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A gentleman of sable hue here stepped forward and stated that he had hunted for the cook in every corner of Ann Street, but could not find him. He thought, however, that his man would be down ere long, as he promised early in the morning to be ready as soon as he had purchased some clothing. ‘Hold on, pilot, just five minutes longer, and then if the black scamp does not appear, go without him.’ The five minutes soon elapsed and no cook appeared. “Shall we start,” said the pilot. ‘Yes, yes, we'll wait no longer for the fellow.’ ‘Let go the bow-hauser—run up the jib-stand by the mizenbraces and keep the top-sail shaking.’ ‘Aye, aye sir' was promptly responded by a dozen men, as, in bands they hurried to different parts of the ship to discharge these duties. The bow of the ship, left free by letting go the hauser, and under the pressure of the jib, fell rapidly off. At this moment the pilot turning around beheld the green hand previously mentioned, in his eagerness to render some assistance, casting off the stern-hauser which alone held the ship. ‘Hold on to that stern-rope—hold on—hold on—what in thunder and lightning are you letting go that hauser for 7—hold on, I tell you, and catch a turn quick, or we shall be afoul of the brig ahead.” It was too late. So fresh was the breeze, that the moment the stern rope was slackened, the ship started swiftly forward, and before a turn of the hauser could be taken, a loud crash ahead told us that we had run into the brig. ‘Jump forward, my men,” shouted Captain N , ‘and cut away that brig's topping-list—haul down the jib-back the main top-sail—be lively, my boys, be lively’—while he himself let go the main-top-gallant halliards and permitted the sail to run down upon the cap. These orders were not more quickly given than obeyed, and another rope having been sent ashore, we were in a few minutes again moored to the wharf. The Java suffered but little damage, having merely snapt off her flying jib-boom. The brig did not escape so easily. Our ship's cut-water and bobstays had carried away her davits and stove the stern-boat which was hanging to them, while her trysail boom, the moment that the topping-list was cut, came down heavily upon the round-house, cutting it through until the boom rested upon the tasferel. ‘You good-for-nothing dog,' said Mr. X. to the green hand, “see what damage you have done to these vessels by letting go that hauser—you deserve a good keel-hauling—what did you mean o'

The poor affrighted fellow, whiter with fear than the top-sails themselves, could only stammer out, ‘I thought he wanted all the strings loosened.’ “Go along forward you scamp—and do you Captain N. when you get to sea, learn this land-lubber the difference between a string and a hauser.’ In a few moments we were ready to try another start. The bow hauser was again cast off—the jib hoisted, and the stern-rope being kept fast, the ship's bow fell gracefully off. Suddenly a distant shout turned all eyes up the wharf. The cook was at last in sight, running as if upon a wager with time. He reached the vessel before the hauser was let go and sprung aboard, while the landlord attempted to pass his chest to him. Scarcely had the cook touched the handle when the stern rope parted, and the ship suddenly starting ahead it was wrested from the landlord's hand. Its owner strove to obtain a firmer grasp, but the chest was too heavy for him; and before he could secure his hold it sell and was plunged into the water. “Never mind the chest,” said Mr. X. “it serves the scoundrel right—let the ship go—a pleasant voyage and safe return.' With three cheers from those on shore, which were heartily answered by our men aboard, we left the wharf in gallant style and were soon sailing down the harbor at the rate of seven knots an hour. The light house was soon passed, and in about an hour after we had the left the city our pilot was discharged.

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Unchangeable save to thy wild waves play—
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.”—Childe Harold.

All sail was now crowded upon the ship, as the Captain was anxious to double the cape and obtain a good offing before the sun went down. The royals and main skysail were set, and as the wind was well on the quarter the larboard studding sail booms were all run out and the sails soon swelling to the breeze. Being in ballast trim, the Java, who had ever obtained the reputation of a fast sailer, seemed to fly like a stormbird over the billows. The ropes having been coiled upon the belaying pins, and every thing stowed in its place, Captain N , and myself remained the sole occupants of the weather quarter-deck. The excitement of the morning was gradually dying away among the officers and crew, and even in my own feelings it was fast becoming lost in the tide of thoughts and emotions which came rushing into my bosom. Here was I, a mere youth, embarked upon the ocean in the capacity of captain's clerk,

having at last obtained the darling wish of my soul. For I had ever loved the sea; in the bright dreams which stole over me during the cloudless days of childhood, I always fancied myself upon the ocean's bosom, —“and my joy Of youthful sports was on its breast to be Borne, like its bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with its breakers—they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear.”

The sailor's life was my “beau ideal” of happiness. As I grew older time strengthened rather than weakened this love for the sea; and since I entered college, often have I closed my book and on the wings of memory flown back and revelled in scenes long since passed away. The sea!... were I a pagan I should idolize it as a being of power and loveliness. For there are its varied features, now calm and wreathed with smiles—its scarcely perceptible undulations kissing the sandy shore, or wantonly rolling up the sides of the stern-brow’d precipice—the image of beauty sleeping;-and now, starting like a giant from his sleep, convulsed with anger, howling in its frenzy and wreaking its vengeance on man, barque and city. There are its long lines of billows rolling from many a distant shore, the foam dancing on their ridges “like the white mane of a dark warhorse;”—its minstrelsy swelling the chorus of nature's anthem, or murmuring a strain more soft than the AEolian harp;-its untrodden pavement set in motley mosaic of gold, iron and bones;–its bosom unmarred by time, whose secrets,

—“none went and came again to tell;”

its dark, unfathomed sepulchres which hold the form of many a beloved one;—its sublimity—its indestructibility—its vast expansion. Venerable Patriarch thou art the earth's elder brother, born alone when nought save God existed; rolling on in thy solitude thou wast the first that hailed the birth of time. As thou wast—so thou art— unchangeable as thy Creator, sweeping around this globe, the uniting band and benefactor of the whole. Thou didst cradle the ark of Noah and thou still cradlest the frigate and the fisherman's canoe:— thy tides came and went along the same shores which they now love to revisit:—the beauty of thy waves still remains as of old, inimitable. There too is thy Mediterranean, with all the mythological associations connected with it by the ancients. Here it was that Agamemnon with his retinue of kings and princes sailed to Troy. The Lemnian now steers his log-hollow'd canoe over the same waters where came with high hopes to gather deathless laurels Diomed, Nestor, Ajax, Ulysses, “the wise,” and Menelaus, “loved of Mars.” By the same billows which now roll sluggishly along the shore, Achilles “walked and mused and nursed his ire,” against the son of

Atreus. Its bosom, beautiful as the sky above it, whose waters are rarely ruffled, and over which the tempest seldom howls, was the birth place of the “queen of beauty:” beneath its billows sported the Tritons, Mermaids and Syrens; while deep, deep below were their crystalline grottoes. Reader' dost thou love the sea? Pardon then this digression. At an early hour in the afternoon we passed the Cape, and long ere night arrived the last of my native hills faded away below the western horizon. However sad might have been my feelings for a moment as I cast my last, lingering look upon the land where I had left all those who were dear to me, they were soon chased away by one of the most beautiful sights I had ever witnessed. My powers of description are too feeble to picture that glorious scene which closed my first day's adventures. It was, a sunset at sea 1 The few truant clouds, which at first were scudding hastily along the sky, seemed to stop in their swift race, and crowd themselves together, to witness the splendor of their retiring king, and pay to him their evening worship. The bright monarch accepted their offering, and as he departed flung around his golden mantle of light. The ocean waves raised and bowed their heads in adoration, while the western breeze was pealing over them the evening anthem.

THE MUSSELMAN’S PRAYER.

Soft the shade of evening falls,
O'er the mountain stealing;

Sweetly the Muezzin calls
From yon turret pealing.

Low before the prophet's shrine
Hear the suppliant sighing:

“Allah! be thy mercy mine
As the day is flying;

“While the golden torch expires,
In the twilight fading,

May I feel its heavenly fires
Still my breast pervading,

“Purifying from each stain,
Each unholy feeling;

Till that torch appear again,
Morning light revealing.”

vo L. II. 40

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A volume might be written on the inexplicable nature of man— the mysterious blending of freedom and necessity—the constant struggle of passion and judgment, of interest and conscience—and the thousand contradictions that mark the union of soul and body here below, and convert the human bosom into a chaos of inconsistencies. Man is a mystery, view him in the successive stages of his existence, ever varying and still the same, view him as one who has an amazing concern in the developments of the present, yet voluntarily absenting himself from passing scenes that he may waste his thoughts and smiles on the uncertain future, or dwell with thoughtfulness on the past; or, take a closer observation, inspect his secret self, and mark the convictions unlike the truth, the beliefs without and in spite of evidence, the anticipations of objects unreal or impossible, the impulses, the sympathies, the prejudices, the eternal and tumultuous contest of opposing elements, look into these ever agitated depths of his nature, and see how he maintains the consciousness of his identity and safety undisturbed amidst all the violence that invades and threatens him, and the conviction is strengthened and illustrated, that man is a mystery. What are his proudest thoughts those that relate to himself. And of these no one is cherished with more constant complacence, than the flattering sentiment of his own absolute independence. The meanest slave of passion, the veriest subject of prejudice, the most yielding creature of babit, each alike boasts the glorious freedom of perfect self control, and they are ready to encounter any temptation, to face any danger, to welcome any trial, triumphing in the ability to govern themselves.

To one who looks at this universal assurance and the consequent sense of security in which every one reposes, it will seem mysterious that these self flattering masters of themselves, all of them are greatly, and many of them entirely under the control of outward events and circumstances. Small indeed is the number of those who, amidst all the varied influences that surround and encounter them, preserve a distinct uniform and individual character. Indeed, the habit of assimilation is so universal that we speak of it as one of the original and prominent sentiments of the mind, and, when men are characterized not as individuals, but in classes, we find the resemblance so perfect as to suggest and justify such a grouping. Of the great mass of minds, how few can be distinguished by any thing peculiarly their own—how many are noted for only general resem

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