

Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills,

As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course

Of time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon

The woods. No cloud casts o’er the scene a shade.

The six days’ labor ended, man and beast

Enjoy the season of appointed rest.

The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells

Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air;

And now is heard, for over hill and dale,

Up laughing valley, and through whisp’ring glen,

Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart,

The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound!

When from the Indian Isle the storm-tossed bark,

Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore,

And the tir’d sailor, on the giddy yard,

Cent’ring the thoughts of years in one short hour,

Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal.

At such an hour the grateful heart pours out

Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke

Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to heaven;

And from the deep empyrian the ear

Of holy faith an answering note receives,

To still the mourning soul, and dry its tears.

Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care,

When spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers;

When summer scents the rose, and fills the grain;

When autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves,

And winter keeps his cold watch on the hills.

The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows

The passing hour—the miller stops his wheel

To gather headway for the coming task⁠—

And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team,

With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath

The rustic shade the careless teamster waits⁠—

With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool,

And hat of undyed felt cocked o’er his eye⁠—

There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd,

Stands in his brogans every inch a King.

Approach him, sage professor, as you list,

With question subtil on a point abstruse:

Or with a query as to simple things⁠—

Physics or metaphysics, old or new,

Law, written or unwritten, good or bad,

Logic, domestic or of foreign growth,

Knowledge, too deep to know and never known,

Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age

Of miracles, to make one soul believe;

Questions political, that sage to sage

Have past for centuries on, as truants wild

Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates

To catch, by moonlight, in the autumnal woods;

Talk of creation, or the Chinese wall,

Wander o’er Athen’s hill or sumac knoll,

Drink at Castalia’s fount or Jasper’s Spring,

And he is there to answer and confound.

Nature’s philosopher! untaught by schools,

Who knows, and can explain in one short hour,

More than the wide world knew in Plato’s day.

—

And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands⁠—

Well may you mark his tall and robust form,

His forehead full, where intellect may dwell,

And eye that glances like the flying sparks

When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge.

All day his hammer works his iron will,

The reaper’s sickle and the crooked scythe

The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel,

And the small rivet of the schoolboy’s toy,

Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox

Waits for his iron shoes beside his door,

And the gay steed that bounds along the course

Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel;

The temple door on his stout hinges turns,

And in the vault of Mammon rests secure

The treasure guarded by his master-key.

Day after day he toils, as seldom toil

The slaves that drag their lazy length along⁠—

Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night⁠—

In the plantations of the sunny South;

Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer’s curse,

To share his joys and roam the golden fields,

Erect in form and intellect—a man!

But when the evening comes with cooling breath,

Bringing the hour for labor’s sweet repose,

He clears his brow from every mark of toil,

And seeks his cottage by the village green;

There, having ate in peace his frugal meal,

He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books:

And, by the aid of Learning’s golden key,

Holds sweet communion with the ages past.

Behold! the scholar now in honest pride!

Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years,

Books that the western world ne’er saw before⁠—

The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave

The world a channel to a sea of thought,

Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in

The spirit-waters, sparkling from their founts.

His tongue can speak more languages than fell

From human lips at Babel’s overthrow;

Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known,

Is hidden from his penetrating eye.

Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools,

With memory stored with all the mind e’er grasped,

With talents rarely willed by Heaven to one,

And sympathetic heart that beats for all,

Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love,

Burritt now lives, the wonder of mankind.

Rabbis and sage professors call him learned,

And to his humble gateway come in crowds,

To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed,

And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him

Who sits amid the learned a self-taught man.

—

In the dun forest, far away from noise

Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees,

Whose branches form a lofty canopy

O’er a great circle cleared by willing hands,

Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent’s path,

The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer.

There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds,

The tempered roar of distant waterfall,

The fox’s sharp bark, the heathcock’s cheerful crow.

The wildcat’s growl amid the deepest shade,

And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk,

As through the openings he pursues his prey.

Amid the tents upon the highest spot,

The preachers’ stand in humble form appears,

And by its side the horn with mellow note,

To give the signal meet for praise and prayer.

There all conditions come with hearts of love,

Married and single, sons and daughters fair,

The emigrants from every templed land;

The Saxon, in his pride of high descent,

The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings,

The Pict, ne’er weaned from his romantic hills,

Where o’er the heather rolls the Highland tongue,

The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles,

The light Italian, gayest of the gay,

And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh,

Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch⁠—

The river seaman of the mighty west,

Rude in their speech, but honest as they’re rude,

The man of cities, and the pioneer,

Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods,

When nature in her lonely beauty slept

On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill⁠—

The beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream;

The bison-hunter, from the saline lick;

And the wild Indian, in his forest dress,

All gather from their journeyings to keep,

In humble guise, a week of holier time.

And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill,

And the great congregation waits for prayer.

One takes the stand—a man not taught by schools⁠—

In habit plain, with hands embrown’d by toil;

Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withall.

Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice

In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch

The inspiration of that hallowed hour,

Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime,

While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer.

His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground,

Fall on the ear of that great multitude.

Now he describes a Savior’s matchless love⁠—

His high estate, his exile from the throne,

His mocking trial, and his felon death;

The noonday sun in darkness veils its face,

And earthquake voices fill the trembling air,

While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem’s streets,

Go forth a ghostly company again,

Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb,

And making the proud Temple’s arches ring,

With the glad praises of Redeeming Love.

’Tis done! the mighty plan is carried out⁠—

The last great Sacrifice for sin is o’er;

Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away,

And shows a risen Savior and a God!

The different hearers testify his power

In different ways. The truth, like a sharp sword,

Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed;

And the great deep of sin is broken up.

The old transgressors tremble by the stand⁠—

The young in sin repent to sin no more.

A thousand voices join in one wild prayer,

And shrieks, and groans, and shouts of joy arise,

And Heaven keeps Sabbath o’er the autumn woods.

The painted savage, who amid the crowd

Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life;

His giant breast in wild commotion heaves,

His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips;

He stands and vainly calls to his relief

His savage nature; but, alas! ’tis gone.

Then falling on his face amid the woods

That often echoed to his war-whoop fell,

He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet,

And lays aside his garments stained with blood.

His voice in accents of his soul now speaks,

His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream,

And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks,

Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings!

The angel hovering o’er that forest scene,

Bears up the tidings on exulting wing,

And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss,

The Seraph harps in sweetness make response,

Alleluia!

The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls

Upon the anxious ear, like music heard

On the calm ocean at the midnight hour;

Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet,

An dies away amid the forest hum,

Alleluia!

The night has come, and one by one the lights

Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude

Is hushed in sleep.

—

The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way,

Full round and red—the farmer’s evening friend,

Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand

Finds more than it can do within the day.

How gently falls its light upon the plains,

The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods;

The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn,

And in the bush begins her matin song.

A moment rings the solitary strain,

And then no sound is wafted to the ear,

Save the wild whisper of the dying wind,

Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.

Sweet voyager of night! whose fairy bark

Sails silently around the dusky earth,

Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns,

Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair,

And sent thee forth on thy eternal way,

The nearest and the brightest to our eyes

Of Heavens innumerable host—sail on

Thy joyous way, in beauty ’mid the stars,

And catch the song of those bright sentinels,

Who watch the outposts on the bounds of time,

Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom

Of drear immensity. The lover’s eye⁠—

Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves,

Or treads in pride the well appointed deck

Of richly freighted galleon; or is doom’d,

Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell

More desolate because his ear had heard,

In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell;

Or chases, with the seamen of the north,

The monster-whale, by Greenland’s sounding shore,

Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks,

And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales;

Or robs the otter of his glossy coat,

Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn

To the Pacific’s waters; or gathers

Birds’ nests ’mid the endless summer isles,

Where waves the cocoa-nut and lofty palm

O’er crystal billows, ’mid whose coral groves

The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim⁠—

In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns

Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love⁠—

Love that endures when strength and reason fails.

So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill,

Patting his dog, his last and truest friend,

Looks up with eye of more than usual fire,

And, ’mid his idle chattering, speaks the name

Of one who loved him best in boyhood’s dream.

Thompson, sweet village! throned upon thy hills,

With happy homes, and spires that gleam above

Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught,

And generations learned the way to God—

How pleasant, with remembrance’s eye, to view

The varied landscape changing autumn spreads

O’er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet;

Where roll the babbling brook and deeper stream,

Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought

By Moorish maidens on their robes of green.

Around thee rise a host of smiling towns,

Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad.

There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky,

Stands on her lofty height supremely fair,

While westward, Woodstock with her groves is seen,

In rural beauty blest; and at her feet,

Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomfret vale,

Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood’s hour.

The iron-horse now darts with lightning speed

Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew,

And at each turn the lovely river makes,

At the mere plashing of the wild swan’s wing,

A babbling village rises from the flood;

And there the halls of labor lift their domes

At Mammon’s call, and countless spindles twirl

The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold;

While far around is heard the dash of wheels,

And the unceasing roar of swollen dams.

The dead leaves dance upon the river’s breast,

With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and there

A golden apple, dropped by careless boy,

Floating along toward the ocean’s flood.

On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits

The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold;

While ’neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes,

And ’mid the cooling wave in gladness sports

His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach

Of roaming bard, or red-cheeked factory girl,

Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye

Toward her Leander, naked in the flood.

On such fair maidens no Duennas wait,

To scare young love from answering love away;

No convent-gates are closed to bar her will,

Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel,

In secret wait to guard that honor safe,

Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled.

Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags,

The ancient forest waves its gaudy head,

O’er which the eagle takes his lonely way⁠—

The mighty hunter of the upper air.

There, in the mossy dells, where all is still,

Save when uncertain murmurs come and go

Along the solemn arches of the wood⁠—

Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark,

Or soothing hum of home-returning bee⁠—

The boy, delighted, sets his secret snares,

Clearing broad paths amid the yellow leaves,

Where the cock-partridge may strut in pride

At earliest dawn, and find the fatal noose;

There, when the sun is peeping o’er the hills,

Tinging the woodland sea with gorgeous hues,

He goes, with eager step and anxious eye,

Beholds the path obscured, the sapling sprung,

And, ’mid the maple boughs, his mottled prey.

—

The Reaper pauses in the ample field,

Where a rich harvest smiles to bless his toil,

And rests beside the oak, beneath whose shade,

In ages past, the wandering Red Man slept;

There, while the sun poured down his fervent ray,

The happy laborer seeks to quench his thirst,

With crystal water from the lime-stone spring,

Or milk, from prudent housewife’s ample store⁠—

Pure as it came from Nature’s healthy fount;

And while he sits the idle hours away,

He muses o’er his country and her fame,

And dares to claim her empire as his own.

And there, amid the grass, the children play

Around the sun-burnt maidens, as they twine

The bands to bind the golden armfuls tight,

And leave the bristling sheafs, with plenty crowned,

Standing in beauty on the fresh-reap’d hill.

The groaning wagon gathers up the grain

From auburn fields. The yellow sheafs are piled

In ponderous heaps, while one well skilled builds up

The toppling load, and when ’tis finished, sits

On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain⁠—

The Autumn’s King! And as the reaper’s hale

And rosy children shout for joy, he sings,

With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home.

The sickle gleams no more amid the fields;

The cradled hills are open to the feet

Of Want’s poor gleaners and the hunter band;

And there the quail walks with her piping brood

Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly.

Amid the orchard, bending ’neath the load

That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn,

The busy husbandmen commence their tasks.

The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale,

The golden-pippin, and the blue pearmain,

Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down,

And to the air a balmy fragrance give.

And there, the urchins playing all the while,

Select the choicest fruit for future use,

When the long winter night creeps o’er the hill,