sly whisper to Israel; “Oh, put up your price, it's a gift to ye.”

"But ball, captain, what's the use of powder without ball?" roared one of the fellows from the boat's bow, as the keg was lowered in. "We want ball."

"Bless my soul, you bawl loud enough as it is. Away with ye, with what you have. Look to your keg, and hark ye, if ye catch that villain, Paul Jones, give him no quarter."

"But, captain, here," shouted one of the boatmen, "There's a mistake. This

a keg of pickles, not powder. Look,' and poking into the bung-hole, he dragged out a green cucumber dripping with brine. "Take this back, and give us the powder."

"Pooh," said Paul, "the powder is at the bottom, pickled powder, best way to keep it. Away with ye, now, and after that bloody embezzler, Paul Jones."

This was Sunday. The ships held on. During the afternoon, a long tack of the Richard brought her close towards the shores of Fife, near the thriving little port of Kirkaldy.

"There's a great crowd on the beach, captain Paul," said Israel, looking through his glass. "There seems to be an old woman standing on a fish-barrel there, a sort of selling things at auction, to the people, but I can't be certain yet."

"Let me see," said Paul, taking the glass as they came nigher. " Sure enough, it's an old lady-an old quack-doctress, seems to me, in a black gown, too. I must hail her."

Ordering the ship to be kept on towards the port, he shortened sail within easy distance, so as to glide slowly by, and seizing the trumpet, thus spoke:-

"Old lady, ahoy! What are you talking about? What's your text?"

"The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance. He shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked."

"Ah, what a lack of charity. Now hear mine;- God helpeth them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says."

"Reprobate pirate, a gale shall yet come, to drive thee in wrecks from our waters."

"The strong wind of your hate fills my sails well. Adieu," waving his bonnet-" tell us the rest at Leith."

Next morning the ships were almost within cannon-shot of the town. The men to be landed were in the boats. Israel had the tiller of the foremost one, waiting for his commander to enter, when just as Paul's foot was on the

gangway, a sudden squall struck all three ships, dashing the boats against them, and creating indiscribable confusion. The squall ended in a violent gale. Getting his men on board with all dispatch, Paul essayed his best to withstand the fury of the wind; but it blew adversely, and with redoubled power. A ship at a distance went down beneath it. The disappointed invader was obliged to turn before the gale, and renounce his project.

To this hour, on the shores of the Firth of Forth, it is the popular persuasion, that the Rev. Mr. Shirrer's, of Kirkaldy, powerful intercession, was the direct cause of the elemental repulse experienced off the endangered harbor of Leith.

Through the ill qualities of Paul's associate captains: their timidity, incapable of keeping pace with his daring; their jealousy, blind to his superiority to rivalship -together with the general reduction of his force, now reduced, by desertion, from nine to three ships; and last of all, the enmity of seas and winds, the invader, driven, not by a fleet, but a gale, out of the Scottish waters, had the mortification in prospect of terminating a cruise, so formidable in appearance at the onset, without one added deed to sustain the reputation gained by former exploits. Nevertheless, he was not disheartened. He sought to conciliate fortune, not by despondency, but by resolution. And, as if won by his confident bearing, that fickle power suddenly went over to him from the ranks of the enemy, suddenly as plumed Marshal Ney to the stupborn standard of Napoleon from Elba, marching regenerated on Paris. In a word, luck-that's the word-shortly threw in Paul's way the great action of his life: the most extraordinary of all naval engagements; the unparalleled death-lock with the Serapis.

There would seem to be something singularly indicatory in this engagement. It may involve at once a type, a parallel, and a prophecy. Sharing the same blood with England, and yet her proved foe in two wars; not wholly inclined at bottom to forget an old grudge: intrepid, unprincipled, reckless, predatory, with boundless ambition, civilized in externals but a savage at heart, America is, or may yet be, the Paul Jones of

nations.

Regarded in this indicatory light, the battle between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis-in itself so curiousmay well enlist our interest.

Never was there a fight so snarled. The intricacy of those incidents which defy the narrator's extrication, is not illy figured in that bewildering intertanglement of all the yards and anchors of the two ships, which confounded them for the time in one chaos of devastation.

Elsewhere than here the reader must go who seeks an elaborate version of the fight, or, indeed, much of any regular account of it whatever. The writer is but brought to mention the battle, because he must needs follow, in all events, the fortunes of the humble adventurer whose life he records. Yet this necessarily involves some general view of each conspicuous incident in which he shares.

Several circumstances of the place and time served to invest the fight with a certain scenic atmosphere, casting a light almost poetic over the wild gloom of its tragic results. The battle was fought between the hours of seven and ten at night; the height of it was under a full harvest moon, in view of thousands of distant spectators crowning the high cliffs of Yorkshire.

From the Tees to the Humber, the eastern coast of Britain, for the most part, wears a savage, melancholy, and Calabrian aspect. It is in course of incessant decay. Every year the isle which repulses nearly all other foes, succumbs to the Attila assaults of the deep. Here and there the base of the cliffs is strewn with masses of rock, undermined by the waves, and tumbled headlong below; where, sometimes, the water completely surrounds them, showing in shattered confusion detached rocks, pyramids, and obelisks, rising half-revealed from the surf, the Tadmores of the wasteful desert of the sea. Nowhere is this desolation more marked than for those fifty

miles of coast between Flamborough Head and the Spurm.

Weathering out the gale which had driven them trom Leith, Paul's ships, for a few days, were employed in giving chase to various merchantmen and colliers; capturing some, sinking others, and putting the rest to flight. Off the mouth of the Humber they ineffectually manoeuvered with a view of drawing out a king's frigate, reported to be lying at anchor within. At another time a large fleet was encountered, under convoy of some ships of force. But their panic caused the fleet to hug the edge of perilous shoals very nigh the land, where, by reason of his having no competent pilot, Paul durst not approach to molest them. The same night he saw two strangers further out at sea, and chased them until three in the morning; when, getting pretty nigh, he surmised that they must needs be vessels of his own squadron, which, previous to his entering the Firth of Forth, had separated from his command. Daylight proved this supposition correct. Five vessels of the original squadron were now once more in company. About noon, a fleet of forty merchantmen appeared coming round Flamborough Head, protected by two English men-of-war, the Serapis and Countess of Scarborough. Descrying the five cruisers sailing down, the forty sail, like forty chickens, fluttered in a panic under the wing of the shore. Their armed protectors bravely steered from the land, making the disposition for battle. Promptly accepting the challenge, Paul, giving the signal to his consorts, earnestly pressed forward. But, earnest as he was, it was seven in the evening ere the encounter began. Meantime his comrades, heedless of his signals, sailed independently along. Dismissing them from present consideration, we confine ourselves, for a while to the Richard and the Serapis, the grand duellists of the fight.

The Richard carried a motley crew, to keep whom in order one hundred and thirty-five soldiers-themselves a hybrid band-had been put on board, commanded by French officers of inferior rank. Her armament was similarly heterogeneous; guns of all sorts and calibres; but about equal on the whole to those of a thirty-two gun frigate. The spirit of baneful intermixture pervaded this craft throughout.

The Serapis was a frigate of fifty guns, more than half of which indivi

dually exceeded in calibre any one gun of the Richard. She had a crew of some three hundred and tweny trained man-ofwar's men.

There is something in a naval engagement which radically distinguishes it from one on the land. The ocean, at times, has what is called its sea and its trough of the sea; but it has neither rivers, woods, banks, towns, nor mountains. In mild weather, it is one hammered plain. Stratagems,-like those of disciplined armies, ambuscades-like those of Indians, are impossible. All is clear, open, fluent. The very element which sustains the combatants, yields at the stroke of a feather. One wind and one tide at one time operate upon all who here engage. This simplicity renders a battle between two men-of-war, with their huge white wings, more akin to the Miltonic contests of archangels than to the comparatively squalid tussels of earth.

As the ships neared, a hazy darkness overspread the water. The moon was not yet risen. Objects were perceived with difficulty. Borne by a soft moist breeze over gentle waves, they came within pistol-shot. Owing to the obscurity, and the known neighborhood of other vessels, the Serapis was uncertain who the Richard was. Through the dim mist each ship loomed forth to the other vast, but indistinct, as the ghost of Morven. Sounds of the trampling of resolute men echoed from either hull, whose tight decks dully resounded like drum-heads in a funeral march.

The Serapis hailed. She was answered by a broadside. For half an hour the combatants deliberately manoeuvered, continually changing their position, but always within shot fire. The Serapis the better sailer of the two-kept critically circling the Richard, making lounging advances now and then, and as suddenly steering off; hate causing her to act not unlike a wheeling cock about a hen, when stirred by the contrary passion. Meantime, though with easy speaking distance, no further syllable was exchanged; but an incessant cannonade was kept up.

At this point, a third party, the Scarborough, drew near, seemingly desirous of giving assistance to her consort. But thick smoke was now added to the night's natural obscurity. The Scarborough imperfectly discerned two ships, and plainly saw the common fire they made; but which was which, she could

not tell. Eager to befriend the Serapis, she durst not fire a gun, lest she might unwittingly act the part of a foe. As when a hawk and a crow are clawing and beaking high in the air, a second crow flying near, will seek to join the battle, but finding no fair chance to engage, at last flies away to the woods; just so did the Scarborough now. Prudence dictated the step. Because several chance shot-from which of the combatants could not be known-had already struck the Scarborough. So, unwilling uselessly to expose herself, off went for the present this baffled and ineffectual friend.

Not long after, an invisible hand came and set down a great yellow lamp in the east. The hand reached up unseen from below the horizon, and set the lamp down right on the rim of the horizon, as on a threshold; as much as to say, Gentlemen warriors, permit me a little to light up this rather gloomy looking subject. The lamp was the round harvest moon; the one solitary foot-light of the scene. But scarcely did the rays from the lamp pierce that languid haze. Objects before perceived with difficulty, now glimmered ambiguously. Bedded in strange vapors, the great foot-light cast a dubious half demoniac glare across the waters, like the phantasmagoric Stream sent athwart a London flagging in a night-rain from an apothecary's blue and green window. Through this sardonical mist, the face of the Man-in-theMoon-looking right towards the combatants, as if he were standing in a trapdoor of the sea, leaning forward leisurely with his arms complacently folded over upon the edge of the horizon,-this queer face wore a serious, apishly self-satisfied leer, as if the Man-in-the-Moon had somehow secretly put up the ships to their contest, and in the depths of his malignant old soul was not unpleased to see how well his charms worked. There stood the grinning Man-in-the-Moon, his head just dodging into view over the rim of the sea-Mephistopheles prompter of the stage.

Aided now a little by the planet, one of the consorts of the Richard, the Pallas, hovering far outside the fight, dimly discerned the suspicious form of a lonely vessel unknown to her. She resolved to engage it, if it proved a foe. But ere they joined, the unknown ship--which proved to be the Scarborough-received a broadside at long gun's distance from another consort of the Richard, the Al

SIDNEY SMITH-that "wittiest of

divines and divinest of wits-has somewhere an amusing passage on the radical sensualism that underlies all, even supersensual, terms. He alludes to our purely æsthetic application of such expressions as "tact" (tango, tactum, to touch), "taste" &c., and observes that we will doubtless soon come to speak of a man with a fine "nose" for this or that province of physics or philosophy. And, to follow this out a little further, we have the same idea developing itself in that sublimation of everything that is highest in modes or morals-the bon goût of our Parisian friends. But this is not much to be wondered at, since they are constitutionally rather Epicurean in their philosophy; and it is so natural for one, with the smack of Clos-Vougeot or Chateau-Laffitte on the lips, to transfer the figure, not without gusto, to his admiration of the colors of a Correggio, or his rapture over the divine poems of Mons. Mirabilis Parnasse. sic sit!-since "de gustibus non est disputandum."

However,

Now, besides all this, we are acquainted with at least one northern European nation (not to mention the Chinese), who hold that the soul lies in the abdomen, and in whose language those two distinctly divergent facts-soul and stomach-find expression in one and the same term. Moreover, the Greek for mind—opýv, opéves—is (rather remarkably for so intellective and introspective a people) that which also expresses midriff or diaphragm!

All this we mention as initiatory to the enunciation of our very simple proposition, viz.: that in the formation of words, the real always lies beneath the metaphorical, and the physical is ever the basis of the metaphysical.

The rationale of this is, we conceive, simple enough:-For, the sphere in which we live and move-the objectiveis a physical one; we have our being within the phantasmagorical fetters of a sense-world. Now, the microcosm within being, as is said, none other than a reflex of the megacosm without; and language being, moreover, a veritable thought-product-every word must be, as it were, the symbol of a symbol. Ideas are symbolical of the outer-the

natural; language is symbolical of ideas. To us the phenomenal must ever be our basis--the metaphysical can have naught but a relative existence. And hence it is that men are we do not say de naturâ, but de facto-so intensely material. Metaphysics are, and ever have been, as prodigiously "below par," as stocks in the "South Sea Island scheme," or investments in Dutch tulips would now be; and men as regularly lay aside all acknowledgment or belief in everything that is absolute and eternal-(excepting, of course, in all cases, the eternal dollar)-as they do their Sunday vest or Sunday visage. For why?Because, forsooth, every one of our miserable "interests" is interwoven in an inextricable reticulation with the sensuous and the grossly material. Hence, too, the inveterate antagonisin between the man theoretical and the man practical,-between the man of principle and the man of action. This, too, it is that makes materialism (or, according to the modern phraseology-Sensationalism) precisely no philosophy at all. We are ourselves indifferently fond of a pure transcendental Idealism; but of sympathizers we expect, and find, but few.

Language, then, being the offspring of the entire united consciousness, will naturally take its coloring from the field wherein that consciousness acts. It is on this fact that is founded the inherent veracity of words. This it is that gives to them their authority as profound moral teachers, and embalms within them, amber-like, great and noble poetries, histories, and philosophies.

We have before stated that we will eschew controversy on the subject of the "origin of language," as scrupulously as we would on the "origin of evil;' a remark, however, we would offer on the genesis of language as a thoughtproduct. In a previous paper on novels, we attempted a development of the idea of every form of literature's being responsive to an inly want of the soul; and that the progression of literature in its various phases is not accidental; but, according to rigid mathematical principles, based on absolute psychological facts. Now, nearly everything that can be said on the philosophy of literature, may also be applied to the philosophy of language,