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purple color, which, when viewed through a microscope, glittered like silver, and were covered with little shell-fish so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye.
It was a lovely day. The lieutenant and his family were all on deck, and looked happy. That gentleman looked as usual. Toward evening, a breeze sprung up directly fair, and filled the sails, which all day had been clinging idly to the masts; and before midnight we were wafted along
at the rate of nine knots an hour,“while round the waves phosphoric brightness broke," the ship seeming, as she cleaved the foam, to draw after her in her wake a long train of stars.
Next day we continued to proceed rapidly, with a fair wind, which we knew would soon bring us to the end of our voyage. The ladies' cabin was now littered with trunks and boxes, brought from the baggage room, that we might select from them such articles as we thought we should require when we went on shore.
We were going rapidly through the Narrows, when the bell rung for breakfast, which Captain Santlow had ordered at an early hour, as we had all been up before daylight. Chancing to look toward his accustomed seat, I missed that gentleman, and inquired after him of the captain. “Oh!” he replied, “that gentleman went on shore in the news-boat; did
not see him depart? He bowed all round before he went down the side.”
“No,” was the general reply, “we did not see him go." In truth we had all been too much interested in hearing, reading, and talking of the news brought by the boat.
“ Then he is gone forever,” exclaimed Mrs. Cummings—" and we shall never know his name.'
“Come, Captain Santlow,” said Mr. Fenton, “ try to recollect it. Let it not,' as Grumio says, 'die in oblivion, while we return to our grave inexperienced in it.''
“ His name," answered the Captain, “is Sir St. John St. Ledger.”
Sir St. John St. Ledger !" was repeated by each of the company.
Yes," resumed Captain Santlow," and you see how difficult it is to say it smoothly. There is more sibilation in it than in any name I know. Was I not right in keeping it from
you the voyage was over, and thus sparing you the trouble of articulating it, and myself the annoyance of hearing it. See, here it is in writing."
| The captain then took his manifest out of his pocket-book, and showed us the words, “Sir St. John St. Ledger, of Sevenoaks, Kent."
“Pho!" said Mrs. Cummings. “Where's the trouble in speaking that name, if you only knew the right way—I have heard it a hundred times—and even seen it in the newspapers. This must be the very gentleman that my cousin George's wife is always talking about. She has a brother that lives near his estate, a topping apothecary. Why, 'tis easy enough to say his name, if you say it as we do in England.”
“ And how is that?” asked the captain; “what can you make of Sir St. John St. Ledger?"
“Why, Sir_Singeon Sillinger, to be sure,” replied Mrs. Cummings—"I am confident he would have answered to that
Sir Singeon Sillinger of Sunnock-cousin George's wife's brother lives close by Sunnock in a yellow house with a red door."
“ And have I,” said the captain, laughing, “ so carefully kept his name to myself
, during the whole passage, for fear we should have had to call him Sir St. John St. Ledger, when all the while we might have said Sir Singeon Sillinger."
“To be sure you might," replied Mrs. Cummings, looking proud of the opportunity of displaying her superior knowledge of something.
In a short time a steamboat came alongside, into which we removed ourselves accompanied by the captain and the letter bags; and we proceeded up to the city, where Mr. Fenton and myself were met on the wharf, I need not tell how, and by whom.
DROPPING LEAVES. MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
The leaves are dropping, dropping,
And I watch them as they go;
With a look of noiseless woe.
As they tremble from the stem,
And my heart, goes down with them!
'Mid the beating of the rain,
To the fading past again.
They are floating through the stillness,
They are given to the storm-
Of a joy that has no form.
While its branches cast their leaves
Like a sobbing breath that grieves; A heart that's long in breaking,
As a single flower may cling, All wither'd, shorn, and quaking
On the naked stalk till spring. Then I thought that tree is human,
And its boughs are human too; For while the leaves were wealthy
With kindling sap and dew-
Through all its billowy green,
Where the slanting rays had been-
Like wine-drops from the ground, Till it sparkled through the foliage,
· As faith fills the profound Of souls that live together,
In kindred trust and loveTill their union seems immortal,
As the burning stars above. But the very dews of summer
Had left their own decay; And change, a ruthless vampire,
That steals the soul away, Came with the mellow autumn,
And touched those leaves with blight; Then the frost came stealing earthward,
Like a ghost upon the night. When the frost had done its death-work,
When the golden leaves were sere,
In the old age of the year;
While the tree stood firm and high; When the leaves had lost their greenness,
Lo, it cast them off to die!
Then I thought those leaves were weary,
And thrilled with human pain, As they fell so cold and dreary
Beneath the beating rain.
While the boughs waved slow and grimly,
And shook them all away-
Like shadows on the day!
Then my soul went sadly after,
As they quivered from my sight,
As my hopes had taken flight.
Flutter downward from the stem;
Is enough for me and them.
TO THE EVENING WIND.-WILLIAM CUL
Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day! Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight:
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
Lies the vast inland, stretch'd beyond the sighit.
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
Summoning, from the innumerable boughs,
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone : That they who near the churchyard willows stray,
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone, May think of gentle souls that pass'd away,
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown,
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men,
The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
Go-but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
THE MARINER'S HYMN.-Mrs. SOUTHEY.
Launch thy bark, mariner!
Christian, God speed thee!
Good angels lead thee!
Tempests will come ;
Christian, steer home!
Look to the weather-bow,
Breakers are round thee;
Shallows may ground thee.
Hold the helm fast!
There swept the blast.
"What of the night, watchman?
What of the night?
No land yet--all's right!"
Danger may be
Securest to thee.