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Mournfully! 0, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,
Hope's passionate farewell
Ere yet grief's canker fell
Start that parting knell !
TUBAL CAIN.-CHARLES MACKAY.
Old Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
The strokes of his hammer rung;
On the iron glowing clear,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
Hurrah for the spear and sword!
For he shall be king and lord !"
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
As the crown of his desire;
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And spoils of the forest free.
Who hath given us strength anew!
And hurrah for the metal true!"
Ere the setting of the sun;
For the evil he had done;
Made war upon their kind,
In their lust for carnage blind.
Or that skill of mine should plau,
Is to slay their fellow-man!"
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his furnace smouldered low.
And a bright courageous eye,
While the quick flames mounted high.
And the red sparks lit the air;
And he fashion'd the first ploughshare.
In friendship join'd their hands,
And plough'd the willing lands;
Our staunch good friend
To him our praise shall be.
Or a tyrant would be lord-
We'll not forget the sword !"
PENCIL SKETCHES-THAT GENTLEMAN.-Miss LESLIE.
On the third day, we were enabled to lay our course with a fair wind and a clear sky; the coast of Cornwall looking like a succession of low white clouds ranged along the edge of the northern horizon. Toward evening we passed the Lizard, to see land no more till we should descry it on the other side of the Atlantic. As Mr. Fenton and myself leaned over the taffrail, and saw the last point of England fade dimly from our view, we thought, with regret, of the shore we were leaving behind us, and of much that we had seen, and known, and enjoyed in that country of which all that remained to our lingering gaze was a dark spot so distant and so small as to be scarcely perceptible. Soon we could discern it no longer; and nothing of Europe was now left to us but the indelible recollections that it has impressed upon our minds. We turned toward the region of the descending sun
"To where his setting splendors burn
and we vainly endeavored to direct all our thoughts and feelings toward our home beyond the ocean—our beloved American home.
On that night, as on many others, when our ship was careering through the sea, with her yards squared, and her sails all trimmed to a fresh and favoring breeze, while we sat on a sofa in the lesser cabin, and looked up through the open skylight at the stars that seemed flying over our heads, we talked of the land we had so recently quitted. We talked of her people, who, though differing from ours in a thousand minute particulars, are still essentially the same. Our laws, our institutions, our manners, and our customs are derived from theirs: we are benefited by the same arts, we are enlightened by the same sciences. Their noble and copious language is, fortunately, ours -their Shakspeare also belongs to us; and we rejoice that we can possess ourselves of his thoughts that breathe and words that burn” in all their original freshness and splendor, unobscured by the mist of translation. Though the ocean divides our dwelling-places; though the sword and the cannon-shot have sundered the bonds that once united us to her dominion; though the misrepresentations of traveling adventurers have done much to foster mutual prejudices, and to embitter mutual jealousies, still we share the pride of our parent in the glorious beings she can number among the children of her island home, for
“Yet lives the blood of England in our veins," On the fourth day of our departure from the Isle of Wight, we found ourselves several hundred miles from land, and consigned to the solitudes of that occan-desert, "dark-heavingboundless-endless—and sublime” — whose travelers find no path before them, and leave no track behind. But the wind was favorable, the sky was bright, the passengers had recovered their health and spirits, and, for the first time, were all able to present themselves at the dinner-table; and there was really what might be termed " a goodly company."
It is no longer the custom in American packet-ships for ladies to persevere in what is called a sea-dress-that is, a sort of dis. habille prepared expressly for the voyage. Those who are not well enough to devote some little time and attention to their personal appearance, rarely come to the general table, but take their meals in their own apartment. The gentlemen, also, pay as much respect to their toilet as when on shore.
Our passengers were not too numerous. The lesser cabin was appropriated to three other ladies and myself.
Our fourth female passenger was Mrs. Cummings, a plump, rosy-faced old lady of remarkably limited ideas, who had literally passed her whole life in the city of London. Having been recently left a widow, she had broken up housekeeping, and was now on her way to join a son established in New York, who had very kindly sent for her to come over and live with him. The rest of the world was almost a sealed book to her, but she talked a great deal of the Minories, the Poultry, the Old Jewry, Cheapside, Long Acre, Bishopsgate Within and Bishopsgate Without, and other streets and places with appellations equally expressive.
The majority of the male passengers were pleasant and companionable—and we thought we had seen them all in the course of the first three days--but on the fourth, we heard the captain say to one of the waiters, "Juba, ask that gentleman if I shall have the pleasure of taking wine with him.” My eyes now involuntarily followed the direction of Juba's movements, feeling some curiosity to know who “that gentleman” was, as I now recollected having frequently heard the epithet within the last few days. For instance, when almost every one was confined by sea-sickness to their state-rooms, I had seen the captain despatch a servant to inquire of that gentleman if he would
have any thing sent to him from the table. Also, I had heard Hamilton, the steward, call out—"There, boys, don't you hear that gentleman ring his bell—why don't you run spontaneously, jump, one of you, to number eleventeen.” I was puzzled for a moment to divine which state-room bore the designation of eleventeen, but concluded it to be one of the many unmeaning terms that characterize the phraseology of our colored people. Once or twice, I wondered who that gentleman could be; but something else happened immediately to divert my attention.
Now, when I heard Captain Santlow propose taking wine with him, I concluded, that, of course, that gentleman must be visible in propria persona, and casting my eyes toward the lower end of the table, I perceived a genteel-looking man whom I had not seen before. Ile was apparently of no particular age, and there was nothing in his face that could lead any one to guess at his country. He might have been English, Scotch, Irish or American; but he had none of the characteristic marks of either nation. He filled his glass, and bowing his head to Captain Santlow, who congratulated him on his recovery, he swallowed
his wine in silence. There was an animated conversation going on near the head of the table, between Miss Audley and two of her beaux, and we thought no more of him.
At the close of the dessert, we happened to know that he had quitted the table and gone on deck, by one of the waiters coming down, and requesting Mr. Overslaugh to let him pass for a moment, while he went into No. eleventeen for that gentleman's overcoat. I now found that the servants had converted No. 13 into eleventeen. By-the-bye, that gentleman had a state-room all to himself, sometimes occupying the upper and sometimes the under birth.
Captain Santlow,” said Mr. Fenton, “allow me to ask you the name of that gentleman.”
“Oh! I don't know," replied the captain, trying to suppress a smile, “ at least I have forgotten it—some English name; for he is an Englishman-he came on board at Plymouth, and his indisposition commenced immediately. Mrs. Cummings, shall I have the pleasure of peeling an orange
for I now recollected a little incident which had set me laughing soon after we left Plymouth, and when we were beating down the coast of Devonshire. I had been trying to write at the table in the ladies' cabin, but it was one of those days when
“Our paper, pen and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea." And all I could do was to take refuge in my berth, and endeavor to read, leaving the door open for light and air. My attention, however, was continually withdrawn from my book by the sound of something that was dislodged from its place, sliding or falling, and frequently suffering destruction; though sometimes miraculously escaping unhurt.
While I was watching the progress of two pitchers that had been tossed out of the washing-stand, and after deluging the floor with water, had met in the ladies cabin, and were rolling amicably side by side, without happening to break each other, I saw a barrel of flour start from the steward's pantry, and running across the dining-room, stop at a gentleman that lay extended in a lower berth with his room door
out its contents upon him, completely enveloping him in a fog of meal. I heard the steward, who was busily engaged in mopping up the water that had flowed from the pitchers, call out, * Run, boys, run, that gentleman's smothering up in flour-go take the barrel off him-jump, I tell you."
open, and pour