The truth

impatient tone, the voice of Biddy was heard no more. forced itself on her dull imagination, and she sat a witness of the terrible scene, in mute despair. The struggle did not last long. The boatswain drew his knife across the wrist of the hand that grasped his own, one shriek was heard, and the boat plunged into the trough of a sea, leaving the form of poor Mrs. Budd struggling with the wave on its summit, and amid the foam of its crest. This was the last that was ever seen of the unfortunate relict.

"The boat bas gained a good deal by that last discharge of cargo," said Spike to the boatswain, a minute after they had gotten rid of the struggling woman-"she is much more lively, and is getting nearer to her load-line. If we can bring her to that, I shall have no fear of the man-of-war's men; for this yawl is one of the fastest boats that ever floated."

"A very little now, sir, would bring us to our true trim."

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Ay, we must get rid of more cargo. Come, good woman," turning to Biddy, with whom he did not think it worth his while to use much circumlocution, "your turn is next. It's the maid's duty to

follow her mistress."

"If there was no

"I know'd it must come," said Biddy, meekly. mercy for the missus, little could I look for. But ye'll not take the life of a Christian woman without giving her so much as one minute to say her prayers?"

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Ay, pray away," answered Spike, his throat becoming dry and husky; for, strange to say, the submissive quiet of the Irish woman, so different from the struggle he had anticipated with her, rendered him more reluctant to proceed than he had hitherto been in all of that terrible day. As Biddy kneeled in the bottom of the sternsheets, Spike looked behind him, for the double purpose of escaping the painful spectacle at his feet, and that of ascertaining how his pursuers came on. The last still gained, though very slowly, and doubts began to come over the captain's mind whether he could escape such enemies at all. He was too deeply committed, however, to recede, and it was most desirable to get rid of poor Biddy, if it were for no other motive than to shut her mouth. Spike even fancied that some idea of what had passed was entertained by those in the cutter. There was evidently a stir in that boat, and two forms that he had no difficulty, now, in recognizing as those of Wallace and Mulford, were standing on the grating in the eyes of cutter, or forward of the foresail. The former appeared to have a musket in his hand, and the other a glass. The last circumstance admonished him that all that was now done would be done before dangerous witnesses. It was too late to draw back, however, and the captain turned to look for the Irish woman.

Biddy arose from her knees, just as Spike withdrew his eyes from his pursuers. The boatswain and another confidant were in readiness to cast the poor creature into the sea, the moment their leader gave the signal. The intended victim saw and understood the arrangement, and she spoke earnestly and piteously to her murderers.

"It's not wanting will be violence," said Biddy, in a quiet tone, but with a saddened countenance. "I know it's my turn, and I will save yer souls from a part of the burden of this great sin. God, and His Divine Son, and the Blessed Mother of Jesus have mercy on me if it be wrong; but I would far radder jump into the saa widout having

the rude hands of man on me, than have the dreadful sight of the missus done over ag'in. It's a fearful thing is wather, and sometimes we have too little of it, and sometimes more than we want—”

"Bear a hand, bear a hand, good woman," interrupted the boatswain, impatiently. "We must clear the boat of you, and the sooner it is done the better it will be for all of us."

"Don't grudge a poor morthal half-a-minute of life, at the last moment," answered Biddy. "It's not long that I'll throuble ye, and so no more need be said."

The poor creature then got on the quarter of the boat, without any one's touching her; there she placed herself with her legs outboard, while she sat on the gunwale. She gave one moment to the thought of arranging her clothes with womanly decency, and then she paused to gaze with a fixed eye, and pallid cheek, on the foaming wake that marked the rapid course of the boat. The.troughs of the sea seemed less terrible to her than their combing crests, and she waited for the boat to descend into the next.

"God forgive ye all this deed, as I do!" said Biddy, earnestly, and bending her person forward, she fell, as it might be "without hands," into the gulf of eternity. Though all strained their eyes, none of the men, Jack Tier excepted, ever saw more of Biddy Noon. Nor did Jack see much. He got a frightful glimpse of an arm, however, on the summit of a wave, but the motion of the boat was too swift, and the surface of the ocean too troubled, to admit of aught else.

A long pause succeeded this event. Biddy's quiet submission to her fate had produced more impression on her murderers than the desperate, but unavailing, struggles of those who had preceded her. Thus it is ever with men. When opposed, the demon within blinds them to consequences as well as to their duties; but, unresisted, the silent influence of the image of God makes itself felt, and a better spirit begins to prevail. There was not one in that boat who did not, for a brief space, wish that poor Biddy had been spared. With most that feeling, the last of human kindness they ever knew, lingered until the occurrence of the dread catastrophe which, so shortly after, closed the scene of this state of being on their eyes.

"Jack Tier," called out Spike, some five minutes after Biddy was drowned, but not until another observation had made it plainly apparent to him that the man-of-war's men still continued to draw nearer, being now not more than fair musket shot astern.

"Ay, ay, sir," answered Jack, coming quietly out of his hole, from forward of the mast, and moving aft as if indifferent to the danger, by stepping lightly from thwart to thwart, until he reached the sternsheets.

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"It is your turn, little Jack," said Spike, as if in a sort of sorrowful submission to a necessity that knew no law, we cannot spare you the room."

"I have expected this, and am ready. Let me have my own way, and I will cause you no trouble. Poor Biddy has taught me how to die. Before I go, however, Stephen Spike, I must leave you this letter. It is written by myself, and addressed to you. When I am gone, read it, and think well of what it contains. And now, may a merciful God pardon the sins of both, through love for his Divine Son. I forgive you, Stephen; and should you live to escape from those who are now bent on hunting you to the death, let this day cause

you no grief on my account. will cause you no trouble."

Give me but a moment of time, and I

Jack now stood upon the seat of the stern-sheets, balancing himself with one foot on the stern of the boat. He waited until the yawl had risen to the summit of a wave, when he looked eagerly for the man-of-war's cutter. At that moment she was lost to view in the trough of the sea. Instead of springing overboard, as all expected, he asked another instant of delay. The yawl sunk into the trough itself, and rose on the succeeding billow. Then he saw the cutter, and Wallace and Mulford standing in its bows. He waved his hat to them, and sprang high into the air, with the intent to make himself seen; when he came down, the boat had shot her length away from the place, leaving him to buffet with the waves. Jack now managed admirably, swimming lightly and easily, but keeping his eyes on the crests of the waves, with a view to meet the cutter. Spike now saw this well planned project to avoid death, and regretted his own remissness in not making sure of Jack. Every body in the yawl was eagerly looking after the form of Tier.

"There he is on the comb of that sea, rolling over like a keg!" cried the boatswain.

"He's through it," answered Spike, "and swimming with great strength and coolness."

Several of the men started up involuntarily and simultaneously to look, hitting their shoulders and bodies together. Distrust was at its most painful height; and bull-dogs do not spring at the ox's muzzle more fiercely than those six men throttled each other. Oaths, curses, and appeals for help succeeded, each man endeavouring, in his frenzied efforts, to throw all the others overboard, as the only means of saving himself. Plunge succeeded plunge; and when that combat of demons ended, no one remained of them all but the boatswain. Spike had taken no share in the struggle, looking on in grim satisfaction, as the Father of Lies may be supposed to regard all human strife, hoping good to himself, let the result be what it might to others. Of the five men who thus went overboard not one escaped. They drowned each other by continuing their maddened conflict in an element unsuited to their natures.

Not so with Jack Tier. His leap had been seen, and a dozen eyes in the cutter watched for his person, as that boat came foaming down before the wind. A shout of "There he is!" from Mulford succeeded; and the little fellow was caught by the hair, secured, and then hauled into the boat by the second lieutenant of the Poughkeepsie and our young mate.

Others in the cutter had noted the incident of the hellish fight. The fact was communicated to Wallace, and Mulford said, "That yawl will outsail this loaded cutter, with only two men in it,"

"Then it is time to try what virtue there is in lead," answered Wallace. "Marines, come forward, and give the rascal a volley."

The volley was fired: one ball passed through the head of the boatswain, killing him dead on the spot. Another went through the body of Spike. The captain fell in the stern-sheets, and the boat instantly broached to.

The water that came on board apprized Spike fully of the state in which he was now placed, and, by a desperate effort, he clutched the tiller, and got the yawl again before the wind. This could not last,

however. Little by little his hand relaxed, until his hand relinquished its grasp altogether, and the wounded man sunk into the bottom of the stern-sheets, unable to raise even his head. Again the boat broached-to. Every sea now sent its water aboard, and the yawl would soon have filled, had not the cutter come glancing down past it, and rounding-to under its lee, secured the prize.

own;

Wealth, grandeur, titles these shall be thy dower,

But thou must seek, court, worship me alone.

The marble palace glittering in its glory, The pomp, the power, the attributes of kings,

These I can give thee, with a name in story;

Canst thou for these put forth thine eagle wings ?"

Then, quoth the second, "Pomp, and power, and palace,

And royal wealth and grandeur are not mine;

I cannot give thee garden, bower, or chalice,

Resplendent with its gems, and crown'd with wine.

Titles I cannot vaunt, sway cannot proffer,

In sooth, what I can give, I scarce

can name:

Thy bright soul seeks not gaud, nor gaudy coffer,

I know thee-know it-what thou lov'st is Fame.

This I can give thee, on thy temples wreathing,

Immortal honour, glory ne'er to end; Renown, unto all future times bequeathing

A bright example, guiding foe and friend.

A shining place in history-a splendour Out-dazzling kings--the sunshine drowns the star

A name to which all time its meed shall
render,

Which Change can ne'er destroy, nor
Folly mar.

She ceased, and I was left alone unguided,

A little cradled child to choose be
tween

Power and Fame!-alas! alas! divided,
Why should these golden goddesses

be seen?

"It very rarely happens," says Machiavelli, "or perhaps, never occurs, that a person exalts himself from a humble station to great dignity without employing either force or fraud.”—Reflections on Livy, lib. ii. cap. 13.

GOVERNMENT PLAN FOR THE DEFENCE OF THE

COUNTRY.

BY JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN,

AUTHOR OF THE MANNERS, ETC., OF ANCIENT GREECE."

We are the only people in the civilized world who, though intent on the accumulation of wealth, neglect all precautions for its defence. We have an army no way proportioned to our political power, or the extent of our dominions; and, if in itself our navy be large, it is so widely scattered over the surface of the globe, that the force we can at a short notice bring to bear on any particular point is much less considerable than might be at first expected. This state of things is traceable to many causes, of which the principal are, our jealous attachment to freedom, and unwillingness to be taxed for the support of great military establishments. But, like all other nations, we must accommodate our practice to the necessities of the times in which we live. There is no political community aiming at greatness, or ambitious of taking a lead in the affairs of the world, which does not train a larger number of its citizens to the use of arms than we have ever done. The United States, though much given, like ourselves, to commerce and industry, have an organized and disciplined militia of nearly one million of men; France has eight hundred thousand of national guards; Austria has likewise her militia; Prussia her land-wehr; and Russia maintains a far more numerous, though less completely disciplined domestic force. Great Britain alone, though standing foremost in the career of civilization, though by far the most powerful, from the energy of her population, the amount of her wealth, the magnitude and number of her colonies and dependencies, is content to rely on the undisciplined valour of her people for protection and security at home. Our army, including the troops of the East India Company, does not exceed four hundred and fifty thousand men, though our empire is now the most widely spread which the world has ever seen; though we have belted round the globe with settlements, and are still actively engaged in founding new colonies, and reducing fresh millions to obedience.

In reviewing the events of these times, history will regard with extreme surprise the extent of our self-reliance, inspired though it be by the traditions of victory and the sentiment of indomitable courage. We persuade ourselves that no enemy will be hardy enough to make a descent on these islands, and attack us in our homes, because the thing has never happened since the conquest. London, indeed, can make a prouder boast than Sparta, and say, that for eight hundred years her women have never beheld the smoke of an enemy's camp. To preserve this traditional glory untarnished is obviously, therefore, one of our chief duties as Englishmen. To say that we have for so many centuries been placed by our virtues beyond the reach of an insult so galling, and a calamity so terrible as invasion, is to put forward the strongest of all arguments for using our utmost exertion to transmit this legacy of glory untarnished to our children.

For some time past the journals of this country, as well as those of France, and, indeed, of most other states in Europe, have been filled