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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Never,” said Rose, firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Below there,” called out the mate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifty-six yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer was given.

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

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

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

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

[To be continued.

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BY ALICE G. LEE.

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

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BY JESSE E. DOW.

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Season of fading glory! Oh how sad,

When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale,

Shaking the ripen’d nuts from loftiest bough,

And down the forest side and sylvan road

Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound.

Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild,

Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green;

The summer flowers are withered, save a few

Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door,

That linger, relics of the roseate band,

Till icy winter, wandering from the pole,

Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills.

Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky,

The sun at evening shines with tempered heat,

The solitary flicker bores the tree?—

The carpenter of birds; and in the path,

The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head,

And tongue of crimson darting from his mouth,

Watches the idle bird that marks his form,

Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries,

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

The hunter takes his way amid the woods,

Or by the ocean side, when far away

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

To lave a thousand isles of beauty ere

It breaks again in thunder on that shore.

The well-trained setter through the covert seeks

The bird the sportsman’s fancy prizes o’er

The feathered songsters of the woodland wild;

The covey starts, and soon the murd’rous aim

Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun,

Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man,

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

On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits,

Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain,

While in the thicket near the rabbit glides,

And as his foot falls on the withered leaves,

A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard,

Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay,

And startling from the dead pines naked top,

With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow.

The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights

On the old field, and sings her favorite strain?—

A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy?—

A little urchin stealing by his side,

With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles,

And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun?—

Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak

The voice of death on wars victorious fields,

Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat,

Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw,

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

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

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

The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke,

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

Before her leafy resting-place is seen;

And when the cloud of death has floated on,

The victim bird is found a gory thing,

While the proud hero of this manly sport,

Struts down the lane like CÆsar entering Rome.

The patient Angler threads the winding brook,

Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait;

And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds

Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts

From the cool shadows of some mossy bank,

Swallows the bait with one convulsive act,

And learns too late that death was at the feast;

While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk,

And plays his victim with extended line,

Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings

The silken line is drawn with ringing sound,

Till wearied out with struggling that but serves

To drive the barbed weapon deeper still,

He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank,

And thence in triumph to the shore is borne,

A prize that well rewards a day of toil.

Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite,

Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring,

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

Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch.

Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night

Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep.

Bearing his hazel wand of curious form,

The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth,

Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught,

Or later follower of the magic school.

Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds

The Indian warriors raise above their slain,

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

Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank,

He trudges, looking wiser than the one

Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand,

And wraps the senses in a sleep profound.

At length, above a vale where willows bend,

And grass grows greenest in the waning year,

His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth;

He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims

The long sought spot where living water runs,

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

The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke

Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood,

Now shaking ’mid the scions that have towered

Beneath its shade for years. At length it falls,

And with terrific crash, bears down to earth

Each minor object that obstructs its way?—

Down on the verdant carpet that has spread

Beneath its branches in the summer heat,

Behold it lying like a warrior stern,

Who, having grappled in the deadly fray,

Has sank amid his fellows in his pride?—

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

Still shall it in the lofty steeple live,

Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks

The voice of freedom on her ocean way.

The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride,

By it is held to catch the willing gale,

And on its giant breast the fabric rests,

That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep,

And floats them on in sunshine and in storm.

Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given,

And by the fire that feeds and grows on them

The chilly air is changed to breath of spring.

Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed,

And thousands bless the hand that laid thee low.

Above the purple peaks that fringe the west

The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call,

And rear their domes and battlements of mist,

With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold;

Now changing into shapes of demon form,

With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows,

And now, like waves of darkness from old night,

Scowling and breaking on the misty hills.

A drowsy stillness steals along the plain,

The leaves are motionless on every tree,

The twitt’ring swallow glides along the ground,

While the more cautious pigeon seeks the eaves.

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

Take flight toward the west with heavy wing,

And scream a welcome to the coming rain.

The cattle from the hills come early home,

And from the fallow ground the lab’rer turns,

Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye

That reads the secrets of the heavens as well

As though it opened first in Chaldea’s land.

Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs,

And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust;

The town-returning wagon faster moves,

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

The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin;

And while the plover whistles on the moor,

The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear.

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

The groaning forest feels its rushing breath,

And bends its yellow head to let it pass;

The vivid lightning takes its errant way,

While echoing, ’mid the sparkling balls of hail,

Is heard the sound of its descending feet

In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around,

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

Wounds man and beast amid the open fields,

And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down.

Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene,

And answering thunder speaks from every cloud;

While the deep caverns of the ocean swell

Their mystic voices in the chorus grand.

Men sit in silence now with anxious looks,

While timid mothers seek their downy beds,

And press their wailing infants to their breasts.

From her low lattice by the cottage-door,

The bolder housewife marks the pelting storm;

Sees the adventurous traveler onward go,

Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night

Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene.

Swiftly the steed bounds o’er the woodland plain,

While hope beams brightly from the rider’s eye,

When lo! a crimson flash, with peal sublime,

Instant as thought, and terrible as death,

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

Looks again. The horse and his bold rider lie

Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time.

And while the wind howls mournfully around,

The forest owns the baptism of fire.

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

Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls.

The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide

The earth’s brown bosom; and the foaming brooks

Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,

Like happy children when their task is done.

A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,

And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,

O’er western hills, a golden spot appears,

That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,

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

’Tis gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels

Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;

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

Lashed into angry surges, foam and break

In notes of terror on the rocky lee.

’Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild

The bow of God is hung, in colors bright

And beautiful as morning’s blushing tints,

When the ark rested on the mountain top,

And the small remnant of a deluged world,

Looked out upon the wilderness, and wept.

—

Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills,

As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course

Of time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon

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

The six days’ labor ended, man and beast

Enjoy the season of appointed rest.

The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells

Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air;

And now is heard, for over hill and dale,

Up laughing valley, and through whisp’ring glen,

Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart,

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

When from the Indian Isle the storm-tossed bark,

Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore,

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

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

Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal.

At such an hour the grateful heart pours out

Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke

Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to heaven;

And from the deep empyrian the ear

Of holy faith an answering note receives,

To still the mourning soul, and dry its tears.

Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care,

When spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers;

When summer scents the rose, and fills the grain;

When autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves,

And winter keeps his cold watch on the hills.

The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows

The passing hour—the miller stops his wheel

To gather headway for the coming task?—

And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team,

With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath

The rustic shade the careless teamster waits?—

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

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

There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd,

Stands in his brogans every inch a King.

Approach him, sage professor, as you list,

With question subtil on a point abstruse:

Or with a query as to simple things?—

Physics or metaphysics, old or new,

Law, written or unwritten, good or bad,

Logic, domestic or of foreign growth,

Knowledge, too deep to know and never known,

Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age

Of miracles, to make one soul believe;

Questions political, that sage to sage

Have past for centuries on, as truants wild

Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates

To catch, by moonlight, in the autumnal woods;

Talk of creation, or the Chinese wall,

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

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

And he is there to answer and confound.

Nature’s philosopher! untaught by schools,

Who knows, and can explain in one short hour,

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

—

And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands?—

Well may you mark his tall and robust form,

His forehead full, where intellect may dwell,

And eye that glances like the flying sparks

When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge.

All day his hammer works his iron will,

The reaper’s sickle and the crooked scythe

The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel,

And the small rivet of the schoolboy’s toy,

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

Waits for his iron shoes beside his door,

And the gay steed that bounds along the course

Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel;

The temple door on his stout hinges turns,

And in the vault of Mammon rests secure

The treasure guarded by his master-key.

Day after day he toils, as seldom toil

The slaves that drag their lazy length along?—

Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night?—

In the plantations of the sunny South;

Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer’s curse,

To share his joys and roam the golden fields,

Erect in form and intellect—a man!

But when the evening comes with cooling breath,

Bringing the hour for labor’s sweet repose,

He clears his brow from every mark of toil,

And seeks his cottage by the village green;

There, having ate in peace his frugal meal,

He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books:

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

Holds sweet communion with the ages past.

Behold! the scholar now in honest pride!

Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years,

Books that the western world ne’er saw before?—

The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave

The world a channel to a sea of thought,

Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in

The spirit-waters, sparkling from their founts.

His tongue can speak more languages than fell

From human lips at Babel’s overthrow;

Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known,

Is hidden from his penetrating eye.

Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools,

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

With talents rarely willed by Heaven to one,

And sympathetic heart that beats for all,

Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love,

Burritt now lives, the wonder of mankind.

Rabbis and sage professors call him learned,

And to his humble gateway come in crowds,

To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed,

And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him

Who sits amid the learned a self-taught man.

—

In the dun forest, far away from noise

Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees,

Whose branches form a lofty canopy

O’er a great circle cleared by willing hands,

Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent’s path,

The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer.

There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds,

The tempered roar of distant waterfall,

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

The wildcat’s growl amid the deepest shade,

And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk,

As through the openings he pursues his prey.

Amid the tents upon the highest spot,

The preachers’ stand in humble form appears,

And by its side the horn with mellow note,

To give the signal meet for praise and prayer.

There all conditions come with hearts of love,

Married and single, sons and daughters fair,

The emigrants from every templed land;

The Saxon, in his pride of high descent,

The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings,

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

Where o’er the heather rolls the Highland tongue,

The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles,

The light Italian, gayest of the gay,

And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh,

Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch?—

The river seaman of the mighty west,

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

The man of cities, and the pioneer,

Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods,

When nature in her lonely beauty slept

On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill?—

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

The bison-hunter, from the saline lick;

And the wild Indian, in his forest dress,

All gather from their journeyings to keep,

In humble guise, a week of holier time.

And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill,

And the great congregation waits for prayer.

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

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

Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withall.

Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice

In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch

The inspiration of that hallowed hour,

Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime,

While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer.

His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground,

Fall on the ear of that great multitude.

Now he describes a Savior’s matchless love?—

His high estate, his exile from the throne,

His mocking trial, and his felon death;

The noonday sun in darkness veils its face,

And earthquake voices fill the trembling air,

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

Go forth a ghostly company again,

Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb,

And making the proud Temple’s arches ring,

With the glad praises of Redeeming Love.

’Tis done! the mighty plan is carried out?—

The last great Sacrifice for sin is o’er;

Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away,

And shows a risen Savior and a God!

The different hearers testify his power

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

Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed;

And the great deep of sin is broken up.

The old transgressors tremble by the stand?—

The young in sin repent to sin no more.

A thousand voices join in one wild prayer,

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

And Heaven keeps Sabbath o’er the autumn woods.

The painted savage, who amid the crowd

Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life;

His giant breast in wild commotion heaves,

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

He stands and vainly calls to his relief

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

Then falling on his face amid the woods

That often echoed to his war-whoop fell,

He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet,

And lays aside his garments stained with blood.

His voice in accents of his soul now speaks,

His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream,

And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks,

Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings!

The angel hovering o’er that forest scene,

Bears up the tidings on exulting wing,

And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss,

The Seraph harps in sweetness make response,

Alleluia!

The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls

Upon the anxious ear, like music heard

On the calm ocean at the midnight hour;

Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet,

An dies away amid the forest hum,

Alleluia!

The night has come, and one by one the lights

Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude

Is hushed in sleep.

—

The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way,

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

Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand

Finds more than it can do within the day.

How gently falls its light upon the plains,

The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods;

The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn,

And in the bush begins her matin song.

A moment rings the solitary strain,

And then no sound is wafted to the ear,

Save the wild whisper of the dying wind,

Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.

Sweet voyager of night! whose fairy bark

Sails silently around the dusky earth,

Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns,

Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair,

And sent thee forth on thy eternal way,

The nearest and the brightest to our eyes

Of Heavens innumerable host—sail on

Thy joyous way, in beauty ’mid the stars,

And catch the song of those bright sentinels,

Who watch the outposts on the bounds of time,

Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom

Of drear immensity. The lover’s eye?—

Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves,

Or treads in pride the well appointed deck

Of richly freighted galleon; or is doom’d,

Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell

More desolate because his ear had heard,

In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell;

Or chases, with the seamen of the north,

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

Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks,

And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales;

Or robs the otter of his glossy coat,

Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn

To the Pacific’s waters; or gathers

Birds’ nests ’mid the endless summer isles,

Where waves the cocoa-nut and lofty palm

O’er crystal billows, ’mid whose coral groves

The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim?—

In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns

Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love?—

Love that endures when strength and reason fails.

So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill,

Patting his dog, his last and truest friend,

Looks up with eye of more than usual fire,

And, ’mid his idle chattering, speaks the name

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

Thompson, sweet village! throned upon thy hills,

With happy homes, and spires that gleam above

Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught,

And generations learned the way to God—

How pleasant, with remembrance’s eye, to view

The varied landscape changing autumn spreads

O’er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet;

Where roll the babbling brook and deeper stream,

Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought

By Moorish maidens on their robes of green.

Around thee rise a host of smiling towns,

Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad.

There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky,

Stands on her lofty height supremely fair,

While westward, Woodstock with her groves is seen,

In rural beauty blest; and at her feet,

Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomfret vale,

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

The iron-horse now darts with lightning speed

Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew,

And at each turn the lovely river makes,

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

A babbling village rises from the flood;

And there the halls of labor lift their domes

At Mammon’s call, and countless spindles twirl

The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold;

While far around is heard the dash of wheels,

And the unceasing roar of swollen dams.

The dead leaves dance upon the river’s breast,

With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and there

A golden apple, dropped by careless boy,

Floating along toward the ocean’s flood.

On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits

The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold;

While ’neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes,

And ’mid the cooling wave in gladness sports

His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach

Of roaming bard, or red-cheeked factory girl,

Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye

Toward her Leander, naked in the flood.

On such fair maidens no Duennas wait,

To scare young love from answering love away;

No convent-gates are closed to bar her will,

Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel,

In secret wait to guard that honor safe,

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

Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags,

The ancient forest waves its gaudy head,

O’er which the eagle takes his lonely way?—

The mighty hunter of the upper air.

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

Save when uncertain murmurs come and go

Along the solemn arches of the wood?—

Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark,

Or soothing hum of home-returning bee?—

The boy, delighted, sets his secret snares,

Clearing broad paths amid the yellow leaves,

Where the cock-partridge may strut in pride

At earliest dawn, and find the fatal noose;

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

Tinging the woodland sea with gorgeous hues,

He goes, with eager step and anxious eye,

Beholds the path obscured, the sapling sprung,

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

—

The Reaper pauses in the ample field,

Where a rich harvest smiles to bless his toil,

And rests beside the oak, beneath whose shade,

In ages past, the wandering Red Man slept;

There, while the sun poured down his fervent ray,

The happy laborer seeks to quench his thirst,

With crystal water from the lime-stone spring,

Or milk, from prudent housewife’s ample store?—

Pure as it came from Nature’s healthy fount;

And while he sits the idle hours away,

He muses o’er his country and her fame,

And dares to claim her empire as his own.

And there, amid the grass, the children play

Around the sun-burnt maidens, as they twine

The bands to bind the golden armfuls tight,

And leave the bristling sheafs, with plenty crowned,

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

The groaning wagon gathers up the grain

From auburn fields. The yellow sheafs are piled

In ponderous heaps, while one well skilled builds up

The toppling load, and when ’tis finished, sits

On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain?—

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

And rosy children shout for joy, he sings,

With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home.

The sickle gleams no more amid the fields;

The cradled hills are open to the feet

Of Want’s poor gleaners and the hunter band;

And there the quail walks with her piping brood

Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly.

Amid the orchard, bending ’neath the load

That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn,

The busy husbandmen commence their tasks.

The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale,

The golden-pippin, and the blue pearmain,

Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down,

And to the air a balmy fragrance give.

And there, the urchins playing all the while,

Select the choicest fruit for future use,

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

And autumn’s golden brow is wrapped in gloom.

The cider-press, beneath the farm-house shade,

Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way,

While from the massive vat the liquid pours,

And in abundant casks ferments and foams.

Hail, generous drink! fair Newark’s honest boast,

The laborer’s beverage in a northern clime,

Where freedom first, in deadly strife was born,

And where her last scarred-follower shall die?—

If death to such e’er come.

Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime,

Where hung the clustering grape from every bough,

And where the nectar of the gods was free

As Croton-water in old Gotham’s Park.

Untainted with the liquid sin that flows

From the destroyer’s still, thy spirit lifts

The thirsty soul from earth—but not too high,

Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brow.

An apple caused the first of earth to sin;

But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint,

Raisest the weary spirit to its tone,

And givest to labor’s cheek the glow of health.

Now, in the rosy morn, the spotted hounds

Before the mounted Huntsmen hie away.

O’er fields and meadows, onward see them go,

Scaling the walls, and trampling down the corn.

And now they penetrate the forest shade,

And from the sylvan dell, and wood-capt hill,

The deep-mouthed bay with wild halloo is heard,

Swelling in cadence to the hunter’s horn.

In her retreat, amid the deepest shade,

Where the long grass is tender, and ne’er fails,

The red-deer hears, and starts, and lists again,

Till louder still the chase’s wild music sounds,

Then down the hill-side to the lake that spreads

Its broad unruffled bosom to the morn,

She takes her course; while on her haunches come

The bellowing pack, like gaunt and hungry wolves.

Now she has gained the stunted alder’s shade,

That line the margin of the waters clear,

And turning quickly round the wave-worn hill,

That towers abruptly o’er the narrow beach,

Dips her light hoofs in the unconscious wave,

And seeks the mountain-pass with lightning speed.

Hid from their sight, the scent in water lost,

The eager pack plunge headlong in the flood;

But soon recalled to duty, ’long the shore

They scour, till one more practiced than the rest,

Stops where the chase her sylvan pathway took,

And bellowing wildly, follows in her track,

With the whole party thundering at his heels.

The wily deer too long has got the start,

And now from distant hill-side sees the foe

Come panting up the dell with weary limb.

A moment only does she look, then turns

And glides in silence down the other side;

And when the Huntsmen gain the lofty height,

The deer is far away—the chase is o’er.

Oh! who can sing the glories of the woods,

When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests

On autumn’s sallow cheek too soon to fade.

In ages past, when thou didst gently come,

“With nights of frost, and noons of sultry heat,

When skies were blue as highly tempered steel,

And rivers clear as crystal, and the mist

Upon the mountains hung its silver veil;

When o’er the grass a fairy net-work spread,

And naught was green except the mountain pine,

The willow, and the bullrush by the brook”?—

Our fathers feared—for then amid the wilds,

Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue,

The Indian warriors built their council-fire,

And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite,

Till morning broke upon the dusky woods.

Then, at the hour when mortals soundest slept,

And nature was at rest, they sallied forth,

Armed with the hatchet and the scalping-knife,

And trusty rifle, whose report was death.

The sleeping father woke to hear the cry

Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn

From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club’s power.

One look he gave, and on his silvery head

The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life,

Then sinking down in death’s cold senseless sleep,

Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames

That spread around his lonely sylvan cot,

And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning woods.

Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste,

And found amid the ashes, human bones,

An axe, a child’s steel rattle, and a lock

Of woman’s golden hair, still wet with blood.

—

The sun in mellow light sleeps on the hills,

The lazy river rolls in silence on,

The woods keep Sabbath, till the deep-mouthed bay

Of wandering fox-hound breaks upon the ear;

Or from the top of an old chestnut falls,

The tempting nut the startled squirrel drops,

Parting the fading leaves with pattering sound;

Or on the rotten log beside the stile,

The busy partridge beats her woodland drum.

The frost has tipt the trees with lovelier tints

Than pencil ever gave to forest scene;

There, green and gold in various hues combine,

Spotted with crimson where the maple stands,

And when the sun upon the hoar-frost shines,

The foliage sparkles, as though crystals hung

On every leaf, and trembled in the air.

The eye now penetrates the half-clad trees,

And spies the squirrel in his leafy house,

Or marks upon the limb the wish-ton-wish,

Who rests by day, that he may sweeter sing

His song at night, beside the cottage gate.

The thistle-seed, with wing of silver down,

Floats in the air, and flashes in the sun.

The dusky worm that feasted on the leaf

In the green spring-time, weaves his curious shroud,

And fastening it by thread of minute size,

To the tall poplar swings himself to sleep.

Type of the resurrection! lo, he hangs

Between the mortal and the spirit-land,

Till called by God, through Nature’s changeless laws,

He starts a winged creature clad in light,

With tints of morning blushing on his wings.

The fisher’s boat along the river glides,

Nor leaves a ripple in its shallow wake.

The wild swan sports in Anicosta’s wave,

And deems his shadow his departed mate;

The patient heron, on the wave-washed rock

For hours stands, watching his suspecting prey;

The wild-goose raises heavily to join

The gabbling cohort that is hastening on,

High in the air, to the bright summer-land,

Where the superb magnolia lifts its head.

And scents the gale—a wilderness of flowers.

The hardy ivy climbs the giant tree,

To place green garlands on its withered head;

The wild grape from the lofty walnut hangs

Its purple clusters tempting to the sight;

And by the swampy brook, the sunflower turns

Its golden eye in meekness toward its God;

The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink;

The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits,

For the returning tide to line the shore

With food well-suited to his groveling taste;

And o’er the bosom of the widening stream,

The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing.

—

Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye,

The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread,

Down the still pathway of the dying woods.

Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit,

The aged ones, the young men, and the lads,

With here and there a son of Afric’s clime,

With eye that rolls in undiminished joy,

And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh,

Or join the merry huskers’ drinking song.

And thus the labor of a week is done,

While wives and daughters, ’neath the farmer’s roof,

Spread out the festive board with viands rich,

And tempting to the eye of one who bears

The sweat of labor on his swarthy brow.

Now, from its yellow shuck, the ripened corn,

In well-filled ears, is drawn—a pleasant sight;

And while the village maidens pass along,

Stopping, where’er their fancy wills, to husk,

Red ears are placed within their anxious palms,

By roguish ones, who hid them for this hour;

And as they draw the crimson emblems forth,

Full many a kiss is printed on the cheek

Of rosy innocence, by lips that ne’er

Such liberty had dared to take before.

The clock strikes twelve, and from his cozy perch

Beside the fattest pullet, lo, the cock

Proclaims the approaching morn with shrillest crow!

The corn is husked, and now they gather round

The board, while lovely maidens wait to serve

With ready hand, the laborers of the eve.

Now from the lips of village sire ascends

The prayer for Heaven’s rich blessing on their food;

Thanks for the pouring out of plenty’s horn,

And gratitude for life and health—nay, more,

For liberty, without which all things else

Were vain. And while he stands with streaming eye,

And hand that palsy oft has clasped in vain,

His trembling accents fall upon the ear,

Like distant music at the close of day.

The service o’er, the merry feast begins,

Then joy runs riot round the sacred chair,

And dignified propriety is gay

As gipsy maiden, with her silver bells

Tinkling around her heels. At length the dawn

Recalls the joyous throng to other scenes;

And soon the last gay visiter has bade

His warm good-by—and the old house is still.

Left all alone, in calm security,

Straight in his oaken-chair of antique form,

Within his hall, the farmer sits and sleeps,

While the fierce house-dog watches at his feet.

Sweet hour of plenteous ease, when care puts off

His wrinkled brow, and charity and love,

The fairest sisters of the heavenly train,

Go hand in hand along the faded walks,

And sit at evening by the cottage door.

There the old soldier, covered o’er with scars,

Limping along unnoticed by the crowd,

Whose liberties were purchased with his blood,

Finds ’neath the whispering elms before the door

A welcome seat; and there the little ones,

Called from their play by watchful Towser’s growl.

And the patched dress that glory gives her sons,

Gather round their sire with mute surprise,

And list to tales of other days, when war,

With iron feet, swept thundering o’er the glade,

And reared his bloody altars on the hills.

And while they listen, lo! the soldier’s face

Grows less terrific, and his tatter’d dress

No longer seems to hide a vagrant’s form.

With stealthy look and silent step, they seek

The festive board, and silently return;

Then, while he wipes from his dim eye a tear,

They fill the old man’s pack with generous food,

Proffer the goblet full to his parched lips,

And play at “hide and seek” around his chair.

The heart of power may coldly beat when they

Who fought for freedom in her darkest hour,

In age and penury, appear to claim

The boon a monarch never yet refused;

But by the hearth-stones of his native land,

Where liberal thoughts and generous feelings dwell,

The valiant soldier ne’er shall find a churl

To bid him trudge, a rude unwelcome guest.

On Salem’s hill the Hebrews’ reign is o’er,

The silver trump of jubilee is still.

Timbrel and harp and soft-toned dulcimer

Have ceased their strains in Sharon’s rosy vale;

The scattered tribes in earth’s remotest bounds

Wander like sheep upon the mountain-side,

And Israel mourns her empire and her God.

The fisher, solitary, dries his net

On the green rock, amid the silver wave,

Where, robed in purple, sat imperial Tyre,

And through the autumn day beholds no sail,

To catch the scented breeze from Cypress Isle.

The hills of Judah, crowned with ruins gray,

Lift their brown summits to the deep blue air,

And cast their cooling shadows on the sea.

Hushed is the shepherd’s lute, the reaper’s shout,

The bleat of flocks, and patriarch’s song of praise,

The Harvester of years has o’er them past,

And hung his reaping-hook in Joseph’s tomb.

But though the trump of jubilee is still,

And Israel’s host in triumph meet no more

By Jacob’s well, or Siloa’s sacred brook;

Yet in the western world, where Freedom rears

Her banner o’er the altar of her God,

And all religions meet in peaceful mood,

At autumn’s close, the wanderers returned

To distant homes, to keep Thanksgiving Day.

Such was the custom of the Pilgrim band,

When first they trod that wild and wintry shore,

And such th’ observance of their sterling sons,

Who, scattered o’er the freeman’s heritage,

Remember their bold ancestry with pride,

And where they tread, make new New England’s bloom.

—

The days grow shorter, and the nights with frost

Creep shivering o’er the landscape’s fading green.

The village stage comes in at later hour,

From city, town, and distant boarding-school

Bringing a host of merry hearts, who seek

The joys of childhood by their native hearths;

And as it pauses at the welcome door

The inmates rush, uncovered, to the stile,

And there, ’mid kisses long and loud, is heard

The mother’s anxious inquiry for health,

The boisterous brother’s rude though hearty hail,

And happy father’s well-timed welcome home.

What joys, what transports centre in the hour

While the old mansion rings with childlike mirth.

—

For days the very atmosphere has teemed

With savory odor from the kitchen flue.

And now the day of praise begins, clear, cold and still.

While yet the sun sails up its morning path

The merry peal from village spire is heard,

And straightway pours the tide of life along,

Gathering fresh numbers from each ivied door,

Changing their greetings warm on every hand,

With those by Mammon or by glory called,

Whose wandering feet have homeward turned again:

And many a speaking eye reveals the tale

Of love long felt, but ne’er before expressed.

The church is still, and maiden modesty

Has smoothed her dress and re-arranged her curl,

Then from the choir the pealing anthem swells

With chorus grand—and voices long unused

To holy song join in the symphony

Of praise.

Prayer long and deep and eloquent ensues,

In which the earth, the nation, and the church,

The righteous and the wicked, rich and poor,

Remembrance find. And then a meet discourse,

Recounting changes of the variant year,

Paying a tribute just to absent worth,

And hanging garlands green on glory’s tomb.

The heart is touched—the mourner’s eye grows dim?—

The proud are humbled, and the poor rejoice.

And when the speaker closes, with a charge

To pay due homage to the Mighty One

Who guides Arcturus and his boisterous sons,

Binds the sweet influence of the Pleiades,

And breaks Orion’s broad and sparkling bonds,

All hearts, with one accord, in reverence bow,

And pure thanksgiving peals from every tongue.

The service done, they seek their cheerful hearths

To spend the hallowed day in feasts of love.

The feast is set—and joy’s wild burst is o’er?—

The mother’s eye has marked the vacant chair?—

The father’s ear has missed his first-born’s step?—

And where the church-yard sleeps, so still, they look

With hearts of grief, and eyes suffused with tears.

Evening with smiles and tales has come, and round

The social circle blind-man’s buff is played.

Wisdom and years are straightway laid aside,

And manhood lives its childhood o’er again,

Seeking the golden shadows of the days

Long passed away.

And now the youngest having sought repose,

Friend after friend drops in with cheerful heart;

The merry dance succeeds the merry game,

And the light foot with lighter heart keeps time.

Music is also there, with gentle tone,

Singing the favorite tunes of other days.

Age with its wrinkle, childhood with its smile,

Youth with its hope, and manhood with its care,

Joy blends with high esteem, and admiration

Kindles into love.

The old clock ticks the drowsy hours along?—

The midnight comes—the joyous throng disperse?—

Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies,

Till wearied out, with thinking o’er the past,

The mind surrenders to the body’s guide

And dreams of fancy dance before the eye.

Blest labor! thou dost fringe the poor man’s lids

With gold: and drive remembrance of his wrongs

Away—hang o’er his drowsy visions scenes

Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot

Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night! to him what are

The ills of day, if thou but shelter him

With brooding wing.—

Earth without labor—what a dreary waste!

Sadder to view than Asia’s barren plains

Or Afric’s sea of sand. He that would strike

Thy arm of sinews down, would make the field

A solitude, and crowded mart a den

Of thieves.—

When the moist sickle rests upon its hook,

And the rich stores of earth are gathered in,

The fair is held—a feast of fruits and flowers?—

Of art’s fine workmanship and labor’s yield.

From the dark pines that fringe Aroostook’s wave

To the wild chapparal that rudely turns

The martial foot from Rio Bravo’s bank,

From the Atlantic’s many-peopled shore

To the Columbia’s vales of living green,

The joyful mandate rings, and man pours forth

His richest treasures to the gaze of day.

The nation sits in judgment on her arts,

Her choice productions and her fruitful glebes,

And cheers the laborer’s toil with voice of praise.

Thus man is dignified by honest toil,

And the dread curse pronounced in Time’s young spring

Becomes a blessing in its autumn day.

So may the laborer stand amid his race?—

Taught that true knowledge elevates the soul,

That the poor carpenter of Galilee

Once worked his task—then in the temple taught?—

Then gave redemption to a guilty world?—

And then resumed his station by his God!

Now from the well-filled barn, in gusty day,

The flail’s loud beat is heard—a pleasing sound?—

And from the chaff the full unspotted grain

Is winnowed by the stripling’s feeble hand.

And while the dust is flying far and wide

The wheat is gathered in, a precious store,

Tempting the factor’s mercenary eye,

And bidding famine with her sickly form

Wander afar from Freedom’s hallowed soil;

The timid quail, with well-fledged brood, draws near,

Her tithe to claim from man’s productive toil,

And barn-yard fowls their rich thanksgivings spend,

Nor dream of days of want in time to come,

When winter o’er the frozen earth shall claim

Her sovereignty with cutting blast and snow.

Autumn departs, and soon on hills of brown,

In storms will break the dark solstitial morn.

The grove has lost its verdure and its song,

And withered leaves, in heaps, are mouldering round.

Keen northern blasts, from Greenland’s gelid wastes,

Wake the dark woods of stormy Labrador,

And o’er Canadian wilds and ocean-lakes,

Down Mississippi’s vales in fury howl.

By Huron’s flood the savage wrapped in furs

Gathers his tent of skins beneath the snow,

And ’mid the smoke, for days, securely waits

For the encrusting rain to plate the drift

With glittering ice, that cracks not at his tread,

Where he may chase the moose, whose hoofs break thro’

And leave upon the trail a track of blood.

The miner on Superior’s pictured cliffs,

Where sings the thunder its eternal hymn,

Waits in his cabin rude for hours of spring,

Giving up pleasure, and e’en health itself,

That he may climb to fortune’s fickle height

Through veins of copper, and up shafts of gold.

The pilgrim’s son, in freedom, builds his cot,

And hails a shadowy old world from the new,

On the Pacific’s main, where blooming hills

Hang o’er the flood, and catch the dying strain

Borne on the waves from India’s coral strand.

The farmer’s boy, long since amid the woods,

Has plucked the hazel and the chestnut brown,

And sharp-ribbed walnut, for his winter store,

Leaving the staining butternut untouched,

For the hoar-frost to peel its ragged shell.

The sheep go wandering o’er the barren plains

In search of welcome food, and where the scythe

Between the pointed stones has passed along,

Crop closer than the crooked blade of man

The sallow loiterers of the autumn field.

The red-breasts, gathered into flocks, no longer pipe

Their sweetest songs beside the cottage door:

And the vast family of sea-birds screech

Their notes of sadness o’er the sounding sea.

The rivers lift their voices, as the rain

From chilly clouds falls on the dreary scene,

And high above their banks in torrents swell,

Sweeping the cottage and the well-filled barn,

The dam, the bridge, and the old ivied mill,

With stacks of grain and implements of man,

In wild confusion onward to the sea.

Sad are the notes of nature—doubly sad,

Where leaping o’er her brown and dizzy height,

With robe of silver and a rainbow crown,

Niagara sings her thunder-hymn to earth’s

Remotest waters—where oft the poet’s eye

Beholds, amid the shades of autumn eve,

The Tuscarora in his phantom bark,

Singing his death-song on the cataract’s brow.

Or where, amid Virginia’s fertile vale,

The Rockbridge in its grandeur towers above

The little stream that runs so far beneath,

That human ear ne’er caught its hoarsest brawl.

There where the Deluge pierced the mountain chain

And sent its wild pent river to the sea,

The storm, with sternest music, calls its clouds,

And through the giant arch remorseless sweeps

Causing dread whirlpools of the misty air.

Autumn departs, and earth in sadness mourns,

And all around is desolate and chill.

Empires have had their autumns, and are lost

Beneath the dead and rustling leaves of time.

Egypt, majestic in her ruin, sleeps

Upon the Nile—the pyramids her history

And her tomb. Idumea, ’mid her cliffs,

Yawns in her gloom, an empty sepulchre.

Tadmor is hid amid the desert sand;

Balbec’s tremendous wall upon the waste,

Shelters the spotted lizard and the owl;

And Babylon, the mighty, is a heap

By the Euphrates. Tyre has been swallowed

By the tideless sea; Greece sits in darkness

On her classic hills, ’mid templed groves,

Her king a Saxon, and her children slaves.

The Muscovite has found a shorter way

To old Byzantium; and the lazy Turk

That loiters there, is but a Turk in name.

Dark Ethiopia knows her bounds no more;

Carthage is but a pasture wild for goats;

Persia now roams the waste in broken hordes;

Imperial Rome, once mistress of the world,

Is but a province, where a mitred priest

Sits in the CÆsar’s chair without his crown;

And the furr’d Russ directs the haughty race

Of Ghengis Khan and fiery Tamerlane.

Ages and kingdoms feel the sickle click,

And bend their heads before the reaper’s tread.

The Earth shall have her autumn, with the stars

That sang in beauty at the birth of Time;

And Death shall have his autumn, for he too

Must die. The Heavens shall have their autumn,

And be rolled back to their ancient nothingness.

And all shall fade, and fall around, and die,

But God, and the vast Hierarchy of souls.

—

Oh, death! when thou dost come with trembling limbs,

Down the brown hills, where waves the ripened grain,

And bear the aged exile home to God,

While autumn’s wailing wind sings Harvest Home.

When health’s bright roses slowly fade away,

As flowers of spring-time breathed on by the frost;

When dire consumption saps the roots of life,

And slow but sure its victims steal along

The shaded path that winds around the tomb;

Or when by burning fever racked and parched,

The prostrate form with joy awaits the call;

Or when forsaken by the loved and false,

The broken spirit sits beside the grave,

And weaves strange garlands from the withered flowers,

To crown the head-stone of departed hopes,

Thou art a welcome guest.

But when in youth and health, without a sign,

Thou comest in thy most appalling form,

Swift as the sunbeam streaming from on high,

Then thou dost rudely snap hope’s brightest buds,

And form dread sepulchres in every heart?—

Chasms that never close with rolling years?—

Wounds that forever festering, never heal,

Till deeper sorrows settle on the soul.

Autumn departs, and with it ends the song

Of the rude bard, who first essayed to sing

In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold;

A pleasant pastime for an idle month,

When the hot sun pour’d down its sickly rays.

And pestilence at noonday walked abroad.

Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale,

Sighing o’er barren moor and russet grove,

The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust,

And much of hope, entwined with more of fear.

If it shall fail—and stranger things have been,

And with the leaves around, whirl through the glen,

And up the forest’s melancholy path,

Lifeless and useless, as its withered band.

’Tis an old truth, by bard of sweetness told,

“Leaves have their time to fall, and stars to set.”

But if perchance some generous soul shall take

The half-fledged warbler to a pleasant home,

Where bright-eyed children gather in their joy?—

Type of the host that throng the homes of Heaven?—

Glean from its varied notes one sound to please,

One truth to charm and elevate the soul,

And bid young genius in her wild-wood sing,

The scenes and glories of her native land?—

Then shall the bard in his retreat rejoice,

And sing again, when spring, with sunny brow,

Shall speak the resurrection of the flowers.

---

———

BY THOMAS FITZGERALD.

———

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———

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

———

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———

BY HENRY D. THOREAU.

———

(Concluded from page 152.)

But he is wilfully and pertinaciously unjust, even scurrilous, impolite, ungentlemanly; calls us “Imbeciles,” “Dilettants,” “Philistines,” implying sometimes what would not sound well expressed. If he would adopt the newspaper style, and take back these hard names—but where is the reader who does not derive some benefit from these epithets, applying them to himself? Think not that with each repetition of them there is a fresh overflowing of bile; oh no! Perhaps none at all after the first time, only a faithfulness, the right name being found, to apply it—“They are the same ones we meant before”—and ofttimes with a genuine sympathy and encouragement expressed. Indeed, there appears in all his writings a hearty and manly sympathy with all misfortune and wretchedness, and not a weak and sniveling one. They who suspect a Mephistophiles, or sneering, satirical devil, under all, have not learned the secret of true humor, which sympathizes with the gods themselves, in view of their grotesque, half-finished creatures.

He is, in fact, the best tempered, and not the least impartial of reviewers. He goes out of his way to do justice to profligates and quacks. There is somewhat even Christian, in the rarest and most peculiar sense, in his universal brotherliness, his simple, child-like endurance, and earnest, honest endeavor, with sympathy for the like. And this fact is not insignificant, that he is almost the only writer of biography, of the lives of men, in modern times. So kind and generous a tribute to the genius of Burns cannot be expected again, and is not needed. We honor him for his noble reverence for Luther, and his patient, almost reverent study of Goethe’s genius, anxious that no shadow of his author’s meaning escape him for want of trustful attention. There is nowhere else, surely, such determined and generous love of whatever is manly in history. His just appreciation of any, even inferior talent, especially of all sincerity, under whatever guise, and all true men of endeavor, must have impressed every reader. Witness the chapters on Werner, Heyne, even Cagliostro, and others. He is not likely to underrate his man. We are surprised to meet with such a discriminator of kingly qualities in these republican and democratic days, such genuine loyalty all thrown away upon the world.

Carlyle, to adopt his own classification, is himself the hero, as literary man. There is no more notable working-man in England, in Manchester or Birmingham, or the mines round about. We know not how many hours a-day he toils, nor for what wages, exactly, we only know the results for us. We hear through the London fog and smoke the steady systole, diastole, and vibratory hum, from “Somebody’s Works” there; the “Print Works,” say some; the “Chemicals,” say others; where something, at any rate, is manufactured which we remember to have seen in the market. This is the place, then. Literature has come to mean, to the ears of laboring men, something idle, something cunning and pretty merely, because the nine hundred and ninety-nine really write for fame or for amusement. But as the laborer works, and soberly by the sweat of his brow earns bread for his body, so this man works anxiously and sadly, to get bread of life, and dispense it. We cannot do better than quote his own estimate of labor from Sartor Resartus.

“Two men I honor, and no third. First; the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth, and makes her man’s. Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse, wherein, notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the sceptre of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living manlike. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee. Hardly-entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee, too, lay a god-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labor; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on; thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, for daily bread.”

“A second man I honor, and still more highly; him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty, endeavoring toward inward harmony, revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavors, be they high or low? Highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavor are one; when we can name him Artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, that with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us. If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality? These two in all their degrees, I honor; all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.”

“Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united; and he that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man’s wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendor of heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of earth, like a light shining in great darkness.”

---

Notwithstanding the very genuine, admirable, and loyal tributes to Burns, Schiller, Goethe, and others, Carlyle is not a critic of poetry. In the book of heroes, Shakspeare, the hero, as poet, comes off rather slimly. His sympathy, as we said, is with the men of endeavor; not using the life got, but still bravely getting their life. “In fact,” as he says of Cromwell, “every where we have to notice the decisive, practical eye of this man; how he drives toward the practical and practicable; has a genuine insight into what is fact.” You must have very stout legs to get noticed at all by him. He is thoroughly English in his love of practical men, and dislike for cant, and ardent enthusiastic heads that are not supported by any legs. He would kindly knock them down that they may regain some vigor by touching their mother earth. We have often wondered how he ever found out Burns, and must still refer a good share of his delight in him to neighborhood and early association. The Lycidas and Comus appearing in Blackwood’s Magazine, would probably go unread by him, nor lead him to expect a Paradise Lost. The condition of England question is a practical one. The condition of England demands a hero, not a poet. Other things demand a poet; the poet answers other demands. Carlyle in London, with this question pressing on him so urgently, sees no occasion for minstrels and rhapsodists there. Kings may have their bards when there are any kings. Homer would certainly go a begging there. He lives in Chelsea, not on the plains of Hindostan, nor on the prairies of the West, where settlers are scarce, and a man must at least go whistling to himself.

What he says of poetry is rapidly uttered, and suggestive of a thought, rather than the deliberate development of any. He answers your question, What is poetry? by writing a special poem, as that Norse one, for instance, in the Book of Heroes, altogether wild and original;—answers your question, What is light? by kindling a blaze which dazzles you, and pales sun and moon, and not as a peasant might, by opening a shutter. And, certainly, you would say that this question never could be answered but by the grandest of poems; yet he has not dull breath and stupidity enough, perhaps, to give the most deliberate and universal answer, such as the fates wring from illiterate and unthinking men. He answers like Thor, with a stroke of his hammer, whose dint makes a valley in the earth’s surface.

Carlyle is not a seer, but a brave looker-on and reviewer; not the most free and catholic observer of men and events, for they are likely to find him preoccupied, but unexpectedly free and catholic when they fall within the focus of his lens. He does not live in the present hour, and read men and books as they occur for his theme, but having chosen this, he directs his studies to this end.

But if he supplies us with arguments and illustrations against himself, we will remember that we may perhaps be convicted of error from the same source—stalking on these lofty reviewer’s stilts so far from the green pasturage around. If we look again at his page, we are apt to retract somewhat that we have said. Often a genuine poetic feeling dawns through it, like the texture of the earth seen through the dead grass and leaves in the spring. There is indeed more poetry in this author than criticism on poetry. He often reminds us of the ancient Scald, inspired by the grimmer features of life, dwelling longer on Dante than on Shakspeare. We have not recently met with a more solid and unquestionable piece of poetic work than that episode of “The Ancient Monk,” in Past and Present, at once idyllic, narrative, heroic; a beautiful restoration of a past age. There is nothing like it elsewhere that we know of. The History of the French Revolution is a poem, at length got translated into prose; an Iliad, indeed, as he himself has it—“The destructive wrath of Sansculotism: this is what we speak, having unhappily no voice for singing.”

One improvement we could suggest in this last, as indeed in most epics, that he should let in the sun oftener upon his picture. It does not often enough appear, but it is all revolution, the old way of human life turned simply bottom upward, so that when at length we are inadvertently reminded of the “Brest Shipping,” a St. Domingo colony, and that anybody thinks of owning plantations, and simply turning up the soil there, and that now at length, after some years of this revolution, there is a falling off in the importation of sugar, we feel a queer surprise. Had they not sweetened their water with Revolution then? It would be well if there were several chapters headed “Work for the Mouth”—Revolution-work inclusive, of course—“Altitude of the Sun,” “State of the Crops and Markets,” “Meteorological Observations,” “Attractive Industry,” “Day Labor,” &c., just to remind the reader that the French peasantry did something beside go without breeches, burn chÂteaus, get ready knotted cords, and embrace and throttle one another by turns. These things are sometimes hinted at, but they deserve a notice more in proportion to their importance. We want not only a background to the picture, but a ground under the feet also. We remark, too, occasionally, an unphilosophical habit, common enough elsewhere, in Alison’s History of Modern Europe, for instance, of saying, undoubtedly with effect, that if a straw had not fallen this way or that, why then—but, of course, it is as easy in philosophy to make kingdoms rise and fall as straws. The old adage is as true for our purpose, which says that a miss is as good as a mile. Who shall say how near the man came to being killed who was not killed? If an apple had not fallen then we had never heard of Newton and the law of gravitation; as if they could not have contrived to let fall a pear as well.

The poet is blithe and cheery ever, and as well as nature. Carlyle has not the simple Homeric health of Wordsworth, nor the deliberate philosophic turn of Coleridge, nor the scholastic taste of Landor, but, though sick and under restraint, the constitutional vigor of one of his old Norse heroes, struggling in a lurid light, with IÖtuns still, striving to throw the old woman, and “she was Time”—striving to lift the big cat—and that was “The Great World-Serpent, which, tail in mouth, girds and keeps up the whole created world.” The smith, though so brawny and tough, I should not call the healthiest man. There is too much shop-work, too great extremes of heat and cold, and incessant ten-pound-ten and thrashing of the anvil, in his life. But the haymaker’s is a true sunny perspiration, produced by the extreme of summer heat only, and conversant with the blast of the zephyr, not of the forge-bellows. We know very well the nature of this man’s sadness, but we do not know the nature of his gladness. There sits Bull in the court all the year round, with his hoarse bark and discontented growl—not a cross dog, only a canine habit, verging to madness some think—now separated from the shuddering travelers only by the paling, now heard afar in the horizon, even melodious there; baying the moon o’ nights, baying the sun by day, with his mastiff mouth. He never goes after the cows, nor stretches in the sun, nor plays with the children. Pray give him a longer rope, ye gods, or let him go at large, and never taste raw meat more.

The poet will maintain serenity in spite of all disappointments. He is expected to preserve an unconcerned and healthy outlook over the world while he lives. Philosophia practica est eruditionis meta, philosophy practiced is the good of learning; and for that other, Oratoris est celare artem, we might read, Herois est celare pugnam, the hero will conceal his struggles. Poetry is the only life got, the only work done, the only pure product and free labor of man, performed only when he has put all the world under his feet, and conquered the last of his foes.

Carlyle speaks of Nature with a certain unconscious pathos for the most part. She is to him a receded but ever memorable splendor, casting still a reflected light over all his scenery. As we read his books here in New England, where there are potatoes enough, and every man can get his living peacefully and sportively as the birds and bees, and need think no more of that, it seems to us as if by the world he often meant London, at the head of the tide upon the Thames, the sorest place on the face of the earth, the very citadel of conservatism. Possibly a South African village might have furnished a more hopeful, and more exacting audience, or in the silence of the wilderness and the desert, he might have addressed himself more entirely to his true audience posterity.

In his writings, we should say that he, as conspicuously as any, though with little enough expressed or even conscious sympathy, represents the Reformer class, and all the better for not being the acknowledged leader of any. In him the universal plaint is most settled, unappeasable and serious. Until a thousand named and nameless grievances are righted, there will be no repose for him in the lap of nature, or the seclusion of science and literature. By foreseeing it he hastens the crisis in the affairs of England, and is as good as many years added to her history.

As we said, we have no adequate word from him concerning poets—Homer, Shakspeare; nor more, we might add, of Saints—Jesus; nor philosophers—Socrates, Plato; nor mystics—Swedenborg. He has no articulate sympathy at least with such as these as yet. Odin, Mahomet, Cromwell, will have justice at his hands, and we would leave him to write the Eulogies of all the giants of the will, but the kings of men, whose kingdoms are wholly in the hearts of their subjects, strictly transcendent and moral greatness, what is highest and worthiest in character, he is not inclined to dwell upon or point to. To do himself justice, and set some of his readers right, he should give us some transcendent hero at length, to rule his demigods and Titans; develop, perhaps, his reserved and dumb reverence for Christ, not speaking to a London or Church of England audience merely. Let not “sacred silence meditate that sacred matter” forever, but let us have sacred speech and sacred scripture thereon. True reverence is not necessarily dumb, but ofttimes prattling and hilarious as children in the spring.

Every man will include in his list of worthies those whom he himself best represents. Carlyle, and our countryman Emerson, whose place and influence must ere long obtain a more distinct recognition, are, to a certain extent, the complement of each other. The age could not do with one of them, it cannot do with both. To make a broad and rude distinction, to suit our present purpose, the former, as critic, deals with the men of action—Mahomet, Luther, Cromwell; the latter with the thinkers—Plato, Shakspeare, Goethe, for though both have written upon Goethe, they do not meet in him. The one has more sympathy with the heroes, or practical reformers, the other with the observers, or philosophers. Put these worthies together, and you will have a pretty fair representation of mankind; yet with one or more memorable exceptions. To say nothing of Christ, who yet awaits a just appreciation from literature, the peacefully practical hero, whom Columbus may represent, is obviously slighted; but above and after all, the Man of the Age, come to be called working-man, it is obvious that none yet speaks to his condition, for the speaker is not yet in his condition. There is poetry and prophecy to cheer him, and advice of the head and heart to the hands; but no very memorable coÖperation, it must be confessed, since the Christian era, or rather since Prometheus tried it. It is even a note-worthy fact, that a man addresses effectually in another only himself still, and what he himself does and is, alone can he prompt the other to do and to become. Like speaks to like only; labor to labor, philosophy to philosophy, criticism to criticism, poetry to poetry, &c. Literature speaks how much still to the past, how little to the future, how much to the east, how little to the west?—

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One more merit in Carlyle, let the subject be what it may, is the freedom of prospect he allows, the entire absence of cant and dogma. He removes many cart-loads of rubbish, and leaves open a broad highway. His writings are all enfenced on the side of the future and the possible. He does not place himself across the passage out of his books, so that none may go freely out, but rather by the entrance, inviting all to come in and go through. No gins, no net-work, no pickets here, to restrain the free thinking reader. In many books called philosophical, we find ourselves running hither and thither, under and through, and sometimes quite unconsciously straddling some imaginary fence-work, which in our clairvoyance we had not noticed, but fortunately, not with such fatal consequences as happen to those birds which fly against a white-washed wall, mistaking it for fluid air. As we proceed the wreck of this dogmatic tissue collects about the organs of our perception, like cobwebs about the muzzles of hunting dogs in dewy mornings. If we look up with such eyes as these authors furnish, we see no heavens, but a low pent-roof of straw or tiles, as if we stood under a shed, with no sky-light through which to glimpse the blue.

Carlyle, though he does but inadvertently direct our eyes to the open heavens, nevertheless, lets us wander broadly underneath, and shows them to us reflected in innumerable pools and lakes. We have from him, occasionally, some hints of a possible science of astronomy even, and revelation of heavenly arcana, but nothing definite hitherto.

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These volumes contain not the highest, but a very practicable wisdom, which startles and provokes, rather than informs us. Carlyle does not oblige us to think; we have thought enough for him already, but he compels us to act. We accompany him rapidly through an endless gallery of pictures, and glorious reminiscences of experiences unimproved. “Have you not had Moses and the prophets? Neither will ye be persuaded if one should rise from the dead.” There is no calm philosophy of life here, such as you might put at the end of the Almanac, to hang over the farmer’s hearth, how men shall live in these winter, in these summer days. No philosophy, properly speaking, of love, or friendship, or religion, or politics, or education, or nature, or spirit; perhaps a nearer approach to a philosophy of kingship, and of the place of the literary man, than of any thing else. A rare preacher, with prayer, and psalm, and sermon, and benediction, but no contemplation of man’s life from serene oriental ground, nor yet from the stirring occidental. No thanksgiving sermon for the holydays, or the Easter vacations, when all men submit to float on the full currents of life. When we see with what spirits, though with little heroism enough, wood-choppers, drovers, and apprentices, take and spend life, playing all day long, sunning themselves, shading themselves, eating, drinking, sleeping, we think that the philosophy of their life written would be such a level natural history as the Gardener’s Calendar, and the works of the early botanists, inconceivably slow to come to practical conclusions; its premises away off before the first morning light, ere the heather was introduced into the British isles, and no inferences to be drawn during this noon of the day, not till after the remote evening shadows have begun to fall around.

There is no philosophy here for philosophers, only as every man is said to have his philosophy. No system but such as is the man himself; and, indeed, he stands compactly enough. No progress beyond the first assertion and challenge, as it were, with trumpet blast. One thing is certain, that we had best be doing something in good earnest, henceforth forever; that’s an indispensable philosophy. The before impossible precept, “know thyself,” he translates into the partially possible one, “know what thou canst work at.” Sartor Resartus is, perhaps, the sunniest and most philosophical, as it is the most autobiographical of his works, in which he drew most largely on the experience of his youth. But we miss everywhere a calm depth, like a lake, even stagnant, and must submit to rapidity and whirl, as on skates, with all kinds of skillful and antic motions, sculling, sliding, cutting punch-bowls and rings, forward and backward. The talent is very nearly equal to the genius. Sometimes it would be preferable to wade slowly through a Serbonian bog, and feel the juices of the meadow. We should say that he had not speculated far, but faithfully, living up to it. He lays all the stress still on the most elementary and initiatory maxims, introductory to philosophy. It is the experience of the religionist. He pauses at such a quotation as, “It is only with renunciation that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin;” or, “Doubt of any sort cannot be removed except by action;” or, “Do the duty which lies nearest thee.” The chapters entitled, “The Everlasting No,” and “The Everlasting Yea,” contain what you might call the religious experience of his hero. In the latter, he assigns to him these words, brief, but as significant as any we remember in this author:—“One Bible I know, of whose plenary inspiration doubt is not so much as possible; nay, with my own eyes I saw the God’s-hand writing it: thereof all other Bibles are but leaves.” This belongs to “The Everlasting Yea;” yet he lingers unaccountably in “The Everlasting No,” under the negative pole. “Truth!” he still cries with TeÜfelsdrock, “though the heavens crush me for following her: no falsehood! though a whole celestial Lubberland were the price of apostacy.” Again, “Living without God in the world, of God’s light I was not utterly bereft; if my as yet sealed eyes, with their unspeakable longing, could nowhere see Him, nevertheless, in my heart He was present, and His heaven-written law still stood legible and sacred there.” Again, “Ever from that time, [the era of his Protest,] the temper of my misery was changed: not fear or whining sorrow was it, but indignation and grim, fire-eyed defiance.” And in the “Centre of Indifference,” as editor, he observes, that “it was no longer a quite hopeless unrest,” and then proceeds, not in his best style, “For the fire-baptized soul, long so scathed and thunder-riven, here feels its own freedom, which feeling is its Baphometic Baptism: the citadel of its whole kingdom it has thus gained by assault, and will keep inexpungable; outward from which the remaining dominions, not, indeed, without hard battling, will doubtless by degrees be conquered and pacificated.”

Beside some philosophers of larger vision, Carlyle stands like an honest, half-despairing boy, grasping at some details only of their world systems. Philosophy, certainly, is some account of truths, the fragments and very insignificant parts of which man will practice in this work-shop; truths infinite and in harmony with infinity; in respect to which the very objects and ends of the so-called practical philosopher, will be mere propositions, like the rest. It would be no reproach to a philosopher, that he knew the future better than the past, or even than the present. It is better worth knowing. He will prophecy, tell what is to be, or in other words, what alone is, under appearances, laying little stress on the boiling of the pot, or the Condition of England question. He has no more to do with the condition of England than with her national debt, which a vigorous generation would not inherit. The philosopher’s conception of things will, above all, be truer than other men’s, and his philosophy will subordinate all the circumstances of life. To live like a philosopher, is to live, not foolishly, like other men, but wisely, and according to universal laws. In this, which was the ancient sense, we think there has been no philosopher in modern times. The wisest and most practical men of recent history, to whom this epithet has been hastily applied, have lived comparatively meagre lives, of conformity and tradition, such as their fathers transmitted to them. But a man may live in what style he can. Between earth and heaven, there is room for all kinds. If he take counsel of fear and prudence, he has already failed. One who believed, by his very constitution, some truth which a few words express, would make a revolution never to be forgotten in this world; for it needs but a fraction of truth to found houses and empires on.

However, such distinctions as poet and philosopher, do not much assist our final estimate of a man; we do not lay much stress on them. “A man’s a man for a’ that.” If Carlyle does not take two steps in philosophy, are there any who take three? Philosophy having crept clinging to the rocks, so far, puts out its feelers many ways in vain. It would be hard to surprise him by the relation of any important human experience, but in some nook or corner of his works, you will find that this, too, was sometimes dreamed of in his philosophy.

To sum up our most serious objections, in a few words, we should say that Carlyle indicates a depth,—and we mean not impliedly, but distinctly,—which he neglects to fathom. We want to know more about that which he wants to know as well. If any luminous star, or undissolvable nebula, is visible from his station, which is not visible from ours, the interests of science require that the fact be communicated to us. The universe expects every man to do his duty in his parallel of latitude. We want to hear more of his inmost life; his hymn and prayer, more; his elegy and eulogy, less; that he should speak more from his character, and less from his talent; communicate centrally with his readers, and not by a side; that he should say what he believes, without suspecting that men disbelieve it, out of his never-misunderstood nature. Homer and Shakspeare speak directly and confidently to us. The confidence implied in the unsuspicious tone of the world’s worthies, is a great and encouraging fact. Dig up some of the earth you stand on, and show that. If he gave us religiously the meagre results of his experience, his style would be less picturesque and diversified, but more attractive and impressive. His genius can cover all the land with gorgeous palaces, but the reader does not abide in them, but pitches his tent rather in the desert and on the mountain peak.

When we look about for something to quote, as the fairest specimen of the man, we confess that we labor under an unusual difficulty; for his philosophy is so little of the proverbial or sentential kind, and opens so gradually, rising insensibly from the reviewer’s level, and developing its thought completely and in detail, that we look in vain for the brilliant passages, for point and antithesis, and must end by quoting his works entire. What in a writer of less breadth would have been the proposition which would have bounded his discourse, his column of victory, his Pillar of Hercules, and ne plus ultra, is in Carlyle frequently the same thought unfolded; no Pillar of Hercules, but a considerable prospect, north and south, along the Atlantic coast. There are other pillars of Hercules, like beacons and light-houses, still further in the horizon, toward Atlantis, set up by a few ancient and modern travelers; but, so far as this traveler goes, he clears and colonizes, and all the surplus population of London is bound thither at once. What we would quote is, in fact, his vivacity, and not any particular wisdom or sense, which last is ever synonymous with sentence, [sententia,] as in his cotemporaries, Coleridge, Landor and Wordsworth.

We have not attempted to discriminate between his works, but have rather regarded them all as one work, as is the man himself. We have not examined so much as remembered them. To do otherwise, would have required a more indifferent, and perhaps even less just review, than the present. The several chapters were thankfully received, as they came out, and now we find it impossible to say which was best; perhaps each was best in its turn. They do not require to be remembered by chapters—that is a merit—but are rather remembered as a well-known strain, reviving from time to time, when it had nearly died away, and always inspiring us to worthier and more persistent endeavors.

In his last work, “The Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell,” Carlyle has added a chapter to the history of England; has actually written a chapter of her history, and, in comparison with this, there seems to be no other,—this, and the thirty thousand or three hundred thousand pamphlets in the British Museum, and that is all. This book is a practical comment on Universal History. What if there were a British Museum in Athens and Babylon, and nameless cities! It throws light on the history of the Iliad and the labors of Pisistratus. History is, then, an account of memorable events that have sometime transpired, and not an incredible and confused fable, quarters for scholars merely, or a gymnasium for poets and orators. We may say that he has dug up a hero, who was buried alive in his battle-field, hauled him out of his cairn, on which every passer had cast a pamphlet. We had heard of their digging up Arthurs before to be sure they were there; and, to be sure they were there, their bones, seven feet of them; but they had to bury them again. Others have helped to make known Shakspeare, Milton, Herbert, to give a name to such treasures as we all possessed; but, in this instance, not only a lost character has been restored to our imaginations, but palpably a living body, as it were, to our senses, to wear and sustain the former. His Cromwell’s restoration, if England will read it faithfully, and addressed to New England too. Every reader will make his own application.

To speak deliberately, we think that in this instance, vague rumor and a vague history have for the first time been subjected to a rigid scrutiny, and the wheat, with at least novel fidelity, sifted from the chaff; so that there remain for result,—First, Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, now for the first time read or readable, and well nigh as complete as the fates will permit; secondly, Deeds, making an imperfect and fragmentary life, which may, with probability, be fathered upon him; thirdly, this wreck of an ancient picture, the present editor has, to the best of his ability, restored, sedulously scraping away the daubings of successive bunglers, and endeavoring to catch the spirit of the artist himself. Not the worst, nor a barely possible, but for once the most favorable construction has been put upon this evidence of the life of a man, and the result is a picture of the ideal Cromwell, the perfection of the painter’s art. Possibly this was the actual man. At any rate, this only can contain the actual hero. We confess that when we read these Letters and Speeches, unquestionably Cromwell’s, with open and confident mind, we get glimpses occasionally of a grandeur and heroism, which even this editor has not proclaimed. His “Speeches” make us forget modern orators, and might go right into the next edition of the Old Testament, without alteration. Cromwell was another sort of man than we had taken him to be. These Letters and Speeches have supplied the lost key to his character. Verily another soldier than Bonaparte; rejoicing in the triumph of a psalm; to whom psalms were for Magna Charta and Heralds’ Book, and whose victories were “crowning mercies.” For stern, antique, and practical religion, a man unparalleled, since the Jewish dispensation, in the line of kings. An old Hebrew warrior, indeed, and last right-hand man of the Lord of Hosts, that has blown his ram’s horn about Jericho. Yet, with a remarkable common sense and unexpected liberality, there was joined in him, too, such a divine madness, though with large and sublime features, as that of those dibblers of beans on St George’s Hill, whom Carlyle tells of. He still listened to ancient and decaying oracles. If his actions were not always what Christianity or the truest philosophy teaches, still they never fail to impress us as noble, and however violent, will always be pardoned to the great purpose and sincerity of the man. His unquestionable hardness, not to say willfulness, not prevailing by absolute truth and greatness of character, but honestly striving to bend things to his will, is yet grateful to consider in this or any age. As John Maidstone said, “He was a strong man in the dark perils of war; in the high places of the field, hope shone in him like a pillar of fire, when it had gone out in the others.” And as Milton sang, whose least testimony cannot be spared?—

None ever spake to Cromwell before, sending a word of cheer across the centuries—not the “hear!” “hear!” of modern parliaments, but the congratulation and sympathy of a brother soul. The Letters and Speeches owe not a little to the “Intercalations” and “Annotations” of the “latest of the Commentators.” The reader will not soon forget how like a happy merchant in the crowd, listening to his favorite speaker, he is all on the alert, and sympathetic, nudging his neighbors from time to time, and throwing in his responsive or interrogatory word. All is good, both that which he didn’t hear, and that which he did. He not only makes him speak audibly, but he makes all parties listen to him, all England sitting round, and give in their comments, “groans,” or “blushes,” or “assent;” indulging sometimes in triumphant malicious applications to the present day, when there is a palpable hit; supplying the look and attitude of the speaker, and the tone of his voice, and even rescuing his unutterable, wrecked and submerged thought,—for this orator begins speaking anywhere within sight of the beginning, and leaves off when the conclusion is visible. Our merchant listens, restless, meanwhile, encouraging his fellow-auditors, when the speech grows dim and involved, and pleasantly congratulating them, when it runs smoothly; or, in touching soliloquy, he exclaims, “Poor Oliver, noble Oliver”—“Courage, my brave one!”

And all along, between the Letters and Speeches, as readers well remember, he has ready such a fresh top-of-the-morning salutation as conjures up the spirits of those days, and men go marching over English sward, not wired skeletons, but with firm, elastic muscles, and clang of armor on their thighs, if they wore swords, or the twang of psalms and canticles on their lips. His blunt, “Who are you?” put to the shadowy ghosts of history, they vanish into deeper obscurity than ever. Vivid phantasmagorian pictures of what is transpiring in England in the meanwhile, there are, not a few, better than if you had been there to see.

All of Carlyle’s works might well enough be embraced under the title of one of them, a good specimen brick, “On Heroes, Hero-worship, and the Heroic in History.” Of this department, he is the Chief Professor in the World’s University, and even leaves Plutarch behind. Such intimate and living, such loyal and generous sympathy with the heroes of history, not one in one age only, but forty in forty ages, such an unparalleled reviewing and greeting of all past worth, with exceptions, to be sure,—but exceptions were the rule, before,—it was, indeed, to make this the age of review writing, as if now one period of the human story were completing itself; and getting its accounts settled. This soldier has told the stories with new emphasis, and will be a memorable hander-down of fame to posterity. And with what wise discrimination he has selected his men, with reference both to his own genius and to theirs: Mahomet,—Dante,—Cromwell,—Voltaire,—Johnson,—Burns,—Goethe,—Richter,—Schiller,—Mirabeau; could any of these have been spared? These we wanted to hear about. We have not as commonly the cold and refined judgment of the scholar and critic merely, but something more human and affecting. These eulogies have the glow and warmth of friendship. There is sympathy not with mere fames, and formless, incredible things, but with kindred men,—not transiently, but life-long he has walked with them.

The attitude of some, in relation to Carlyle’s love of heroes, and men of the sword, reminds us of the procedure at the anti-slavery meetings, when some member, being warmed, begins to speak with more latitude than usual of the Bible or the Church, for a few prudent and devout ones to spring a prayer upon him, as the saying is; that is, propose suddenly to unite in prayer, and so solemnize the minds of the audience, or dismiss them at once; which may oftener be to interrupt a true prayer by most gratuitous profanity. But the spring of this trap, we are glad to learn, has grown somewhat rusty, and is not so sure of late.

No doubt, some of Carlyle’s worthies, should they ever return to earth, would find themselves unpleasantly put upon their good behavior, to sustain their characters; but if he can return a man’s life more perfect to our hands, than it was left at his death, following out the design of its author, we shall have no great cause to complain. We do not want a Daguerreotype likeness. All biography is the life of Adam,—a much-experienced man,—and time withdraws something partial from the story of every individual, that the historian may supply something general. If these virtues were not in this man, perhaps they are in his biographer,—no fatal mistake. Really, in any other sense, we never do, nor desire to, come at the historical man,—unless we rob his grave, that is the nearest approach. Why did he die, then? He is with his bones, surely.

No doubt, Carlyle has a propensity to exaggerate the heroic in history, that is, he creates you an ideal hero rather than another thing, he has most of that material. This we allow in all its senses, and in one narrower sense it is not so convenient. Yet what were history if he did not exaggerate it? How comes it that history never has to wait for facts, but for a man to write it? The ages may go on forgetting the facts never so long, he can remember two for every one forgotten. The musty records of history, like the catacombs, contain the perishable remains, but only in the breast of genius are embalmed the souls of heroes. There is very little of what is called criticism here; it is love and reverence, rather, which deal with qualities not relatively, but absolutely great; for whatever is admirable in a man is something infinite, to which we cannot set bounds. These sentiments allow the mortal to die, the immortal and divine to survive. There is something antique, even in his style of treating his subject, reminding us that Heroes and Demi-gods, Fates and Furies, still exist, the common man is nothing to him, but after death the hero is apotheosized and has a place in heaven, as in the religion of the Greeks.

Exaggeration! was ever any virtue attributed to a man without exaggeration? was ever any vice, without infinite exaggeration? Do we not exaggerate ourselves to ourselves, or do we recognize ourselves for the actual men we are? Are we not all great men? Yet what are we actually to speak of? We live by exaggeration, what else is it to anticipate more than we enjoy? The lightning is an exaggeration of the light. Exaggerated history is poetry, and truth referred to a new standard. To a small man every greater is an exaggeration. He who cannot exaggerate is not qualified to utter truth. No truth we think was ever expressed but with this sort of emphasis, so that for the time there seemed to be no other. Moreover, you must speak loud to those who are hard of hearing, and so you acquire a habit of shouting to those who are not. By an immense exaggeration we appreciate our Greek poetry and philosophy, and Egyptian ruins; our Shakspeares and Miltons, our liberty and Christianity. We give importance to this hour over all other hours. We do not live by justice, but by grace. As the sort of justice which concerns us in our daily intercourse is not that administered by the judge, so the historical justice which we prize is not arrived at by nicely balancing the evidence. In order to appreciate any, even the humblest man, you must first, by some good fortune, have acquired a sentiment of admiration, even of reverence, for him, and there never were such exaggerators as these. Simple admiration for a hero renders a juster verdict than the wisest criticism, which necessarily degrades what is high to its own level. There is no danger in short of saying too much in praise of one man, provided you can say more in praise of a better man. If by exaggeration a man can create for us a hero, where there was nothing but dry bones before, we will thank him, and let Dryasdust administer historical justice. This is where a true history properly begins, when some genius arises, who can turn the dry and musty records into poetry. As we say, looking to the future, that what is best is truest, so, in one sense, we may say looking into the past, for the only past that we are to look at, must also be future to us. The great danger is not of excessive partiality or sympathy with one, but of a shallow justice to many, in which, after all, none gets his deserts. Who has not experienced that praise is truer than naked justice? As if man were to be the judge of his fellows, and should repress his rising sympathy with the prisoner at the bar, considering the many honest men abroad, whom he had never countenanced.

To try him by the German rule of referring an author to his own standard, we will quote the following from Carlyle’s remarks on history, and leave the reader to consider how far his practice has been consistent with his theory. “Truly, if History is Philosophy teaching by experience, the writer fitted to compose history, is hitherto an unknown man. The experience itself would require all knowledge to record it, were the All-wisdom needful for such Philosophy as would interpret it, to be had for asking. Better were it that mere earthly historians should lower such pretensions, more suitable for omniscience than for human science; and aiming only at some picture of the things acted, which picture itself, will at best be a poor approximation, leave the inscrutable purport of them an acknowledged secret; or, at most, in reverent Faith, far different from that teaching of Philosophy, pause over the mysterious vestiges of Him, whose path is in the great deep of Time, whom history indeed reveals, but only all History and in Eternity, will clearly reveal.”

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Who lives in London to tell this generation who have been the great men of our race? We have read that on some exposed place in the city of Geneva, they have fixed a brazen indicator for the use of travelers, with the names of the mountain summits in the horizon marked upon it, “so that by taking sight across the index you can distinguish them at once. You will not mistake Mont Blanc, if you see him, but until you get accustomed to the panorama, you may easily mistake one of his court for the king.” It stands there a piece of mute brass, that seems nevertheless to know in what vicinity it is: and there perchance it will stand, when the nation that placed it there has passed away, still in sympathy with the mountains, forever discriminating in the desert.

So, we may say, stands this man, pointing as long as he lives, in obedience to some spiritual magnetism, to the summits in the historical horizon, for the guidance of his fellows.

Truly, our greatest blessings are very cheap. To have our sunlight without paying for it, without any duty levied,—to have our poet there in England, to furnish us entertainment, and what is better provocation, from year to year, all our lives long, to make the world seem richer for us, the age more respectable, and life better worth the living,—all without expense of acknowledgment even, but silently accepted out of the east, like morning light as a matter of course.

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Now fitful clouds scud o’er the skies,

And fairy showers patter by,

And in the wood the low wind sighs,

And shadows o’er the brown fields fly!

Low fades the sun, then blazes out,

Glinting on grass, and twig, and tree?—

Ah! April, boyish out and out,

Now tears, and now all jollity!