stern-frame, carried away the stern-lantern, and pooped the women.

"Up helm, you lubberly scoundrel!" said Joe: "I told you not to pass the commodore, but to back the mizen-top sail in time, and there you are right on board of him. Why, you lubber, you went end-on like a bull with his peak up" and seizing hold of the tillerropes, he gave the larboard one a haul, the horses made a start, the larboard wheel got foul of a post, and over went Joe, coachman, and coach. Joe, who was like a cat, fell upon his legs without being hurt, and called out for the next ship in the line to take the place of the one capsized; but, as I was not going into action without all my line complete, I gave the signal to heave-to to repair damages. The women in the cabin, finding themselves pooped, thought they were going down stern foremost, and roared out to open the cabin-doors; whilst Joe, and a landsman who was standing thereabout, lifted the coachman, who had been wounded in the leg, into a 'pothecary's, which was within hail. Leaving him there, we righted the craft, and Joe jumped upon deck, seized hold of the tiller-ropes, and made signal for ready for sea. We filled our maintop-sail and forged ahead; and Joe, who had got both lines, one in each hand, and who sprawled his legs out on the foot-rope to hinder his fetching way when she rolled,-for we were right before the wind,-looked as if he understood navigation. His eyes were wide open; but some of the ribbons got foul of his optics; his long curls-for, do you mind, in those days we wore our hair like corkscrews-got blowing athwart his face; his hat was cocked on one side, and his big chew was a little to leeward, although his tail stuck out behind like the staff of a rocket, to keep him head to wind. He got hauling at both ropes at once, so that his vessel was not under command; she had no steerage way, but just the reverse; for the animals made a stern-board before Joe could drop the steerage to get hold of the whip, and he backed aboard of the coach astern of him.

This threw the whole line in confusion; and when Joe started on end again, he kept yawing about like a pig in a high wind; it was hard a-starboard and hard a-port every moment. The squadron were all in disorder, and although Bill roared like a bull for the ship next in line to make sail and occupy Gibson's place, yet it was no use; there was not a master in the fleet who could take charge of a vessel in such rocky water; and the crews of half the squadron were in a state of mutiny. I think Gibson would have weathered the corner of the church after all, and come safe to anchor, if it had not been for about a thousand spalpeens of boys who kept shouting " A sailor adrift on a carriage!" and bobbing under the horses' noses until

they got discontented at being worked so hard, and began to mutiny outright. One fired away at Joe with his heels, who dropped the helm and touched him up over the stern. This made both worse; for Joe had got all hands to the whip, and was only determined to punish his crew for their bad behaviour.

We had not got far, when we found the look-out craft hove-to and trimming ship. "Hulloa," said I, "what's the matter, Watson ?"

"We have hove-to to repair damages,” said he; "for as I was steering end-on for the church, the craft got into a head sea, and after bobbing about run aground upon her knees, and shook my timbers a bit, for I went over the bows; whilst the youngster, as the ship lifted forward with the sea, slipped over the stern; but we shall be ready in a moment. I've repaired damages forward, and I'm shifting my ballast aft, for she sails too much by the head. I can manage her well enough now; but I think you had better shift the boy on one of your nags. So away with you, little one," said he, giving him a slap on the back; “and mind, do you hear? ' Victualled on board the day discharged!""

"Come on deck here," said Bill; "and do you hear, turn to and dance us a hornpipe as we go along. Strike up, old Scrapehard! and tip us your best hornpipe, and, squadron make sail!"

In a short time we had got off the harbour and were unlading the cargo, when Joe came along, going about fourteen knots, his tillerropes lost, and his ship running away with him.

"Shorten sail," said Bill, 66 or you'll be aboard the church."

"Luff, Joe, luff, and weather it," said I. "My eyes! there he goes, right end on!" and down came the horses, pitching Joe over the bows.

The

"Nothing ever hurt his health but going without his grog. He was up in a moment, and reported that his ship was wrecked, her stem-piece stove in, and that she was bilged and lying over on her starboard side. crew were all safe, and we prepared to enter the harbour. I caught hold of Betsy by the flipper; and Bill was behind with Moll Davis. She was rather the worse for her allowance in the morning, and would sing, although a chap who said he was a clerk in the establishment tried to stop her.

"To the devil wid you!" said Moll Davis. "Do you think, you black-looking raven, that I won't sing a song on the day of Betsy's marriage ?" And she set off at the top of her voice, which was rather thick and hoarse than otherwise, and she bellowed out something about a "sweet William." Now it so turned out that William was the name of the soldier (Betsy's first love); and Betsy thinking it was meant for a shot at her,

of, which she did right well, for I never could get a farthing back again.

So ended my marriage; and it was a real sailor's marriage, got up in a moment, and it lasted nearly as long. We got on well enough the next day: but on Sunday morning we all returned to our ships; and I told the first-lieutenant that I had got spliced, and asked to have Betsy aboard. The ship was going round to the River the next day, so I couldn't get leave either to go to her, or she to come to me. I thought, to be sure, she might as well have tried to have got alongside; but I never got a glance of her eye from the morning of our mustering on board until now. I got one of the purser's steward's lads, who could handle a pen with out making a cross, and I wrote her this letter:-"Dearest Betsy,-Why don't you come alongside in the bum-boat? I have been standing in the starboard fore-chains from one till four bells, overhauling the craft which came within hail. Come, that's a good girl! up stick and make sail! If I can only get a word with you under the bows, I'm satisfied."

Well, what do you think she writes to me, or gets somebody else to write to me?

"Old Tom,-I know you are ship-bound, church-bound, and poverty-struck; you be long to no parish but Port Sea, and you may whistle for good luck and for Betsy Matson." It ran right into my heart, and gave me the hiccups for a fortnight; and I never was all right in the head until I heard she had married the soldier under another name, and that I had saved my allotment.

(To be continued.)

The Public Journals.

A WORD FOR WINTER.

If there is any being that ought to be more especially grateful than another to the maker of this beautiful world, it is the painter; by that organ, which others may think only given to mankind to see about their ways and busi-, nesses, does he extract from universal nature the most perfect delight-I say perfect, for it gives him a new sense, a perception of the infinite beauties of the only works that are perfect. There is not a spot nor an hour where and in which the sketcher may not find something to admire he has ever something to collect, to treasure up, not like the common collectors of curiosities, for idle gaze, but for positive use, to stimulate his fancy into a faculty of combination, the poets' and painters' gift alone, a gift that confers, as far as we are capable of receiving it, a delight which resembles no other, not so much of imitating, but of creating. The artist will take storm and sunshine from the natural world, to enliven or display the wonders of his ideal; he lays every season under

contribution, and, by the intense occupation of his mind under its converting power, that scenery and those effects which fill others with melancholy gloom, but furnish him with pleasures; and they are the greater, perhaps, as they direct his genius to higher conceptions. He would be but a poor artist, who would limit his studies to one month, or to one season of the year. Let the sketcher see all-note all-for beauty is that gift to nature, when it was first pronounced good, that has never been, and never will be, entirely withdrawn. Materials are always before the painter; he may make a bad or a good use of them, according to the wholesome or evil education that he has given to his taste. I never recollect a winter season to have been more rich in exquisite effects than the present. The hoar frost about Christmas was most fascinating, it had nothing of the coldness of winter-it was joyous-the earth was garlanded with silver, and the sky, though not light, was luminous, so as at once to set it off by colour, and to make it sparkling and brilliant. Spring was never more gay. The local circumstances, perhaps, gave a peculiar charm to my mind, and they constituted the poetry of the scene, aud, therefore, made the picture complete. It happened to be one of those days of annual parochial gifts, when the poor rejoice in comforts, the bequests of pious and benevolent persons. The smoke was curling from the poor man's cottage, and ascending, like thankfulness, heavenward; and, in return, the sky sent down a lustre over the earth. Winter came not on that day with a shrivelled and niggard aspect, frowning upon poverty, but with a sack of plenty on his shoulders, and a bidding of welcome--not busybodyism, but celestial charity may have been walking about all village ways, and in the fields; and after showing her cheerful, healthy face at the poor man's table, and blessing his fields, went forth into the fields to see that the cattle were fed, and as she touched with her fingers the new cut mow, it gleamed like gold-merry children followed her, and sunshine played about her footsteps, and the frosted hollows were like silver cups gilt within. How exquisitely beautiful were the hedges;-such tracery, and every thing in them so bent, and communicating with each other, as if conscious of, and pleased with, their festoonery of silver-and in the sheltered places, the little leaves, partly dotting the shade with white, and partly enlivening it with their evergreen tint, shining amidst red berries that were still un covered; these small, bright leaves of green were tokens left, as the rainbow in the heavens, to give security of the entire recovery of refreshing green, when nature may choose to assume it. There never was poet or painter, who did not receive into his creed

a fellowship of life and sensation with every object of the vegetable world-nay, with all nature as a whole, and in all the detail: rocks and stones, leaf and blade, to their imaginations, are endowed with feeling; and there is not a desolate scene under a dreary sky, that does not, to their fancies, seem to feel its own misery-and thus they sympathize with universal nature. This is strictly true; and if there be any that read this, and have not felt it, they are no painters, and have no touch of poetry in them-they may laugh at the conceit, but the painter will acknowledge the truth.

On the day of my admiration of the hoar frost, the sympathy felt with all that was seen was a sympathy of lively joy, of health, of sportiveness, as if the landscape had put on a white dress to make holyday, and it was impossible to admit a thought that was not in its holyday trim.

Look at the trees, quoth Fancy; see how they meet together, how they stretch out their graced and graceful arms; and all, multitudinous as they are, seem conscious of each other's presence, and are glad-it is now their assembly season-their holyday of joy and pleasant idleness. In the spring they must work hard, and manufacture shade for us, and leaves for millions of creatures to furnish both shelter and food, and then they are shut up in their manufactory, and can see nothing of each other, for their leaves and industry; but now their work is over, pleasure begins, and see how they visit each other, and acknowledge the gratification. Come, Sketcher, with your pencil and palette, for here are form and colour-look at the greenish, brown stems, here slightly touched with silver, and here with amber, and why should you lament the loss of the rich, summer hues? And if you would learn drawing, you never can have so glorious an opportunity. They are all stripped bare before you, like Academy figures, and there is strength, beauty, and grace in every limb; and they will be pleased at your attention. Scoff not at Fancy's exhortation; fancy and truth are nearer akin than either judge or jury will allow; and her lectures are from a pure source.

Winter has its cheerful views: the blessed season I have been describing, that of the Nativity, brought to my mind Milton's Holy Hymn.-How did he keep his Christmas eve? noting such a beautiful, starry night as ceded our return of the blessed day

"Only with speeches fair,

She woos the gentle air,

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow."

How soon is the scene changed, and the cheering idea embodied— Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

"But he, her fears to cease,

She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere,
His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
And waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes an universal peace through sea and land."
Here is no dreary winter scene: if it was
a season of snow, the poet's genius animates
it-it is the "innocent snow," conscious of
the presence of divine innocence. The wise
men, when they journeyed to make their
offerings to the lowly babe, may have found all
around garlanded with the hoar frost, and the
lowly shed more richly ornamented than halls
of silver palaces; and then glad was the
aspect of heaven and earth, and frosted
brightness, and starry splendour, at the con-
templation of which, and the glory they au-
nounced, the poet's heart indeed rejoiced,
and dwelt upon the vision.

"But see, the Virgin blest,

Hath put her babe to rest."

No more, then, of churlish winter, if it bring health, cheerfulness, and a season of holy joy, of human charity, and is withal thus lustrous with beauty. - Blackwood's Magazine.

The Gatherer.

"Now while the Heaven by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no point of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright."

He does, indeed, begin his hymn

"It was the winter wild ;"

Hatfield House.-Part of this venerable mansion, a generally acknowledged first-rate specimen of Elizabethan architecture, was

ture

last year; being, however, insured in the Sun

Fire Office, to a large amount, it will be restored without much difficulty: this is to be performed by Messrs. Webb, builders to the fire office, at the cost of 15,000l.—Ibid. Courteous Forbearance.-A gentleman, making a morning call upon a late county member of great taste and scrupulous courtesy, was accompanied into the library by a beautiful kid, which he found standing at the street door. During the conversation, the animal proceeded round the room, examining the different objects of art with ludicrous curiosity, till, coming to a small, bronze statue, placed upon the floor, he made a butt at it, and knocked it over. The owner of the house taking no notice, his visiter observed: "That kid is a special favourite, I perceive: how long have you had it ?"-"I had it !" exclaimed the virtuoso in an agony, "I thought it had been yours.""-"Mine!" said the gentleman, with no less astonishment, "it is not mine, I assure you."Whereupon they both rose, and by summary process ejected the intruder.—The Original. True courage is that which is not afraid of being thought afraid; the rest is counterfeit. Such for the most part is duelling courage.-Ibid.

A distinguished ornament of London society, about half a century since being at Bath, was accustomed to converse familiarly with a sort of small gentleman, who frequented the same bookseller's shop. Some time after his return to town, he was accosted in St. James's street by his watering-place acquaintance. "I beg your pardon, sir," he replied, "but really I do not recollect to have seen you before."-"Oh, yes, you saw me at Bath."-"I shall be most happy to see you at Bath again.”—Ibid.

Mr. Pitt, once speaking in the House of Commons in the early part of his career, of the glorious war which preceded the disastrous one, in which we lost the colonies called it "the last war." Several members cried out," the last war but one." He took no notice, and soon after repeating the mistake, he was interrupted by a general cry of "the last war but one, the last war but one." "I mean, sir," said Mr. Pitt, turning to the speaker, and raising his sonorous voice, "I mean, sir, the last war that Britons would wish to remember;" — whereupon the cry was instantaneously changed into an universal cheering, long and loud.—Ibid.

At Helton, in the parish of Askham, Cumberland, at the end of the tithe barn, was formerly a stone seat, where the inhabitants met for the purpose of transacting their pa rochial affairs. He who came first waited till he was joined by the rest; and it was considered a mark of great rudeness for any one to absent himself from the meeting.

After conferring on such matters as related to the parish, they separated, and each returned home. W. G. C.

Calamy, the celebrated presbyterian minister, on one occasion objected to Cromwell assuming the supreme power as Protector, as being, in his opinion, both unlawful and impracticable. Cromwell observed, he cared little about the lawfulness; "but why, may I ask you," he replied, "is it impracticable ?"- "Oh!" observed the divine, "it is impracticable, inasmuch as it is against the voice of the people: you will have nine in ten against you."—" Very well, sir," replied Cromwell, "but what if I should disarm the nine, and put the sword into the tenth man's hand; would that not do the business, think you?" The events which succeeded, prove that Cromwell not only entertained the opinion he thus expressed, but that he also acted upon it. W. G. C.

concerning a few important alterations to be Mr. Freeling, during his late visit to Paris, made with regard to foreign letters, declared that the Post Office lost at least 25,000l. a year by the number of letters sent through the medium of the ambassador's bag. It was only last year that a pair of boots and a great coat were expedited from London to Paris through the accommodation of the bag. -Paris Advertiser.

Stock-jobbers-Bears and Bulls.-He who sells that of which he is not possessed, is said, proverbially, to sell the bear's skin while the bear runs in the woods: and it being common for stock-jobbers to make contracts for transferring stock at a future time, though not possessed of the stock to be transferred, were called sellers of bear-skins, or "bears." -Ibid.

Duration of Life in France.-The average length of human life in France is 33 years, 8 months, and 11 days.—Ibid.

Ancient Coins. Some time since, in a garden at Valonge Manche, in France, an ancient sarcophagus was discovered, containing a skeleton, which, on being exposed to the air, crumbled into dust. It had in its mouth, a piece of silver about the size of a sou, with the inscription, MES IMP. on one side, and UIC. GAL. on the other; at the feet of the skeleton was a silver case, a foot long and eight inches deep, containing 150 coins or medals, in bronze, silver, and gold, and bearing the effigies of Cæsar, Pompey, Mithridates, Cleopatra, Philip of Macedon, Hannibal, Scipio, Sylla, Africanus, Crassus, &c.

W. G. C.

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