with the thunder-the darkness on all things, scattered each instant by lightning whose quivering showed us the sea, no longer tossing but levelled by cross winds and rains-seething and frothing fearfully-and above all, the suspense, the blind uncertainty, from what quarter next to expect the storm! As we drove furiously on, each seemed to hold his breath, watching intently for the slightest change. So long did the hurricane remain steady, that we began to hope it was exhausting itself; when suddenly IT came! that foreboding lull!

All elements, hushed, and gathering, prepared for a new burst of fury. The heat grew suffocating, the darkness seemed to become dense, impenetrable, palpable.

Suddenly Creswick touched me, hoarsely whispering "look there!" I followed the direction of his hand. To the starboard, stretching out of sight at either end, a vast wall of blackness seemed bearing down toward us. On it sped! and as it came near, lightning and rain, wind and thunder, swooped down in one terrific burst, full on our beam. The mizen snapped at once, falling over the lee-quarter in flames. The schooner staggered,— pitched heavily ahead,—and rolled over upon her beam ends! And thus for hours the storm raged over the wreck. No gaze could pierce that gloom-no voice surmount that roar, to tell me of companionship in misery. As I clung to the shrouds, half lifeless, all hopeless, thoughts of blasphemy, of frenzy, rushed through my brain. Strange voices howled in the wind: strange forms flitted before my eyes. I was becoming mad with weariness and despair; when just as I was quitting my hold of the rigging, a shrill sound pierced my ear. Again! above the roar of the storm, the rush of the waters, it rose-the boatswain's whistle!

At once, as a lingering flash quivered round, the H. burst in sight, scudding to the north; so near, that in an instant she must, it seemed, have run me down. I strove in vain to hail her. Under bare poles, her top-gallant-masts down, her yards on the gunwale, she shot past me within twenty feet, fleetly and fearfully as a phantom ship! Unheard, unseen, for a second, and for the last time among human beings, I beheld the H

*

**

The crew of a schooner which rode out the hurricane in safety rescued me the next morning senseless and almost lifeless. Months passed away, and I recovered. Years have rolled since, but no time can efface from my memory, the horrors of that night, or the fearful loss of the HORNET.

ΤΟ

OH! ask me not why solitude has such deep charms for me;

Can peace of mind be found in this world's dull variety?

In the lighted ball-room's brilliant glare, or where the laugh rings loud?
Or when surrounded by the gay, the noisy, bustling crowd?

Can the glitt'ring show of this world's pomp the immortal soul improve,
That soars to where the starry worlds shine in yon heavens above?
Oh! I have gazed there, till it seem'd this frame but kept my soul
From mounting through ethereal space, to where those bright orbs roll.

The pleasures found in solitude, sweet pleasures of the mind,
Oh! they are holy, innocent, instructing and refined;
They elevate the soul above this perishable clay,

And fit it for its final home in everlasting day.

The soul, the immortal soul, thirsts not for this world's vanity,

Nor aught that's fleeting: no! it longs for an eternity.

The great high source from whence it came, forbids that it should be
Contented in the narrow sphere of cold mortality.

Then ask me not why solitude has such deep charms for me;

In solitude we humblest bow to God's divinity:

They that love solitude indeed can never lonely be;
Apart from noise and strife there is no solitude for me.

ADA.

MANLY SENSIBILITY.

"But I must also feel it as a man.”—Macbeth.

SENSIBILITY is a principle of the heart which lies too deep to be exhibited to the gaze of the world. It is modest and retiring; it finds its enjoyment not in commotion and strife, nor need it borrow from the happiness of others, but it draws its pleasure from its own emotions, and loves to dwell in solitude and silence. True sensibility is nevertheless an essential ingredient of the manly character, however delicate the hue it may throw over the masculine virtues. The power to feel is indeed a "sweet boon of nature;" a power full of loveliness and yet full of strength-delicate yet firm; a nicely adjusted balance, which, though sensitive to

the slightest touch, may be the arbiter of stern justice. It is modest because it would not be obtrusive; it loves to "feed upon its own emotions" not from self-love and vanity, but because of the real purity and intrinsic worth of its own good affections; it seeks solitude and silence, not because it hates or cannot enjoy society, but that it may expand itself and revel in its own full feelings with freedom, and that its own exquisite harmonies may not be disturbed by the noisy discord of a jarring world.

This beautiful faculty is not an acquired one; it cannot be found by searching the world; it is innate with every one, and there are none to complain that Providence has withheld from them this precious gift. Some there are, indeed, who seem to have been "disinherited of this treasure of the heart;" but they are poor because they have impoverished themselves; they have chilled their affections by indifference and frivolity, or neglected them in the absorbing cares of ambitious personal feeling. How important is it, then, that we protect this feeling from the blight of worldliness! Since it is born with us, the germ must be nurtured even in the first stages of life. The fountain of true sensibility is seated in high and pure affections, and infancy and early youth are peculiarly the appropriated seasons for the cultivation of those affections. It is from the exuberance of good feeling, the uninterrupted innocent contentment, that the child draws that "strength of heart" which is to sustain him in riper years; the "milk of human kindness" is the nourishing food of his infancy. What mother that does not recognize with joy the first buddings of sensibility in her tender infant, even when it has not learned to express its emotions by words, but only by that language which is read in its laughing face and indeed in its whole body "all suffused with smiles;"

"Its merry eyes with sparkling laughter bright,
Its every limb declaring wild delight."

What mother that does not feel a sacred joy when her child. first gives token of recognition and clasps her neck with innocent and real affection? And after its tender infancy is past, how carefully does she watch the development of heart and mind, lest its yet delicate sensibilities may be warped by self-love and the pride of growing intelligence; lest the young heart may be shut out from the Eden of its pleasures by exulting in the taste of the tree of knowledge! Home is the nursery of sensibility. In the happy family circle the finer sentiments of the heart are cherished under the mild excitement of the domestic affections-the respectful friendship of child and parent, the disinterested, lively friendship of brother and sister. In these quiet walks the generous emotions of the soul have room to expand and become fixed before

the passions of youth have come into play. "Home is a garden, high-walled towards the blighting northeast of selfish care."

But let us pass to the riper season, when the youth, almost a man, leaves the parental roof to try the fortunes of the world—a season when true sensibility is tried and proved. The young who have imbibed in the bosom of an affectionate family a love of truth, and a compassionate sympathy with distress, sometimes recoil when for the first time they meet, in the open world, the rudeness and selfishness of unfeeling men. But the man of genuine sensibility does not for this leave society in disgust. He may feel a disappointment in the appearance of the world, which from his own youthful and ardent feelings he had judged to be a virtuous world; but it is as a momentary shudder passing through his frame, which, as it does not shake the firmness of his principles, cannot lessen his courage. Here, however, weak unmanly sensibility fails-a plant so delicate that it finds the winds too rough, or the suns too hot, and repining withers away. But the soul, destined as it is for a time to this world, should be adapted to the climate in which it is to live, and taking firm root in virtue's soil should fear nor heat nor cold. Ushered then into the world with sensibility manly enough to brave its rigor, yet meek enough to feel a generous attachment to its virtues and an indulgent pity for it woes, the man will find enough to try his courage, and yet enough to call forth the best affections of his heart. His sensibilities, even amidst the cares of life, cannot only be preserved, but refined and elevated. They should increase with the endearments of social intercourse; and instead of being chilled (as they too often are) by old age, they should only be enlarged, both by the enlightened memory of the past and the awakening anticipations of immortality. Gratitude is one of the first and strongest ties which will bind him to society. It is said that "a just pride fears to incur debts of gratitude too lightly;" but there are those debts which are necessary by our very birth, the debts of gratitude due to parents. This sacred tie is given us thus early in life as the support and defense of sensibility. It springs up in infancy, and is kept alive by continued benefits in youth even to manhood; it is still cherished in advancing years by the ties of friendship, and even in old age dependence upon others may awaken gratitude and "warm the heart to sensibility in the evening of life." Who will deny that sensibility, thus begotten, is a noble trait in the manly character? It has been impressively remarked, "we have need of others from the cradle to the grave." How true! Who then should be a misanthrope, or suffer the fountains of sensibility to become dry?

But now another feeling still stronger than gratitude springs up in the sensible heart as a new tie to bind it to society. Love, the offspring of sensibility, is at the same time the support of its pa

rent. It is here that sensibility unfolds itself in all its beauty; it is at this fountain that the soul drinks in a new inspiration to carry it through life; it is here that the man developes his firmer qualities, for it is here that life opens before him and calls for their exercise. His dependence throughout infancy and youth, though the source of the most lasting benefits and the sweetest pleasures, was the dependence of a child upon its parent; a dependence, however pleasing, still involuntary: but now he has himself formed a tie which is to last forever, which calls for the exercise of every manly feeling his youth has imbibed, which really recreates him, a man! And yet in the world, a feeling so pure, so sacred, is a theme for jest and ridicule, and its parent, sensibility, is called "the weakness of a sickly brain!" But away with these perverted notions; let us not be ashamed of that which is the immediate order of Providence, the offspring of heaven. What is it to live if it is not to love?

"To love, thou blam'st me not, for love, thou say'st,
Leads up to Heaven, is both the way and guide."

The most touching forms of sensibility are seen in benevolence and pity. Inactive sensibility begets a sombre melancholy; confined too long to its own circle of emotions it exhausts itself in solitary pleasure and begets a selfishness which can never be at ease with itself. But active benevolence gives it a new life by employing it in constantly varying scenes, and ensures to it the satisfying reminiscence of good done to others. True sensibility, then, is always charitable.

And pity,

"Dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear:"

what more beautiful among the feelings of humanity, what more becoming the manly character? What generous soul that does not enjoy a pure delight in sympathizing with misfortune? It is a mild, perhaps melancholy feeling; and yet, though caused by unhappiness, this very feeling is itself a pleasure, given, it would seem, by a wise Providence as a consolation for the pain inflicted by the sight of misery. How charming that sensibility which can draw, even from the bitter pains of life, the sweets of happiness! How wonderful the power which can thus indefinitely multiply its own enjoyments! Hast thou, reader, ever felt this mournful pleasure, or dost thou think all this but vain philosophy? Look then upon real life; see the misery of one creature, and, if thou hast a soul, pity and relieve him; then, if in that soul there is one spark of manly feeling, thou wilt have the sweet and virtuous consciousness which will "turn your very tears to rapture."