health and spirits, that he took to his bed, and refused all consolation. Although he was in possession of extensive property in houses, lands, and money, he set no bounds to his sorrow for the loss he had sustained; till at length his friends and numerous admirers, becoming alarmed for his life, took pity on him, and between them, made good the sum of which he had been robbed. The cause of uneasiness removed, Perugino soon recovered his health, and resumed his occupations; but avarice had taken entire possession of him; and to gratify his longings after gain, he was guilty of acts of meanness that admit of no palliation.

He who had once so ardently panted after fame, now sacrificed it for the sordid purpose of heaping up gold. His paintings were hurried over, and copied by his own hand for sale, to increase his gains.

We will not, however, longer dwell on the defects or infirmities of Perugino's old age, but cast the veil of pity over the close of his life, in consideration of the hardships and difficulties that marked its commencement. His history has furnished us with more than one good lesson: it has added another proof to the many already existing, that persevering industry is usually crowned with success; it has shown us that the very blessings we most eagerly desire may, through our own perversity, become scourges and torments; and lastly, it teaches us a lesson of deep humility, for while we read Perugino's reproof to the prior, we cannot but remember the warning, Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.'

Perugino ranked high in his day both as a painter and an architect. What distinguished him particularly as a painter, was the grace of his heads, especially those of children and women; and his perspective in landscape was thought equal, if not superior, to that of any of his predecessors. In the Louvre at Paris are still to be seen five of Perugino's paintings; and Italy possesses many chefs-d'œuvre by this artist, though a number of his works have been spoiled or degraded. He died at the place of his birth, Citta-Della-Piève, A.D. 1524, and his remains were consigned to the grave with the honours due to his genius.

MANUFACTURE OF INDIAN-RUBBER SHOES.

The man of the house returned from the forest about noon, bringing in nearly two gallons of milk, which he had been engaged since daylight in collecting from one hundred and twenty trees that had been tapped upon the previous morning. This quantity of milk he said would suffice for ten pairs of shoes, and when he himself attended to the trees, he could collect the same quantity every morning for several months. In making the shoes, two girls were the artistes, in a little thatched hut which had no opening but the door. From an inverted water-jar, the bottom of which had been broken out for the purpose, issued a column of dense white smoke, from the burning of a species of palm nut, and which so filled the hut, that we could scarcely see the inmates. The lasts used were of wood, exported from the United States, and were smeared with clay, to prevent adhesion. In the leg of each was a long stick, serving as a handle. The last was dipped into the milk, and immediately held over the smoke, which, without much discolouring, dried the surface at once. It was then re-dipped, and the process was repeated a dozen times, until the shoe was of sufficient thickness, care being taken to give a greater number of coatings to the bottom. The whole operation, from the smearing of the last to placing the finished shoe in the sun, required less than five minutes. The shoe was now of a slightly more yellowish hue than the liquid milk, but in the course of a few hours it became of a reddish-brown. After an exposure of twenty-four hours, it is figured as we see upon the imported shoes. This is done by the girls with small sticks of hard wood, or the needle-like spines of some of the palins. Stamping has been tried, but without success. The shoe is now cut from the last, and is ready for sale, bringing a price of from ten to twelve vintens or cents per pair. It is a long time before they assume the black hue. Brought to the city, they are assorted, the best being laid aside for exportation as shoes, the others as waste rubber. Edwards's Voyage up the Amazon.

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A partial famine took place in Scotland in 1782, and 'the spring and summer of 1783 proved wet and stormy, and The pressure now became extreme; government was ap the prospect of the next winter was still more gloomy. plied to for a loan, on the security of assessments to be imposed upon the land; and Mr Dempster, then one of

the most active and influential of the Scotch members, brought in a bill for an assessment of fourteen per cent. on rents. Government also made a small grant, which was intrusted to the sheriffs of counties for distribution among the kirk-sessions. Subscriptions were raised in the south of Scotland and in England; many Scotchmen, merchants in London and elsewhere, sent shiploads of provisions for and Ellice was conspicuous. The concluding of a general the supply of the poor. Among these the house of Phyn peace in 1783 set at liberty the stores collected for the but only to be sold. Government also purchased provi- | navy, and these were placed at the disposal of the sheriffs, sions, and sent them down for sale at prime cost. Among other supplies, large quantities of bad white peas were sent down to the north, which were unpalatable even in that time of famine. The rule was, to give as little as possible; but what was sold by the kirk-sessions was to a great extent on credit. The harvest was as bad as was anticipated; in many instances the people ate their stock of sheep and cattle, which in the winter it became impossible to feed. In some Highland parishes the population broke loose, and seized the cattle and sheep of their neighbours; but the instances of this were very few. In general, the patience of the people was great, and every one exerted himself in his own sphere to meet the evil. Their efforts were so far successful. All accounts agree in stating that not an individual died of absolute want during the long-continued famine, though many fell victims to the diseases which spring from insufficient food, or food of bad quality. The clergy record with just pride the efforts made by all classes, and the honesty of the people in repaying the advances of meal or money to the uttermost farthing. Some the accounts agree that not a penny of the money but was paid with difficulty could do this in seven or eight years, but at length. We know instances where gentlemen advanced meal and seed-corn to their poorer hill tenantry; and not only was this all repaid, but for years afterwards, the tenants used to send presents of honey, mountain-berries, and other trifles in token of their gratitude.'-Quarterly Review for March.

Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, High Street, Edinburgh. Also sold by D. CHAMBERS, 98 Miller Street, Glasgow; W. S. ORE, 147 Strand, London; and J. M'GLASHAN, 21 D'Olier Street, Dublin.-Printed by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh.

'THE OLD ALMANAC.'

THE torrent of great events which has broken over Europe this spring, forcibly calls attention to a branch of literature which we have been accustomed to hold in some degree of credit, on account of its presumed instructive character, but which has of late years been occasionally spoken of in a different strain-that is to say, as little better than an old almanac. One cannot but ask if history is really a useful branch of knowledge, when we find that it did not serve to prepare governments for the late revolutions, nor even to give the public the least premonition of their coming. History, one would imagine, ought to be in public affairs what experience is to private individuals-the guide to the sequence of events, showing what effects are sure to flow from certain causes, and thus enabling statesmen to avoid wrong, and choose right courses. Yet no one can say that history ever appears to act in this way, or indeed to be anything else than a communicator of mere information as to the things of the past-in some places dry, in others romantic and entertaining, but never a lamp to the feet of living nations. It is unfortunate, but true. One reason palpably is, that it is difficult, out of the great mass of events produced by the contending passions, the ignorance and the knowledge of men, to eliminate maxims as to cause and effect. Corresponding with the jumble of the past, there is a jumble of the present, causing men to attribute the events of history to very different causes, according as their prejudices and general cast of mind may direct: thus some will think the civil war a consequence of the obstinacy and bad faith of the king, while others attribute it wholly to the restless zeal of the puritantic party; so that to each man this whole affair tells a different story, and leaves a different conclusion; and a similar crisis might occur next year without our being in the least enlightened beforehand as to the best way of treating it, or acting under it, by what took place in the seventeenth century. Our written histories, and even the daily comments of our newspapers, take accordingly two, if not more sets of views of everything that has ever happened, or is in the way of happening; one representing all progress as a direct source of good, while another sets it down as an evil, only made so far harmless by the good sense of those who hold to the old ways. In such circumstances, how is it to be wondered at that no possessor of power appears to know whether he may safely resign a part of it, with a view of retaining the remainder, or whether it is not safer for him to take his chance with an absolute resistance to all change?

Another stultifying cause is of a more radical nature -namely, that the world is always making a certain, however slow progress from inferior to better

PRICE 1d.

ideas, as well as feelings: its tendency at any one time is to act on superior considerations to what animated it at any preceding period; this being a result of that growth of civilisation which arises from other causes. History is thus thrown into the awkward predicament of being a teacher of that which is superior to itself. It reports the doings of savagery to the days of chivalry, and the deeds of chivalry to the times of peaceful industry. It exhibits the evils of superstition to those who have long learned to smile at superstition, and it prates of the maxims of narrow class selfishnesses to those who have attained the dignity of thinking that that only is good which is good for all. Thus it may warn-it may warn against the things that would lead to retrogression-an almost superfluous task, as far as appears; but it is ill qualified to guide or instruct in the onward path which most nations pursue. It is to be feared that, with the lamp thus hung up behind, nations are only confused by their own onward-thrown shadows, instead of being benefited by the light. There is such a thing as a love of history for the gratification it gives to taste as a branch of literature, and the charm which it exercises over those feelings by which we are linked to the past. Many are in this way made worshippers of ideas far below the standard of the age in which they live, giving up for a fancy or whim the study of those principles on which the progress of the nation is based. Thus are many men in a manner lost to the community, which otherwise might be benefited by their talents and their aspirations.

Even although we could look at history without prejudice, and although it were less describable as a blind leader of those who see a little better, there would remain one grand obstruction to our benefiting greatly from its narrations. Taking it as it is written, the mass is too huge to be read by all. We would require to have any instruction which it contains drawn off, and essentialised down into some compact principles which could be readily comprehended. But who is to execute this task, or how is it to be executed? We could not move one step until we had a just and universally-admitted view of the natural history of the human mind, showing what it is from which history (the acts of men) immediately proceeds. Is it an aërial conglomeration of unintelligible caprices, or is it a thing acting under certain laws, which render its procedure in any degree a subject of calculation? We should also require to have arrived at some distinct understanding as to that unseen government under which human beings live and act. Is it conducted according to rule— that is, by a sequence of regular effects from certain causes-or is all done after the arbitrary dictates of an impenetrable will? The generality of men act upon the understanding that there is a natural order of things, by virtue of which evaporation is attended by an ab

straction of heat, irritation follows insult, and honesty is the best policy: they see it in their own limited affairs; but when a revolution takes place in a state, or the convictions of a great body of people experience a change for the better, they lose sight of the connection of cause and effect. They therefore read the grander and more instructive passages of history as they would read a fairy tale or a Greek tragedy; never dreaming that, if these things are exempt from a natural order, they can give forth no lesson whatever as to the determination of future affairs. Now, as for a just system of mental philosophy, and a correct view of the Divine government of the world, they will come when things are ripe to produce them; but while they do not exist, we do not see that much good can be derived from history. Any good that is derived must be empirical and uncertain, and we cannot expect it to operate extensively for the benefit of mankind.

For these reasons, it seems to us that history, notwithstanding all the brilliant names connected with it, is only a series of chronicles. It is curious and interesting in many parts, as merely telling us of what has been done in such and such times and spots of earth. Some noble and affecting passages are scattered over it. It often pleases a high taste, as pictures do. But as a view of what human beings are, perform, and suffer in certain circumstances, or as a guide to them in future contingencies-being only a field for the contention of prejudices, not a temple for the exhibition of ascertained principles-it is nearly altogether useless. A man may be an ill-informed man who is wholly unacquainted with it; but those who have studied it most thoroughly, will be not a whit more advanced in philosophy, or better fitted to address themselves to new crises, if such should occur. We readily admit, however, that, even as information, it is desirable, and it should have a place in the liberal knowledge of every man who aspires to be something more than a mere doer of drudgery, or a medium between one generation and another.

Perhaps, as in the case of meteorology, which, not being yet a science, has nevertheless a number of axioms resting on common observation, so there may be in history, pending its arrival at a philosophical character, some dicta of sufficiently obvious truthfulness to entitle them to notice. For instance, there is always this disadvantage attending a new government, which has come into existence by the victory of one system over another, that it has to take strong measures for its own preservation. With the best intentions, therefore, as to liberty, it may be forced into being a very arbitrary and even tyrannical force. An old government, with not so good intentions, may be milder and more endurable, by reason of its being in such security that it can act easily and good-naturedly. This is perhaps the explanation of what caused Madame Roland's dying sentence-Oh, Liberty, what deeds are done in thy name!' It is one of the considerations which might give pause to extreme men, if extreme men could see aught but their own ideas. On the other hand, it may be held as tolerably well settled by experience, that governments and institutions are generally their own most dangerous enemies, and that their destruction usually partakes much of the character of suicide. Mankind are, after all, not difficult to govern. Most of them are too much engrossed by their own affairs, to be much disposed to rigid criticism on state matters, so that these are only conducted with a decent regard to the general interest. It therefore is a strong presumption against any political system, that it is the subject of violent discontent. And it must depend on its own good sense whether, having established such a difficulty, it is to get over it or not. Real good intention towards the many will relieve it, while dogged egotism will of course be apt to prove its ruin. Another observation is, that when a government is too much centralised, and the people having everything done for them by paid functionaries, the popular faculties are liable to be benumbed,

for want of exercise in things a little beyond their common range, and the state loses genuine strength accordingly. It seems to be not less certain that countries having a common government ought to be ethnologically one; that is to say, certain natural affinities (affinities being at the basis of sympathies) are required of the people living under one political system, in order that it may be a well-working system. If a union has taken place, it must have been brought about in such circumstances as to preserve for each member of the partnership entire self-respect, otherwise, certainly, that member will never cease to be a source of annoyance to its associate. In these and a few other deductions from plain and oft-recurring facts, there is scarcely an ap proach made to philosophy, but they nevertheless have a certain paper-currency value, as representing gold which remains in the cellars of the bank. They represent, it is to be feared, all the wisdom that is as yet to be had from the Old Almanac.'

THE RUNAWAY SHIP.

A SALT YARN.

ONE afternoon watch, two seamen were seated face to face astride the fore-topmast cross-trees of a large Indiaman homeward-bound, which had all her canvas, studding-sails included, spread to the south-east trade-wind that slants upward from the Cape towards the equator. The breeze was freshening, and the sails which, about noon, were murmuring and rustling, now slept full: everything drew, as the wind had been hauled a little on the ship's starboard quarter; her head lying about westby-north, and she going about eight knots through the water; just bending now and then enough to give the lee yardarms a pleasant slope to port, and over the blue surface, which already looked darker and brisker, with little tops of white in our shadow to windward. With the privilege of a watch below, I was lying over the topsail-yard, in the bunt by the mast, my feet upon the foot-rope, and a spyglass in my hand, through which I took an occasional glance at a vessel on the horizon, supposed to be a frigate. It was so hot and close in my berth on the half-deck, that this employment was no small luxury, joined to that of seeing others kept at work, feeling the air out of the foot of the top-gallantsail, and looking down into the water, where the shape of every fish that came near the surface was clearly defined in a greenish light, and the coveys of glittering flying-fish sprang ever and anon like swallows from one wave to another in the distance. The white decks stretched below, with the boys knotting their yarns on the forecastle, the sailmaker at his canvas in the waist, and the quarterdeck out of sight, where the first and second mates were busy getting the mizen backstays set up. Before me lay half the ocean - circle, beautifully azure-tinted, where a long line of white clouds were gathered, in contrast to the clear region of the breeze astern. Up above my head shot the white swell of top-gallant, royal, and sky-sails, the former of which half concealed me from the two sailors, although their legs dangled from the cross-trees over my back, while its shadow secured them from the hot sun. One was passing the ball of spun-yarn for his companion, who was twisting it with his sewing-mallet round the shrouds of the royal-mast, which had been pretty well chafed bare by seven months' work and weather. The easy conversation with which this task was beguiled, found a ready eavesdropper in me, since it smacked of the brine, and was in no respect checked by the neighbourhood of a youngster from the other watch. In the present case it fell insensibly to a yarn, which I took care to log as correctly as possible soon after; a yarn in the daytime only happening in such a sequestered situation as this, and being more valuable from its unpremeditated nature.

'Hold on there with the ball, Bob,' said the one parenthetically, and at intervals; and give us a dip of the tar. Now pass away, and take the turn out o' that

yarn. Well ye see, bo',' he continued, ‘Jim Taylor an' me-you knows Jim?-that voy'ge we'd been having a good cruise ashore after the South-Sea trip, and the shot-lockers was beginnin' to turn rather low; but still, as we'd seen so much together, we made it up to go chums for another spell. I'd two or three offers of a berth myself, but short trips wouldn't go down with me at no time, after I knocked off apprentice: there's somethin' | low an' humbuggin' about 'em, to my taste, as keeps a man neither green nor blue, neither seein' life nor the world, an' tarnally ready to get sick over a yard; so I've managed to keep a midship helm atwixt the two tacks of a coaster and a man-o'-war's-man. Jim, too, he was rather down in the mouth about a love consarn, so we stuck together like a pair o' purchase-blocks bowsed chock on end. Every forenoon we stands round Liv'pool Docks in company, under easy sail, twigging all the craft, as you may suppose, an' overhaulin' the good an' bad points on 'em, like a couple of bo'suns. Berths at that time was plenty, and hands scarce; so it was the more hard to please Jim an' I. We wanted to see some'ere as we hadn't seen afore, with a smart craft under us, a reg'lar true-blue for skipper, good living, and a fok'sle full of jolly dogs. We spells out all the tickets in the rigging of the passage-craft, with the port, and time of sailing; and says Jim, just as I was stepping on the gangway plank, "Hold on, Harry, bo', let's go round the China berth first." And says I, at sight o' their heavy poops, an' Dutch bows, and tumble-home top-sides, all reg'largoing and holystone, "None o' yer loo'ardly teacanister affairs for me. Don't ye twig that there lubberly splice in the forerigging?" Again we'd fancy 'Badoes, or Lima, or Rio, or Valparaiso; but speakin' truth, my notion was for some sort of out-o'-the-waycome-venture or another, where we'd see life once in a while, and turn to again on the sober tack. So all said an' done, we fought shy of an offer: as the "old man" hauled close on us, we squared away, tops our boom, an' was off with a touch of our tarpaulins, an' "I doesn't think as how I'm a goin' for to ship this voy'ge, yer honour," for which we got curses enough to split the main-taups'l, ye know.

'Hows'ever, one forenoon watch, as we was both backing and filling alongside of the Queen's Dock, full of bluff-bowed Danish timberers, Norway logs the colour of rosin, and yer wall-sided, kettle - bottomed | American cotton - wagons, I seed as fine a barquerigged craft as I ever clapped eyes upon moored out in the middle to a Swedish brig. She was clippercut about the bows; level bowsprit in a line with her run; a long sheer, but plenty of beam before the waist; high topsides, black out, but painted yellow within, and a yellow streak on her. Her sticks had a bit of a rake aft, with short lower-masts, and the yards black; but such a pair o' slapping tall topmasts as she had, I never see in a craft of her size: an' I could see with half an eye, though both lower an' taups'l yards was cockbilled up an' down dock-fashion, they'd the weatherarm of any ship in the dock. "That chap's Bostonbuilt, Jim," says I, "for five guineas-reg'lar go-ahead, and no mistake. Why, she'll spread near half the cloths in her main-taups'l of a twenty-eight sloop-o'-war!" "My eyes!" says Jim, with a shiver like, "how she'd dive into a head sea though! She'd cut through the comb of a Cape swell afore it 'ad time to rise." "That's neither here nor there," I says: "but I'd like to know the ropes o' what she's after: I've a notion it's some'at of a taut bowline. She wants a third of bein' down to her bearings, though they're clearing for out a'ready, ye see." Accordin'ly, Jim an' me uses the freedom to sheer round, and step over two or three other craft, to get a near look at the Yankee. Her mate was roaring like a young bull to a hand aloft that was sendin' up to-gallant and royal-yards; and, "Well," says I to Jim," it's clear they doesn't savvey sendin' up a' gallantyard here, like they did in the old Pacific. Twig the lubber: he's taken the line wrong side o' that backstay. So look out; here goes!" I makes one spring into her

rigging, up to the fore-top, bears off the yard, fists the tackle, and clears it, and had the spar rigged out in no time. Down I comed to the rail by a topmast backstay, but no sooner nor the ill-looked customer of a mate opened on me with his jaw.

"Who told you to shove your oar in?" says he, "you tarnation British 'loper! I guess you want to book yourself pretty slick; but you don't enter this voy'ge, so be off!" "Axes your parding, sir," says I, winking to my chum; "an' hopes no offence, sir; but I thou't ye wanted a lift that time. You doesn't begrudge a poor fellow's flippers a little tar, sir, after fisting the blankets so long ashore?" Top yer boom in the twinkling of a handspike," says he; "that's all I've got to say to ye." "Ay, ay, sir," says I, though I hung in the wind notwithstanding; for that moment I twigs a big-beamed fellow come aboard astarn of him, as I took to be the skipper-a hooknose gentleman, clean-shaved, an' black i' the jaw, with two fists like leading-blocks, an' rigged out in a long-togged coat three cloths under his size; but he didn't look afeared on a gale o' wind.

"Well, Mr Fisher," says he, overhaulin' me all the time out of his weather-eye, "be so good as get them two new taups'ls out o' the half-deck, and bend them. You don't seem but a smartish hand," says he to me when the mate was gone aft-"you don't, my lad, for British growed. Been down east,' I reckon, now?" "Yes, sir," says I; "I sailed onst with the Garrick liner, out an' home." Thought so," says he. "Well, now, if I was short-handed, I don't know but I might a shipped you this trip." "No harm done, sir," says I.

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'Well, ye see, Bob, the short yarn of it was, the Yankee skipper ships us both, at eighteen dollars a month, bound to Noo Orlaing, with a cargo of what they called "notions." The barque's name was the " 'Declaration," Eikabode Tappan, master: we didn't know till after she'd only eight of a crew before the mast when we fell aboard of him. 'Fact, we heard from an old shipmate next day, as Ike Tappan, they called him, was well known in the Gibraltar waters for a sharp hand, that knew precious little of lunars, an' never was heard on with a full-manned ship; she was 'tarnally runnin' away with 'em, and missing her port, like one o' "God's ships," as they used to christen the Yankees. Never an underwriter of 'em all would insure the Declaration; but bein' one o' the owners himself, an' always somehow fallin' on his feet, no man overhauled the craft. "She's a slap-up boat," says Jim to me; "an' he's a prime seaman, I onderstand; but I'll bet next voy'ge, Ike Tappan's arter some'at new, an' spicy to the bargain. I never knowed her Liverpool-away afore."

'Well, Bob, a night or two after, as we was going into the Hothouse Tavern, as they calls that big skylight affair by the docks, who does we meet comin' out but our new skipper, yard-arm with a long-togged shoregoin' chap, as I fancied, under a false rig, and steerin' shy. Hard-a-port it was, and we sights the two down street, bein' a blowy night, making stiff tacks for the door of a Jew slop-shop to wind'ard. "Somethin's i' the wind, Jim," says I, "sure enough." The next day we goes down to hoist our dunnage aboard, where we finds no un but the shipkeeper, and a Boston boy washin' decks, ontil the skipper hi'self come up the companion, with one we took for a new hand, in a red shirt, canvas togs, and a sou'-wester on his head for all the world like a Lunnun dustman's. "My eye, Harry," says Jim, "twig the green; mark them hands o' his. That fellow's sarved his time with ould Noah, I'm thinking, an' slept the watches ever since." "Well, I'm blessed," says I, "if that aint the same chap he had in tow last night, an' rigged out a cloth over strong to begin with."

"Now, my man," says the skipper to him, "tarn to aloft, and tar down them lifts an' backstays." "Ay, ay, sir," says he, quite ready like, though I wish you see what a long face he pulled at first dip into the tar can. A smart, knowing-like chap he was, though he

put his feet into the ratlins like a post-boy, an' went up a bit at a time, smearin' all in his way, instead of from the mast-head down, till of a sudden smash comes the can on deck out o' the maintop, without, "Stand from under." The whole forenoon, I do b'lieve, if the skipper didn't keep that poor devil going aloft, out on the yards, an' gettin' the ropes by heart, in a drizzle of rain, and after every one else was gone. I couldn't make it out at all, ontil we hears the day after, just afore haulin' through the dockway at flood, as how there was a reg'lar bobbery kickin' up about docks: a dozen out-bound craft boarded by p'lice and gov'ment officers, all about some quill-driving don that had cut his stick with a sight o' money. As soon as I caught the hand in the red shirt lookin' over his shoulder, I smoked the rig in a moment, an' says the skipper, "You, Smith, up to the fore-taups'l yard, an' overhaul the gear." There was only Jim an' me, and the two mates, an' some dock-wallopers on deck, hard tailing on to the warp-ropes, an' a couple o' ship's boys aloft; the other hands came out in a boat as we dropped down. Just as we sheers round into the river, there was a large New York steamer, paddles backed and 'scape-pipe roaring, and full of passengers, as was being sarched from stem to starn, where they found the gentleman's traps aboard sure enough, without hi'self. Nor no sooner was we abeam of her, but a boat pulls alongside, and three officers jumps up the gangway.

"Got any passengers aboard, captain?" says they. "Not as long as my name's Eikabode Tappan," says he; "taint a payin' consarn, I expect." "Look sharp aloft there, and loose that fore-taups'l," sings out the skipper; and I couldn't help grinning when I squints up, an' sees the chap with the red shirt bent over the yard, after havin' to hail, "Ay, ay, sir," as gruff as a bo'sun. "Bear a hand there, ye lubber; overhaul the reef-tackles an' cluelins-d'ye hear? Forrud there, sheet home fore-taups'l." "Must look into your cabins, sir," says the officers. "Well, if it's law," says the skipper, "I can't go ag'in it; but a fair wind can't wait, you know, gents," says he, " an' I shouldn't like to break my rule ag'in passengers. I reckon we're gettin' a good deal o' way upon her." By the time they comed on deck again, we had the two taups'ls, fores'l, and spanker set upon her, and I was at the wheel, the hands aboard rigging out the jib-boom; and, "Well," thinks I, as they got down the side to pull back, "if it had been but a frigate's reefer instead, he'd have hauled on a different rope, Captain Tappan." Hows'ever, we soon caught a good wind; and by the way the windmills along the heights went whirling round, we expected a staggering breeze past the Point. How she did take it, too, on them two slapping taups'ls o' hers, the moment she got the full weather, blue out o' the Irish Channel, with a smart swell! Hard work it was grinding her wheel down; but she came to in a twinkling, ready to fly into it. I saw how it 'ud be at wonst: with that spread of canvas, and them heavy spars, with the hands we had, in a gale and on a wind, we'd no more be able to reef or hand the two taups'ls or courses nor as many schoolboys. Hows'ever, we was scarce well out from the land, when somethin' more came on our look-out; surging over it with a flash up the bows, all hands busy gettin' ship-shape, I hears the skipper sing out to his black stoo'ard below, to hand him up the glass. There was a telegraph goin' upon the headland, which the drift on it couldn't be seen, until the smoke of a large steamer was sighted to win'ward, through the haze, headin' for us from up Channel.

"Well," says the old man, "what's this? I ain't”"She's double-funneled," puts in the grumpy mate, lookin' through the glass-"a steam-frigate, I calc'late." "No!" says the captain; you don'twhew-ew!" And he gives a long whistle, seein' as just at that moment comes out a gleam behind one o' the big Channel swells, then the sound of a heavy gun. "That's a long un," says the mate. Clap on the jib,

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there," sings out Captain Tappan. "Set the gaff-taups'l and royals, Mr Fisher," says he; "and keep her up a point, lad," to me. Away we cracks, with the craft on her best foot, balling off eleven knots pleasantly. We had the heels of the steamer; but if that wasn't enough, what does we see her do shortly, but stand across the New-Yorker's course, to overhaul her the second turn. By the second dog-watch, it bein' late season and soon dark, we'd lost sight of 'em both. Our Yankee skipper's fashion was to close-reef all afore turning in, man-o'-war style, if the weather was fickle in narrow waters, otherways there was no keeping the craft in hand: it took all on us to one yard at a turn, so ye may fancy what it would a' been in a blow! All the next day, havin' stood well to the east'ard, we sees nought o' the smoke flag, "Admiral Jones's pennant," as we used to call it in the old Pacific; so cracks on everything that would draw till morning, when it fell a pretty dead calm, with a swell off the mouth of the British Channel. About four bells i' the arternoon we sees our queer customer from the fok'sle come 'pon deck out o' the cabin, in a pilot-coat: all at onst the fellow hails the skipper through the skylight, and there, sure enough, was a smoke to west'ard of us, just over the smooth o' the water-line, when we rolled. By five bells you could see the two funnels quite plain, the steamer seemin'ly havin' cruized the two days to win'ward of our course, for an airin' to her hands, an' then comed back to pick us up. The captain looks at his chap, an' then at the steamer. "Yes," says he, taking the cigar out of his teeth, "that's considerable nasty, I expect?" An' I did feel for the other fellow from his looks. "Well," says the skipper, there's a cloud brewin' to win'ward though. We'll have it hot an' heavy from the nor'west directly. Lay aloft there, all hands, to reef taups'ls?" And he takes the wheel from the hand aft. "Close reef," he sings out, as soon as we'd got hold on the earrings. The yards was braced round, and the swell rose in no time: the cloud was all round the weather-side in a quarter of an hour, as black-blue as you please, and the red sun goin' down through it, till the tops of the heavy swells was as red as blood. It was quite dark in that quarter, when we hears the thud, thud o' the steamer's paddles, and her engine clanking, an' over out o' the cloud she comes as black as night, right upon the comb of a sea; and all in a moment it was white foam, pouring down the waterside, and her full jib and gaff-s'ls jibing as she went round. Up we went above her, looking on to her deck over the smoke; the men at stations, and a gun ran out to loo'ard. Port, port," sings out our skipper, "keep full." The steamer's pipe roared like thunder, and she kept givin' a stroke now an' then; the captain and a leeftenant stood up on the paddle-box, holding on by a rail.

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"What barque's that?" screams out the captain through his speakin'-trumpet; and afore there was time to hail-" Round to, and keep under my quar ter till the squall's over her Majesty's ship Sala mander." "Daresn't do it, captain," sings out the skipper. "I'll dismast you then, by !” The wind took us just then on the top of a sea, main-taups'] swung full, and away we went, with no time to rise on the swell, shippin' a tremendous horsehead, that washed every one off his feet holding on. Our last sight of the steam-frigate, she was plungin' off one green comber to another, half her length, out against the light, and her weather-flipper whirling round, feelin' for the water, an' the next minute buried up to the grating in a foam, She'd her wrong side to us, or I don't doubt she'd ha' let drive off the top o' the wave with that infarnal long eighteen.

When the Declaration rose again, hows'ever, it was pitch dark; nothin' to be seen but the foam gleaming, and a white line 'twixt sky an' sea to win'ward, or the binnacle lamp in-board. It took two of us at the wheel, hard up an' hard down, to hold her; runnin' as straight suth'ard as might be, under nothin' but spanker,