WITH anxious eyes the crew and passengers watched during the remainder of the day their brig, as spar by spar and plank by plank she sundered, and gave herself piece-meal, as if unwillingly, to the hungry waters. Oh! how it pains a sailor to see his gallant bark thus shivered and torn in the merciless hands of the wrathful stormking! Even as a mother watches a sick or dying infant, and sees hope by hope vanish, even like the health-tint from its brow, so gazes a sailor on the parting planks of the noble craft which he has guided through many a stormy peril; the home of his heart; the object of his pride in port, the safety of his life and fortune on the sea.

Before the sun had sunk beyond the western sky-line, the last plank of the ill-fated brig had burst its iron fastenings, and halfburied in bubbling foam, drifted shoreward. And that sun-set! oh, how glorious! The storm-clouds, before close knit together, black and fearful, were now a scattered mass of dark, ragged, flying shadows of the departed storm; and as they fled, the softening sunrays lit upon their wings and gilded them with hues of gold. The sun went down as some tired warrior goes to death in the hour of victory; calmly gazing upon the flying remnants of his shattered enemy: so went that sun down amid the broken clouds of the dying storm. And then came Mars and Venus forth to take an evening walk over their azure promenade, perchance to talk of the how and when rude Vulcan toiled over his forge to make for them a net. And anon, in all her cold stateliness, strode Dian forth to watch the acts of all night-walking lovers, and to bother the light-fingered followers of Mercury. Is it not a glorious sight to watch the change from sun-set till the stars have all lighted their beacons ? To watch each shining one, as it springs through the flimsy web of twilight and takes its stand in the gemmed hall of light, as some fair beauty from behind a curtain glides suddenly into a brilliant ball-room! And then, when the broad-faced moon comes out with her smiles, loose

flung over wood and wave, walking over the little stars without ceremony, or burying them in an oblivion of light, is not the change complete, striking, magnificent? It tells us GOD is here! So thought NED and the beautiful Jewess, as they leaned over the taffrail, looking at a duplicate sky that lay asleep upon the waters, which now were calm as an infant's slumbers.

'Edward,'* said the Jewess, as they thus stood in lover-like proximity, 'I have heard men speak, and have oftentimes read, of some 'bright particular star' reigning at our birth; and that that star hovers over us through our lives; sometimes dim and sometimes bright. Napoleon thought that he had such a star. I have been tempted to believe in this Chaldean theory. Edward, have you such

a star?'

No, lady!' responded the youth; I was born on a wild March night; and when I came upon the earth, the elements were all in fierce battle and deafening turmoil. There was no star in the sky when I was born. Clouds, black and fearful, hung like a pall of Nature's saddest weaving; the winds sang loud threatenings, or shrieked their warnings to the homeless and wandering. The red lightning's glare, as it fringed the ragged zig-zag clouds, was all the light, save a poor taper's feeble glimmering, that welcomed me to earth. No, lady, no! I have no star!'

The star of Hope beameth on high for all to gaze upon,' said she, in a low, sweet voice, that sounded like flute-music from afar over the evening-hued waters.

'For what have I to hope, fair girl? A life of peril, toil and hardship; a death suddenly coming on the ocean, or hours of lingering illness, before I die, in some noisome hospital, perchance in a foreign clime, with want and misery for my attendants? Such, alas! is too often the fate of the American seaman; such, lady! may be mine.'

No, oh no!' exclaimed the feeling girl, while lustrous pearls hung pendant from those large black eyes; no, this cannot, must not be. You must leave the sea. When my father died, he left me wealth; and Miriam Dwyer is her own mistress. Edward, you must leave the sea!'

'Dear Miriam! speak not so wildly; we are both children.'

'I speak not wildly; you are the saviour of my life- be its future protector. You are alone-be so no longer. We are young; but LA FAYETTE married, at sixteen, a wife younger than myself. Did he regret that marriage when in the gloomy prisons of Olmutz? Oh, think me not indelicate; but mine is the power to render you happy. I know it-I feel it. Edward we love!

We do! — but it cannot be. Generous, grateful girl! I cannot take advantage of your kindness. When years have tested our hearts; when perchance I may have gained a name and place

* IT is in events, not in days and hours, that we may be said to live long;' and the events recorded in my last chapter had done more to strengthen our knowledge of, and feeling for each other, than months of land-companionship. These records are true; this I wish the reader to know, for our present and future good understanding.

among the known of earth; when I feel myself worthy of you, then I may resume this theme again; till then, dear girl! let it not be resumed.'

She gasped but two dear precious words of love and gratitude; then fell fainting in Ned's arms, and was borne below.

THE sun looked out next morning on a sky clear as an unblemished pearl. The waves no longer wore a crest of snowy foam; deep, calm and blue, they rolled on, softly as heaves a maiden's breast before sighs have found their way within it. And then came the fresh warm south wind in a steady breeze. Soon the schooner's anchor was weighed; soon fell her snowy pinions from the yards; and then on she swept like some graceful queen in flowing robes, gliding with noble ease over an azure carpet. Inside the reef, over many a bed of branching coral, over many a forest of sea-fans, bore she on toward the north. At last, when the Key Biscayno lighthouse loomed up from Cape Florida, she again sought the blue waters of the Gulf Stream, and up along that lovely coast she sped full swiftly. When the wind came quartering off the land, the sea bore upon its heaving breast loads of perfume from the orange and lemon groves, and the myrtle-breath nestled in its waves. There are few coasts more pleasant to sail than that of East Florida. The water runs deep close in-shore, and in calm weather you may run within a hundred yards of the beach, enjoying all the rich variety of land and sea scenery at one and the same time. Some foolish land-lubbers have Ingrahamatically described a sea-voyage as being monotonous! Are the outlines of peerless beauty monotonous to the blind? Is the eloquence of a soul-winning orator monotonous to an idiot? Then, reader, from these deductions take my opinion of all who pronounce a sea-voyage monotonous. Have we not changes, continual variations of wind and weather, requiring a corresponding activity on the part of those on board? Have we not our games of amusement, as varied and as many as the changes in woman's fickle nature? Have we not our books and charts? Have we not instruments to trace each line, and give a place and name and altitude to every star that gems heaven's azure concave? Have we not our yarn-spinning circle of jovial fellows, our brotherhood of soul-joined, heart-united ones? Have we not our hours of merriment and our times of peril; each chasing hard upon the heels of the other? Do not the sea-birds give us music, and does not the mighty voice of many waters' sing our nightly lullaby? Cannot we lie on our backs, on a spare studding-sail, and gazing sky-ward, fancy every shape in nature, from among the ever-changing, windswept clouds of heaven? Is there monotony in all this? Go to! go to! Show me the dull scribbler in his musty garret; cob-webs for his rigging, dust for a sweetener to his atmosphere; dirty walls in quarto before his aching eyes, and a manuscript for which he 'll scarce get enough to pay for the crackers and cheese which has fed his flickering life-lamp; and then I'll tell you if there's monotony

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afloat or ashore. Ask the poor factory girl, who toils fourteen or sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, if she would leave that endless heart-drying loom, to cruise upon the 'glad waters of the dark blue sea;' think you she would cry monotony then? Again I say, Go to! ye sea-sick lubbers, who call 'God's mirror' monotonous! Ye are worse than Atheists. I'm wroth with the whole race of ye; and in this mood I'll end this chapter. Monotonous,' indeed! monotonous !

CHAPTER FIFTH.

READER, we'll not tell you of the passage home, or how the Mary C'sped in her wild swiftness; how she battled the squalls of Hatteras, and Virginia's stormy capes; but you may fancy yourself standing, a few days after the time of our last chapter, on Gloucester-point, a little way below the city of Philadelphia. It is NEW-YEAR'S DAY. Look city-ward. See how toy the gay flags, the many-colored banners, with the fresh breeze and the golden sun-beams. Nature has put on her brightest dress of the season, and met the young year with a smile on her face; but, as you look to the groves, you see that she is in half-mourning for the old one, who bore away her green leaves, her sweet flowers. Nature smiling on a wintry day, is like Grief laughing at a funeral. But, look! look down toward the island-Reedy Island. Do you not see a gallant craft, with many a snowy wing outspread, speeding along the glittering river, the foam curling back from her prow? It is the MARY C Her trip is nearly ended. Come on board of her, reader; does not her appearance invite you? How beautiful! with her tall tapering masts clothed in virgin white, from the deck up even to their peaks; and above all, our beloved 'flower-flag' waving as if it knew the proud destiny of the nation it represents. And then how smoothly and swiftly glides that beauteous craft through the still waters, as if she was skimming over, rather than parting them! Beautiful and gallant was she after whom thou wast named, noble craft!-but not more so than thou art now in thy gala-dress dancing on thine own element!

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On the deck stands the weather-bronzed captain; around him his passengers, all taking a gladsome look at the city. NED too is there; he stands at the helm guiding the schooner with easy hand, and by his side is Miriam Dwyer, the lovely Jewess. Her look is sorrowful, while joy sits on all other countenances. She is sad, for a parting is near. And so is Ned, though he has other reasons for sadness. He is approaching a city where but a few short days before he left a father whom he feared but respected, a mother whom he loved, a sister whom he adored; left them without a word or a tear. And Thought told him what a few deys might have wrought. Death rides on a swifter chariot than Time; Death hath never felt the smile of Mercy; and that sister, that mother, that father, where might they be? Thought to the absent is often, alas! too often a fearful plague,

But see! the schooner nears the city; aloft fly the ready seamen, ready to fold close those snowy wings, when their vessel's flight is ended. Now they pass the Navy-Yard, and then glide along by the piers, which are filled with gay parties, who with waving 'kerchiefs and scarfs shout a welcome to the Homeward Bound. They are at the foot of Pine-street; the captain raises his trumpet: 'Stand by,' he shouts, 'sheets, halliards, clewlines and buntlines! In of all cheerily! furl away, boys; make snug, and then come down to the wharf fastenings!'

In an instant every spar was bare, every sail was almost entirely hidden. Still under her head-way, the schooner moved gracefully on past Walnut and Chesnut-streets, until she reached Race-street, where, with one turn of the helm, her course changed and she floated in a moment more beside the wharf, where stood her owner, ready to ask, 'What luck? We'll let him and the captain talk of that, while we follow Ned and Miriam, who have disappeared. In the schooner's elegant after-cabin, he sits, with her head on his shoulder. Her heavy sobs almost choke her utterance, but hear her words:

Edward, must we part? so soon, and after such a short life of happiness? It will break my heart! You saved my life once-oh! save it now!'

'Dear Miriam, be calm-be womanly. Absence, distance, time can never change true hearts. Our separation will not be eternal; yet for a time we must indeed part. I cannot go with you!'

Then I go alone!' sobbed the poor girl; but all was ready for their departure, and she was soon called to join her friends. The steamer that was to bear her away lay puffing off her steam like a big baby of Impatience kicking in a close cradle; and soon the party, accompanied by Ned, were on her decks.

'Dear Edward!' whispered Miriam, 'write to me in Baltimore, and after that in Galveston, Texas; and remember that I remain unmarried* till you till you see me.'

Oh, how roseate was her blushing cheek, how liquid her soulful eyes, as she said this! And then the steamer's bell rang its startling peal, and to those lovers it seemed the death-knell of joy. They parted. He sprang ashore; the steamer backed out, then dashed down the river on her destined course. Slowly and with down-cast eyes, betokening a sad and thoughtful heart, Ned walked back toward his vessel.

He was just stepping on board, without noticing who stood on the deck, when he was addressed by a voice which made him start convulsively. It was stern, cold and harsh; it was his father's tone.

So, Sir! you have returned? I suppose you are sick of the sea, and are willing to ask my forgiveness; and, if I permit you to come home, to do as I wish, not as you will-eh?'

'No, Sir,' answered Ned, calmly but proudly; 'no, Sir; I ask no

*MIRIAM DWYER is still unmarried, and more beautiful than ever. Oh, Woman! thy name is Constancy!