LESSON CXXXIII. răt❜lineş, small lines traversing lee, the part of a ship opposite to that against which the wind blows. lǎsh'ings, the ropes that made the boat fast to the ship. A MAN LOST. Off the Azores we were overtaken by a series of severe squalls. We were preparing ourselves for the coming storm, when a man, who was coming down from the last reef, slipped as he stepped on the bulwarks, and went over into the waves. In a moment that most terrific of all cries at sea, "A man overboard! a man overboard!" flew like lightning over the ship. I sprang upon the quarter-deck, just as the poor fellow, with his "fearful human face," riding the top of a billow, fled past. In an instant all was commotion; plank after plank was cast over for him to seize and sustain himself on, till the ship could be put about and the boat lowered. The first mate, a bold fellow, leaped into the boat that hung at the side of the quarterdeck, and in a voice so sharp and stern that I seem to hear it yet, shouted, "In, men! in, men!" But the poor sailors hung back,-the sea was too wild. The second mate sprang to the side of the first, and the men, ashamed to leave both their officers alone, followed. "Cut away the lashings!" exclaimed the officer. The knife glanced round the ropes, the boat fell to the water, rose on a huge wave far over the deck, and drifted rapidly astern. The brave mate stood erect, the helm in his hand, his flashing eye embracing the whole peril in a single glance, and his hand bringing the head of the gallant little boat on each high sea that otherwise would have swamped her. I watched them till nearly two miles astern, when they lay to, to look for the lost sailor. The captain called for a flag, and, springing into the shrouds, waved it for their return. The gallant fellows obeyed the signal, and pulled for the ship. But it was slow work, for the head of the boat had to be laid on to almost every wave. It was now growing dark, and if the squall should strike the boat before it reached the vessel, there was no hope for it; it would either go down at once, or drift away into the surrounding darkness, to struggle out the night as it could. I shall never forget that scene. All along the southern horizon, between the black water and the blacker heavens, was a white streak of tossing foam. Nearer and clearer every moment it boiled and roared on its track. I could not look steadily on that gallant little crew, now settling the question of life and death to themselves, and perhaps to us, who would be left almost unmanned in the middle of the Atlantic, and encompassed by a storm. The sea was making fast, and yet that frail thing rode on it like a duck. Every time she sank away she carried my heart down with her; and when she remained a longer time then usual, I would think it was all over, and cover my eyes with horror; the next moment she would appear between us and the black rolling cloud, literally covered with foam and spray. The captain knew that a few minutes more would decide the fate of his officers and crew; he called for his trumpet, and, springing up the ratlines, shouted out over the roar of the blast and waves, "Pull away, my brave boys; the squall is coming! give way, my hearties!" and the bold fellows did " give way" with a will. I could see their ashen oars quiver as they rose from the water, while the lifelike boat sprang to their strokes down the billows, like a panther on a leap. On she came, and on came the blast. It was the wildest struggle I ever gazed on; but the gallant little boat conquered. O, how my heart leaped when she shot round the stern, and rising on a wave far above our leequarter, shook the water from her drenched head, as if in delight to find her shelter again. The chains were fastened, and I never pulled with such right good-will on a rope as on the one that brought that boat up the vessel's side. As the heads of the crew appeared over the bulwarks, I could have hugged the brave fellows in transport. As they stepped on deck, not a question was asked, no report given; but "Forward, men!" broke from the captain's lips. The vessel was trimmed to meet the blast, and we were again bounding on our way. If that squall had pursued the course of all former ones, we must have lost our crew; but when nearest the boat (and it seemed to me the foam was breaking not a hundred rods off), the wind suddenly veered, and held the cloud in check, so that it swung round close to our bows. The poor sailor was gone; he came not back again. It was his birthday (he was twenty-five years old), and, alas! it was his death-day. We saw him no more, and a gloom fell on the whole ship. There were few of us in all, and we felt his loss. It was a wild and dark night; death had been among us, and had left us with sad and serious hearts. J. T. HEADLEY. Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, Wherein my letters (praying on his side Because I knew the man) were slighted of. Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offense should bear its comment. Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm; To sell and mart your offices for gold, To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or by the gods, this speech were else your last! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. Cas. Chastisement! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March, re member Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? Cas. Brutus, bay not me! I'll not endure it; you forget yourself Bru. Go to; you are not Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say, you are not. Cas. Urge me no more. shall forget myself Have mind upon your health—tempt me no farther? Bru. Away, slight man! Cas. Is it possible? Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Cas. O gods! ye gods! must I endure all this? heart break. Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? |