of the passage, and we had only the ordinary incidents of a sea voyage. I was most of the time on deck. Perhaps there is no situation in which one can read with more advantage and tranquillity, than at sea in fine weather. The motion of the vessel gives you just that slight physical exercise, which every one desires when reading. Sometimes I watched the stormy petrels, or Mother Carey's chickens,wondering where they would go to roost. They would follow on our wake for hours, with a scarcely audible cheep -touching every where as carefully as Dr. Johnson used to the posts, between Temple Bar and St. John's Gate. Sometimes a school of porpoises would plunge along across our bow or a flock of flying fish start up, or a shark come "shucking" slowly round the vessel - with his dorsal fin out of the water seeking what he might devour; and once or twice, I saw a huge black fish, a species of whale, throw his whole enormous bulk out of the water, at some distance from the vessel, and then come down with a stupendous plunge. All these are incidents which highly interest a passenger, on his first voyage. The flying fish has less strength of wing than I had supposed. They rose out of the water, like birds in flocks, apparently disturbed by the approach of the vessel, and fluttering along, from three to five feet above the surface, for five or six rods, struck into a wave and disappeared. One of them flew on deck; it was about five inches long, and of a bright silver color. Its wings were merely longer and larger pectoral fins, than are found on other fishes of the same size. I sympathized with the poor thing, for he reminded me of rather a large class of young men of the present day, of which perhaps, I am one, who are neither entirely men of the world, nor men of books; but just enough of each, to spoil them for either. We cannot swim well enough to escape, much less to compete with the sharks and dog-fish; and when we take to the air, we show too little power of wing to pass for respectable birds, and therefore we flounder on through a life of very doubtful comfort and security, like this poor fish. I was for returning him to the water after examination, but the cook claimed him as his property. Poor soul; the cook himself is now food for fishes. - I occasionally assisted the mate in writing up his log, nick particularly that part of it relating to our disaster, as it was necessary that this portion of it should be full and accurate on account of insurance. One morning, as we were busy at this work, I writing to the mate's dictation, the Captain interrupted us with some warmth, and addressing the mate, "That's not the way to make out a log, (says he.) If you nick-nickthings along in, in that way - one after another the long boat in the morning, and the galley at noon, the underwriters will never believe they were lost by the "act of God;" a phrase in old policies on bills of lading, now I believe disused. You should take the sails, boats, boom, mast, companion-way, and bulwarks, and bouse 'em all in together with a slap; and then," said he, with increasing earnestness, "the underwriters can't deny but that it was the act of God." I had the impression before sailing, that the proverbial superstition of seamen was a good deal on the decline, at least among masters; and this, no doubt, is the case, to some extent, but it was not so with our captain. Ever since the storm, I had been determined, whenever opportunity should offer, to have some conversation with Peter. The Captain told me, he had sailed with him two voyages before the. present, and that he was one of the best and most trusty men, he ever knew, both at sea and in port. He was certainly a favorite with all on board, not only on account of his conduct during the storm, but from his quiet, good-natured, and obliging manners afterwards. The boy took to him, as to a father. One Sunday, as he was leaning over the bows, smoking by himself, I went forward and drew him into talk of his previous life. He was about twenty-seven, though he looked thirty-five, and was born near Copenhagen. At a very tender age, (I think nine,) he was pressed into the naval service, from which, at about fifteen, he ran away, and joined the merchant service, and sailed from various ports in Europe, till past twentyAt length he shipped at Amsterdam on board a Dutch merchantman, bound for Baltimore, intending to sail out of the United States, because he had heard wages were better there. At Baltimore, his captain refused to discharge him, and therefore leaving his clothes and wages, (the price at which a sailor usually exchanges one country one. -- for another,) he ran away into the country. "Away up into de country into de bush more as fifty or forty miles," said he, glancing up, as if he expected to find me looking somewhat surprised, where he remained until his captain had sailed. Since this time, which is five or six years, he has sailed out of the United States. But his sixteen or eighteen dollars per month here, he finds no better than his seven or eight in Denmark - the higher prices of board and clothing in this country making all the difference. He wanted to make money enough to buy a farm, "just a leetle farm," and then go home, where, five years ago, he had a mother and two sisters living. He had once laid up "more as a couple hundred dollars," but one day, about two years ago, in going into Norfolk, on board the barque Brontes of Boston, Capt. Kobler, he fell from the main-yard and "broke his neck," he said, (putting his hand on his collar bone,) and when he came to his senses, he found himself in the hospital. His chest was by his bed, with the key in it, but his money and best clothes were gone; the barque had sailed. Since then, he has saved a little more money, but not so much. I felt very much at the time, as if I should have liked to ship Peter off to Denmark, to his mother and sisters, with money enough to buy his little farm. But it is very easy for people who have never made any money to be liberal, in theory and even in fact, whenever they possess any little, extemporaneous means; but the truth is, we never have had the nursing of a heap of dollars. We have never watched its growth from infancy upwards, with anxious brooding care, and of course, know nothing of the strong parental attachment, which almost necessarily arises from this process. We are, therefore, not well prepared to appreciate the sense of deep bereavement, shown by many business men who have had such experience nor even the reluctance of tolerably good men whenever any other than a legitimate business occasion, or a public charity, calls on them to part with, the money, which they have learned to love, not wisely, perhaps, but too well. I shall however represent the case to the owner, and if, as Falstaff says, he will do Peter any honor, if not, let him save the next brig himself. But I have reason to believe that this magnanimity, this self devotion, as a matter of course, is a thing of no uncommon occurrence at sea. "Why," therefore, says the owner, "should I pay for that which is mine by right? It is like taxing a fair wind. It is putting a market value on that, which has heretofore been a free privilege of the merchant, which is against the usages of trade, and must not be." "Besides," says the moral theorist, "is it not a pity to spoil this magnanimity, by placing a pecuniary value upon it? The moment you offer to pay it liberally, it awakes to consciousness. It touches money, and, as in the case of charming away diseases, the peculiar virtue ceases at once." "And not only this," says the seaman's friend,' "if he would only always live at one of our homes,' when in port, and be happy in our way instead of his own, something might be done. But the captain tells us, he has no sense of his fallen condition, but swore, even during the storm." Poor Peter! I suspect he must still labor on, as heretofore, at his vocation, in which he appears to be not unhappy. Saving the lives and property of rich men, and thinking nothing of it, and little thought of himself, until he arrives at something past the middle age, when his iron frame shall at length yield to hardship and exposure, and at some chance port, where he shall have broken down, he finds his way to the hospital, and thence to the dissectingtable—or, which perhaps will be quite as well, until on some stormy passage, in which his craft shall be driven to still greater extremity than ours has been, he shall, after one more hard, manly struggle, yield up his life to the ocean, on which he has passed the most of his days. To one or the other of these results, I have little doubt Peter will come. In the mean time let this be our consolation, · that the elements which go to form true manliness of character can never be lost. We are sorry to omit Notices which we had prepared of “Thoughts on Spiritual Subjects, translated from Fenelon"; of "The Doctrine of Life," by William B. Greene; “Mainzer's Musical Times"; and of a "Lecture on the Human Soul, by L. S. Hough," which are crowded out by the unexpected length of our printed articles. RECORD OF THE MONTHS. Antislavery Poems. By JOHN PIERPONT. Boston Oliver Johnson. 1843. THESE poems are much the most readable of all the metrical pieces we have met with on the subject; indeed, it is strange how little poetry this old outrage of negro slavery has produced. Cowper's lines in the Task are still the best we have. Mr. Pierpont has a good deal of talent, and writes very spirited verses, full of point. He has no continuous meaning which enables him to write a long and equal poem, but every poem is a series of detached epigrams, some better, some worse. His taste is not always correct, and from the boldest flight he shall suddenly alight in very low places. Neither is the motive of the poem ever very high, so that they seem to be rather squibs than prophecies or imprecations; but for political satire, we think the "Word from a Petitioner" very strong, and the "Gag" the best piece of poetical indignation in America. Sonnets and other Poems. By WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. Boston. 1843. pp. 96. MR. GARRISON has won his palms in quite other fields than those of the lyric muse, and he is far more likely to be the subject than the author of good poems. He is rich enough in the earnestness and the success of his character to be patient with the very rapid withering of the poetic garlands he has snatched in passing. Yet though this volume contains little poetry, both the subjects and the sentiments will everywhere command respect. That piece in the volume, which pleased us most, was the address to his first-born child. America-an Ode; and other Poems. By N. W. COFFIN. Boston: S. G. SIMPKINS. OUR Mæcenas shakes his head very doubtfully at this wellprinted Ode, and only says, "An ode nowadays needs to be admirable to carry sail at all. Mr. Sprague's Centennial Ode, and Ode at the Shakspeare Jubilee, are the only American lyrics. that we have prospered in reading, if we dare still remember them." Yet he adds mercifully, "The good verses run like golden brooks through the dark forests of toil, rippling and musical, and undermine the heavy banks till they fall in and are borne away. Thirty-five pieces follow the the Ode, of which everything is neat, pretty, harmonious, tasteful, the sentiment pleasing, manful, if not inspired. If the poet have nothing else, he has a good ear." |