The stories of the respective parties who had thus so strangely met on that barren and isolated rock, were soon told. Harry confirmed all of Jack’s statements as to his own proceedings, and Rose had little more to say than to add how much her own affections had led her to risk in his behalf. In a word, ten minutes made each fully acquainted with the other’s movements. Then Tier considerately retired to the boat, under the pretence of winding it, and seeing every thing ready for a departure, but as much to allow the lovers the ten or fifteen minutes of uninterrupted discourse that they now enjoyed, as for any other reason.

It was a strange scene that now offered on the rock. By this time the fire was burning not only brightly, but fiercely, shedding its bright light far and near. Under its most brilliant rays stood Harry and Rose, both smiling and happy, delighted in their meeting, and, for the moment, forgetful of all but their present felicity. Never, indeed, had Rose appeared more lovely than under these circumstances. Her face was radiant with those feelings which had so recently changed from despair to delight—a condition that is ever most propitious to beauty, and charms that always appeared feminine and soft, now seemed elevated to a bright benignancy that might best be likened to our fancied images of angels. The mild, beaming, serene and intelligent blue eyes, the cheeks flushed with happiness, the smiles that came so easily, and were so replete with tenderness, and the rich hair, deranged by the breeze, and moistened by the air of the sea, each and all, perhaps, borrowed some additional lustre from the peculiar light under which they were exhibited. As for Harry, happiness had thrown all the disadvantages of exposure, want of dress, and a face that had not felt the razor for six-and-thirty hours, into the back-ground. When he left the wreck, he had cast aside his cap and his light summer jacket, in order that they might not encumber him in swimming, but both had been recovered when he returned with the boat to take off his friends. In his ordinary sea attire, then, he now stood, holding Rose’s two hands, in front of the fire, every garment clean and white as the waters of the ocean could make them, but all betraying some of the signs of his recent trials. His fine countenance was full of the love he bore for the intrepid and devoted girl who had risked so much in his behalf; and a painter might have wished to preserve the expressions of ardent, manly admiration which glowed in his face, answering to the gentle sympathy and womanly tenderness it met in that of Rose.

The back-ground of this picture was the wide, even surface of the coral reef, with its exterior setting of the dark and gloomy sea. On the side of the channel, however, appeared the boat, already winded, with Biddy still on the rock, looking kindly at the lovers by the fire, while Jack was holding the painter, beginning to manifest a little impatience at the delay.

“They’ll stay there an hour, holding each other’s hands, and looking into each other’s faces,” half grumbled the little, rotund, assistant-steward, anxious to be on his way back to the brig, “unless a body gives ’em a call. Capt. Spike will be in no very good humor to receive you and me on board ag’in, if he should find out what sort of a trip we’ve been making hereaway.”

“Let ’em alone—let ’em alone, Jacky,” answered the good-natured and kind-hearted Irish woman. “It’s happy they bees, just now, and it does my eyes good to look at ’em.”

“Ay, they’re happy enough, now; I only hope it may last.”

“Last! what should help its lasting? Miss Rose is so good, and so handsome—and she’s a fortin’, too; and the mate so nice a young man. Think of the likes of them, Jack, wanting the blessed gift of wather, and all within one day and two nights. Sure, it’s Providence that takes care of, and not we ourselves! Kings on their thrones isn’t as happy as them at this moment.”

“Men’s willians!” growled Jack; “and more fools women for trustin’ ’em.”

“Not sich a nice young man as our mate, Jacky; no, not he. Now the mate of the ship I came from Liverpool in, this time ten years agone, he was a villain. He grudged us our potaties, and our own bread; and he grudged us every dhrap of swate wather that went into our mouths. Call him a villain, if you will, Jack; but niver call the likes of Mr. Mulford by so hard a name.”

“I wish him well, and nothing else; and for that very reason must put a stop to his looking so fondly into that young woman’s face. Time wont stand still, Biddy, to suit the wishes of lovers; and Stephen Spike is a man not to be trifled with. Halloo, there, maty! It’s high time to think of getting under way.”

At this summons both Harry and Rose started, becoming aware of the precious moments they were losing. Carrying a large portion of the turtle, the former moved toward the craft, in which all were seated in less than three minutes, with the sail loose, and the boat in motion. For a few moments the mate was so much occupied with Rose, that he did not advert to the course, but one of his experience could not long be misled on such a point, and he turned suddenly to Tier, who was steering, to remonstrate.

“How’s this, Jack!” cried Mulford; “you’ve got the boat’s head the wrong way.”

“Not I, sir. She’s heading for the brig as straight as she can go. This wind favors us on both legs; and it’s lucky it does, for ’twill be hard on upon daylight afore we are alongside of her. You’ll want half an hour of dark, at the very least, to get a good start of the Swash, in case she makes sail a’ter you.”

“Straight for the brig!—what have we to do with the brig? Our course is for Key West, unless it might be better to run down before the wind to the Dry Tortugas again, and look for the sloop-of-war. Duty, and perhaps my own safety, tells me to let Capt. Mull know what Spike is about with the Swash; and I shall not hesitate a moment about doing it, after all that has passed. Give me the helm, Jack, and let us ware short round on our heel.”

“Never, master maty—never. I must go back to the brig. Miss Rose, there, knows that my business is with Stephen Spike, and with him only.”

“And I must return to my aunt, Harry,” put in Rose, herself. “It would never do for me to desert my aunt, you know.”

“And I have been taken from that rock, to be given up to the tender mercies of Spike again?”

This was said rather in surprise, than in a complaining way; and it at once induced Rose to tell the young man the whole of their project.

“Never, Harry, never,” she said firmly. “It is our intention to return to the brig ourselves, and let you escape in the boat afterwards. Jack Tier is of opinion this can be done without much risk, if we use proper caution, and do not lose too much time. On no account would I consent to place you in the hands of Spike again—death would be preferable to that, Harry!”

“And on no account can or will I consent to place you again in the hands of Spike, Rose,” answered the young man. “Now that we know his intentions, such an act would be almost impious.”

“Remember my aunt, dear Harry. What would be her situation in the morning, when she found herself deserted by her niece and Biddy—by me, whom she has nursed and watched from childhood, and whom she loves so well?”

“I shall not deny your obligations to your aunt, Rose, and your duty to her under ordinary circumstances. But these are not ordinary circumstances; and it would be courting the direst misfortunes, nay, almost braving Providence, to place yourself in the hands of that scoundrel again, now that you are clear of them.”

“Spike’s a willian!” muttered Jack.

“And my desartin’ the missus would be a sin that no praste would overlook ’asily,” put in Biddy. “When Miss Rose told me of this v’y’ge that she meant to make in the boat wid Jack Tier, I asked to come along, that I might take care of her, and see that there was plenty of wather; but ill-luck befall me if I would have t’ought of sich a thing, and the missus desarted.”

“We can then run alongside of the brig, and put Biddy and Jack on board of her,” said Mulford, reflecting a moment on what had just been said, “when you and I can make the best of our way to Key West, where the means of sending government vessels out after the Swash will soon offer. In this way we can not only get our friends out of the lion’s jaws, but keep out of them ourselves.”

“Reflect a moment, Harry,” said Rose, in a low voice, but not without tenderness in its tones; “it would not do for me to go off alone with you in this boat.”

“Not when you have confessed your willingness to go over the wide world with me, Rose—with me, and with me only?”

“Not even then, Harry. I know you will think better of this, when your generous nature has time to reason with your heart, on my account.”

“I can only answer in your own words, Rose—never. If you return to the Swash, I shall go on board with you, and throw defiance into the very teeth of Spike. I know the men do not dislike me, and, perhaps, assisted by SeÑor Montefalderon, and a few friends among the people, I can muster a force that will prevent my being thrown into the sea.”

Rose burst into tears, and then succeeded many minutes, during which Mulford was endeavoring, with manly tenderness, to soothe her. As soon as our heroine recovered her self-command, she began to discuss the matter at issue between them more coolly. For half an hour every thing was urged by each that feeling, affection, delicacy, or distrust of Spike could well urge, and Mulford was slowly getting the best of the argument, as well he might, the truth being mostly of his side. Rose was bewildered, really feeling a strong reluctance to quit her aunt, even with so justifiable a motive, but principally shrinking from the appearance of going off alone in a boat, and almost in the open sea, with Mulford. Had she loved Harry less, her scruples might not have been so active, but the consciousness of the strength of her attachment, as well as her fixed intention to become his wife the moment it was in her power to give him her hand with the decencies of her sex, contributed strangely to prevent her yielding to the young man’s reasoning. On the subject of the aunt, the mate made out so good a case, that it was apparent to all in the boat Rose would have to abandon that ground of refusal. Spike had no object to gain by ill-treating Mrs. Budd; and the probability certainly was that he would get rid of her as soon as he could, and in the most easy manner. This was so apparent to all, that Harry had little difficulty in getting Rose to assent to its probability. But there remained the reluctance to go off alone with the mate in a boat. This part of the subject was more difficult to manage than the other; and Mulford betrayed as much by the awkwardness with which he managed it. At length the discussion was brought to a close by Jack Tier suddenly saying,—

“Yonder is the brig; and we are heading for her as straight as if she was the pole, and the keel of this boat was a compass. I see how it is, Miss Rose, and a’ter all, I must give in. I suppose some other opportunity will offer for me to get on board the brig ag’in, and I’ll trust to that. If you won’t go off with the mate alone, I suppose you’ll not refuse to go off in my company.”

“Will you accompany us, Jack? This is more than I had hoped for! Yes, Harry, if Jack Tier will be of the party, I will trust my aunt to Biddy, and go with you to Key West, in order to escape from Spike.”

This was said so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, as to take Mulford completely by surprise. Scarce believing what he heard, the young man was disposed, at first, to feel hurt, though a moment’s reflection showed him that he ought to rejoice in the result, let the cause be what it might.

“More than I had hoped for!” he could not refrain from repeating a little bitterly; “is Jack Tier, then, of so much importance, that his company is thought preferable to mine!”

“Hush, Harry!” said Rose, laying her hand on Mulford’s arm, by way of strengthening her appeal. “Do not say that. You are ignorant of circumstances; at another time you shall know them, but not now. Let it be enough for the present, that I promise to accompany you if Jack will be of our party.”

“Ay, ay, Miss Rose, I will be of the party, seeing there is no other way of getting the lamb out of the jaws of the wolf. A’ter all, it may be the wisest thing I can do, though back to the Swash I must and will come, powder or no powder, treason or no treason, at the first opportunity. Yes, my business is with the Molly, and to the Molly I shall return. It’s lucky, Miss Rose, since you have made up your mind to ship for this new cruise, that I bethought me of telling Biddy to make up a bundle of duds for you. This carpet-bag has a change or two in it, and all owing to my forethought. Your woman said ‘Miss Rose will come back wid us, Jack, and what’s the use of rumpling the clothes for a few hours’ sail in the boat;’ but I knew womankind better, and foreseed that if master mate fell in alongside of you ag’in, you would not be apt to part company very soon.”

“I thank you, Jack, for the provision made for my comfort; though a little money would have added to it materially. My purse has a little gold in it, but a very little, and I fear you are not much better off, Harry. It will be awkward to find ourselves in Key West penniless.”

“We shall not be quite that. I left the brig absolutely without a cent, but forseeing that necessity might make them of use, I borrowed half a dozen of the doubloons from the bag of SeÑor Montefalderon, and, fortunately, they are still in my pocket. All I am worth in the world is in a bag of half eagles, rather more than a hundred altogether, which I left in my chest, in my own state-room, aboard the brig.”

“You’ll find that in the carpet-bag too, master mate,” said Jack, coolly.

“Find what, man—not my money, surely?”

“Ay, every piece of it. Spike broke into your chest this a’ternoon, and made me hold the tools while he was doing it. He found the bag, and overhauled it—a hundred and seven half, eleven quarter, and one full-grown eagle, was the count. When he had done the job, he put all back ag’in, a’ter giving me the full-grown eagle for my share of the plunder, and told me to say nothing of what I had seen. I did say nothing, but I did a good bit of work, for, while he was at supper, I confiserated that bag, as they call it—and you will find it there among Miss Rose’s clothes, with the full-grown gentleman back in his nest ag’in.”

“This is being not only honest, Tier,” cried Mulford, heartily, “but thoughtful. One half that money shall be yours for this act.”

“I thank ’e, sir; but I’ll not touch a cent of it. It came hard, I know, Mr. Mulford; for my own hands have smarted too much with tar, not to know that the seaman ‘earns his money like the horse.’”

“Still it would not be ‘spending it like an ass,’ Jack, to give you a portion of mine. But there will be other opportunities to talk of this. It is a sign of returning to the concerns of life, Rose, that money begins to be of interest to us. How little did we think of the doubloons, or half eagles, a few hours since, when on the wreck?”

“It was wather that we t’ought of then,” put in Biddy. “Goold is good in a market, or in a town, or to send back to Ireland, to help a body’s aged fader or mudder in comfort wid; but wather is the blessed thing on a wrack!”

“The brig is coming quite plainly into view, and you had better give me the helm, Jack. It is time to bethink us of the manner of approaching her, and how we are to proceed when alongside.”

This was so obviously true, that every body felt disposed to forget all other matters, in order to conduct the proceedings of the next twenty minutes, with the necessary prudence and caution. When Mulford first took the helm, the brig was just coming clearly into view, though still looking a little misty and distant. She might then have been half a league distant, and would not have been visible at all by that light, but for the circumstance that she had no back-ground to swallow up her outlines. Drawn against clouds, above which the rays of the moon were shed, her tracery was to be discerned, however, and, minute by minute, it was getting to be more and more distinct, until it was now so plainly to be seen as to admonish the mate of the necessity of preparation in the manner mentioned.

Tier now communicated to the mate his own proposed manner of proceeding. The brig tended to the trades, the tides having very little influence on her, in the bight of the reef where she lay. As the wind stood at about east south-east, the brig’s stern pointed to about west north-west, while the boat was coming down the passage from a direction nearly north from her, having, as a matter of course, the wind just free enough to lay her course. Jack’s plan was to pass the brig to windward, and having got well on her bow, to brail the sail, and drift down upon her, expecting to fall in alongside, abreast of the fore-chains, into which he had intended to help Biddy, and to ascend himself, when he supposed that Mulford would again make sail, and carry off his mistress. To this scheme the mate objected that it was awkward, and a little lubberly. He substituted one in its place that differed in seamanship, and which was altogether better. Instead of passing to windward, Mulford suggested the expediency of approaching to leeward, and of coming alongside under the open bow-port, letting the sheet fly and brailing the sail, when the boat should be near enough to carry her to the point of destination without further assistance from her canvas.

Jack Tier took his officer’s improvement on his own plan in perfect good part, readily and cheerfully expressing his willingness to aid the execution of it all that lay in his power. As the boat sailed unusually well, there was barely time to explain to each individual his or her part in the approaching critical movements, ere the crisis itself drew near; then each of the party became silent and anxious, and events were regarded rather than words.

It is scarcely necessary to say that Mulford sailed a boat well. He held the sheet in his hand, as the little craft came up under the lee-quarter of the brig, while Jack stood by the brail. The eyes of the mate glanced over the hull of the vessel to ascertain, if possible, who might be stirring; but not a sign of life could he detect on board her. This very silence made Mulford more distrustful and anxious, for he feared a trap was set for him. He expected to see the head of one of the blacks at least peering over the bulwarks, but nothing like a man was visible. It was too late to pause, however, and the sheet was slowly eased off, Jack hauling on the brail at the same time; the object being to prevent the sail’s flapping, and the sound reaching the ears of Spike. As Mulford used great caution, and had previously schooled Jack on the subject, this important point was successfully achieved. Then the mate put his helm down, and the boat shot up under the brig’s lee-bow. Jack was ready to lay hold of one of the bowsprit-shrouds, and presently the boat was breasted up under the desired port, and secured in that position. Mulford quitted the stern-sheets, and cast a look in upon deck. Nothing was to be seen, though he heard the heavy breathing of the blacks, both of whom were sound asleep on a sail that they had spread on the forecastle.

The mate whispered for Biddy to come to the port. This the Irish woman did at once, having kissed Rose, and taken her leave of her previously. Tier also came to the port, through which he passed, getting on deck with a view to assist Biddy, who was awkward, almost as a matter of course, to pass through the same opening. He had just succeeded, when the whole party was startled, some of them almost petrified, indeed, by a hail from the quarter-deck in the well-known, deep tones of Spike.

“For’ard, there?” hailed the captain. Receiving no answer, he immediately repeated, in a shorter, quicker call, “Forecastle, there?”

“Sir,” answered Jack Tier, who by this time had come to his senses.

“Who has the look-out on that forecastle?”

“I have it, sir—I, Jack Tier. You know, sir, I was to have it from two ’till daylight.”

“Ay, ay, I remember now. How does the brig ride to her anchor?”

“As steady as a church, sir. She has had no more sheer the whole watch than if she was moored head and stern.”

“Does the wind stand as it did?”

“No change, sir. As dead a trade wind as ever blowed.”

“What hard breathing is that I hear for’ard?”

“’Tis the two niggers, sir. They’ve turned in on deck, and are napping it off at the rate of six knots. There’s no keepin’ way with a nigger in snoring.”

“I thought I heard loud whispering, too, but I suppose it was a sort of half-dream. I’m often in that way now-a-days. Jack!”

“Sir.”

“Go to the scuttle-butt and get me a pot of fresh water—my coppers are hot with hard thinking.”

Jack did as ordered, and soon stood beneath the coach-house deck with Spike, who had come out of his state-room, heated and uneasy at he knew not what. The captain drank a full pint of water at a single draught.

“That’s refreshing,” he said, returning Jack the tin-pot, “and I feel the cooler for it. How much does it want of daylight, Jack?”

“Two hours, I think, sir. The order was passed to me to have all hands called as soon as it was broad day.”

“Ay, that is right. We must get our anchor and be off as soon as there is light to do it in. Doubloons may melt as well as flour, and are best cared for soon, when cared for at all.”

“I shall see and give the call as soon as it is day. I hope, Capt. Spike, I can take the liberty of an old shipmate, however, and say one thing to you, which is this—look out for the Poughkeepsie, which is very likely to be on your heels when you least expect her.”

“That’s your way of thinking, is it, Jack? Well, I thank you, old one, for the hint, but have little fear of that craft. We’ve tried our legs together, and I think the brig has the longest.”

As the captain said this, he gaped like a hound, and went into his state-room. Jack lingered on the quarter-deck, waiting to hear him fairly in his berth, when he made a sign to Biddy, who had got as far aft as the galley, where she was secreted, to pass down into the cabin as silently as possible. In a minute or two more, he moved forward, singing in a low, cracked voice, as was often his practice, and slowly made his way to the forecastle. Mulford was just beginning to think the fellow had changed his mind, and meant to stick by the brig, when the little, rotund figure of the assistant-steward was seen passing through the port, and to drop noiselessly on a thwart. Jack then moved to the bow, and cast off the painter, the head of the boat slowly falling off under the pressure of the breeze on that part of her mast and sail which rose above the hull of the Swash. Almost at the same moment, the mate let go the stern-fast, and the boat was free.

It required some care to set the sail without the canvas flapping. It was done, however, before the boat fairly took the breeze, when all was safe. In half a minute the wind struck the sail, and away the little craft started, passing swiftly ahead of the brig. Soon as far enough off, Mulford put up his helm and wore short round, bringing the boat’s head to the northward, or in its proper direction; after which they flew along before the wind, which seemed to be increasing in force, with a velocity that really appeared to defy pursuit. All this time the brig lay in its silence and solitude, no one stirring on board her, and all, in fact, Biddy alone excepted, profoundly ignorant of what had just been passing alongside of her. Ten minutes of running off with a flowing sheet, caused the Swash to look indistinct and hazy again; in ten minutes more she was swallowed up, hull, spars, and all, in the gloom of night.

Mulford and Rose now felt something like that security, without the sense of which happiness itself is but an uneasy feeling, rendering the anticipations of evil the more painful by the magnitude of the stake. There they sat, now, in the stern-sheets by themselves, Jack Tier having placed himself near the bows of the boat, to look out for rocks, as well as to trim the craft. It was not long before Rose was leaning on Harry’s shoulder, and ere an hour was past, she had fallen into a sweet sleep in that attitude, the young man having carefully covered her person with a capacious shawl, the same that had been used on the wreck. As for Jack, he maintained his post in silence, sitting with his arms crossed, and the hands thrust into the breast of his jacket, sailor fashion, a picture of nautical vigilance. It was some time after Rose had fallen asleep, that this singular being spoke for the first time.

“Keep her away a bit, maty,” he said, “keep her away, half a point or so. She’s been travelin’ like a racer since we left the brig; and yonder’s the first streak of day.”

“By the time we have been running,” observed Mulford, “I should think we must be getting near the northern side of the reef.”

“All of that, sir, depend on it. Here’s a rock close aboard on us, to which we are coming fast—just off here, on our weather bow, that looks to me like the place where you landed after that swim, and where we had stowed ourselves when Stephen Spike made us out, and gave chase.”

“It is surprising to me, Jack, that you should have any fancy to stick by a man of Spike’s character. He is a precious rascal, as we all can see, now, and you are rather an honest sort of a fellow.”

“Do you love the young woman there, that’s lying in your arms, as it might be, and whom you say you wish to marry?”

“The question is a queer one, but it is easily answered. More than my life, Jack.”

“Well, how happens it that you succeed, when the world has so many other young men who might please her as well as yourself?”

“It may be that no other loves her as well, and she has had the sagacity to discover it.”

“Quite likely. So it is with me and Stephen Spike. I fancy a man whom other folk despise and condemn. Why I stand by him is my own secret; but stand by him I do and will.”

“This is all very strange, after your conduct on the island, and your conduct to-night. I shall not disturb your secret, however, Jack, but leave you to enjoy it by yourself. Is this the rock of which you spoke, that we are now passing?”

“The same; and there is the spot in which we was stowed when they made us out from the brig; and hereaway, a cable’s length, more or less, the wreck of that Mexican craft must lie.”

“What is that rising above the water, thereaway, Jack; more on our weather-beam?”

“I see what you mean, sir; it looks like a spar. By George! there’s two on ’em; and they do seem to be the schooner’s masts.”

Sure enough! a second look satisfied Mulford that two mast-heads were out of water, and that within a hundred yards of the place the boat was running past. Standing on a short distance, or far enough to give himself room, the mate put his helm down, and tacked the boat. The flapping of the sail, and the little movement of shifting over the sheet, awoke Rose, who was immediately apprized of the discovery. As soon as round, the boat went glancing up to the spars, and presently was riding by one, Jack Tier having caught hold of a topmast-shroud, when Mulford let fly his sheet again, and luffed short up to the spot. By this time the increasing light was sufficiently strong to render objects distinct, when near by, and no doubt remained any longer in the mind of Mulford about the two mast-heads being those of the unfortunate Mexican schooner.

“Well, of all I have ever seen, I’ve never see’d the like of this afore!” exclaimed Jack. “When we left this here craft, sir, you’ll remember, she had almost turned turtle, laying over so far as to bring her upper coamings under water; now she stands right side up, as erect as if docked! My navigation can’t get along with this, Mr. Mulford, and it does seem like witchcraft.”

“It is certainly a very singular incident, Jack, and I have been trying to come at its causes.”

“Have you succeeded, Harry?” asked Rose, by this time wide awake, and wondering like the others.

“It must have happened in this wise. The wreck was abandoned by us some little distance out here, to windward. The schooner’s masts, of course, pointed to leeward, and when she drifted in here, they have first touched on a shelving rock, and as they have been shoved up, little by little, they have acted as levers to right the hull, until the cargo has shifted back into its proper berth, which has suddenly set the vessel up again.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Jack, “all that might have happened had she been above water, or any part of her above water; but you’ll remember, maty, that soon after we left her she went down.”

“Not entirely. The wreck settled in the water no faster after we had left it, than it had done before. It continued to sink, inch by inch, as the air escaped, and no faster after it had gone entirely out of sight than before; not as fast, indeed, as the water became denser the lower it got. The great argument against my theory, is the fact, that after the hull got beneath the surface, the wind could not act on it. This is true in one sense, however, and not in another. The waves, or the pressure of the water produced by the wind, might act on the hull for some time after we ceased to see it. But the currents have set the craft in here, and the hull floating always, very little force would cant the craft. If the rock were shelving and slippery, I see no great difficulty in the way; and the barrels may have been so lodged, that a trifle would set them rolling back again, each one helping to produce a change that would move another. As for the ballast, that, I am certain, could not shift, for it was stowed with great care. As the vessel righted, the air still in her moved, and as soon as the water permitted, it escaped by the hatches, when the craft went down, as a matter of course. This air may have aided in bringing the hull upright by its movements in the water.”

This was the only explanation to which the ingenuity of Mulford could help him, under the circumstances, and it may have been the right one, or not. There lay the schooner, however, in some five or six fathoms of water, with her two top-masts, and lower mast-heads out of the element, as upright as if docked! It may all have occurred as the mate fancied, or the unusual incident may have been owing to some of the many mysterious causes which baffle inquiry, when the agents are necessarily hidden from examination.

“Spike intends to come and look for this wreck, you tell me, Jack; in the hope of getting at the doubloons it contains?” said Mulford, when the boat had lain a minute or two longer, riding by the mast-head.

“Ay, ay; that’s his notion, sir, and he’ll be in a great stew, as soon as he turns out, which must be about this time, and finds me missing; for I was to pilot him to the spot.”

“He’ll want no pilot now. It will be scarcely possible to pass any where near this and not see these spars. But this discovery almost induces me to change my own plans. What say you, Rose? We have now reached the northern side of the reef, when it is time to haul close by the wind, if we wish to beat up to Key West. There is a moral certainty, however, that the sloop-of-war is somewhere in the neighborhood of the Dry Tortugas, which are much the most easily reached, being to leeward. We might run down to the light-house by mid-day, while it is doubtful if we could reach the town until to-morrow morning. I should like exceedingly to have five minutes conversation with the commander of the Poughkeepsie.”

“Ay, to let him know where he will be likely to fall in with the Molly Swash and her traitor master, Stephen Spike,” cried Jack Tier. “Never mind, maty; let ’em come on; both the Molly and her master have long legs and clean heels. Stephen Spike will show ’em how to thread the channels of a reef.”

“It is amazing to me, Jack, that you should stand by your old captain in feeling, while you are helping to thwart him, all you can, in his warmest wishes.”

“He’s a willian!” muttered Jack—“a reg’lar willian is Stephen Spike!”

“If a villain, why do you so evidently wish to keep him out of the hands of the law? Let him be captured and punished, as his crimes require.”

“Men’s willians, all round,” still muttered Jack. “Heark ’e, Mr. Mulford, I have sailed in the brig longer than you, and know’d her in her comeliest and best days—when she was young, and blooming, and lovely to the eye, as the young creature at your side—and it would go to my heart to have any thing happen to her. Then, I’ve know’d Stephen a long time, too, and old shipmates get a feelin’ for each other, sooner or later. I tell you now, honestly, Mr. Mulford, Capt. Adam Mull shall never make a prisoner of Stephen Spike, if I can prevent it.”

The mate laughed at this sally, but Rose appeared anxious to change the conversation, and she managed to open a discussion on the subject of the course it might be best to steer. Mulford had several excellent reasons to urge for wishing to run down to the islets, all of which, with a single exception, he laid before his betrothed. The concealed reason was one of the strongest of them all, as usually happens when there is a reason to conceal, but of that he took care to say nothing. The result was an acquiescence on the part of Rose, whose consent was yielded more to the influence of one particular consideration than to all the rest united. That one was this: Harry had pointed out to her the importance to himself of his appearing early to denounce the character and movements of the brig, lest, through his former situation in her, his own conduct might be seriously called in question.

As soon as the matter was determined, Jack was told to let go his hold, the sheet was drawn aft, and away sped the boat. No sooner did Mulford cause the little craft to keep away than it almost flew, as if conscious it were bound to its proper home, skimming swiftly over the waves, like a bird returning eagerly to its nest. An hour later the party breakfasted. While at this meal, Jack Tier pointed out to the mate a white speck, in the south-eastern board, which he took to be the brig coming through the passage, on her way to the wreck.

“No matter,” returned the mate. “Though we can see her, she cannot see us. There is that much advantage in our being small, Rose, if it do prevent our taking exercise by walking the deck.”

Soon after Mulford made a very distant sail in the north-western board, which he hoped might turn out to be the Poughkeepsie. It was but another speck, but its position was somewhat like that in which he had expected to meet the sloop-of-war. The two vessels were so far apart that one could not be seen from the other, and there was little hope that the Poughkeepsie would detect Spike at his toil on the wreck, but the mate fully expected that the ship would go into the anchorage, among the islets, in order to ascertain what had become of the schooner. If she did not go in herself she would be almost certain to send in a boat.

The party from the brigantine had run down before the wind more than two hours before the light-house began to show itself, just rising out of the waves. This gave them the advantage of a beacon, Mulford having steered hitherto altogether by the sun, the direction of the wind, and the trending of the reef. Now he had his port in sight, it being his intention to take possession of the dwelling of the light-house keeper, and to remain in it, until a favorable opportunity occurred to remove Rose to Key West. The young man had also another important project in view, which it will be in season to mention as it reaches the moment of its fulfilment.

The rate of sailing of the light-house boat, running before a brisk trade wind, could not be much less than nine miles in the hour. About eleven o’clock, therefore, the lively craft shot through one of the narrow channels of the islets, and entered the haven. In a few minutes all three of the adventurers were on the little wharf where the light-house people were in the habit of landing. Rose proceeded to the house, while Harry and Jack remained to secure the boat. For the latter purpose a sort of slip, or little dock, had been made, and when the boat was hauled into it, it lay so snug that not only was the craft secure from injury, but it was actually hid from the view of all but those who stood directly above it.

“This is a snug berth for the boat, Jack,” observed the mate, when he had hauled it into the place mentioned, “and by unstepping the mast, a passer by would not suspect such a craft of lying in it. Who knows what occasion there may be for concealment, and I’ll e’en do that thing?”

To a casual listener, Harry, in unstepping the mast, might have seemed influenced merely by a motiveless impulse; but, in truth, a latent suspicion of Jack’s intentions instigated him, and as he laid the mast, sprit and sail on the thwarts, he determined, in his own mind, to remove them all to some other place, as soon as an opportunity for doing so unobserved should occur. He and Jack now followed Rose to the house.

The islets were found deserted and tenantless. Not a human being had entered the house since Rose left it, the evening she had remained so long ashore, in company with her aunt and the SeÑor Montefalderon. This our heroine knew from the circumstance of finding a slight fastening of the outer door in the precise situation in which she had left it with her own hands. At first a feeling of oppression and awe prevailed with both Harry and Rose, when they recollected the fate of those who had so lately been tenants of the place, but this gradually wore off, and each soon got to be more at home. As for Jack, he very coolly rummaged the lockers, as he called the drawers and closets of the place, and made his preparations for cooking a very delicious repast, in which callipash and callipee were to be material ingredients. The necessary condiments were easily enough found in that place, turtle being a common dish there, and it was not long before steams that might have quickened the appetite of an alderman filled the kitchen. Rose rummaged, too, and found a clean table-cloth, plates, glasses, bowls, spoons, and knives; in a word, all that was necessary to spread a plain but plentiful board. While all this was doing, Harry took some fishing-tackle, and proceeded to a favorable spot among the rocks. In twenty minutes he returned with a fine mess of that most delicious little fish that goes by the very unpoetical name of “hog-fish,” from the circumstance of its giving a grunt not unlike that of a living porker, when rudely drawn from its proper element. Nothing was now wanting to not only a comfortable, but to what was really a most epicurean meal, and Jack just begged the lovers to have patience for an hour or so, when he promised them dishes that even New York could not furnish.

Harry and Rose first retired to pay a little attention to their dress, and then they joined each other in a walk. The mate had found some razors, and was clean shaved. He had also sequestered a shirt, and made some other little additions to his attire, that contributed to give him the appearance of being, that which he really was, a very gentleman-like looking young sailor. Rose had felt no necessity for taking liberties with the effects of others, though a good deal of female attire was found in the dwelling. As was afterward ascertained, a family ordinarily dwelt there, but most of it had gone to Key West, on a visit, at the moment when the man and boy left in charge had fallen into the hands of the Mexicans, losing their lives in the manner mentioned.

While walking together, Harry opened his mind to Rose, on the subject which lay nearest to his heart, and which had been at the bottom of this second visit to the islets of the Dry Tortugas. During the different visits of Wallace to the brig, the boat’s crew of the Poughkeepsie had held more or less discourse with the people of the Swash. This usually happens on such occasions, and although Spike had endeavored to prevent it, when his brig lay in this bay, he had not been entirely successful. Such discourse is commonly jocular, and sometimes witty; every speech, coming from which side it may, ordinarily commencing with “shipmate,” though the interlocutors never saw each other before that interview. In one of these visits an allusion was made to cargo, when “the pretty gal aft” was mentioned as being a part of the cargo of the Swash. In answer to this remark, the wit of the Poughkeepsie had told the brig’s man, “you had better send her on board us, for we carry a chaplain, a regular built one, that will be a bishop some day or other perhaps, and we can get her spliced to one of our young officers.” This remark had induced the sailor of the Molly to ask if a sloop-of-war really carried such a piece of marine luxury as a chaplain, and the explanation given went to say that the clergyman in question did not properly belong to the Poughkeepsie, but was to be put on board a frigate, as soon as they fell in with one that he named. Now, all this Mulford overheard, and he remembered it at a moment when it might be of use. Situated as he and Rose were, he felt the wisdom and propriety of their being united, and his present object was to persuade his companion to be of the same way of thinking. He doubted not that the sloop-of-war would come in, ere long, perhaps that very day, and he believed it would be an easy matter to induce her chaplain to perform the ceremony. America is a country in which every facility exists, with the fewest possible impediments, to getting married; and, we regret to be compelled to add, to getting unmarried also. There are no banns, no licences, no consent of parents even, usually necessary, and persons who are of the age of discretion, which, as respects females and matrimony, is a very tender age indeed, may be married, if they see fit, almost without form or ceremony. There existed, therefore, no legal impediment to the course Mulford desired to take, and his principal, if not his only difficulty would be with Rose. Over her scruples he hoped to prevail, and not without reason, as the case he could and did present, was certainly one of a character that entitled him to be heard with great attention.

In the first place, Mrs. Budd had approved of the connection, and it was understood between them, that the young people were to be united at the first port in which a clergyman of their own persuasion could be found, and previously to reaching home. This had been the aunt’s own project, for, weak and silly as she was, the relict had a woman’s sense of the proprieties. It had occurred to her that it would be more respectable to make the long journey which lay before them, escorted by a nephew and a husband, than escorted by even an accepted lover. It is true she had never anticipated a marriage in a light-house, and under the circumstances in which Rose was now placed, though it might be more reputable that her niece should quit the islets as the wife of Harry than as his betrothed. Then Mulford still apprehended Spike. In that remote part of the world, almost beyond the confines of society, it was not easy to foretell what claims he might set up, in the event of his meeting them there. Armed with the authority of a husband, Mulford could resist him, in any such case, with far better prospects of success than if he should appear only in the character of a suitor.

Rose listened to these arguments, ardently and somewhat eloquently put, as a girl of her years and habits would be apt to listen to a favored lover. She was much too sincere to deny her own attachment, which the events of the last few days had increased almost to intenseness, so apt is our tenderness to augment in behalf of those for whom we feel solicitude, and her judgment told her that the more sober part of Harry’s reasoning was entitled to consideration. As his wife, her situation would certainly be much less equivocal and awkward, than while she bore a different name, and was admitted to be a single woman, and it might yet be weeks before the duty she owed her aunt would allow her to proceed to the north. But, after all, Harry prevailed more through the influence of his hold on Rose’s affections, as would have been the case with almost every other woman, than through any force of reasoning. He truly loved, and that made him eloquent when he spoke of love; sympathy in all he uttered being his great ally. When summoned to the house, by the call of Jack, who announced that the turtle-soup was ready, they returned with the understanding that the chaplain of the Poughkeepsie should unite them, did the vessel come in, and would the functionary mentioned consent to perform the ceremony.

“It would be awkward—nay, it would be distressing, Harry, to have him refuse,” said the blushing Rose, as they walked slowly back to the house, more desirous to prolong their conversation than to partake of the bountiful provision of Jack Tier. The latter could not but be acceptable, nevertheless, to a young man like Mulford, who was in robust health, and who had fared so badly for the last eight-and-forty hours. When he sat down to the table, therefore, which was covered by a snow-white cloth, with smoking and most savory viands on it, it will not be surprising if we say it was with a pleasure that was derived from one of the great necessities of our nature.

Sancho calls for benediction “on the man who invented sleep.” It would have been more just to have asked this boon in behalf of him who invented eating and turtle-soup. The wearied fall into sleep, as it might be unwittingly; sometimes against their will, and often against their interests; while many a man is hungry without possessing the means of appeasing his appetite. Still more daily feel hunger without possessing turtle-soup. Certain persons impute this delicious compound to the genius of some London alderman, but we rather think unjustly. Aldermanick genius is easily excited and rendered active, no doubt, by strong appeals on such a theme, but our own experience inclines us to believe that the tropics usually send their inventions to the less unfruitful regions of the earth along with their products. We have little doubt, could the fact be now ascertained, that it would be found turtle-soup was originally invented by just some such worthy as Jack Tier, who in filling his coppers to tickle the captain’s appetite, had used all the condiments within his reach; ventured on a sort of Regent’s punch; and, as the consequence, had brought forth the dish so often eulogized, and so well beloved. It is a little extraordinary that in Paris, the seat of gastronomy, one rarely, if ever, hears of or sees this dish; while in London it is to be met in almost as great abundance as in one of our larger commercial towns. But so it is, and we cannot say we much envy a cuisine its patÉs, and soufflets, and its À la this and À la thats, but which was never redolent with the odors of turtle-soup.

“Upon my word, Jack, you have made out famously with your dinner, or supper, which ever you may please to call it,” cried Mulford gaily, as he took his seat at table, after having furnished Rose with a chair. “Nothing appears to be wanting; but here is good pilot-bread, potatoes even, and other little niceties, in addition to the turtle and the fish. These good people of the light seem to have lived comfortably, at any rate.”

“Why should they not, maty?” answered Jack, beginning to help himself to soup. “Living on one of these islets is like living afloat. Every thing is laid in, as for an outward bound craft; then the reef must always furnish fish and turtle. I’ve overhauled the lockers pretty thoroughly, and find a plenty of stores to last us a month. Tea, sugar, coffee, bread, pickles, potatoes, onions, and all other knick-knacks.”

“The poor people who own these stores will be heavy-hearted enough when they come to learn the reason why we have been put in undisturbed possession of their property,” said Rose. “We must contrive some means of repaying them for such articles as we may use, Harry.”

“That’s easily enough done, Miss Rose. Drop one of the half eagles in a tea-pot, or a mug, and they’ll be certain to fall in with it when they come back. Nothin’ is easier than to pay a body’s debts, when a body has the will and the means. Now, the worst enemy of Stephen Spike must own that his brig never quits port with unsettled bills. Stephen has his faults, like other mortals; but he has his good p’ints, too.”

“Still praising Spike, my good Jack?” cried the mate, a little provoked at this pertinacity in the deputy-steward, in sticking to his ship and his shipmate. “I should have thought that you had sailed with him long enough to have found him out, and to wish never to put your foot in his cabin again.”

“Why, no, mate, a craft is a craft, and a body gets to like even the faults of one in which a body has gone through gales, and squalls, with a whole skin. I like the Swash, and, for sartain things I like her captain.”

“Meaning by that it is your intention to get on board of the one, and to sail with the other, again, as soon as you can.”

“I do, Mr. Mulford, and make no bones in telling on’t. You know that I came here without wishing it.”

“Well, Jack, no one will attempt to control your movements, but you shall be left your own master. I feel it to be a duty, however, as one who may I know more of the law than yourself, as well as more of Stephen Spike, to tell you that he is engaged in a treasonable commerce with the enemy, and that he, and all who voluntarily remain with him, knowing this fact, may be made to swing for it.”

“Then I’ll swing for it,” returned Jack, sullenly.

“There is a little obstinacy in this, my good fellow, and you must be reasoned out of it. I am under infinite obligations to you, Jack, and shall ever be ready to own them. Without you to sail the boat, I might have been left to perish on that rock, for God only knows whether any vessel would have seen me in passing. Most of those who go through that passage keep the western side of the reef aboard, they tell me, on account of there being better water on that side of the channel, and the chance of a man’s being seen on a rock, by ships a league or two off, would be small indeed. Yes, Jack, I owe my life to you, and am proud to own it.”

“You owe it to Miss Rose, maty, who put me up to the enterprise, and who shared it with me.”

“To her I owe more than life,” answered Harry, looking at his beloved as she delighted in being regarded by him, “but even she, with all her wishes to serve me, would have been helpless without your skill in managing a boat. I owe also to your good-nature the happiness of having Rose with me at this moment; for without you she would not have come.”

“I’ll not deny it, maty—take another ladle full of the soup, Miss Rosy, a quart of it wouldn’t hurt an infant—I’ll not deny it, Mr. Mulford—I know by the way you’ve got rid of the first bowl full that you are ready for another, and there it is—I’ll not deny it, and all I can say is that you are heartily welcome to my sarvices.”

“I thank you, Jack; but all this only makes me more desirous of being of use to you, now, when it’s in my power. I wish you to stick by me, and not to return to the Swash. As soon as I get to New York I shall build or buy a ship, and the berth of steward in her shall always be open to you.”

“Thank ’e, maty; thank ’e, with all my heart. It’s something to know that a port is open to leeward, and, though I cannot now accept your offer, the day may come when I shall be glad to do so.”

“If you like living ashore better, our house will always be ready to receive you. I should be glad to leave as handy a little fellow as yourself behind me whenever I went to sea. There are a hundred things in which you might be useful, and fully earn your biscuit, so as to have no qualms about eating the bread of idleness.”

“Thank ’e, thank ’e, maty,” cried Jack, dashing a tear out of his eye with the back of his hand, “thank ’e, sir, from the bottom of my heart. The time may come, but not now. My papers is signed for this v’y’ge. Stephen Spike has a halter round his neck, as you say yourself, and it’s necessary for me to be there to look to ’t. We all have our callin’s and duties, and this is mine. I stick by the Molly and her captain until both are out of this scrape, or both are condemned. I know nothing of treason; but if the law wants another victim, I must take my chance.”

Mulford was surprised at this steadiness of Jack’s, in what he thought a very bad cause, and he was quite as much surprised that Rose did not join him, in his endeavors to persuade the steward not to be so fool-hardy, as to endeavor to go back to the brig. Rose did not, however; sitting silently eating her dinner the whole time, though she occasionally cast glances of interest at both the speakers the while. In this state of things the mate abandoned the attempt, for the moment, intending to return to the subject, after having had a private conference with his betrothed.

Notwithstanding the little drawback just related, that was a happy as well as a delicious repast. The mate did full justice to the soup, and afterward to the fish with the unpoetical name; and Rose ate more than she had done in the last three days. The habits of discipline prevented Jack from taking his seat at table, though pressed by both Rose and Harry to do so, but he helped himself to the contents of a bowl, and did full justice to his own art, on one aside. The little fellow was delighted with the praises that were bestowed on his dishes; and for the moment, the sea, its dangers, its tornadoes, wrecks and races, were all forgotten in the security and pleasures of so savory a repast.

“Folk ashore don’t know how sailors sometimes live,” said Jack, holding a large spoon filled with the soup ready to plunge into a tolerably capacious mouth.

“Or how they sometimes starve,” answered Rose. “Remember our own situation, less than forty-eight hours since!”

“All very true, Miss Rose; yet, you see, turtle-soup brings us up, a’ter all. Would you choose a glass of wine, maty?”

“Very much indeed, Jack, after so luscious a soup; but wishing for it will not bring it here.”

“That remains to be seen, sir. I call this a bottle of something that looks wery much like a wine.”

“Claret, as I live! Why, where should light-house keepers get the taste for claret?”

“I’ve thought of that myself, Mr. Mulford, and have supposed that some of Uncle Sam’s officers have brought the liquor to this part of the world. I understand a party on ’em was here surveyin’ all last winter. It seems they come in the cool weather, and get their sights and measure their distances, and go home in the warm weather, and work out their traverses in the shade, as it might be.”

“This seems likely, Jack; but come, whence it may, it is welcome, and we will taste it.”

Mulford then drew the cork of this mild and grateful liquor, and helped his companions and himself. In this age of moral tours de force, one scarcely dare say any thing favorable of a liquid that even bears the name of wine, or extol the shape of a bottle. It is truly the era of exaggeration. Nothing is treated in the old-fashioned, natural, common sense way. Virtue is no longer virtue, unless it get upon stilts; and, as for sins being confined to “transgression against the law of God,” audacious would be the wretch who should presume to limit the sway of the societies by any dogma so narrow! A man may be as abstemious as an anchorite and get no credit for it, unless “he sign the pledge;” or, signing the pledge, he may get fuddled in corners, and be cited as a miracle of sobriety. The test of morals is no longer in the abuse of the gifts of Providence, but in their use; prayers are deserting the closet for the corners of streets, and charity (not the giving of alms) has got to be so earnest in the demonstration of its nature, as to be pretty certain to “begin at home,” and to end where it begins. Even the art of mendacity has been aroused by the great progress which is making by all around it, and many manifest the strength of their ambition by telling ten lies where their fathers would have been satisfied with telling only one. This art has made an extraordinary progress within the last quarter of a century, aspiring to an ascendancy that was formerly conceded only to truth, until he who gains his daily bread by it has some such contempt for the sneaking wretch who does business on the small scale, as the slayer of his thousands in the field is known to entertain for him who kills only a single man in the course of a long life.

At the risk of damaging the reputations of our hero and heroine, we shall frankly aver the fact that both Harry and Rose partook of the vin de Bordeaux, a very respectable bottle of Medoc, by the way, which had been forgotten by Uncle Sam’s people, in the course of the preceding winter, agreeably to Jack Tier’s conjecture. One glass sufficed for Rose, and, contrary as it may be to all modern theory, she was somewhat the better for it; while the mate and Jack Tier quite half emptied the bottle, being none the worse. There they sat, enjoying the security and abundance which had succeeded to their late danger, happy in that security, happy in themselves, and happy in the prospects of a bright future. It was just as practicable for them to remain at the Dry Tortugas, as it was for the family which ordinarily dwelt at the light. The place was amply supplied with every thing that would be necessary for their wants, for months to come, and Harry caused his betrothed to blush, as he whispered to her, should the chaplain arrive, he should delight in passing the honey-moon where they then were.

“I could tend the light,” he added, smiling, “which would be not only an occupation, but a useful occupation; you could read all those books from beginning to end, and Jack could keep us supplied with fish. By the way, master steward, are you in the humor for motion, so soon after your hearty meal?”

“Any thing to be useful,” answered Jack, cheerfully.

“Then do me the favor to go up into the lantern of the light-house, and take a look for the sloop-of-war. If she’s in sight at all, you’ll find her off here to the northward; and while you are aloft you may as well make a sweep of the whole horizon. There hangs the light-house keeper’s glass, which may help your eyes, by stepping into the gallery outside of the lantern.”

Jack willingly complied, taking the glass and proceeding forthwith to the other building. Mulford had two objects in view in giving this commission to the steward. He really wished to ascertain what was the chance of seeing the Poughkeepsie, in the neighborhood of the islets, and felt just that indisposition to move himself, that is apt to come over one who has recently made a very bountiful meal, while he also desired to have another private conversation with Rose.

A good portion of the time that Jack was gone, and he staid quite an hour in the lantern, our lovers conversed as lovers are much inclined to converse; that is to say, of themselves, their feelings, and their prospects. Mulford told Rose of his hopes and fears, while he visited at the house of her aunt, previously to sailing, and the manner in which his suspicions had been first awakened in reference to the intentions of Spike—intentions, so far as they were connected with an admiration of his old commander’s niece, and possibly in connection also with the little fortune she was known to possess, but not in reference to the bold project to which he had, in fact, resorted. No distrust of the scheme finally put in practice had ever crossed the mind of the young mate, until he received the unexpected order, mentioned in our opening chapter, to prepare the brig for the reception of Mrs. Budd and her party. Harry confessed his jealousy of one youth whom he dreaded far more even than he had ever dreaded Spike, and whose apparent favor with Rose, and actual favor with her aunt, had given him many a sleepless night.

They next conversed of the future, which to them seemed full of flowers. Various were the projects started, discussed, and dismissed, between them, the last almost as soon as proposed. On one thing they were of a mind, as soon as proposed. Harry was to have a ship as quick as one could be purchased by Rose’s means, and the promised bride laughingly consented to make one voyage to Europe along with her husband.

“I wonder, dear Rose, my poverty has never presented any difficulties in the way of our union,” said Harry, sensibly touched with the free way his betrothed disposed of her own money in his behalf; “but neither you nor Mrs. Budd has ever seemed to think of the difference there is between us in this respect.”

“What is the trifle I possess, Harry, set in the balance against your worth? My aunt, as you say, has thought I might even be the gainer by the exchange.”

“I am sure I feel a thousand times indebted to Mrs. Budd—”

“Aunt Budd. You must learn to say, ‘my Aunt Budd,’ Mr. Henry Mulford, if you mean to live in peace with her unworthy niece.”

“Aunt Budd, then,” returned Harry, laughing, for the laugh came easily that evening; “Aunt Budd, if you wish it, Rose. I can have no objection to call any relative of yours, uncle or aunt.”

“I think we are intimate enough, now, to ask you a question or two, Harry, touching my aunt,” continued Rose, looking stealthily over her shoulder, as if apprehensive of being overheard. “You know how fond she is of speaking of the sea, and of indulging in nautical phrases?”

“Any one must have observed that, Rose,” answered the young man, gazing up at the wall, in order not to be compelled to look the beautiful creature before him in the eyes—“Mrs. Budd has very strong tastes that way.”

“Now tell me, Harry—that is, answer me frankly—I mean—she is not always right, is she?”

“Why, no; not absolutely so—that is, not absolutely always so—few persons are always right, you know.”

Rose remained silent and embarrassed for a moment; after which she pursued the discourse.

“But aunty does not know as much of the sea and of ships as she thinks she does?”

“Perhaps not. We all overrate our own acquirements. I dare say that even I am not as good a seaman as I fancy myself to be.”

“Even Spike admits that you are what he calls ‘a prime seaman.’ But it is not easy for a woman to get a correct knowledge of the use of all the strange, and sometimes uncouth, terms that you sailors use.”

“Certainly not; and for that reason I would rather you should never attempt it, Rose. We rough sons of the ocean would prefer to hear our wives make divers pretty blunders, rather than to be swaggering about like so many ‘old salts.’”

“Mr. Mulford! Does Aunt Budd swagger like an old salt?”

“Dearest Rose, I was not thinking of your aunt, but of you. Of you, as you are, feminine, spirited, lovely alike in form and character, and of you a graduate of the ocean, and full of its language and ideas.”

It was probable Rose was not displeased at this allusion to herself, for a smile struggled around her pretty mouth, and she did not look at all angry. After another short pause, she resumed the discourse.

“My aunt did not very clearly comprehend those explanations of yours about the time of day, and the longitude,” she said, “nor am I quite certain that I did myself.”

“You understood them far better than Mrs. Budd, Rose. Women are so little accustomed to think on such subjects at all, that it is not surprising they sometimes get confused. I do wish, however, that your aunt could be persuaded to be more cautious in the presence of strangers, on the subject of terms she does not understand.”

“I feared it might be so, Harry,” answered Rose, in a low voice, as if unwilling even he should know the full extent of her thoughts on this subject; “but my aunt’s heart is most excellent, though she may make mistakes occasionally. I owe her a great deal, if not absolutely my education, certainly my health and comfort through childhood, and more prudent, womanly advice than you may suppose, perhaps, since I have left school. How she became the dupe of Spike, indeed, is to me unaccountable; for in all that relates to health, she is, in general, both acute and skillful.”

“Spike is a man of more art than he appears to be to superficial observers. On my first acquaintance with him, I mistook him for a frank, fearless, but well-meaning sailor, who loved hazardous voyages and desperate speculation—a sort of innocent gambler; but I have learned to know better. His means are pretty much reduced to his brig, and she is getting old, and can do but little more service. His projects are plain enough, now. By getting you into his power, he hoped to compel a marriage, in which case both your fortune and your aunt’s would contribute to repair his.”

“He might have killed me, but I never would have married him,” rejoined Rose, firmly. “Is not that Jack coming down the steps of the light-house?”

“It is. I find that fellow’s attachment to Spike very extraordinary, Rose. Can you, in any manner, account for it?”

Rose at first seemed disposed to reply. Her lips parted, as if about to speak, and closed again, as glancing her eyes toward the open door, she seemed to expect the appearance of the steward’s little, rotund form on its threshold, which held her tongue-tied. A brief interval elapsed, however, ere Jack actually arrived, and Rose, perceiving that Harry was curiously expecting her answer, said hurriedly—“it may be hatred, not attachment.”

The next instant Jack Tier entered the room. He had been gone rather more than an hour, not returning until just as the sun was about to set in a flame of fire.

“Well, Jack, what news from the Poughkeepsie?” demanded the mate. “You have been gone long enough to make sure of your errand. Is it certain that we are not to see the man-of-war’s-men to-night?”

“Whatever you see, my advice to you is to keep close, and to be on your guard,” answered Jack, evasively.

“I have little fear of any of Uncle Sam’s craft. A plain story, and an honest heart, will make all clear to a well-disposed listener. We have not been accomplices in Spike’s treasons, and cannot be made to answer for them.”

“Take my advice, maty, and be in no hurry to hail every vessel you see. Uncle Sam’s fellows may not always be at hand to help you. Do you not know that this island will be tabooed to seamen for some time to come?”

“Why so, Jack? The islet has done no harm, though others may have performed wicked deeds near it.”

“Two of the drowned men lie within a hundred yards of this spot, and sailors never go near new-made graves, if they can find any other place to resort to.”

“You deal in enigmas, Jack; and did I not know that you are very temperate, I might suspect that the time you have been gone has been passed in the company of a bottle of brandy.”

“That will explain my meaning,” said Jack, laconically, pointing as he spoke, seemingly at some object that was to be seen without.

The door of the house was wide open, for the admission of air. It faced the haven of the islets, and just as the mate’s eyes were turned to it, the end of a flying-jib boom, with the sail down, and fluttering beneath it, was coming into the view. “The Poughkeepsie!” exclaimed Mulford, in delight, seeing all his hopes realized, while Rose blushed to the eyes. A pause succeeded, during which Mulford drew aside, keeping his betrothed in the back-ground, and as much out of sight as possible. The vessel was shooting swiftly into view, and presently all there could see it was the Swash.

[To be continued.

———

BY PETER PENCIL.

———

“Nothing venture, nothing win.”

There are comparatively few people, even in New York, who know, or have the most remote idea of, the amount of the daily transactions of various kinds that take place in Wall street. If the truth could be arrived at, it would appear, I doubt not, that the operations there, in the course of a year, exceed, in their aggregate amount, those of all other cities in the United States combined. This opinion may startle some, but it will not startle those who are in the practice of visiting that place, and seeing what is going forward among the countless capitalists, brokers, merchants, and others, whose vocation draws them to that vicinity. Nor can one who is a visiter merely, form a conjecture approximating to the truth, concerning the multiplicity and extent of Wall street affairs, any more than a man who travels straight through the middle of a state, can form an idea as to what quantity of corn is growing upon the whole surface. It would be necessary to penetrate the hundreds of offices, both great and small, public and private, and to see all that is done therein, before one could begin, as the boys say, to estimate the amount of business transacted in that short street, and its immediate vicinity, in the course of a single day.

The stock operations alone would stagger the credulity even of the initiated, who should keep an accurate account of the amount changing hands from day to-day, and sum the whole at the expiration of the year. Many millions’ worth of this species of property would be found to have been bought and sold, making some richer and some poorer, and leaving some, but, doubtless, very few, about the same in purse at the end of the year, as they were at the beginning.

If a person, standing on the steps of the exchange, were endowed with the faculty of reading the heart of every man that passed him, what numbers of agitated bosoms, what hopes, what fears, what emotions of vexation, sorrow, anger, and despair, would come under review; particularly after a panic among the speculators, and a consequent fall of stock!

There are a few fortunate individuals, who owe to Wall street all they possess—having speculated and staked high under the benign influence of Fortune, while that goddess was in a kindly humor; but there are hundreds, nay, thousands, who have seen their wealth melt away there, like snow in a sunny nook on an April morn. “Make or break—neck or no joint,” are the mottoes there; for when a man once gets into the spirit of speculating, as this species of gambling is mildly termed, he is not apt to back out till he has made a fortune, or lost what he possessed—won the horse, or lost the saddle.

The reader will see, in the course of this essay, to which of these categories I belong; for I, too, have been afflicted with the prevailing mania for stock-jobbing, and have shared in the hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, which are produced by the uncertainty of such operations, and the momentous consequences which often follow in their train. It is my purpose to give a short sketch of my doings in that line of business, (now so much in vogue,) for the amusement of those who never go into Wall street, and the benefit of such adventurous spirits as may be disposed to try their fortune at the same table.

It may not be known to the majority of my readers, that the prices of stocks, in New York, are very much influenced by the weather; indeed, I have sometimes thought that their value, as a marketable commodity, depended more on the state of the atmosphere than on their intrinsic worth. I have known a snow-storm cause a sudden fall of two to five per cent.; and an April shower, though it lasted but an hour, more or less, have the same effect to the extent of one or two per cent. I have myself suffered in my speculations by a change of weather; and the only fortunate hit I ever made, I ascribe entirely to the opportune clearing up of a long storm.

It is really surprising what effect the weather has upon the minds of stock-operators. Apparently, those enterprising fellows are as susceptible to the influence of the atmosphere, as poets; though in every thing else, it must be confessed, they are as different from the genus irritabile vatum, as Horace calls them, as the orange-water on a lady’s toilet is from the plain, unperfumed Croton in which she laves her hands. On a bright, sunny day their countenances wear a cheerful expression, their bosoms throb with joyful expectations of an advance or fall in prices, as may happen to suit their purpose; and, in a word, they feel richer and better, and are prepared to renew their operations with increased spirit. Hence the expression so often seen in the “Money Articles” of our daily papers, “there was a better feeling at both boards to-day;” and this stereotyped phrase has become equivalent to the announcement that the weather has become exceedingly fine.

In cloudy weather, on the contrary, particularly if it rains, their faces are generally augmented longitudinally to a very considerable extent; and so true an interpreter is a broker’s face of the state of the heavens, that one might safely depend on it for information without looking at the sky. I regard a speculator’s countenance as far more reliable than a weathercock, because I have known the latter to deceive me by pointing westward, when, according to the weather, it should have stood in the opposite stormy quarter. But the face of a stock-operator of New York was never known to play tricks of this kind, within the far-reaching memory of that most respectable, and often referred-to individual, the Oldest Inhabitant. No man ever saw a smile on his phiz, except when the sun shone.

There are some shrewd men in New York, who perfectly understand these “skyey influences,” and regulate their speculative movements accordingly—buying in a storm, especially if it be a long and severe one, and selling out whenever the succeeding clear weather has produced a favorable reaction in prices. One rich individual, living up town, the moment he rises in the morning, opens his window and looks at the vane on a neighboring steeple—the only part of the church, by the way, he cares a fig about—and if the wind happen to blow from a rainy point, he hastens down town, and orders his broker to dive deep into some of the “fancies.” If, however, the day be clear, he stays at home, his broker being already instructed to sell out some previous purchase, as soon as the weather should warrant.

But the weather, though a most powerful agent in the fluctuation of prices, is by no means the only cause of those great and sudden changes in the marketable value of “securities,” which take money from one pocket, and put it into another. An apprehension, well or ill founded, (it is the same thing in effect,) of an increased demand for money; a paragraph in a newspaper, announcing, mysteriously, that some sort of news, concerning nobody knows what, may be expected in a few days; wars, and rumors of wars; and reports about different matters, however trifling and uninteresting to the majority of the people; all these are sufficient to dash a broker’s spirits; and produce a panic in the market.

Stepping into the great room of the exchange one day, to see the doings at the public board of brokers, I, like the rest of the crowd that stood looking on, became interested in their proceedings, and was soon seized with a desire to try my luck in speculation. I had previously heard of this man and that, having realized their thousands in as many weeks; and as stocks were advancing, and likely, for aught that appeared, to have an “upward tendency” for some time to come, I saw no good reason why I, too, might not increase my little capital in the same rapid manner. “The prospect before us is cheering,” said I to myself, “the boundary question, thanks to the great Daniel, is settled; money is plentiful, and as cheap as dirt; and, in all human probability, Harry Clay, or somebody equally worthy, will be our next president. It follows, therefore, as a necessary consequence, that good dividend-paying stocks must advance.”

Now this seemed well reasoned, to say the least, and the conclusion a just one; but, alas! for human foresight! the good stocks, in which alone I ventured at first, like a balking horse, stood still, or if they moved at all, refused to budge an inch in the right direction. The bad stocks, those not intrinsically worth a fig, were those which I should have purchased. They went up like a rocket; but mine, from the moment that I bought it, seemed to have suddenly acquired one of the properties of lead, for it would go down, in spite of every effort made to keep it up—and the papers called it heavy. Heavy enough I found it, heaven knows! But I am anticipating, and running ahead of my story.

When I entered the exchange, I was the possessor of fifteen hundred dollars—the savings of many years of industry; but I was tired of work, and longed to make a fortune rather by the exercise of intellect, than by the labor of my hands. It promised me a fortune in a hundredth part of the time that it would take me to accumulate one in any other way; and then it was so fine, I thought, to be considered a heavy dealer in stocks, and to be regarded as a great, bold operator, and a capitalist. How could I, with such lofty ideas in my head, and with such a consciousness of possessing superior tact and talent, go back quietly to work! Pah! the very thought of such a thing sickened me.

I caught the eye of a broker with whom I was acquainted, and, having beckoned him to me, requested him to buy ten thousand dollars worth of Ohio sixes, at the market price, which happened, I remember, (and I shall never forget it the longest day I live,) to be one hundred and four. The day was pleasant, the room light, and well filled with cheerful spectators; the brokers were in good spirits, and disposed to go deep in their favorite game, and, to use a common expression, the steam was up to the highest point at both boards, and in the street.

Methinks I hear some one ask how so much stock was paid for by a man worth but fifteen hundred dollars, all told. Innocent one! I will tell thee. I borrowed the money, or about ninety per cent. of it at least, for a few days, and gave the stock itself as security. How simple! did I hear thee say? Truly the process was exceedingly simple; natheless I advise thee not to follow my example.

I considered myself uncommonly lucky in thus securing what I wanted at so low a price, as I then regarded it; for the broker assured me, and such seemed to be the prevailing opinion among the knowing ones, that the stock I bought would rise six per cent. at least within two or three months. I expected, so sanguine is my temperament, to sell at that advance in less than a fortnight; and already considered myself as six hundred dollars richer than I was before. “A nice little sum that,” thought I, “for a beginning, and will furnish the out-goings for a month, next summer, at Saratoga, and the disbursements of a trip to Niagara, returning by way of Montreal, Quebec, and Lake George.”

There is a proverb about counting the young of barn-yard fowls, before the tender chickens are fairly out of their shells; which proverb admonishes us never to make such a reckoning till the hatching is completed, lest we should be disappointed as to the number. Experience has taught me that this proverb, with some slight verbal alterations, would apply equally well to the expected profits from speculation in stocks. One should never count his gains, nor appropriate them to any specific purpose, until they be realized.

In a day or two I found, much to my chagrin, that the stock I had so fortunately purchased, instead of being on the high road to one hundred and ten, began to grow tired of advancing, as though it were leg-weary, and turning suddenly about, took, like a school-boy coming home, “cross lots” the shortest possible way back to its old position on the wrong side of par. I ascribe this sudden change to two causes; first, I was the owner of some of the stock, which reason was enough of itself to knock down that or any other security; as I never in my life touched any thing of the kind that did not immediately become “heavy,” and of less value than it was before. Tom Moore complained most beautifully of similar ill-luck, and said, in his own inimitable way,

And I can and do say with more truth, (for Tom evidently fibbed, or rather made Hinda do so,) and with equally good rhymes, that

Secondly, a paragraph appeared in the Herald, saying something about England and war; and this circumstance, combined with the fact of my being a holder, was too much for Ohio sixes, and down they went. Nothing short of a miracle could have sustained them under such a pressure. But this was not all; for, in the incipient stage of the panic which followed, the wind suddenly veered round to north-east, and a storm came on to increase the difficulty. Such a scene as ensued has rarely been witnessed since Wall street became a theatre for speculation. Faces became elongated many hundred feet in the aggregate; eyes opened to their widest capacity, and seemed to be looking wildly about for that greatest of bug-bears, the British; and every speculator’s heart, like Macbeth’s, did

as though some terrible calamity, involving the annihilation of every thing in the shape of stocks and money, were impending.

If some giant from another globe had come upon the earth, and suddenly knocked the foundation stones from under that noble structure, the merchants’ exchange, the crash would hardly have been greater or more alarming than that which took place, on the day in question, among the stocks. I stood silently by, and saw my property vanish, as it were, before my eyes; but I will not attempt to describe my feelings, for I am sure that I should not be able to convey an idea of them to the reader’s mind. Suffice it to say that I was hurt—cut to the very soul. “Farewell, Niagara, Quebec, and Montreal,” thought I; “if I can keep out of the almshouse, the way things are going, I shall be remarkably lucky.”

After consulting with my friend, the broker, who, to do him justice, it must be confessed, gave me the best advice that his fears permitted, I concluded to sell out my stock at ninety-eight, while it was on the descent, and buy again the moment it should reach the lowest point, which the broker and I thought would be about ninety. Then, if our expectations should be realized, and the stock again reach what I had before given, namely, one hundred and four, it is clear that I should, beside recovering my loss, make eight per cent. profit.

Here was a most glorious opportunity for a speculation—one of those that occur about twice in a century. It was a happy thought in me to sell even at a great loss, with a view of repurchasing on better terms; and I could not help regarding it as a singularly bold move—one indicating great genius, and just such a one as Napoleon himself, under similar circumstances, might have conceived and made. I became elated at the prospect, and bade my friend sell out with all possible expedition. He did so at ninety-eight, being a loss to me of six per cent., or six hundred dollars—a pretty fair clip from the back of my little capital of fifteen hundred.

I should have been exceedingly annoyed by this docking of my fortune, had not the certainty which I felt of making good the deficiency, encouraged me; and but for the most perfect confidence I entertained in the success of my next adventure, I should, in all human probability, have retired from Wall street with much the same feeling that a fox has when he sneaks off to his hole, after parting with his tail in a trap.

But what short-sighted mortals we are, and how the blindfolded goddess loves to sport with human calculations!

exclaimed Horace; and depend upon it, if stocks were the subject of traffic in Rome, he had just been nicked when he wrote that passage. Most courteous reader, I was doomed to suffer another grievous disappointment; stocks took a different turn from what I had expected. The storm cleared away, and the panic abated. The sun again shone out bright, and smiles reappeared on the brokers’ faces. Prices had reached their lowest point, precisely at the moment that I sold out mine, and instead of going down to ninety, as they would have done had I continued to hold, they “rallied,” as the saying is, and rose to par. I looked and felt blue, and counted over my money again and again; I ciphered and calculated for half a morning, in endeavoring to make my loss less than it was. It was of no use, however, for the result of my counting and my ciphering were precisely the same, showing a deficiency of six hundred dollars and the brokerage. “O, if I could but get back my stock,” thought I, “I would hold it till doomsday, before I would again sell it for a less sum than it cost me.” That was an idle thought, for the money having been borrowed, I had not the power to do as I wished.

Well, I found that complaining would do no good, and it was plain that I could not recover my losses by sitting down and doing nothing; beside, it was very unlike a bold operator—a Napoleon of the exchange—to be disheartened by the first reverse or two; so I determined, as there was now a strong probability of an immediate advance of prices, to get back my Ohio stock at par. I was too late in deciding by a day, and was obliged to give one per cent. premium. That trifling difference, however, I did not regard; for what was one per cent., more or less, to a man who was sure of making ten of them?

I now felt certain that I had hit the nail on the head. “Rem tetigi acu,” said I; and what made me more confident of success was the fact, that the newspapers, disagreeing upon almost every other subject, were agreed upon one point, namely, that, in consequence of the “better feeling” that prevailed, stocks would certainly rise. I believed them, having naturally a strong inclination to credit what I see in print.

A good feeling unquestionably did exist at the time I bought, and the prices of stocks were likewise very good; but, as usual, when the time came in which I was compelled to sell, a very different feeling seemed to be rife, and symptoms of another panic began to make their appearance simultaneously with the approach of a storm. On the day I sold out, everything was at sixes and sevens; the rain came down in floods, the wind blew, and the whole army of brokers, like a flock of sheep that had lost their shepherd, were again in the greatest alarm and confusion. My poor stock, like the parting spirit of Napoleon, went off in a whirlwind, at ninety-eight; and I went home that day mad, and drenched with rain, (having mislaid my umbrella,) and a loser of three hundred dollars more. I felt exceedingly bad—I was disgusted.

The prospect of my going to Niagara was now unpromising; and I prudently resolved to postpone the visit for another year at least. Such a thing was not again to be thought of, till, in gambler’s phrase, I should be on velvet, that is, have some winnings over and above my capital; but so far from being on velvet, I was on the sharpest kind of paving-stones, nay, figuratively speaking, I was on spikes. I was now reduced to the point of struggling, not for victory, but for safety; and I was like a general who, having abandoned all hopes of conquest, would be too happy to save his own bacon, and get safe home. My discouragement, however, was of short duration, and with my reviving spirits, I resumed the hazardous business.

I made several other operations in what are technically called the “fancies”—stocks that pay no dividends, and the value of which is rather imaginary or fanciful, (whence their name, probably,) than real. I had enough of good stocks—they had well-nigh ruined me; and I resolved to try my luck among those that are good for nothing, except to be bought and sold. Ill-fortune still pursued me. What with stormy weather, increased demand for money, paragraphs containing bad news from Washington, and flying reports of some diabolical measure contemplated by England, all my adventures turned out unfavorably, and I was reduced in pocket to a very low ebb. My little capital was on its last legs.

One day, almost in despair, I took up a newspaper, (it was the Journal of Commerce,) and my eye alighted on a remark of the editor’s to the effect that a stock-speculator should be in no hurry either to buy or sell; but, waiting coolly and patiently for opportunities, with his feet elevated upon a stove, he should always buy when stocks are low, and sell out when they are high. I was struck with amazement at the wisdom displayed in this advice, and wondered why so obviously correct a course had not occurred to me in my deep cogitations upon this subject. It was perfectly plain—a child might see it—that if this recommendation were strictly followed, success would crown my efforts; and I forthwith determined to commence another career on this excellent and safe principle. Failure was impossible. “Buy when they are low,” I repeated, “and sell when they are high. How wonderful, yet, at the same time, how simple!” I had all along been pursuing the wrong track. My practice had been, whatever my intentions were, to buy when they were high, and sell when they were low; and this had been the result of a want of patience, and of too much precipitancy in my purchases and sales. I was now in possession of a grand secret, and that secret was to WAIT, BUY LOW AND SELL HIGH.

Well, I did wait, and that most patiently, for a fall of stocks—and a fall at length occurred, a greater one than had been known for a long time, and prices were depressed below what they had been in several months. “Now,” thought I, “is the time to take down my feet from the stove, and walk into the fancies;” whereupon I went into Wall street, and borrowed a considerable sum for a fortnight, pledging the stock as security, according to the modus operandi well understood in that region. Every thing promised well; and I felt encouraged, deeming it next to impossible that fortune should always fight against me. I bought the stock very low, comparatively, and went home to replace my feet upon the stove, and await patiently another rise.

No rise, however, occurred within the fortnight that I was able to hold my new acquisition. Prices moved, it is true, but they moved the wrong way for me; they “advanced backward.” I thought when I purchased, that they were low enough in all conscience; but it appears there were lower depths still to which they were destined to attain. I did not wait long enough. The principle on which I had acted was a good one—the fault was in me.

A man falling from the roof of a house, would not reach the ground more quickly than my stock tumbled to a point five per cent. below what I had given. A new element had arisen to produce this sudden, unlooked for, and extraordinary change. The Texas question came upon the brokers like a thunderbolt, knocking every thing into a cocked-hat; and the upshot was, that I sold my stock at a loss which swept away the remainder of my capital, and left me as penniless as a street-beggar.

This was the last of my operations; and thus the savings of several years disappeared like dew on a summer’s morning. Nor is that the worst feature of this unfortunate business; for the excitement of speculation, the handling of large sums of money, the high-wrought expectation of realising large profits in a short time, have totally unfitted me for the labors by which I accumulated what money I have lost. How can I go to work again on a mere salary, two-thirds of which I must spend in support of my family, the remainder being a petty sum only, which any lucky broker would make on a clear morning at a single throw? I am ready to die through pure vexation; but I’ll not leave the ground yet. I know a friend who will lend me five hundred dollars, and by hypothecating the stock I shall buy, I can borrow of Jack Little five thousand. Yes, I must have one more chance—one more—and then, if fortune favors me, as she always does the brave, (so the Latin grammar declares,) I shall soon be on my feet again; but if she should continue to frown, and disappoint my hopes, I will abandon speculation forever—perhaps.

WITH AN ENGRAVING.

A PACKAGE FROM MY OLD WRITING-DESK.

———

BY ENNA DUVAL.

———

“Here I am again, dear Miss Enna,” said my darling, pretty friend, Kate Wilson, to me the other morning.

I have already introduced Kate to you, dear reader; and if you had looked into the deep wells of her beaming, bright eye as often as I have, and heard the rich, gushing music of her laugh, you would hail her approach, even though she did plunge unceremoniously into your sanctum, and interrupt you in your studies, or your deep divings into your imagination for something particularly clever, out of which to form a “readable story” for “Mr. Graham’s next Monthly.”

I felt a little annoyed, I must admit, on the morning in question, for I was very earnestly engaged—not in writing, dear reader; oh, no! I spared you that one morning—but in looking over an old writing-desk, that I had not opened for years. It was one that belonged to my mother; and one part I had devoted to her treasured gifts, in the other, for it is a large, capacious, old-fashioned affair, not at all like the little rosewood, mother-of-pearl inlaid thing which has usurped its place on my writing-table; in the other part I have stored gifts, letters, and remembrances of my school-girl days; and this part I was exploring as Kate entered. I had just been sighing over a package, containing letters, a bracelet of hair, and a faded bunch of flowers—mementoes of a dear friend, long since laid in the cold grave, and was almost weeping over remembrances of the past. To me that is the only sad thing in growing old. If those we love could only live to cheer and comfort us, old age would have no terrors. A single woman feels this particularly; for if a woman marries, she forms new connections, and looks forward to a new life, and new interests, in the future of her children; but “we poor old maids” are oftentimes very lonely.

Brothers and sisters, and dear friends, will marry; and however pretty, fascinating, and agreeable a woman may have been, there comes a time when the little decided opinions and caprices that were deemed so pretty and cunning at eighteen, are pronounced by the saucy new-comers on life’s stage, “prim, old-maidish whimsicalities;” and even the fathers and mothers, who had formerly considered this same dear, single friend, the realization of womanly perfection when she was the belle of their young days, they also are often found, coinciding with their children in these saucy opinions. Now, members of my dear sisterhood, let me give you a little advice. True, I am but a new comer amongst you. I know I have not yet seen fifty summers—I only own to thirty-five, and scarcely to that, excepting when in company with those well “booked-up” on the subject of my age—I have no gray hairs or wrinkles, and yet I have experience; and my single-blessedness bids fair to be a happy state. Seek companions amongst the young. I do not mean for you to affect juvenile manners. Oh, heaven forbid! a youthful old-maid is, in truth, ridiculous. But mingle with the young; sympathize with them; cultivate their friendship and love; make your presence a sunshine to them; be to them a friend, a confidant, and an adviser. Keep your feelings, your heart, your spirit young—your mind, by pleasant, but regular study, in a healthful state; in this way you will secure happiness. Then, to escape ridicule—ah! that is the hardest task of all—admit your age; it is the only safe way, believe me. Walk up to the cannon’s mouth boldly. Show them you do not care any thing about it, and the saucy opinions and laughs of these young ones will be averted; and depend upon it they will flutter around you, love you, and almost imagine you still retain the youthful charms and agreeability with which your cotemporaries so kindly invested you. I have found this plan successful, and have surrounded myself with a troop of young things. With one who is a fanatic, a pretty devotee to the divine study of sweet sounds, I practice music; and instead of falling back upon the “music of my day,” I find beauties in the music of her day. Mozart, Hayden, and Beethoven, Steibell, Clementi, and Dessek, are now banished from my music-stand, and only cheer my solitary hours, to make way for Bellini, Donizetti, and Auber, Thalberg, Herz, and Litz. With another, a gentle, little, imaginative creature, whose transparent cheek, and brilliant eye, warns us she is not long to dwell with us, I read old poets. But of all my youthful friends, there is not one among them who loves me better, or who is more companionable to me, than dear Kate Wilson. I have known her from her babyhood. I knew her mother before Kate was born; true, I was a tiny girl when Kate’s mother was married. She is a beautiful, rich belle, “petted, fÊted, courted, and caressed;” and yet she daily comes to her “dear Miss Enna,” as she calls me, as she did in her little girl days, and cheers many an hour that would otherwise be lonely. I find myself forgetting, when with her, as she so flatteringly does, that I am no longer young; and I very much fear Kate makes me a little too youthful in dress; but the darling, bewitching creature, has such a saucy, decided way with her, that I always yield to her wishes.

“What are you at?” she asked, as she closed the door; “looking over an old writing-desk, as I live. What piles of letters and old things—that is, indeed, delightful. Stores of love-letters, I’ll wager a bright, golden guinea. Come, let me help you toss it over, and tell me the love-history of each discarded one.”

Saucy girl! her mind seems only filled with lovers. But she would have her way, and the whole day passed in this occupation. She boldly untied each package, and resolutely determined I should tell her the little history appended to each in my memory. The one I held in my hand when she entered, was first taken up; and we both shed tears over the sad story it recalled of friendship, love, and a broken-heart. It is too sad a tale for me to relate to you now, dear reader, for I am not in the tearful mood. Some gloomy, “gray” day, as Kate says, I will again recall it, and see if you will sympathize with the past as did dear Kate Wilson. I have digressed so much already, that I will take up one of the smallest packages now, and relate to you the history of my school-girl friend, Lolah Lalande, as she was called then. Her name is now more famous; but I will keep that a secret until I arrive at the end of my story. It was a small packet, containing only a few French letters, a tress of long, glossy black hair, and a crayon sketch of a childish figure in Spanish costume, and in one of the attitudes of a Spanish national dance. It had a beautiful, girlish face, clear, dark eyes—long, sweeping hair—arched, delicately formed brows—and rich, full lips. That face has turned the head of a monarch, it is said—but I will not anticipate.

“Tell me this, dear Miss Enna,” said Kate, as she looked at the contents of the package. “It could not have been a friendship of long standing—so little remains of it; therefore you will only have a tiny, little story for me, and I will not teaze you again until—to-morrow, or the next gray, rainy day.”

Kate listened with affectionate interest; and I’ll never forgive you, reader, if you are not as indulgent as Kate. But I will seek your favor in the words of Spenser:

Surely, now, if I say to you such delicate words as these, which Spenser gave to that “noble and virtuous gentleman, most worthy of all titles, both of learning and chivalry, Master Philip Sidney,” you cannot but listen complacently.

When about twelve or thirteen years of age, I was placed at the fashionable establishment of Madame Lalande, to perfect my French pronunciation. Being a shy child, I drew away from the different cliques of the school, during my play hours, and gave myself up to sad recollections of home and my darling little brothers and sisters. The girls laughed at me, and called me “a mope,” which served only to increase my shyness. The Madame was exceedingly kind to me; but I only saw her in the evening, when we all assembled in the large drawing-rooms to dance, promenade, and converse sociably together under her superintendence. A few evenings after my arrival, while I was studiously endeavoring to make my petite figure still smaller, by hiding behind a harp-case which stood in a corner of the back drawing-room, to my exquisite terror, I saw the Madame approach me, holding by the hand a beautiful child, apparently about my own age.

“Mademoiselle Duval,” she said, “you must join in the dancing. You and my niece, Lolah, are about the same size; you will make good partners for each other. Lola, ma chÈre, I depend upon you to entertain our new pupil.”

The little girl approached me kindly, and taking my trembling hand, said,

“Will you not dance with me?”

I did not dare to refuse, but accompanied her to a quadrille, (cotillions, we called them in those days,) just forming near us, feeling as awkward and shy as a home-girl might be expected to feel, thrown, for the first time, in a crowd of nearly a hundred girls. The first figures of the quadrille I danced awkwardly enough, giving my little partner good reason to think I did not know my right hand from my left; but I soon forgot my mauvaise honte, in the pleasant chatting of the little Lolah, who told me of all the little enjoyments she had. Her “chÈre tante,” as she called Madame Lalande, had taken her the night before to an Opera, for the first time in her life; and, of course, her little head was filled with recollections of it. She described, with French volubility, and in a most graphic manner, the story of the Opera, the different scÈnas, and the dresses. I was so new to all such things, that I suppose she could not have found a more agreeable listener in the whole school; and we were mutually pleased with each other. We danced every quadrille together; and she most patronizingly waltzed with me in a corner of the drawing-room, until I could summon sufficient courage to venture in the large circle in the centre of the rooms. At ten o’clock we bade good night to each other, she promising, as her cherry lips kissed affectionately my mouth and cheeks, that she would persuade chÈre tante to take me some night with them to the Opera—a promise which she kept.

From that night I no longer felt lonely in the school—Lolah was my companion. Though a year or so my junior, she was quite as far advanced in mind; and we were thrown a great deal together in our studies, and with the easy confidence of childhood, we became bosom friends. Lolah was a great favorite in the school. The elder girls courted her for her influence with the Madame and the governesses, and the younger ones gathered around her because she was always merry, kind, and generous. She was a darling little creature—exceedingly pretty. She had full, large, dark eyes, an oval face, with a rich brunette complexion, and glossy hair, black as night. Her figure was slight, but perfectly formed; and she was the most graceful child I ever saw. The little queen of the Viennoise corps, darling little Fanny Prager, always reminds me of Lolah. She is not so pretty, but her graceful movements, her evident superiority over the rest of the troupe, her commanding little step, her apparent freedom from vanity, and her cleverness in forming the different tableaux and groups, bring Lolah to my mind; and while looking at her, I find myself loving the child as I used to love Lolah Lalande in my school days.

With the dancing-master Lolah was an especial favorite. She early gave evidence of a decided partiality for dancing; and Madame Lalande availed herself of every opportunity that offered to improve the child in her favorite accomplishment. Polkas, Redowas, and Mazurkas, were not known in those days; but the dancing-master, in those times, grew eloquent over Gavottes, Shawl Dances, and the expressive and graceful Spanish Waltzes. With delighted earnestness would Lolah go through her different dances; and Monsieur Neillet would almost expire with ecstacy. The Monsieur had been educated in the Parisian school, a pupil of La Conservatoire, and had even danced in a ballet before the august Emperor and Empress. With eager eloquence he would dilate upon Lolah’s wonderful gift to the Madame, and with great concern and grief, lament that she could not become a professional danseuse. Then he would give most tempting accounts of the immense sums of money made by the great danseuses of Europe.

“I trust, Monsieur,” the Madame would always reply, “I trust that my dear Lolah will never be forced to support herself by such a dangerous and exposed profession. While I live, she will be always sure of a home; and I earnestly pray I may have strength to collect for her before I die, a competency sufficient to place her above want.”

Lolah was called the niece of Madame Lalande, and went by her name. She loved the Madame passionately, who treated her with the greatest indulgence—indulgence that was never abused by Lolah, however, for she was an excellent, obedient child. Soon after my arrival, I noticed mysterious allusions made by some of the elder girls, when speaking of Lolah, which led me to question the relationship which Lolah bore to Madame Lalande. The curiosity excited in me was at last gratified by Lolah herself, who, after I had been some months at the school, told me that Madame Lalande had owned to her that she was not in truth her niece; that she was an orphan, whose parents had come from Ireland, before her birth, to settle in America; they had been in very humble circumstances. The mother of Lolah had been employed by Madame Lalande as a seamstress, and the Madame became very much interested in her. When Lolah was an infant, both parents were seized with an epidemic, and died within a few hours of each other. Madame Lalande promised them on their deathbeds she would adopt the infant Lolah, and take care of her so long as she lived. The Madame intended at first to bring up the child in a plain manner, and when old enough, have her taught some trade, by which she might support herself, and be independent; but Lolah proved so intelligent and beautiful, that she resolved to educate her well, and do her best by her, looking upon her as her own child.

“How can I ever repay ma chÈre tante for her kindness!” would the warm-hearted girl exclaim over and again, her fine, dark eyes dilating with emotion, and filling with tears, when with girlish frankness she would allude to the story of her birth.

When I had been about two years with Madame Lalande, she resolved, very much against the wishes of her friends, to remove to Paris. She had always pined for her home during the ten or twelve years she had resided in America. She had been fortunate, and laid up some little money, with which she fancied she could establish a large school at “home,” and realize larger profits. Her health was but indifferent. She was, in fact, suffering from maladie du pays; and she gave up the fine school she had been so lucky in establishing in America, to grasp at an uncertainty in her own beloved Paris. Her friends reasoned, but in vain; she said the letters she received from her friends in Paris, assured her that her circumstances would be infinitely improved by a removal there. Lolah and I parted with many tears and promises for the future. The long tress of her beautiful hair, and the crayon sketch which had been made of her by her drawing-master, were her little gifts to me—gifts which I have treasured carefully. After their arrival in Paris, she wrote to me, and a few letters passed between us; but only a few. I never received but two or three from Lolah, and then the correspondence on her side ceased. I continued writing for a year or more, but at last gave it up; and year after year passed without bringing any information to me of her. I remember well what sad tears I shed over that little packet, when I first put it away in my desk; for a year or more I could not bear to open it, so miserable did the little drawing and lock of hair make me feel. Some clever German writer says, “Children live in a world of imagination and feeling;” thus I at last soothed my aching heart by imaginings of the future, and dreaming happy day-visions of a reunion with my darling Lolah.

A year or two since, my father’s health grew delicate, and his physicians thought a sea voyage would prove beneficial. A visit to Europe was recommended, and I, of course, accompanied him. We spent some time abroad, traveling over those parts of the Continent most interesting to him, from early intellectual pursuits and associations. While we were at Munich, the Bavarian capital, we heard that the famous dancer, Lola Montes, was there, creating a great excitement. The strange stories we had heard of this remarkable woman, made us feel desirous to see her; and, accordingly, one evening we went to the theatre to gratify our curiosity. I could scarcely refrain from a loud exclamation when this danseuse appeared upon the stage. She was dressed in Spanish costume, as she was about to execute a favorite Spanish dance. A rich costly veil floated around her head, and her long, glossy hair hung in heavy, dark braids, looped, and bound with glittering gems. It was Lolah Lalande. Love could not be deceived; and tears sprung to my eyes as I recalled our girlish friendship. Had she been in any other dress, I might have failed to trace the resemblance so quickly; but I had so often seen her in that Spanish costume—it was similar to the crayon sketch—it was the dress she most affected at the dancing parties at school, because the Spanish waltzes were her favorite dances when a child; and she always danced them dressed in the beautiful, becoming national costume. How anxiously I noted every movement, traced every feature—it was Lolah herself I felt convinced, although changed. A fiertÉ cold expression overspread her face, and her brilliant eyes flashed a little disdainfully at times, as she seemed to command and exact applause as a right. There was no glittering, set, stage-smile upon her face, but a cold, haughty recognition was all that she gave to any mark of approbation from the audience. Her style of dancing was different from any I had ever seen on the stage. I had admired the childish beauty of Carlotta Grisi’s dancing; the voluptuous Cerito’s; the fascinating, refined Ellsler’s, and the dignified, intellectual Taglioni’s; but Montes’—no, Lolah Lalande’s—seemed to me—it might have been from childish association—more entrancing than any other, although those who were with me, and who were, undoubtedly, good judges, better than I, condemned her style; but when woman’s heart begins to act, good-by to her judgment. Lolah had grown tall; and though still exquisitely graceful, as in childhood, she seemed remarkably strong and commanding. Other dancers, I thought, might be compared to a Hebe or a Venus, but Lolah seemed a Juno and Pallas united; and I quoted to my clever critic friends the lines with which I have headed this sketch,—

“She can show art rules to astonish her.

And what the muses would with study find,

She teaches in her dancing.”