It was near night-fall when the Swash anchored among the low and small islets mentioned. Rose had been on deck, as the vessel approached this singular and solitary haven, watching the movements of those on board, as well as the appearance of objects on the land, with the interest her situation would be likely to awaken. She saw the light and manageable craft glide through the narrow and crooked passages that led into the port, the process of anchoring, and the scene of tranquil solitude that succeeded; each following the other as by a law of nature. The light-house next attracted her attention, and, as soon as the sun disappeared, her eyes were fastened on the lantern, in expectation of beholding the watchful and warning fires gleaming there, to give the mariner notice of the position of the dangers that surrounded the place. Minute went by after minute, however, and the customary illumination seemed to be forgotten.

“Why is not the light shining?” Rose asked of Mulford, as the young man came near her, after having discharged his duty in helping to moor the vessel, and in clearing the decks. “All the light-houses we have passed, and they have been fifty, have shown bright lights at this hour, but this.”

“I cannot explain it; nor have I the smallest notion where we are. I have been aloft, and there was nothing in sight but this cluster of low islets, far or near. I did fancy, for a moment, I saw a speck like a distant sail, off here to the northward and eastward, but I rather think it was a gull, or some other sea-bird glancing upward on the wing. I mentioned it to the captain when I came down, and he appeared to believe it a mistake. I have watched that light-house closely, too, ever since we came in, and I have not seen the smallest sign of life about it. It is altogether an extraordinary place!”

“One suited to acts of villany, I fear, Harry!”

“Of that we shall be better judges to-morrow. You, at least, have one vigilant friend, who will die sooner than harm shall come to you. I believe Spike to be thoroughly unprincipled; still he knows he can go so far and no further, and has a wholesome dread of the law. But the circumstance that there should be such a port as this, with a regular light-house, and no person near the last, is so much out of the common way, that I do not know what to make of it.”

“Perhaps the light-house keeper is afraid to show himself, in the presence of the Swash?”

“That can hardly be, for vessels must often enter the port, if port it can be called. But Spike is as much concerned at the circumstance that the lamps are not lighted, as any of us can be. Look, he is about to visit the building in the boat, accompanied by two of his oldest sea-dogs.”

“Why might we not raise the anchor, and sail out of this place, leaving Spike ashore?” suggested Rose, with more decision and spirit than discretion.

“For the simple reason that the act would be piracy, even if I could get the rest of the people to obey my orders, as certainly I could not. No, Rose, you, and your aunt, and Biddy, however, might land at these buildings, and refuse to return, Spike having no authority over his passengers.”

“Still he would have the power to make us come back to his brig. Look, he has left the vessel’s side, and is going directly toward the light-house.”

Mulford made no immediate answer, but remained at Rose’s side, watching the movements of the captain. The last pulled directly to the islet with the buildings, a distance of only a few hundred feet, the light-house being constructed on a rocky island that was nearly in the centre of the cluster, most probably with a view to protect it from the ravages of the waves. The fact, however, proved, as Mulford did not fail to suggest to his companion, that the beacon had been erected less to guide vessels into the haven, than to warn mariners at a distance, of the position of the whole group.

In less than five minutes after he had landed, Spike himself was seen in the lantern, in the act of lighting its lamps. In a very short time the place was in a brilliant blaze, reflectors and all the other parts of the machinery of the place performing their duties as regularly as if tended by the usual keeper. Soon after Spike returned on board, and the anchor-watch was set. Then everybody sought the rest that it was customary to take at that hour.

Mulford was on deck with the appearance of the sun; but he found that Spike had preceded him, had gone ashore again, had extinguished the lamps, and was coming alongside of the brig on his return. A minute later the captain came over the side.

“You were right about your sail, last night, a’ter all, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, on coming aft. “There she is, sure enough; and we shall have her alongside to strike cargo out and in, by the time the people have got their breakfasts.”

As Spike pointed toward the light-house while speaking, the mate changed his position a little, and saw that a schooner was coming down toward the islets before the wind. Mulford now began to understand the motives of the captain’s proceedings, though a good deal yet remained veiled in mystery. He could not tell where the brig was, nor did he know precisely why so many expedients were adopted to conceal the transfer of a cargo as simple as that of flour. But he who was in the secret left but little time for reflection; for swallowing a hasty breakfast on deck, he issued orders enough to his mate to give him quite as much duty as he could perform, when he again entered the yawl, and pulled toward the stranger.

Rose soon appeared on deck, and she naturally began to question Harry concerning their position and prospects. He was confessing his ignorance as well as lamenting it, when his companion’s sweet face suddenly flushed. She advanced a step eagerly toward the open window of Spike’s state-room, then compressed her full, rich, under-lip with the ivory of her upper teeth, and stood a single instant, a beautiful statue of irresolution instigated by spirit. The last quality prevailed; and Mulford was really startled when he saw Rose advance quite to the window, thrust in an arm, and turn toward him with his own sextant in her hand. During the course of the passage out, the young man had taught Rose to assist him in observing the longitude; and she was now ready to repeat the practice. Not a moment was lost in executing her intention. Sights were had, and the instrument was returned to its place without attracting the attention of the men, who were all busy in getting up purchases, and in making the other necessary dispositions for discharging the flour. The observations answered the purpose, though somewhat imperfectly made. Mulford had a tolerable notion of their latitude, having kept the brig’s run in his head since quitting Yucatan; and he now found that their longitude was about 83° west from Greenwich. After ascertaining this fact, a glance at the open chart, which lay on Spike’s desk, satisfied him that the vessel was anchored within the group of the Dry Tortugas, or at the western termination of the well-known, formidable, and extensive Florida Reef. He had never been in that part of the world before, but had heard enough in sea-gossip, and had read enough in books, to be at once apprised of the true character of their situation. The islets were American; the light-house was American; and the haven in which the Swash lay was the very spot in the contemplation of government for an outer man-of-war harbor, where fleets might rendezvous in the future wars of that portion of the world. He now saw plainly enough the signs of the existence of a vast reef, a short distance to the southward of the vessel, that formed a species of sea-wall, or mole, to protect the port against the waves of the gulf, in that direction. This reef he knew to be miles in width.

There was little time for speculation, Spike soon bringing the strange schooner directly alongside of the brig. The two vessels immediately became a scene of activity, one discharging, and the other receiving the flour as fast as it could be struck out of the hold of the Swash and lowered upon the deck of the schooner. Mulford, however, had practiced a little artifice, as the stranger entered the haven, which drew down upon him an anathema or two from Spike, as soon as they were alone. The mate had set the brig’s ensign, and this compelled the stranger to be markedly rude, or to answer the compliment. Accordingly he had shown the ancient flag of Spain. For thus extorting a national symbol from the schooner, the mate was sharply rebuked at a suitable moment, though nothing could have been more forbearing than the deportment of his commander when they first met.

When Spike returned to his own vessel, he was accompanied by a dark-looking, well-dressed, and decidedly gentleman-like personage, whom he addressed indifferently, in his very imperfect Spanish, as Don Wan, (Don Juan, or John,) or SeÑor Montefalderon. By the latter appellation he even saw fit to introduce the very respectable-looking stranger to his mate. This stranger spoke English well, though with an accent.

“Don Wan has taken all the flour, Mr. Mulford, and intends shoving it over into Cuba, without troubling the custom-house, I believe; but that is not a matter to give us any concern, you know.”

The wink, and the knowing look by which this speech was accompanied, seemed particularly disagreeable to Don Juan, who now paid his compliments to Rose, with no little surprise betrayed in his countenance, but with the ease and reserve of a gentleman. Mulford thought it strange that a smuggler of flour should be so polished a personage, though his duty did not admit of his bestowing much attention to the little trifling of the interview that succeeded.

For about an hour the work went steadily and rapidly on. During that time Mulford was several times on board the schooner, as, indeed, was Josh, Jack Tier, and others belonging to the Swash. The Spanish vessel was Baltimore, or clipper built, with a trunk-cabin, and had every appearance of sailing fast. Mulford was struck with her model, and, while on board of her, he passed both forward and aft to examine it. This was so natural in a seaman, that Spike, while he noted the proceeding, took it in good part. He even called out to his mate, from his own quarter-deck, to admire this or that point in the schooner’s construction. As is customary with the vessels of southern nations, this stranger was full of men, but they continued at their work, some half dozen of brawny negroes among them, shouting their songs as they swayed at the falls, no one appearing to manifest jealousy or concern. At length Tier came near the mate, and said,

“Uncle Sam will not be pleased when he hears the reason that the keeper is not in his light-house.”

“And what is that reason, Jack? If you know it, tell it to me.”

“Go aft and look down the companion way, maty, and see it for yourself.”

Mulford did go aft, and he made an occasion to look down into the schooner’s cabin, where he caught a glimpse of the persons of a man and a boy, whom he at once supposed had been taken from the light-house. This one fact of itself doubled his distrust of the character of Spike’s proceedings. There was no sufficient apparent reason why a mere smuggler should care about the presence of an individual more or less in a foreign port. Every thing that had occurred looked like pre-concert between the brig and the schooner; and the mate was just beginning to entertain the strongest distrust that their vessel was holding treasonable communication with the enemy, when an accident removed all doubt on the subject, from his own mind at least. Spike had, once or twice, given his opinion that the weather was treacherous, and urged the people of both crafts to extraordinary exertions, in order that the vessels might get clear of each other as soon as possible. This appeal had set various expedients in motion to second the more regular work of the purchases. Among other things, planks had been laid from one vessel to the other, and barrels were rolled along them with very little attention to the speed or the direction. Several had fallen on the schooner’s deck with rude shocks, but no damage was done, until one, of which the hoops had not been properly secured, met with a fall, and burst nearly at Mulford’s feet. It was at the precise moment when the mate was returning, from taking his glance into the cabin, toward the side of the Swash. A white cloud arose, and half a dozen of the schooner’s people sprang for buckets, kids, or dishes in order to secure enough of the contents of the broken barrel to furnish them with a meal. At first nothing was visible but the white cloud that succeeded the fall, and the scrambling sailors in its midst. No sooner, however, had the air got to be a little clear, than Mulford saw an object lying in the centre of the wreck, that he at once recognized for a keg of gunpowder! The captain of the schooner seized this keg, gave a knowing look at Mulford, and disappeared in the hold of his own vessel, carrying with him, what was out of all question, a most material part of the true cargo of the Swash.

At the moment when the flour-barrel burst, Spike was below, in close conference with his Spanish, or Mexican guest; and the wreck being so soon cleared away, it is probable that he never heard of the accident. As for the two crews, they laughed a little among themselves at the revelation which had been made, as well as at the manner; but to old sea-dogs like them, it was a matter of very little moment, whether the cargo was, in reality, flour or gunpowder. In a few minutes the affair seemed to be forgotten. In the course of another hour the Swash was light, having nothing in her but some pig lead, which she used for ballast, while the schooner was loaded to her hatches, and full. Spike now sent a boat, with orders to drop a kedge about a hundred yards from the place where his own brig lay. The schooner warped up to this kedge, and dropped an anchor of her own, leaving a very short range of cable out, it being a flat calm. Ordinarily, the trades prevail at the Dry Tortugas, and all along the Florida Reef. Sometimes, indeed, this breeze sweeps across the whole width of the Gulf of Mexico, blowing home, as it is called—reaching even to the coast of Texas. It is subject, however, to occasional interruptions everywhere, varying many points in its direction, and occasionally ceasing entirely. The latter was the condition of the weather about noon on this day, or when the schooner hauled off from the brig, and was secured at her own anchor.

“Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, “I do not like the state of the atmosphere. D’ye see that fiery streak along the western horizon—well, sir, as the sun gets nearer to that streak, there’ll be trouble, or I’m no judge of weather.”

“You surely do not imagine, Capt. Spike, that the sun will be any nearer to that fiery streak, as you call it, when he is about to set, than he is at this moment?” answered the mate, smiling.

“I’m sure of one thing, young man, and that is, that old heads are better than young ones. What a man has once seen, he may expect to see again, if the same leading signs offer. Man the boat, sir, and carry out the kedge, which is still in it, and lay it off here, about three p’ints on our larboard bow.”

Mulford had a profound respect for Spike’s seamanship, whatever he might think of his principles. The order was consequently obeyed. The mate was then directed to send down various articles out of the top, and to get the top-gallant and royal yards on deck. Spike carried his precautions so far, as to have the mainsail lowered, it ordinarily brailing at that season of the year, with a standing gaff. With this disposition completed, the captain seemed more at his ease, and went below to join SeÑor Montefalderon in a siesta. The Mexican, for such, in truth, was the national character of the owner of the schooner, had preceded him in this indulgence: and most of the people of the brig having laid themselves down to sleep under the heat of the hour, Mulford soon enjoyed another favorable opportunity for a private conference with Rose.

“Harry,” commenced the latter, as soon as they were alone; “I have much to tell you. While you have been absent I have overheard a conversation between this Spanish gentleman and Spike, that shows the last is in treaty with the other for the sale of the brig. Spike extolled his vessel to the skies, while Don Wan, as he calls him, complains that the brig is old, and cannot last long; to which Spike answered ‘to be sure she is old, SeÑor Montefalderon, but she will last as long as your war, and under a bold captain might be made to return her cost, a hundred fold!’ What war can he mean, and to what does such a discourse tend?”

“The war alludes to the war now existing between America and Mexico, and the money to be made is to be plundered at sea, from our own merchant vessels. If Don Juan Montefalderon is really in treaty for the purchase of the brig, it is to convert her into a Mexican cruiser, either public or private.”

“But this would be treason on the part of Spike!”

“Not more so than supplying the enemy with gunpowder, as he has just been doing. I have ascertained the reason he was so unwilling to be overhauled by the revenue steamer, as well as the reason why the revenue steamer wished so earnestly to overhaul us. Each barrel of flour contains another of gunpowder, and that has been sold to this SeÑor Montefalderon, who is doubtless an officer of the Mexican government, and no smuggler.”

“He has been at New York, this very summer, I know,” continued Rose, “for he spoke of his visit, and made such other remarks, as leaves no doubt that Spike expected to find him here, on this very day of the month. He also paid Spike a large sum of money in doubloons, and took back the bag to his schooner, when he had done so, after showing the captain enough was left to pay for the brig, could they only agree on the terms of their bargain.”

“Ay, ay; it is all plain enough now, Spike has determined on a desperate push for fortune, and foreseeing it might not soon be in his power to return to New York, in safety, he has included his designs on you and your fortune, in the plot.”

“My fortune! the trifle I possess can scarcely be called a fortune, Harry!”

“It would be a fortune to Spike, Rose, and I shall be honest enough to own it would be a fortune to me. I say this frankly, for I do believe you think too well of me to suppose that I seek you for any other reason than the ardent love I bear your person and character; but a fact is not to be denied because it may lead certain persons to distrust our motives. Spike is poor, like myself; and the brig is not only getting to be very old, but she has been losing money for the last twelve months.”

Mulford and Rose now conversed long and confidentially, on their situation and prospects. The mate neither magnified nor concealed the dangers of both; but freely pointed out the risk to himself, in being on board a vessel that was aiding and comforting the enemy. It was determined between them that both would quit the brig the moment an opportunity offered, and the mate even went so far as to propose an attempt to escape in one of the boats, although he might incur the hazards of a double accusation, those of mutiny and larceny, for making the experiment. Unfortunately, neither Rose, nor her aunt, nor Biddy, nor Jack Tier had seen the barrel of powder, and neither could testify as to the true character of Spike’s connection with the schooner. It was manifestly necessary, therefore, independently of the risks that might be run by “bearding the lion in his den,” to proceed with great intelligence and caution.

This dialogue between Harry and Rose, occurred just after the turn in the day, and it lasted fully an hour. Each had been too much interested to observe the heavens, but, as they were on the point of separating, Rose pointed out to her companion the unusual and most menacing aspect of the sky in the western horizon. It appeared as if a fiery heat was glowing there, behind a curtain of black vapor; and what rendered it more remarkable, was the circumstance that an extraordinary degree of placidity prevailed in all other parts of the heavens. Mulford scarce knew what to make of it; his experience not going so far as to enable him to explain the novel and alarming appearance. He stepped on a gun, and gazed around him for a moment. There lay the schooner, without a being visible on board of her, and there stood the light-house, gloomy in its desertion and solitude. The birds alone seemed to be alive and conscious of what was approaching. They were all on the wing, wheeling wildly in the air, and screaming discordantly, as belonged to their habits. The young man leaped off the gun, gave a loud call to Spike, at the companion-way, and sprang forward to call all hands.

One minute only was lost, when every seaman on board the Swash, from the captain to Jack Tier, was on deck. Mulford met Spike at the cabin door, and pointed toward the fiery column that was booming down upon the anchorage, with a velocity and direction that would now admit of no misinterpretation. For one instant that sturdy old seaman stood aghast; gazing at the enemy as one conscious of his impotency might have been supposed to quail before an assault that he foresaw must prove irresistable. Then his native spirit, and most of all the effects of training, began to show themselves in him, and he became at once, not only the man again, but the resolute, practiced and ready commander.

“Come aft to the spring, men—” he shouted—“clap on the spring, Mr. Mulford, and bring the brig head to wind.”

This order was obeyed as seamen best obey, in cases of sudden and extreme emergency; or with intelligence, aptitude and power. The brig had swung nearly round, in the desired direction, when the tornado struck her. It will be difficult, we do not know but it is impossible, to give a clear and accurate account of what followed. As most of our readers have doubtless felt how great is the power of the wind, whiffling and pressing different ways, in sudden and passing gusts, they have only to imagine this power increased many, many fold, and the baffling of the currents made furious, as it might be, by meeting with resistance, to form some notion of the appalling strength and frightful inconstancy with which it blew for about a minute.

Notwithstanding the circumstance of Spike’s precaution had greatly lessened the danger, every man on the deck of the Swash believed the brig was gone when the gust struck her. Over she went, in fact, until the water came pouring in above her half-ports, like so many little cascades, and spouting up through her scupper-holes, resembling the blowing of young whales. It was the whiffling energy of the tornado, that alone saved her. As if disappointed in not destroying its intended victim at one swoop, the tornado “let up” in its pressure, like a dexterous wrestler, making a fresh and desperate effort to overturn the vessel, by a slight variation in its course. That change saved the Swash. She righted, and even rolled in the other direction, or what might be called to windward, with her decks full of water. For a minute longer, these baffling, changing gusts continued, each causing the brig to bow like a reed to their power, one lifting as another pressed her down, and then the weight, or the more dangerous part of the tornado was passed, though it continued to blow heavily, always in whiffling blasts, several minutes longer.

During the weight of the gust, no one had leisure, or indeed inclination to look to aught beyond its effect on the brig. Had one been otherwise disposed, the attempt would have been useless, for the wind had filled the air with spray, and near the islets even with sand. The lurid but fiery tinge, too, interposed a veil that no human eye could penetrate. As the tornado passed onward, however, and the winds lulled, the air again became clear, and in five minutes after the moment when the Swash lay nearly on her side, with her lower yard-arm actually within a few feet of the water, all was still and placid around her, as one is accustomed to see the ocean in a calm, of a summer’s afternoon. Then it was that those who had been in such extreme jeopardy could breathe freely and look about them. On board the Swash, all was well—not a rope-yarn had parted, or an eye-bolt drawn. The timely precautions of Spike had saved his brig, and great was his joy thereat.

In the midst of the infernal din of the tornado, screams had ascended from the cabin, and the instant he could quit the deck with propriety, Mulford sprang below, in order to ascertain their cause. He apprehended that some of the females had been driven to leeward when the brig went over, and that some of the luggage or furniture had fallen on them. In the main cabin, the mate found SeÑor Montefalderon just quitting his berth, composed, gentleman-like, and collected. Josh was braced in a corner nearly gray with fear, while Jack Tier still lay on the cabin floor, at the last point to which he had rolled. One word sufficed to let Don Juan know that the gust had passed, and the brig was safe, when Mulford tapped at the door of the inner cabin. Rose appeared, pale, but calm and unhurt.

“Is any one injured?” asked the young man, his mind relieved at once, as soon as he saw that she who most occupied his thoughts was safe; “we heard screams from this cabin.”

“My aunt and Biddy have been frightened,” answered Rose, “but neither has been hurt. Oh, Harry, what terrible thing has happened to us? I heard the roaring of—”

“’Twas a tornado,” interrupted Mulford eagerly—“but ’tis over. ’Twas one of those sudden and tremendous gusts that sometimes occur within the tropics, in which the danger is usually in the first shock. If no one is injured in this cabin, no one is injured at all.”

“Oh, Mr. Mulford—dear Mr. Mulford!” exclaimed the relict from the corner into which she had been followed and jammed by Biddy, “Oh, Mr. Mulford, are we foundered, or not?”

“Heaven be praised, not, my dear ma’am, though we came nearer to it than I ever was before.”

“Are we cap-asided?”

“Nor that, Mrs. Budd; the brig is as upright as a church.”

“Upright!” repeated Biddy, in her customary accent—“is it as a church? Sure, then, Mr. Mate, ’tis a Presbyterian church that you mane, and that is always totterin’.”

“Catholic, or Dutch—no church in York is more completely up and down, than the brig at this moment.”

“Get off of me—get off of me, Biddy, and let me rise,” said the widow, with dignity. “The danger is over I see, and, as we return our thanks for it, we have the consolation of knowing that we have done our duty. It is incumbent on all, at such moments, to be at their posts, and to set examples of decision and prudence.”

As Mulford saw all was well in the cabin, he hastened on deck, followed by SeÑor Montefalderon. Just as they emerged from the companion-way, Spike was hailing the forecastle.

“Forecastle, there,” he cried, standing on the trunk himself as he did so, and moving from side to side, as if to catch a glimpse of some object ahead.

“Sir,” came back from an old salt, who was coiling up rigging in that seat of seamanship.

“Where away is the schooner? She ought to be dead ahead of us, as we tend now—but blast me if I can see as much as her mast-heads.”

At this suggestion, a dozen men sprang upon guns or other objects, to look for the vessel in question. The old salt forward, however, had much the best chance, for he stepped on the heel of the bowsprit, and walked as far out as the knight-heads, to command the whole view ahead of the brig. There he stood half a minute, looking first on one side of the head-gear, then the other, when he gave his trousers a hitch, put a fresh quid in his mouth, and called out in a voice almost as hoarse as the tempest, that had just gone by,

“The schooner has gone down at her anchor, sir. There’s her buoy watching still, as if nothing had happened; but as for the craft itself, there’s not so much as a bloody yard-arm, or mast-head of her to be seen!”

This news produced a sensation in the brig at once, as may be supposed. Even SeÑor Montefalderon, a quiet, gentleman-like person, altogether superior in deportment to the bustle and fuss that usually marks the manners of persons in trade, was disturbed; for to him the blow was heavy indeed. Whether he were acting for himself, or was an agent of the Mexican government, the loss was much the same.

“Tom is right enough,” put in Spike, rather coolly for the circumstances—“that there schooner of yourn has foundered, Don Wan, as any one can see. She must have capsized and filled, for I obsarved they had left the hatches off, meaning, no doubt, to make an end of the storage as soon as they had done sleeping.”

“And what has become of all her men, Don Esteban?” for so the Mexican politely called his companion. “Have all my poor countrymen perished in this disaster?”

“I fear they have, Don Wan; for I see no head, as of any one swimming. The vessel lay so near that island next to it, that a poor swimmer would have no difficulty in reaching the place; but there is no living thing to be seen. But man the boat, men; we will go to the spot, SeÑor, and examine for ourselves.”

There were two boats in the water, and alongside of the brig. One was the Swash’s yawl, a small but convenient craft, while the other was much larger, fitted with a sail, and had all the appearance of having been built to withstand breezes and seas. Mulford felt perfectly satisfied, the moment he saw this boat, which had come into the haven in tow of the schooner, that it had been originally in the service of the light-house keeper. As there was a very general desire among those on the quarterdeck to go to the assistance of the schooner, Spike ordered both boats manned, jumping into the yawl himself, accompanied by Don Juan Montefalderon, and telling Mulford to follow with the larger craft, bringing with him as many of the females as might choose to accompany him. As Mrs. Budd thought it incumbent on her to be active in such a scene, all did go, including Biddy, though with great reluctance on the part of Rose.

With the buoy for a guide, Spike had no difficulty in finding the spot where the schooner lay. She had scarcely shifted her berth in the least, there having been no time for her even to swing to the gust, but she had probably capsized at the first blast, filled, and gone down instantly. The water was nearly as clear as the calm, mild atmosphere of the tropics; and it was almost as easy to discern the vessel, and all her hamper, as if she lay on a beach. She had gone down as she filled, or on her side, and still continued in that position. As the water was little more than three fathoms deep, the upper side was submerged but a few inches, and her yard-arms would have been out of the water, but for the circumstance that the yards had canted under the pressure.

At first, no sign was seen of any of those who had been on board this ill-fated schooner when she went down. It was known that twenty-one souls were in her, including the man and the boy who had belonged to the light-house. As the boat moved slowly over this sad ruin, however, a horrible and startling spectacle came in view. Two bodies were seen, within a few feet of the surface of the water, one grasped in the arms of the other, in the gripe of despair. The man held in the grasp, was kept beneath the water solely by the death-lock of his companion, who was himself held where he floated, by the circumstance that one of his feet was entangled in a rope. The struggle could not have been long over, for the two bodies were slowly settling toward the bottom when first seen. It is probable that both these men had more than once risen to the surface in their dreadful struggle. Spike seized a boat-hook, and made an effort to catch the clothes of the nearest body, but ineffectually, both sinking to the sands beneath, lifeless, and without motion. There being no sharks in sight, Mulford volunteered to dive and fasten a line to one of these unfortunate men, whom Don Juan declared at once was the schooner’s captain. Some little time was lost in procuring a lead-line from the brig, when the lead was dropped alongside of the drowned. Provided with another piece of the same sort of line, which had a small running bowline around that which was fastened to the lead, the mate made his plunge, and went down with great vigor of arm. It required resolution and steadiness to descend so far into salt water; but Harry succeeded, and rose with the bodies, which came up with the slightest impulse. All were immediately got into the boat, and away the latter went toward the light-house, which was nearer and more easy of access than the brig.

It is probable that one of these unfortunate men might have been revived under judicious treatment; but he was not fated to receive it. Spike, who knew nothing of such matters, undertook to direct every thing, and, instead of having recourse to warmth and gentle treatment, he ordered the bodies to be rolled on a cask, suspended them by the heels, and resorted to a sort of practice that might have destroyed well men, instead of resuscitating those in whom the vital spark was dormant, if not actually extinct.

Two hours later, Rose, seated in her own cabin, unavoidably overheard the following dialogue, which passed in English, a language that SeÑor Montefalderon spoke perfectly well, as has been said.

“Well SeÑor,” said Spike, “I hope this little accident will not prevent our final trade. You will want the brig now, to take the schooner’s place.”

“And how am I to pay you for the brig, SeÑor Spike, even if I buy her?”

“I’ll ventur’ to guess there is plenty of money in Mexico. Though they do say the government is so backward about paying, I have always found you punctual, and am not afraid to put faith in you ag’in.”

“But I have no longer any money to pay you half in hand, as I did for the powder, when last in New York.”

“The bag was pretty well lined with doubloons when I saw it last, SeÑor.”

“And do you know where that bag is; and where there is another that holds the same sum?”

Spike started, and he mused in silence some little time, ere he again spoke.

“I had forgotten,” he at length answered. “The gold must have all gone down in the schooner, along with the powder!”

“And the poor men!”

“Why, as for the men, SeÑor, more may be had for the asking; but powder and doubloons will be hard to find, when most wanted. Then the men were poor men, accordin’ to my idees of what an able seaman should be, or they never would have let their schooner turn turtle with them as she did.”

“We will talk of the money, Don Esteban, if you please,” said the Mexican, with reserve.

“With all my heart, Don Wan—nothing is more agreeable to me than money. How many of them doubloons shall fall to my share if I raise the schooner, and put you in possession of your craft again?”

“Can that be done, SeÑor?” demanded Don Juan earnestly.

“A seaman can do almost any thing, in that way, Don Wan, if you will give him time and means. For one half the doubloons I can find in the wrack, the job shall be done.”

“You can have them,” answered Don Juan, quietly, a good deal surprised that Spike should deem it necessary to offer him any part of the sum he might find. “As for the powder, I suppose that is lost to my country.”

“Not at all, Don Wan. The flour is well packed around it, and I don’t expect it would take any harm in a month. I shall not only turn over the flour to you, just as if nothing had happened, but I shall put four first rate hands aboard your schooner, who will take her into port for you, with a good deal more sartainty than forty of the men you had. My mate is a prime navigator.”

This concluded the bargain, every word of which was heard by Rose, and every word of which she did not fail to communicate to Mulford, the moment there was an opportunity. The young man heard it with great interest, telling Rose that he should do all he could to assist in raising the schooner, in the hope that something might turn up to enable him to escape in her, taking off Rose and her aunt. As for his carrying her into a Mexican port, let them trust him for that! Agreeably to the arrangement, orders were given that afternoon to commence the necessary preparations for the work, and considerable progress was made in them by the time the Swash’s people were ordered to knock off work for the night.

After the sun had set the reaction in the currents again commenced, and it blew for a few hours heavily, during the night. Toward morning, however, it moderated, and when the sun re-appeared it scarcely ever diffused its rays over a more peaceful or quiet day. Spike caused all hands to be called, and immediately set about the important business he had before him.

In order that the vessel might be as free as possible, Jack Tier was directed to skull the females ashore, in the brig’s yawl; SeÑor Montefalderon, a man of polished manners, as we maintain is very apt to be the case with Mexican gentlemen, whatever may be the opinion of this good republic on the subject, just at this moment, asked permission to be of the party. Mulford found an opportunity to beg Rose, if they landed at the light, to reconnoitre the place well, with a view to ascertain what facilities it could afford in an attempt to escape. They did land at the light, and glad enough were Mrs. Budd, Rose and Biddy to place their feet on terr firm after so long a confinement to the narrow limits of a vessel.

“Well,” said Jack Tier, as they walked up to the spot where the buildings stood, “this is a rum place for a light’us, Miss Rose, and I don’t wonder the keeper and his messmates has cleared out.”

“I am very sorry to say,” observed SeÑor Montefalderon, whose countenance expressed the concern he really felt, “that the keeper and his only companion, a boy, were on board the schooner, and have perished in her, in common with so many of my poor countrymen. There are the graves of two whom we buried here last evening, after vain efforts to restore them to life!”

“What a dreadful catastrophe it has been, SeÑor,” said Rose, whose sweet countenance eloquently expressed the horror and regret she so naturally felt—“Twenty fellow beings hurried into eternity without even an instant for prayer!”

“You feel for them, SeÑorita—it is natural you should, and it is natural that I, their countryman and leader, should feel for them, also. I do not know what God has in reserve for my unfortunate country! We may have cruel and unscrupulous men among us, SeÑorita, but we have thousands who are just, and brave, and honorable.”

“So Mr. Mulford tells me, SeÑor, and he has been much in your ports, on the west coast.”

“I like that young man, and wonder not a little at his and your situation in this brig—” rejoined the Mexican, dropping his voice so as not to be heard by their companions, as they walked a little ahead of Mrs. Budd and Biddy. “The SeÑor Spike is scarcely worthy to be his commander or your guardian.”

“Yet you find him worthy of your intercourse and trust, Don Juan?”

The Mexican shrugged his shoulders, and smiled equivocally; still, in a melancholy manner. It would seem he did not deem it wise to push this branch of the subject further, since he turned to another.

“I like the SeÑor Mulford,” he resumed, “for his general deportment and principles, so far as I can judge of him on so short an acquaintance.”

“Excuse me, SeÑor,” interrupted Rose, hurriedly “—but you never saw him until you met him here.”

“Never—I understand you, SeÑorita, and can do full justice to the young man’s character. I am willing to think he did not know the errand of his vessel, or I should not have seen him now. But what I most like him for, is this: Last night, during the gale, he and I walked the deck together, for an hour. We talked of Mexico, and of this war, so unfortunate for my country already, and which may become still more so, when he uttered this noble sentiment—‘My country is more powerful than yours, SeÑor Montefalderon,’ he said, ‘and in this it has been more favored by God. You have suffered from ambitious rulers, and from military rule, while we have been advancing under the arts of peace, favored by a most beneficent Providence. As for this war, I know but little about it, though I dare say the Mexican government may have been wrong in some things that it might have controlled and some that it might not—but let right be where it will, I am sorry to see a nation that has taken so firm a stand in favor of popular government, pressed upon so hard by another that is supposed to be the great support of such principles. America and Mexico are neighbors, and ought to be friends, and while I do not, cannot blame my own country for pursuing the war with vigor, nothing would please me more than to hear peace proclaimed.’”

“That is just like Harry Mulford,” said Rose, thoughtfully, as soon as her companion ceased to speak. “I do wish, SeÑor, that there could be no use for this powder, that is now buried in the sea.”

Don Juan Montefalderon smiled, and seemed a little surprised that the fair, young thing at his side should have known of the treacherous contents of the flour-barrels. No doubt he found it inexplicable, that persons like Rose and Mulford should, seemingly, be united with one like Spike; but he was too well bred, and, indeed, too effectually mystified, to push the subject further than might be discreet.

By this time they were near the entrance of the light-house, into which the whole party entered, in a sort of mute awe at its silence and solitude. At SeÑor Montefalderon’s invitation, they ascended to the lantern, whence they could command a wide and fair view of the surrounding waters. The reef was much more apparent from that elevation than from below; and Rose could see that numbers of its rocks were bare, while on other parts of it there was the appearance of many feet of water. Rose gazed at it, with longing eyes, for, from a few remarks that had fallen from Mulford, she suspected he had hopes of escaping among its channels and coral.

As they descended and walked through the buildings, Rose also took good heed of the supplies the place afforded. There were flour, and beef, and pork; and many other of the common articles of food, as well as water in a cistern, that caught it as it flowed from the roof of the dwelling. Water was also to be found in casks—nothing like a spring or a well existing among those islets. All these things Rose noted, putting them aside in her memory for ready reference hereafter.

In the meantime the mariners were not idle. Spike moved his brig, and moored her, head and stern, alongside of the wreck, before the people got their breakfasts. As soon as that meal was ended, both captain and mate set about their duty in earnest. Mulford carried out an anchor on the off side of the Swash, and dropped it, at a distance of about eighty fathoms from the vessel’s beam. Purchases were brought from both mast-heads of the brig to the chain of this anchor, and were hove upon until the vessel was given a heel of more than a streak, and the cable was tolerably taut. Other purchases were got up opposite, and overhauled down, in readiness to take hold of the schooner’s masts. The anchor of the schooner was weighed by its buoy-rope, and the chain, after being rove through the upper or opposite hawse-hole, brought in on board the Swash. Another chain was dropped astern, in such a way, that when the schooner came upright, it would be sure to pass beneath her keel, some six or eight feet from the rudder. Slings were then sunk over the mast-heads, and the purchases were hooked on. Hours were consumed in these preliminary labors, and the people went to dinner as soon as they were completed.

When the men had dined, Spike brought one of his purchases to the windlass, and the other to the capstan, though not until each was bowsed taut by hand; a few minutes having brought the strain so far on every thing, as to enable a seaman, like Spike, to form some judgment of the likelihood that his preventers and purchases would stand. Some changes were found necessary to equalize the strain, but, on the whole, the captain was satisfied with his work, and the crew were soon ordered to “heave-away; the windlass best.”

In the course of half an hour the hull of the vessel, which lay on its bilge, began to turn on its keel, and the heads of the spars to rise above the water. This was the easiest part of the process, all that was required of the purchases being to turn over a mass which rested on the sands of the bay. Aided by the long levers afforded by the spars, the work advanced so rapidly that, in just one hour’s time after his people had begun to heave, Spike had the pleasure to see the schooner standing upright, alongside of his own brig, though still sunk to the bottom. The wreck was secured in this position, by means of guys and preventers, in order that it might not again cant, when the order was issued to hook on the slings that were to raise it to the surface. These slings were the chains of the schooner, one of which went under her keel, while for the other the captain trusted to the strength of the two hawse-holes, having passed the cable out of one and in at the other, in a way to serve his purposes, as has just been stated.

When all was ready, Spike mustered his crew, and made a speech. He told the men that he was about a job that was out of the usual line of their duty, and that he knew they had a right to expect extra pay for such extra work. The schooner contained money, and his object was to get at it. If he succeeded, their reward would be a doubloon a man, which would be earning more than a month’s wages by twenty-four hours’ work. This was enough. The men wanted to hear no more; but they cheered their commander, and set about their task in the happiest disposition possible.

The reader will understand that the object to be first achieved, was to raise a vessel, with a hold filled with flour and gunpowder, from off the bottom of the bay to its surface. As she stood, the deck of this vessel was about six feet under water, and every one will understand that her weight, so long as it was submerged in a fluid as dense as that of the sea, would be much more manageable than if suspended in air. The barrels, for instance, were not much heavier than the water they displaced, and the wood work of the vessel itself, was, on the whole, positively lighter than the element in which it had sunk. As for the water in the hold, that was of the same weight as the water on the outside of the craft, and there had not been much to carry the schooner down, beside her iron, the spars that were out of water, and her ballast. This last, some ten or twelve tons in weight, was in fact the principal difficulty, and alone induced Spike to have any doubts about his eventual success. There was no foreseeing the result until he had made a trial, however, and the order was again given to “heave away.”

To the infinite satisfaction of the Swash’s crew, the weight was found quite manageable, so long as the hull remained beneath the water. Mulford, with three or four assistants, was kept on board the schooner lightening her, by getting the other anchor off her bows, and throwing the different objects overboard, or on the decks of the brig. By the time the bulwarks reached the surface, as much was gained in this way, as was lost by having so much of the lighter wood-work rise above the water. As a matter of course, however, the weight increased as the vessel rose, and more especially as the lower portion of the spars, the bowsprit, boom, &c., from being buoyant assistants, became so much dead weight to be lifted.

Spike kept a watchful eye on his spars, and the extra supports he had given them. He was moving, the whole time, from point to point, feeling shrouds and back-stays, and preventers, in order to ascertain the degree of strain on each, or examining how the purchases stood. As for the crew, they cheered at their toil, incessantly, passing from capstan bars to the handspikes, and vice versa. They, too, felt that their task was increasing in resistance as it advanced, and now found it more difficult to gain an inch, than it had been at first to gain a foot. They seemed, indeed, to be heaving their own vessel out, instead of heaving the other craft up, and it was not long before they had the Swash heeling over toward the wreck several streaks. The strain, moreover, on every thing, became not only severe, but somewhat menacing. Every shroud, back-stay and preventer was as taut as a bar of iron, and the chain-cable that led to the anchor planted off abeam, was as straight as if the brig were riding by it in a gale of wind. One or two ominous surges aloft, too, had been heard, and, though no more than straps and slings settling into their places under hard strains, they served to remind the crew that danger might come from that quarter. Such was the state of things, when Spike called out to “heave and pall,” that he might take a look at the condition of the wreck.

Although a great deal remained to be done, in order to get the schooner to float, a great deal had already been done. Her precise condition was as follows: Having no cabin widows, the water had entered her, when she capsized, by the only four apertures her construction possessed. These were the companion-way, or cabin-doors; the sky-light; the main-hatch, or the large inlet amid-ships, by which cargo went up and down; and the booby-hatch, which was the counterpart of the companion-way, forward; being intended to admit of ingress to the forecastle, the apartment of the crew. Each of these hatch-ways, or orifices, had the usual defences of “coamings,” strong frame-work around their margins. These coamings rose six or eight inches above the deck, and answered the double purpose of strengthening the vessel, in a part, that without them would be weaker than common, and of preventing any water that might be washing about the decks from running below. As soon, therefore, as these three apertures, or their coamings, could be raised above the level of the water of the basin, all danger of the vessel’s receiving any further tribute of that sort from the ocean would be over. It was to this end, consequently, that Spike’s efforts had been latterly directed, though they had only in part succeeded. The schooner possessed a good deal of sheer, as it is termed; or, her two extremities rose nearly a foot above her centre, when on an even keel. This had brought her extremities first to the surface, and it was the additional weight which had consequently been brought into the air, that had so much increased the strain, and induced Spike to pause. The deck forward, as far aft as the foremast, and aft as far forward as the centre of the trunk, or to the sky-light, was above the water, or at least awash; while all the rest of it was covered. In the vicinity of the main-hatch there were several inches of water; enough indeed to leave the upper edge of the coamings submerged by about an inch. To raise the keel that inch by means of the purchases, Spike well knew would cost him more labor, and would incur more risk than all that had been done previously, and he paused before he would attempt it.

The men were now called from the brig and ordered to come on board the schooner. Spike ascertained by actual measurement how much was wanted to bring the coamings of the main-hatch above the water, until which was done, pumping and bailing would be useless. He found it was quite an inch, and was at a great loss to know how that inch should be obtained. Mulford advised another trial with the handspikes and bars, but to this Spike would not consent. He believed that the masts of the brig had already as much pressure on them as they would bear. The mate next proposed getting the main boom off the vessel, and to lighten the craft by cutting away her bowsprit and masts. The captain was well enough disposed to do this, but he doubted whether it would meet with the approbation of “Don Wan,” who was still ashore with Rose and her aunt, and who probably looked forward to recovering his gunpowder by means of those very spars. At length the carpenter hit upon a plan that was adopted.

This plan was very simple, though it had its own ingenuity. It will be remembered that water could now only enter the vessel’s hold at the main-hatch, all the other hatchways having their coamings above the element. The carpenter proposed, therefore, that the main-hatches, which had been off when the tornado occurred, but which had been found on deck when the vessel righted, should now be put on, oakum being first laid along in their rabbetings, and that the cracks should be stuffed with additional oakum, to exclude as much water as possible. He thought that two or three men, by using caulking irons for ten minutes, would make the hatch-way so tight that very little water would penetrate. While this was doing, he himself would bore as many holes forward and aft, as he could, with a two inch augur, out of which the water then in the vessel would be certain to run. Spike was delighted with this project, and gave the necessary orders on the spot.

This much must be said of the crew of the Molly Swash—whatever they did in their own profession, they did intelligently and well. On the present occasion they maintained their claim to this character, and were both active and expert. The hatches were soon on, and, in an imperfect manner, caulked. While this was doing, the carpenter got into a boat, and going under the schooner’s bows, where a whole plank was out of water, he chose a spot between two of the timbers, and bored a hole as near the surface of the water as he dared to do. Not satisfied with one hole, however, he bored many—choosing both sides of the vessel to make them, and putting some aft as well as forward. In a word, in the course of twenty minutes the schooner was tapped in at least a dozen places, and jets of water, two inches in diameter, were spouting from her on each bow, and under each quarter.

Spike and Mulford noted the effect. Some water, doubtless, still worked itself into the vessel about the main-hatch, but that more flowed from her by means of the outlets just named, was quite apparent. After close watching at the outlets for some time, Spike was convinced that the schooner was slowly rising, the intense strain that still came from the brig producing that effect as the vessel gradually became lighter. By the end of half an hour, there could be no longer any doubt, the holes, which had been bored within an inch of the water, being now fully two inches above it. The augur was applied anew, still nearer to the surface of the sea, and as fresh outlets were made, those that began to manifest a dulness in their streams were carefully plugged.

Spike now thought it was time to take a look at the state of things on deck. Here, to his joy, he ascertained that the coamings had actually risen a little above the water. The reader is not to suppose by this rising of the vessel, that she had become sufficiently buoyant, in consequence of the water that had run out of her, to float of herself! This was far from being the case; but the constant upward pressure from the brig, which, on mechanical principles tended constantly to bring that craft upright, had the effect to lift the schooner as the latter was gradually relieved from the weight that pressed her toward the bottom.

The hatches were next removed, when it was found that the water in the schooner’s hold had so far lowered, as to leave a vacant space of quite a foot between the lowest part of the deck and its surface. Toward the two extremities of the vessel this space necessarily was much increased, in consequence of the sheer. Men were now sent into the hatchway with orders to hook on to the flour-barrels—a whip having been rigged in readiness to hoist them on deck. At the same time gangs were sent to the pumps, though Spike still depended for getting rid of the water somewhat on the augur—the carpenter continuing to bore and plug his holes as new opportunities offered, and the old outlets became useless. It was true this expedient would soon cease, for the water having found its level in the vessel’s hold, was very nearly on a level also with that on the outside. Bailing also was commenced, both forward and aft.

Spike’s next material advantage was obtained by means of the cargo. By the time the sun had set, fully two hundred barrels had been rolled into the hatchway, and passed on deck, whence, about half of them, were sent in the light-house boat to the nearest islet, and the remainder were transferred to the deck of the brig. These last were placed on the off side of the Swash, and aided in bringing her nearer upright. A great deal was gained in getting rid of these barrels. The water in the schooner lowered just as much as the space they had occupied, and the vessel was relieved at once of twenty tons in weight.

Just after the sun had set, SeÑor Don Juan Montefalderon and his party returned on board. They had staid on the island to the last moment, at Rose’s request, for she had taken as close an observation of every thing, as possible, in order to ascertain if any means of concealment existed, in the event of her aunt, Biddy, and herself quitting the brig. The islets were all too naked and too small, however; and she was compelled to return to the Swash, without any hopes derived from this quarter.

Spike had just directed the people to get their suppers as the Mexican came on board. Together they descended to the schooner’s deck, where they had a long but secret conference. SeÑor Montefalderon was a calm, quiet and reasonable man, and while he felt as one would be apt to feel, who had recently seen so many associates swept suddenly out of existence, the late catastrophe did not in the least unman him. It is too much the habit of the American people to receive their impressions from newspapers, which throw off their articles unreflectingly, and often ignorantly, as crones in petticoats utter their gossip. In a word, the opinions thus obtained are very much on a level, in value, with the thoughts of those who are said to think aloud, and who give utterance to all the crudities and trivial rumors that may happen to reach their ears. In this manner, we apprehend, very false notions of our neighbors of Mexico have become circulated among us. That nation is a mixed race, and has necessarily the various characteristics of such an origin, and it is unfortunately little influenced by the diffusion of intelligence which certainly exists here. Although an enemy, it ought to be acknowledged, however, that even Mexico has her redeeming points. Anglo-Saxons as we are, we have no desire to unnecessarily illustrate that very marked feature in the Anglo-Saxon character, which prompts the mother stock to calumniate all who oppose it, but would rather adopt some of that chivalrous courtesy of which so much that is lofty and commendable is to be found among the descendants of Old Spain.

The SeÑor Montefalderon was earnestly engaged in what he conceived to be the cause of his country. It was scarcely possible to bring together two men impelled by motives more distinct than Spike and this gentleman. The first was acting under impulses of the lowest and most groveling nature; while the last was influenced by motives of the highest. However much Mexico may, and has, weakened her cause by her own punic faith, instability, military oppression, and political revolutions, giving to the Texans in particular, ample justification for their revolt, it was not probable that Don Juan Montefalderon saw the force of all the arguments that a casuist of ordinary ingenuity could certainly adduce against his country; for it is a most unusual thing to find a man any where, who is willing to admit that the positions of an opponent are good. He saw in the events of the day, a province wrested from his nation; and, in his reasoning on the subject, entirely overlooking the numerous occasions on which his own fluctuating government had given sufficient justification, not to say motives, to their powerful neighbors, to take the law into their own hands, and redress themselves; he fancied all that has occurred was previously planned, instead of regarding it, as it truly is, as merely the result of political events, that no man could have foreseen, that no man had originally imagined, or that any man could control.

Don Juan understood Spike completely, and quite justly appreciated not only his character, but his capabilities. Their acquaintance was not of a day, though it had ever been marked by that singular combination of caution and reliance that is apt to characterize the intercourse between the knave and the honest man, when circumstances compel not only communication, but, to a certain extent, confidence. They now paced the deck of the schooner, side by side, for fully an hour, during which time the price of the vessel, the means, and the mode of payment and transfer, were fully settled between them.

“But what will you do with your passengers, Don Esteban?” asked the Mexican pleasantly, when the more material points were adjusted. “I feel a great interest in the young lady in particular, who is a charming seÑorita, and who tells me that her aunt brought her this voyage on account of her health. She looks much too blooming to be out of health, and if she were, this is a singular voyage for an invalid to make!”

“You don’t understand human natur’ yet, altogether, I see, Don Wan,” answered Spike, chuckling and winking. “As you and I are not only good friends, but what a body may call old friends, I’ll let you into a secret in this affair, well knowing that you’ll not betray it. It’s quite true that the old woman thinks her niece is a pulmonory, as they call it, and that this v’y’ge is recommended for her, but the gal is as healthy as she’s handsom’.”

“Her constitution, then, must be very excellent, for it is seldom I have seen so charming a young woman. But if the aunt is misled in this matter, how has it been with the niece?”

Spike did not answer in words, but he leered upon his companion, and he winked.

“You mean to be understood that you are in intelligence with each other, I suppose, Don Esteban,” returned the SeÑor Montefalderon, who did not like the captain’s manner, and was willing to drop the discourse.

Spike then informed his companion, in confidence, that he and Rose were affianced, though without the aunt’s knowledge. That he intended to marry the niece the moment he reached a Mexican port with the brig, and that it was their joint intention to settle in the country. He added that the affair required management, as his intended had property, and expected more, and he begged Don Juan to aid him, as things drew near to a crisis. The Mexican evaded an answer, and the discourse dropped.

The moon was now shining, and would continue to throw its pale light over the scene for two or three hours longer. Spike profited by the circumstance to continue the work of lightening the schooner. One of the first things done next was to get up the dead, and to remove them to the boat. This melancholy office occupied an hour, the bodies being landed on the islet, near the powder, and there interred in the sands. Don Juan Montefalderon attended on this occasion, and repeated some prayers over the graves, as he had done in the morning, in the cases of the two who had been buried near the light-house.

While this melancholy duty was in the course of performance, that of pumping and bailing was continued, under the immediate personal superintendance of Mulford. It would not be easy to define, with perfect clearness, the conflicting feelings by which the mate of the Swash was now impelled. He had no longer any doubt on the subject of Spike’s treason, and had it not been for Rose, he would not have hesitated a moment about making off in the light-house boat for Key West, in order to report all that had passed to the authorities. But not only Rose was there, and to be cared for, but what was far more difficult to get along with, her aunt was with her. It is true Mrs. Budd was no longer Spike’s dupe; but under any circumstances she was a difficult subject to manage, and most especially so in all matters that related to the sea. Then the young man submitted, more or less, to the strange influence which a fine craft almost invariably obtains over those that belong to her. He did not like the idea of deserting the Swash, at the very moment he would not have hesitated about punishing her owner for his many misdeeds. In a word, Harry was too much of a tar not to feel a deep reluctance to turn against his cruise, or his voyage, however much either might be condemned by his judgment, or even by his principles.

It was quite nine o’clock when the SeÑor Montefalderon and Spike returned from burying the dead. No sooner did the last put his foot on the deck of his own vessel, than he felt the fall of one of the purchases which had been employed in raising the schooner. It was so far slack as to satisfy him that the latter now floated by her own buoyancy, though it might be well to let all stand until morning, for the purposes of security. Thus apprised of the condition of the two vessels, he gave the welcome order to “knock-off for the night.”

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BY LIEUT. G. W. PATTON.

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OR KATE WILSON’S MORNING VISIT.

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BY ENNA DUVAL.

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“I have just been visiting Miss Agnes Lincoln,” said my young friend Kate Wilson to me one morning. “Truly, Miss Enna, she is the most charming woman I have ever known—always excepting, of course, your own dear self. Though no longer young, she is still beautiful—intelligent, clever, without the slightest tinge of pedantry; gentle and loveable. Why is it that she has never married? She has been a devoted daughter and sister; I have always felt surprise and regret that she should not have been a wife.”

The tone of voice told the regret which those words expressed, and caused me to smile as I looked at my bright-eyed friend, who, being on the eve of marriage herself with one she loved very dearly, thought, of course, the married state the only true vocation for a woman.

“But, Kate,” I replied, “Agnes Lincoln has always had duties sufficient to employ her in her home circle—her heart has been too much occupied with providing for the comfort of her brothers and sisters, and nursing a poor invalid mother, to go out on voyages, in order to seek a fellow heart, or to attend to the said fellow heart, should it come wooing. Only unoccupied, free-from-care bodies, like your sweet self, can find time to fall in love and marry?—”

“Nonsense!” said the blushing Kate, “do not tease me with such badinage. I wish you would tell me Miss Lincoln’s history—romantic I have already determined it is—for those deep, dark eyes of hers give evidences, by their bright flashings at times, of the existence of a fount of passion, which, I am sure, must have welled up and bubbled over at some period of her life. You have known her intimately from girlhood, Miss Duval, come, tell me the tale. See, it is the very time for a long story, we are certain of being alone, no stupid visiters will interrupt us, for those threatening, overhanging clouds are already beginning to let down their watery contents—the fire snaps and sparkles in a most sociable manner, and I will spend the whole day with you in this cheery little room of yours.”

Accordingly she threw aside her bonnet and shawl—pushed what she called “the troublesome desk, and still more wearying work-basket,” away from me, then throwing herself on a low ottoman beside me, looked most persuasively into my face for the web of romance she was determined I should weave, and with the air of one determined not to be denied.

“Do you deserve, Kate,” I said, “that I should entertain you, when you seem to think so slightingly of the mission of my sisterhood? Saucy girl! are old maids always to be regarded by such sparkling, merry witches like yourself, as leading lives useless to both man and womankind?”

“No, no, dear Miss Enna,” exclaimed the lovely girl, as she gathered her graceful limbs on her favorite seat beside me, in order to make her dear little luxurious form still more comfortable, gazing into my face with her bright dancing eyes, and holding my hands caressingly, “Heaven knows, I have had need to bless the sisterhood, for what would I have been without such a dear, good, kind—” I stopped her rosy flattering lips with my hand, and yielded to her request. Kate Wilson promised to be lenient should my story have less of interest and romance in it than she expected—will you, my dear reader, be as merciful and indulgent?

As Kate said, I had known Agnes Lincoln from girlhood—yes, babyhood—for we had been introduced by our proud, happy mothers to each other, in our first long dresses, and had taken infinite delight, so our nurses had said, in tearing the blue and pink cockades off of each other’s caps. We were always warm friends; went to the same schools, and, as our parents were intimate, when we grew up visited in the same circles. Agnes’ father was the senior member of one of the most opulent firms in the city—his wealth was said to be immense, and truly they lived in a style of princely magnificence. She was the eldest of several children. The three next to her died in infancy, which made quite a difference between her and the other children in point of age. Her mother was a woman of exceedingly delicate frame, and sickness and the distress she had suffered on losing her children, weakened still more a mind never very strong. I always remember her as an invalid—surrounded by every luxury wealth could purchase; possessing a doting husband and a family of noble children; yet always repining and melancholy.

Agnes had been educated by her father with exceeding great care; and as she grew up was a most agreeable companion for him. He accompanied her into society; they studied, rode, drove and walked together; indeed one could rarely see them apart. How proud was he of her; and he lavished every costly gift upon her with an unsparing hand. She was beautiful—a tall, splendid looking creature—a fine erect figure, with the bearing of a queen, and a head fitted for a Zenobia—but the classic severity of her features was softened by the most melting, lovely eyes, and the gentle melodious tones of her voice were bewitching. Beautiful, rich and young, of course Agnes Lincoln was a belle. She had been full two years in society, and to the surprise of her friends she was still disengaged. “I shall never marry, Enna,” she would say to me, in answer to my playful reproaches upon her want of susceptibility—“how could my poor mother or lonely father spare me?” and at last I began to think, as many others did, that Agnes was one of those born to a life of “single blessedness,” when

became known to her. Agnes’ choice surprised us all. Evart Berkely was a young merchant reputed wealthy, but not at all agreeable or pleasing to my fancy. He was handsome and tolerably intelligent—had been well educated and had traveled abroad, bringing with him from his travels various “foreign airs and graces,” which did not improve his agreeability to my taste. He was certainly much inferior to Agnes in point of intellect; but she loved him nevertheless. I always thought him a cold, calculating man, and the passionate love he expressed for my beautiful friend seemed so unnatural, falling from his cold unexpressive lips. Mr. Lincoln was at first as much dissatisfied and surprised at Agnes’ choice as the rest of her friends; but when he discovered how completely her whole heart was given up to this infatuation, as he could make no serious objection to the gentleman, he quickly quieted all expressions of disapprobation, and only stipulated that their engagement should be a long one, pleading his wife’s health and his own lonely state as excuses. The lover, of course, was impatient at these obstacles, but Agnes, always alive to her father’s happiness, steadily refused to shorten the period of two years, decided upon by her father. Evart was a devoted lover, and seemed to exist only in the presence of his mistress; and dear Agnes was so supremely happy—I fancifully imagined her beauty increased under this new influence of love.

She had been engaged to Evart Berkely about a year, when one evening we all met at Mr. Lincoln’s, on our way to a gay private ball. I had always gone into society with Agnes and Mr. Lincoln; for my mother dying while I was quite a young girl, my father had been so deeply affected by her death—as she had been to him companion, guide, and comforter—that he avoided all society, and sought consolation in close application to his profession. He had been from boyhood on the closest terms of intimacy with Mr. Lincoln, and willingly consented that I should accompany Agnes on her entrance into society, under Mr. Lincoln’s care. Accordingly, on the night I allude to, I had been driven to Mr. Lincoln’s, that I might be one of their party. I particularize this one evening, for it was the most eventful night of Agnes’ life—the turning point in her existence. Events occurred on that night which gave the stamp and impress to her future. I remember thinking, as I looked upon her, after the completion of her toilette, that I had never seen her so magnificently beautiful. Her father and lover were rather gorgeous in their tastes, and to please them Agnes always dressed with more splendor than accorded with her own fancy; but the peculiar style of her beauty was well suited to this manner of dressing. Her tall, full form could well bear the heavy folds of rich drapery that always swept around her, and the brilliant jewels that gleamed and flashed in her dark hair, and on her snowy throat and arms, were admitted by even the most fastidious to be in good taste. She was the daughter of a reputed millionaire, beautiful and noble-looking—costly garments and rich gems seemed well fitted for her. It was a grand ball we were going to, and after spending the accustomed half hour in Mr. Lincoln’s library, he gave us into Evart Berkely’s charge. Agnes entreated her father to accompany her with more than her customary earnestness; but he pleaded indolence, and laughingly reminded her that her lover’s presence should be sufficient. I could not account for the tinge of sadness that gloomed over her features; and when Evart and I rallied her on her absence of mind, during our drive to the ball, she frankly confessed her feelings were unaccountable, and said she had been suffering all day from a vague, indefinable sense of approaching evil. We cheered her, and attributed her feelings to nervousness; what evil could one so prosperous and happy have to fear?

As usual, she was the centre of attraction, and crowds followed her. Evart hovered around her incessantly, and her quiet, happy looks, as she received his attentions, so openly offered, were to me most fascinating. Her sadness and home yearnings seemed to melt before the bright light of the ball-room, and the merry laughter and gay looks of her friends, put to flight all gloomy thoughts. I thought I had never heard her voice so melodious, her laugh more buoyant, nor her dancing so graceful; she appeared as the embodiment of happiness. During the course of the evening, I was standing alone by a window, in a recess, that opened into a conservatory, almost, if not quite, hidden by the folds of the drapery, enjoying, in a sort of dreamy state, the rich odors of the flowers, and the bewitching strains of the music. The movements of the crowd brought two old gentlemen directly in front of me, in such a manner that I could not have moved if I had wished from my hiding-place.

“Hugh Lincoln’s daughter is a beautiful creature,” said one to the other.

“She is, indeed,” replied the friend, “and she dresses like a sultana—look at her magnificent gems and gorgeous clothing. Hugh Lincoln has been a fortunate man, and his daughter will be a rich wife for the one that marries her.”

“May be so, and may be not,” said the first speaker; “one cannot tell how a man’s estate may turn out while still engaged in business. Hugh Lincoln has been a bold, daring merchant; he always incurs fearful risks, and although he has hitherto been fortunate, one turning of luck may sweep all his grandeur from him—for he perils all on every great speculation.”

“She is engaged,” said the friend, “to young Berkely, who is so constantly with her. He is a shrewd, calculating fellow; one might feel certain of Hugh Lincoln’s wealth by the mere knowledge of that engagement.”

A movement of the crowd took place, and the two worldly old croakers, as I deemed them, passed away. I kept my place, and my thoughts were filled with Agnes and her future. Vague forebodings pressed upon me, and all my old dislike and distrust of Evart returned to me. Low passionate murmurings of love came next upon my ear. Evart and Agnes stood beside me with the heavy folds of the curtain between us, and I became again an unintentional listener. Evart poured out the most fervent expressions of love—he besought my friend to delay their wedding no longer.

“Think, my idolized one,” he murmured, “how long has been my probation already.”

“No, no, Evart,” replied Agnes, steadily, “do not urge me. My father, who, from my earliest recollection has been devoted to my happiness, asks me to delay my marriage. I will not act against his wishes. It would be but a poor promise for our future happiness were I to be thus regardless of my father’s comfort. Adel is too young to supply my place to him for a year or two yet. We are together constantly, and a year will soon pass around.”

“And the coming year may see you wedded to another,” exclaimed her lover passionately.

“Evart,” said Agnes, reproachfully, “have I not promised to be your wife?”

“But, Agnes,” replied Evart, in hurried words, “suppose sorrow were to overtake me—men in business are daily exposed to ruin—what then could I depend on? Your father would never consent to your marriage with a bankrupt; and to my troubles would be added the fearful necessity of yielding you up forever.”

“Say not so, dear Evart,” replied Agnes, in earnest, loving tones; “in the hour of trouble you would be dearer to me, if possible, than now. I have promised to be your wife—I hold that promise sacred, believe me; and, moreover, I know my father’s generous nature too well to think as you do—in misfortune he would be kinder to you than in prosperity. But why talk of misfortune—are there any clouds on your business horizon? Come, tell me your troubles, and if you are, indeed, on the eve of bankruptcy, which Heaven avert, seek advice from my father; never fear, Evart, he will willingly assist you; and if it would lighten your heart in the midst of such affliction, I would be your wife instantly; in such a case my father would no longer object—you would need the consoling society of a wife more than he would need his daughter;” and Agnes’ face wore a look of mingled affection and anxiety as she took his hand.

“Truly,” exclaimed Evart, laughing, “I have half a mind to declare myself a bankrupt, if it would have that effect. But do not look so anxiously, my blessed one—my affairs are in a most prosperous condition. I was wrong to alarm you, yet it proved to me your love, dearest, which, indeed, I sometimes am weak enough to doubt. I torment myself with a thousand fancies. You are so beautiful, Agnes, so superior—I so unworthy of you, that I am always fearing a change in your feelings.”

“Now that is really unkind, Evart,” was Agnes’ reproachful answer; “am I prone to changing—who have I ever loved but you? You should not be thus suspicious, or you will make me fearful of change, not in myself but in you.”

Then followed from Evart the most fervent, passionate declarations, which were interrupted by the approach of some friends, who came to seek their assistance in forming a favorite dance; and I escaped from my hiding-place. I was so intimate with Agnes—her second self, as she playfully called me—that I felt no annoyance at having been forced to play the listener to her love scene; on the contrary, congratulated myself that no stranger, or mere acquaintance, had been in my place. I descended from the steps of the window into the conservatory, and spent a full hour in examining the beautiful plants—imagining myself in fairy land. The pure, beautiful light shed from the alabaster vases, which, containing lamps, were placed in different parts of the conservatory; the bewitching tones of music that came sweeping from the ball-room, and the soft night air that poured in from the open, outer windows, all heightened the illusion, and I fancied I was listening to the divine spirit-melody of the flower-sylphs, and inhaling their balmy atmosphere. How every moment of that night is impressed upon my memory; every word, every change of feeling—all were treasured up.

I was roused from my delicious reveries by Agnes and Evart, who came to announce to me it was time to retire. “As usual,” said Agnes, tenderly putting her arm around me, “I find you dreaming waking visions among the flowers. I fear my sad thoughts, dear Enna, have flown to you. I was so full of vague forebodings, when I left home, and now they have all vanished. I am as happy and light-hearted as I have ever been in my life; every thing around me seems to wear a fairy, heavenly hue.”

Thus she chatted away during our drive home. We bade her good night at Mr. Lincoln’s door, and the carriage drove away, bearing us to our own homes—one short half-hour after, and the same carriage bore me back again to that house in deep affliction. Agnes, after bidding us good night, entered the hall, and was proceeding up the stair-case to her own room, when, as she passed the library, she saw the library light still burning, which was to her a notice of her father’s waiting up for her return. She entered with a light heart and a merry song. Her father was seated in his chair, leaning his head forward on his reading-desk, apparently asleep. She bent over him to awaken him by gentle caresses, but ere her lips touched his brow, the expression of his face startled her. She gave one long, searching look, then uttered a piercing shriek of agony, which startled the whole house. He was dead. There, in that solitary room, his spirit had taken flight, alone, without daughter or friend beside him to receive his parting words of love. Poor Agnes! with what agony she leaned over him—vainly calling on him to speak to her—to look, if only once more, upon his own Agnes. It was a sad sight—this beautiful girl bending over her dead father—her rich drapery falling heavily around her, and her magnificent hair, which had escaped from the circlet of gems which bound it, swept the ground, making her pale face appear still more pallid, as its heavy, dark masses hung over her fair shoulders. Her earnest, heart-rending appeals were terrifying; not a tear flowed from her dark eyes—they seemed distended with agony; and the physicians who had been hastily summoned feared that the shock would deprive her of reason, if not of life. I at last succeeded in leading her away from her father, and, exhausted by her intense grief, she lay for hours in a heavy stupor.

Every means were resorted to, to restore Mr. Lincoln—but all in vain. The physicians, after an examination, decided that he had labored under an affection of the heart, unconsciously, for some time; that he had been on the brink of the grave for many months, undoubtedly—he, who had seemed so healthy; and this it was which had caused his death, which they thought had taken place some time before Agnes’ return, and with little or no suffering, possibly without a consciousness of the approaching fearful change. Poor Agnes! her sufferings were intense, but her naturally strong mind, and strict sense of duty, aided her, when in the morning, after the heavy stupor of exhaustion had passed away, the fearful consciousness of her great sorrow arose vividly before her. She recollected there were others to suffer, who were weaker to bear—her poor invalid mother, and fatherless brothers and sisters. She wept long and bitterly, when her eyes opened upon my tearful, anxious face, as I bent over her. I blessed those tears, for I knew they would relieve her. She at last, however, bowed meekly to the burden imposed upon her, and hastened to soothe and comfort her almost heart-broken mother, and the poor startled, weeping children.

Everybody grieved for Mr. Lincoln, for he was much beloved; “but,” said the out-of-doors world, “how fortunate are his family, possessing wealth in the midst of their sorrow. Mr. Lincoln has left them an immense fortune to comfort them in their affliction;” as if money could compensate for the loss of loved ones. Agnes would have gladly toiled for their daily bread to have purchased one look from those eyes closed in death, one accent of love from those cold, livid lips. After the funeral, Mr. Lincoln’s will was opened. It was one made three or four years previous to his death; and my father was one of the executors, and sole guardian to the children. This will had been made previous to Agnes’ engagement; but in it Mr. Lincoln expressed a wish, almost a command, that if ever Agnes married, my father should insist upon having the greater part of her immense fortune settled upon her.

A week or two passed by, when one evening my father returned home from his office, later than usual, and his face wore an anxious, troubled expression. Some case of more than ordinary misery and sadness, I thought, has come before him, in which fate has woven a darker weft of trouble. I hastened to procure for him the soothing cup of tea, which he so much loved, and sat beside his chair, as he silently despatched his light meal, expecting every moment to hear the new tale of human suffering—but I was disappointed; my father drank his tea quietly, and it was not until the tea-service was removed, and I seated at my sewing-table beside his large arm-chair, that the good, kind old man broke the silence.

“Enna, my child,” he said, in gloomy tones, “poor Agnes Lincoln, her mother and those fatherless children are penniless.”

“Penniless—impossible!” I exclaimed. “I thought Mr. Hugh Lincoln was admitted to be immensely wealthy.”

“His immense wealth,” said my father, “proves to be a magnificent dream—a shining bubble. He must have been lamentably ignorant of his own affairs, for things have evidently been going wrong for some months past. Such wild, mad-cap speculations as the house have engaged in, I am sure my sensible, prudent friend would never have countenanced.”

I now understood the allusions of the old gentleman, in the first conversation which I had overheard in the ball-room, the night of Mr. Lincoln’s fearful death, and I repeated them to my father.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “daring indeed have been their operations, and not only that, but reckless and wild in the extreme. I remember now, although I gave but little heed at the time, noticing in Hugh Lincoln, for some months past, a heavy, growing indolence, as I deemed it. It must have proceeded from his fatal disease, and he has left the affairs of the concern in the hands of the junior partners, who have mismanaged not only wildly but wickedly. Poor fellow! he has been spared the sorrow, but what is to become of the poor invalid widow and orphans? Six little helpless creatures beside Agnes—Adel is not more than fourteen?”

“Scarcely thirteen,” I replied.

“Poor creatures!” exclaimed my father, brushing a tear aside. “But we must do all that we can for them. I am a poor man, but what little I have shall be freely shared with Hugh Lincoln’s children.”

“You forget, my dear father,” I said, “that Agnes is engaged to Evart Berkely.”

“True,” replied my father. “But, Enna, I have very little confidence in him; I only hope Agnes may not love him too dearly, for I very much fear that Evart’s love is rather too weak to bear the present news.”

“Does he know of the insolvency of the firm?” I inquired.

“Oh, yes,” said my father, “the mere suspicion of the insolvency of such a firm as Lincoln, Murray & Co., would of course spread like wild-fire. I never dreamed of such a thing myself, however, and heard this morning with great surprise, on going to my office, from an old merchant, that it had been rumored for several days. You must break it to Agnes, poor girl.”

“You think Evart Berkely knows of it?” I said, after a long silence.

“Oh, yes,” replied my father, “I met him in company with some other merchants this afternoon, and he spoke of Mr. Lincoln only as he would of any other well-known merchant, and united in self congratulations with some others as to being unaffected, fortunately, by the failure—not at all in the tone of one interested in his family.”

The conversation between Agnes and Evart returned to my memory, and I contrasted his feelings with hers—how differently would she have acted had he been overtaken by poverty. “But,” said I to myself in the morning, when preparing for my customary visit to Agnes, “it may be but fancy after all—we may be wronging Evart; he did not choose to exhibit his feelings before a crowd of men,” and with this consolatory conclusion, I set out on my walk.

I ascended the broad steps of Agnes’ noble residence, and passed through the wide hall and up the spacious stair-case, noting the magnificence of the furniture with a sigh. I entered the library, where I was told I would find Agnes. It was a grand, noble room, and in its adornments proved that immense wealth had been guided by the subduing hand of taste. It was lighted from above; the brick-and-mortar world without was completely unknown in that stately room; only the blue sky by day, and the bright stars by night, could be seen. The soft, unworldly light gleamed down on beautiful works of art, rare and costly pieces of sculpture, medals, gems, and here and there alcoves filled with the productions of those whom the intellectual world call Masters.

I paused at the threshold unheard by Agnes, who was writing at an escritoir—my eyes wandered over this intellectual Paradise and then rested upon the Eve. I was struck with the impression of her face; it bore a more beaming, hopeful look than I had seen on it since the night of her father’s death. “Poor girl!” I sighed to myself, “how soon is that brilliant expression to be dimmed by the care-clouds of life—not only heart trials, but poverty, privation, and, worse than all to your noble spirit—dependence.”

I moved forward, but the luxurious carpet told no tales of my foot-falls, and my hand rested on her shoulder ere she was aware of my entrance. She looked up, and her eyes were gleaming with tears—not tears of sadness—and a bright flush rested on her hitherto pale cheeks; I looked surprised, and she noting it said in trembling tones,

“Ah! dear Enna, I never valued the possession of wealth before. Read this letter, dearest, while I finish the answer.”

I took from her hands an open letter—it was from Evart, written the previous night, announcing anticipated severe and heavy losses, and freeing her from her engagement—he could not, he said, ask her to wed a penniless man—and after lamenting in a fine round period his unworthiness of her, his misery and wretchedness, concluded with a farewell forever. After I concluded the note, I felt that my father was right, my hands dropped before me, and for a few moments I felt as in a dream—a spell was over me—I could not tell my poor wronged friend the real truth—at last she broke the silence.

“Ah! Enna,” were her words, “I bless Heaven I have enough for both. My share of my poor father’s princely fortune will fully cover his losses, and again establish him in life. How unkind and yet how natural is his note—poor Evart! I can fancy his wretchedness when releasing me from my engagement—and he must have known it was useless—but I cannot censure him—even thus would I have acted had the loss of fortune happened to me.”

“Would you, dear Agnes?” said I, throwing my arms over her beautiful neck caressingly.

“Indeed would I, Enna,” she replied sadly. “It would have been a hard duty, but steadily would I have performed it.”

“Agnes,” I said, in low, earnest tones, inwardly imploring for assistance and strength in my painful task, “that duty is required of you. You are the penniless one instead of Evart. He is as prosperous as ever, but you, my poor friend, are bereft of all—but friends.”

She gazed wildly at me, then with one low wailing cry of deep agony became insensible. She was laid on her couch, surrounded by all the appliances of wealth so soon to be taken from her, and the heavy stupor that hung over her spirit the bitter hours after her father’s death ensued. But I knew her inward strength, and although I could scarcely pray for her recovery to such misery as would be hers, I felt that the helpless ones dependent on her for consolation would, as in the former dark hours, sustain her. The heavy clouds passed over, and she at last aroused her suffering broken spirit.

“Where are the letters?” she murmured in low tones.

“One I destroyed, dearest,” I replied—“the other?—”

“Destroy it likewise, Enna, and help me to forget. I have others to think of now,” and with a quiet look of repressed agony she hastily employed herself in preparing for their future change of circumstances. Evart was never alluded to by any one; and day after day she engaged herself in entering into the investigation of her father’s affairs, with the firm, quiet air of a woman of business. The investigation proved only the painful truth—ruin, hopeless ruin stared them in the face—every thing was swept from them. Poor Mrs. Lincoln had seemed overwhelmed with sorrow at her husband’s death, but this new grief appeared to her weak, indolent nature still harder to bear, and she helplessly implored to be taken from life.

“For myself, dear Mr. Duval,” said my friend, in a calm voice, but the tones of which showed repressed suffering, “I care not—I can endure hardships—but my poor mother, how can she bear the change?”

“You will all come to us, dear Agnes, and we will be as one family,” said my kind father, as they at last ended the careful examination of the affairs. “You and Enna have always been as sisters, my poor dead wife loved your mother as a sister. The income my profession yields you and Enna can manage so as to supply us all. We will live plainly but happily, I know. You are both sufficiently well informed to educate the girls, and Adel will soon be old enough to assist you. Horace and Frank will in a few years be able to help themselves, and supply my place when I grow too old to fill the purse.”

Agnes sat by the table quietly gazing as upon vacancy, when my dear, good father commenced his kind plan, and as he proceeded her dark eyes beamed with childlike fondness on the good old man.

“Surely Heaven will bless you and yours, dear Mr. Duval, for being thus kind to the widowed and fatherless,” she exclaimed, as he concluded. “But I must not accept your kind offer. Your plan, however, has confirmed me in the scheme I have been forming for some days past. If I am sufficiently well fitted to take charge of my sisters’ education, why not of others? If you will aid me I will open a school.”

The thought was a good one, and my father, finding Agnes steady in her determination yielded, and used every endeavor to forward her in her project. The creditors had refused to accept the costly wardrobe and magnificent jewels belonging to Mrs. Lincoln and Agnes. These were disposed of, and the money arising from their sale was appropriated by Agnes to the furnishing of her new establishment.

“I take this money only as a loan,” said Agnes to my father. “If I am spared, and have health and strength, at some future time it shall be returned. I never shall feel light-hearted until my father’s liabilities are all satisfied.”

A house was procured, every thing arranged for the opening of the school; and it was announced in society, that the Miss Lincoln who had been “the glass of fashion and the mould of form,” a few short months before, was about to enter the work-day world as a teacher. Much is said and much written about summer-friends—those who hover around the favorites of fortune, then flee from them in the dark hour of sorrow—but truly I have seen but little of such heartlessness, long as I have lived in the world. People do not wish to desert those who are in trouble. There is more of kindness of heart and sympathy in the world than we are willing to give credit for. Circumstances and events press so quickly in this life of change, that when one amongst us is stricken down, although we grieve, we are urged on in the stream, and though we would gladly aid our sinking companion, we are hurried on unconsciously. But let the stricken one give signs of life—evidences of aiding itself, then all are ready to give a helping hand. The race must be completed—life’s journey accomplished—but any one exhibiting a desire to unite in the struggle is willingly assisted. So was it with the friends of Agnes Lincoln. Had she weakly yielded to her troubles, and shown no disposition to aid herself, the world would have felt sorry for her, but they would have had no time to tarry by the way-side—but when she appeared amongst them prepared to take her part in life’s great contest, they willingly united to help her forward.

Agnes Lincoln’s accomplishments, her elegant manners—her strong mind, all her good qualities, were remembered; and mothers and fathers, who had admired the beautiful girl in society, hastened to place under her care their own daughters, asking that she might make them like her own lovely self, and they would be satisfied. She entered heart and soul into her new vocation; and hers became the most popular establishment in the city. In the course of two or three years the small house had to be changed, and a residence as large as her father’s princely mansion taken, in order to accommodate her large school. The luxurious comforts, necessary to her mother’s happiness, were gratified; her brothers and sisters carefully attended to; but her own wants were few, indeed. She was most carefully and studiously economical. Every year she deposited in my father’s hands, a sum of money, small at first, but gradually increasing, which she, with a sad smile, called her father’s fund; this was devoted to the settling off the remaining accounts against her father.

Noble creature! how every one revered her as she moved steadily on in the path of her duty. Hers was not an easy life; hard mental labor, from morning till night, she endured for many years. At day-dawn she was up, superintending her household, and directing the studies of those pupils who resided with her. The influence she exercised over those entrusted to her care, was a subject of remark. Her commands were insisted upon with words of love, but looks of firmness. Her girls hovered around her, quietly watching every glance; and in that whole troop of young, thoughtless creatures, the most of them the indulged, spoiled children of fortune, not one but would have dreaded to disobey the simplest request of their gentle teacher.

We met daily, as formerly, and I still was to her the confidante and bosom friend I had been in the days of her wealth. She never spoke of Evart—we both avoided all allusion to him; and when, a few years after their separation, he married a wealthy woman from a neighboring city, and his marriage was mentioned before her, by those who knew not of her former connection with him, or else had forgotten it, a mere acquaintance could not have detected any trace or evidence of feeling. The marble paleness of her cheek, the firm closed mouth, and quiet, but sad look, which told of inward suffering, betrayed to me, however, that her thoughts were with the past, and I noticed in her, for some time after, a closer attendance to her duties—not one moment, night or day, left unoccupied; and her brow bore a more serious expression, that told of self-combatings and heart-struggles.

Year after year passed, and Agnes had the satisfaction of seeing her sisters growing up charming women, admired in society, and her two brothers displaying the good qualities, and honorable, high spirits of their father. By her exertions they were educated; and ten years after her father’s death she paid off his last debt, and had the pleasure of seeing her eldest brother, Horace, who had just completed his studies, enter his profession as a partner with my father. The little Frank, her father’s darling, would be nothing but a merchant, as his father had been, and was dreaming seventeen-year-old visions of future grandeur, such as his father had probably dreamed at his age, and realized. He would wreath his mother’s fretful, complaining countenance with smiles, as he would describe the wealth he intended to accumulate, and the splendid things that should once more be hers. Two weddings were celebrated by Agnes—her two sisters, Adel and Mary, who married upright and warm-hearted men, prosperous in business; and Agnes felt almost a maternal pride as she furnished their houses, and provided the wedding wardrobes. The world wondered she did not marry, for her beauty never left her, nor were opportunities wanting. Many a fond, widowed father would have gladly persuaded the idolized teacher of their daughters to share their fortunes; but she calmly and quietly refused all offers, and seemed at last to find real happiness in her business.

Fifteen years passed by, and found Agnes still at her post. One only of those little ones, bequeathed by a loving father to her care, remained under her roof—and she was soon to leave Agnes to become a wife. All were married, happy, and well. The poor old mother had at last ceased all wailings, and had laid down to her long rest, when a new care devolved upon Agnes. Evart Berkely, who had appeared for years to be a prosperous man, and thought by many to possess great wealth, suddenly failed, and in a moment of despair put a violent end to his existence. His wife had died some five or six years before, many said of a broken-heart; and his three children were left upon the world homeless orphans. Evart left a letter, commending his children to Agnes, who, he said, had promised to be a mother to his children, should they ever need her care. Then was disclosed what Agnes had kept a secret. A year after his wife’s death, he had again sought Agnes; but his overtures were indignantly rejected by her; he continued his addresses by letters for some time, until Agnes refused to receive them, returning them unopened, saying, however, in her final note, that, should his children ever be left alone in life, she would be a mother to them; and to her home did she take those helpless ones, and devoted herself to her business with renewed energy to provide for their support and future establishment in life. People shrugged their shoulders, and called her conduct Quixotic and absurd, but the good and kind-hearted applauded her.

When my young friend, Kate Wilson, requested me to relate the history of Agnes, forty-five years had stealthily crept over her, but even the bitter, bleak winters of her adversity had failed to whiten her dark locks, or dim those beaming eyes—time had dealt gently with her beauty. Evart’s children have proved as blessings to her, and by them, and by her brothers and sisters, and by their children, Agnes is revered almost as a saint.

“Ah, Kate, Kate,” I said, as I arrived at this part of my “ower true tale,” “has not Agnes Lincoln’s lot, as an old maid, been quite as useful, and still more happy, than she would have been as Evart Berkely’s broken-hearted wife?”

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BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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BY DR. JNO. C. M’CABE.

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WITH AN ENGRAVING.

We have thought proper, in conducting a magazine of higher reputation and aim than the usual run of the light periodicals of the day, to devote a part of the pictorial department to pictures of American Scenery and Indian Portraiture, as better fitted to give the work a permanent value in libraries and on centre-tables, than the ordinary catch-penny pictures which disgrace a number of the magazines. Our illustrations of Southern and Western Scenery have commanded the respect and support of a very large class of readers; and the constantly growing celebrity and profit of Graham’s Magazine, indicate that we have judged wisely and well.

We have engaged the services of Mr. Bird, the author of “Nick of the Woods,” “Calavar,” etc., to furnish us a series of articles upon the Indians of America; a writer whose intimate acquaintance with the subject promises articles of great interest to our readers. We present our subscribers this month with an admirably drawn and engraved plate of Saukie and Fox Indians “on the look out.” Also, a beautiful view of a Waterfall in Georgia.

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We cannot do justice either to the faults or merits of this singular volume, in a brief notice. The author has one of the most peculiar and original minds of which we have any record in literature, and a thorough analysis of his powers, even if successful, would occupy a large space. No reader of Mr. Emerson’s works need be informed that the poems are full of imagination, fancy, and feeling, and display a great command of expression. For our own part we prefer those poems in the volume which are least connected with the author’s system of ethics and metaphysics, such as “Each and All,” “The Forerunners,” “The Humble Bee,” and “The Problem.” In many of the others there is an evident attempt at versifying opinions; and the opinions are generally of that kind which readers will either pronounce unintelligible, or false and pernicious. “The Sphinx,” “Woodnotes,” “Merlin,” “Initial, Demoniac, and Celestial Love,” “Blight,” “Threnody,” and many other pieces, though containing many deep and delicate imaginations, are chiefly remarkable as embodying a theory of life, and system of religion, whose peculiarity consists in inverting the common beliefs and feelings of mankind. Here and there we perceive traces of the leading idea contained in that aggregation of fancy, sensibility, blasphemy, licentiousness, plagiarism, and noble sentiments, going under the name of “Vestus,”—we mean the idea that there is no essential difference between evil and good. Thus, in the “pure realm” to which celestial love mounts, in Mr. Emerson’s theory of love,

Perhaps this opinion is a necessary result of the principles of pantheism, but it makes as bad poetry as false philosophy. Indeed, Mr. Emerson’s poems expressive of opinions, are the harshest in metre, and least poetical in feeling, which the volume contains; and cannot be compared, in respect to artistical merit, with the prose statements of the same, or similar doctrines, in his “Essays.”

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Such a work as this deserves an extensive circulation, and we wish that any advice of ours could impel our readers to procure it. Here, in a compact and available form, are some of the finest passages in English poetry. The selections from Chaucer were evidently a labor of love to Mr. Deshler, and he has hit upon those portions most likely to entertain the reader, and awake an affection for the poet. The life of Chaucer, and the criticism of his mind and works, is exceedingly genial and truthful.

Mrs. Kirkland has done equal justice to Spenser. Taken together, these volumes cannot be praised too highly, and their circulation through the country would do much to raise the taste of the community. Although these poets occupy the first rank among English authors, they are known but imperfectly to the large majority of readers. The publishers deserve the thanks of the public for issuing them in a form, at once cheap and elegant, so that the treasures of thought and imagination they contain can be placed within the reach of the humblest lovers of poetry.

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This publication has now run to forty numbers, and promises to be the best of all the various collections of acting plays. It is edited by Epes Sargent, Esq., a gentleman whose knowledge of the stage and of English dramatic literature is very extensive, and who is himself well known as a fine poet and successful dramatist. To members of the profession the collection is invaluable, as it contains directions regarding stage business, costumes, and other information of much importance. As a work, also, for the general reader, it has great merits. It is to contain all the standard plays produced within the last two centuries, and also the popular dramas of the present day, including those of Knowles, Bulwer, and Talfourd. Mr. Sargent introduces each play with a biographical and critical notice, referring to the great actors who have won renown in its principal character, and discussing also its intrinsic merits. The field of selection is very rich and extensive, and includes much, in tragedy and in comedy, of which no one can be ignorant, who pretends to have on acquaintance with the masterpieces of English genius. Down to the middle of the last century, a large proportion of the best English poets were dramatic writers. The theatre was the place where, in fact, the poet was published. Thousands heard and saw, who never read. A body of dramatic literature, therefore, on the comprehensive plan adopted by Mr. Sargeant, will contain a large number of plays which are part and parcel of English literature.

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This is one of the best popular works on astronomical science which we have seen. It is clear in exposition, familiar in style, and orderly in arrangement. There is, of course, nothing of the quackery which disgraces many works of popularized science. The author is Professor of Natural Philosophy in Yale College.

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Sam Lover is a name which would sell this book even if its merits were below mediocrity. Personally, and as a writer, he has wrinkled with happy smiles the faces of thousands. The volume, as might be expected, is brimful of sentiment and fun, gushing out of a true Irish heart and brain, and instinct with animation and good feeling. Many of the songs have been sung by himself, at his “Irish Evenings,” in the principal cities of the Union. The book could have no better advertisement than the recollection of the entertainment they occasioned.

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This is the best and most complete edition of Campbell yet issued in the United States. It contains a handsome portrait, six fine steel engravings, a racy life of the author from Frazer’s Magazine, the brilliant essay on his genius and writings contained in Gilfillan’s “Literary Portraits,” and all of Campbell’s later productions, including the melancholy rhymes entitled “The Pilgrim of Glencoe.” In this volume we see Campbell in the dawn, progress, and sottish decline of his powers—as the author at once of the most spirit-stirring lyrics and most beautiful romantic poems, and as the feeble poetaster, mumbling in his old age a few verses of polished imbecility, hateful to gods and men. The greater part of the volume, however, is, in its kind, of first rate excellence, and will live with the language. We have only to regret that Campbell did not write more poetry while his genius was in its prime. What he has written has passed into the hearts and memories of his countrymen, to a greater extent, perhaps, than the poetry of any of his contemporaries, even of those who were his superiors in the range of their genius. Byron, Scott, and Moore, are the only modern poets who approach him in popularity. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Shelley, are still the poets of a few, in spite of the endeavors of publishers and critics to make them poets of the million. We think each of them superior to Campbell in genius, but we should despair of ever seeing them his equals in popularity. One element of his success is the moral character of his writings, and his sweetness and purity of sentiment; yet all accounts seem to concur in representing him, personally, as sottish in his habits, coarse in his conversation, and not without malice and envy in his disposition. Perhaps his intemperance was the source of many of his errors; and his intemperance had its source in laziness. Judging from the records of his conversation, it is fortunate that the vices of Campbell’s tongue were not the vices of his pen.

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To the student of verbal distinctions this volume will be an important aid. The author points out the shades of distinction between apparently synonymous words with an admirable nicety of criticism. The study of the book will tend to sharpen the intellect. It is very much better than the chatty work of Mrs. Piozzi, and the heavy quarto of Dr. Crabbe, on the same subject. We note some occasional blunders, such as the distinction drawn between genius and talent, and understanding and intellect; but these are but exceptions to the general rule of correctness. Prof. Reed has furnished on introduction, and apt illustrative quotations from Shakspeare, Milton, and Wordsworth.

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This volume is a fit companion to the “History of the Thirty Years War,” issued by the same publishers. Both works are admirable, and place Schiller in a prominent rank among philosophical historians; but of the two, we prefer the present. The subject is a noble one, and gives full exercise to Schiller’s large intellect, and heroic and humane spirit. The plan of the history is especially excellent, and we have only to regret that it was never completed.

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The publishers have issued this masterpiece of wit in a form similar to their editions of Dante, Tasso, and Campbell. The edition is enriched with curious and copious notes, illustrative of Butler’s time, and contains a well written biography. It is the only good edition of Hudibras ever published in the United States, and we hope that thousands who have never enjoyed its perusal, will be enabled to do it now. The original work contained so many allusions to the author’s recondite knowledge, and to the factions and fanaticisms of his day, that it cannot be read understandingly without some such commentary as Dr. Nash has supplied. Butler is the wittiest of the English poets.

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This is an entertaining volume, and will be especially acceptable to the young. It is hardly worthy, however, of being called “the moral of history,” even that moral which history should teach the boys and girls. The “do-me-good” air of the narratives, is strangely at variance with the essential character of some of the events and actors. The most superficial student will notice in the volume many incorrect impressions conveyed of historical personages. The “moral” of the book is about on a level with the moral of Weems’s lives of Washington and Marion.

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This work is principally made up of classified selections from standard writers on ethics. It, of course, lacks unity, and therefore can hardly be called a system of philosophy; but it very well answers the purpose for which it was compiled. Its merit, as a book for schools and general use, consists in the stringent application of moral principles to individual conduct. All those actions and states of mind which clash with morality, are analyzed with much acuteness, and set forth with great directness.

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The object of this little volume is clearly enough set forth in the title. It contains twenty stories. The illustrations are graphic, and add to the interest of the wonders described. We notice, however, one omission—the Cock Lane Ghost, in which Dr. Johnson believed. So celebrated a ghost as that should have had a prominent place among the other spectral worthies of the volume.

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This is an excellent supplement to the German Grammar issued by the same publishers. It is edited by the Professor of the German Language and Literature, in the University of New York. The selections are from some fifty German writers, and are admirably adapted for their purpose. The Vocabulary of German words is an important addition.

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All things considered, we deem this work one of the most deserving which “Young America” has yet produced. It is written by a young man just of age, who started for Europe before he was nineteen, with not more than a hundred and fifty dollars in his pocket, and for two years literally walked about Europe. He supported himself by literature, and at the end of his journey had not expended more than four hundred dollars. The excellence of the work comes from its exceeding freshness and spirit. For every great object of nature and art which the author saw, he had to suffer some privations; and he accordingly describes them much better than he would have done had he possessed the “advantages” of common tourists. Besides, his mode of traveling made him familiar with the people of the countries he visited; and he gives many curious anecdotes of their manners and condition. It is honorable to human nature, that his impressions of the common people in England, Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, were of a pleasing character, as he was often placed in relations to them calculated to draw out their true nature, whether it were kind or kindless. He was almost uniformly treated with hospitality, and sometimes even with affection. He discovered, however, that they were singularly and ridiculously ignorant of every thing regarding America—its geography, its government, and its people.

There is one quality in this book which every reader must feel to be fascinating—we mean the beautiful sweetness and healthiness of the author’s mind and disposition. He never brags of the obstacles he surmounted, nor whines at the privations he endured, but tells the story of his journeyings with a most bewitching simplicity and modesty. Youth, and the bright thoughts and sweet feelings of youth, are on every page, infusing life into the narrative, and giving picturesque vigor to the descriptions. The author must bear a brave, serene, and modest heart under his jacket; and we cordially wish him and his delightful book all the success which both so richly merit.

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No reader of “Graham” will need any advice from us to procure these elegant volumes, as a large portion of their contents was originally contributed to this Magazine, and obtained a wide and deserved popularity. We are glad to see the admirable stories of the authoress thus collected. They will take an honorable position in the department of literature to which they belong. Fanny Forrester, indeed, is one of the most charming of story-tellers. She has ease, grace, invention, vivacity, a quick eye for character and manners, and a fine flexible style. The interest of the book is enhanced by the present position of the gifted authoress. As Mrs. Judson, she will devote her fine talents and beautiful enthusiasm of character to a new object. The present book, therefore, has almost the look of a posthumous work. We need not ask for it what it will be sure to obtain—the attention and the good-will of the reading public.

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This elegant volume contains thirty-two essays on a wide variety of subjects connected with literature and life. They are the production of a gentleman who has made literature a study, and who always gives in his essays the results of his own investigations and reflections. The style is very condensed; the fault of the diction, perhaps, arises from the too great desire of the author to cram the largest amount of thought and observation into the smallest possible space. This unusual peculiarity of style is the ideal of style when it is combined with mellowness and vitality; but the sentences of Mr. Jones are often dry and brittle, as well as condensed. Bating this defect, the volume is deserving of great praise. In short essays it takes comprehensive views of wide domains of letters, and is a good guide to the student of elegant literature. The literary information which it contains is very large. We will venture to say that no man in the country can read it without learning something which he did not know before.

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This work has essentially the same characteristics as the novel of “Gertrude,” by the same authoress. Miss Sewell is the daughter, we believe, of an English Episcopal clergyman of the Oxford school. Her tales inculcate the piety and morality of practical life; deal with ordinary cares and temptations, expose the moral dangers which beset every relation of existence, and evince a clear insight into the heart’s workings, under the pressure of every day enticements. The thoughtful cheerfulness of her religious faith diffuses through her stories a certain beautiful repose which sometimes almost suggests genius. Her books are of that kind which are calculated to benefit even more than to please.

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In this strange mass of “crimson crimes,” the author of “Pelham” has fairly rivaled the French school of novelists. It displays more morbid strength of mind than any thing which Bulwer has previously written. Though exceedingly interesting, and evincing much power in the analysis of the darker passions, it leaves a disagreeable impression. The tone of the sentiment is not English. The novel, indeed, exhibits the characteristic qualities of the author in a form exaggerated almost to caricature. It reads like a melo-drama. We may refer to it more at large in our next number.

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One of the most important subjects which can engage human attention is in this work, so treated, that its great leading facts and principles can be understood by the common reader. The author has evidently given to each topic he discusses the most profound attention, and has produced a work which, if diligently studied by the mass of people, is calculated to remove a vast sum of that misery which springs from ignorance.

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A work like the present has long been wanted, and we are glad that an American house has had the enterprise to undertake it. In no other volume, with which we are acquainted, can the reader obtain so comprehensive a view of the poetry of the Ancients. Mr. Peter’s biographical notices are excellent. He has made selections from nearly two hundred authors—a work of vast labor performed with great skill and taste.

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