had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, O, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul, on a like occasion, “Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved."

6. They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters, gaining upon the hold, and, rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. O, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind, — had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will, — we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of the collision to the catastrophe of SINKING!

7. O, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as placid as before. I PIL'GRIM-ẠQ-Eş. Journeys under-13 CỌN-VËRG'ING. Tending towards

XIX. — THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 1. CLANG, clang! the massive anvils' ring;

Clang, clang! a hundred hammers swing;
Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky,
The mighty blows still multiply;

Clang, clang!
Say, brothers of the dusky brow,
What are your strong arms forging now?
Clang, clang! We forge the colter’ now.
The colter of the kindly plough;
Prosper it, Heaven, and bless our toil!
May its broad furrow still unbind

To genial rains, to sun and wind,
The most benignant soil !
Clang, clang! Our colter's course shall be
On many a sweet and sheltered iea,

By many a streamlet's silver tide,
Amid the song of morning birds,
Amid the low of sauntering herds,
Amid soft breezes which do stray
Through woodbine hedges and sweet may,*

Along the green hill's side.
When regal Autumn's bounteous hand
With wide-spread glory clothes the land, -
When to the valleys, from the brow

Of each resplendent* slope, is rolled

A ruddy sea of living gold, —
We bless - we bless the PLOUGH.

2. Clang, clang! Again, my mates, what glows

Beneath the hammer's potent blows? —
Clink, clank! We forge the giant chain,

Which bears the gallant vessel's strain, *In England, the familiar name of the common hawthorn and its flowers 'Mid stormy winds and adverse tides;

Secured by this, the good ship braves

The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.
Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;

Calmly he rests, though far away

In boisterous climes his vessel lay,
Reliant on our skill.
Say, on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep;
By Afric's pestilential shore, —
By many an iceberg ®, lone and hoar, —

By many a palmy Western isle,

Basking in Spring's perpetual smile, –
By stormy Labrador.
Say, shall they feel the vessel reel,
When to the battery's deadly peal
The crashing broadside makes reply?

Or else, as at the glorious Nile, *

Hold grappling ships, that strive the while
For death or victory?

3. Hurrah! Cling, clang! Once more, what glows,

Dark brothers of the forge, beneath
The iron tempest of your blows,

The furnace's red breath?
Clang, clang! A burning torrent, clear

And brilliant, of bright sparks, is poured
Around and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the SWORD.

The sword! - a name of dread; yet when

Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, While for his altar and his hearth, While for the land that gave him birth,

The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, How sacred is it then! Whenever, for the truth and right, It flashes in the van of fight, Whether in some wild mountain pass, As that where fell Leonidas,* — Or on some sterile plain, and stern, A Marston † or a Bannockburn, 1 Or ’mid fierce crags and bursting rills, The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrols & hills, — Or, as when sank the Armada’s' pride, It gleams above the stormy tide, — Still, still, whene'er the battle-word

Is Liberty, — when men do stand

For justice and their native land, Then Heaven bless the swORD!

XX. - LITTLE EDWARD.

MRS. STOWE.

[Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, the world-renowned author of Uncle Tom o Cabin, is the daughter of the Rev. Lyman Beecher, D. D., and wife of Professor Calvin E. Stowe, of the Theological Seminary at Andover, Massachusetts.

The following extract is from the May-Flower, a collection of sketches and parratives, marked by the same combination of humor and pathos which is so conspicuous in her a

1. WERE any of you born in New England, in the good old catechising', church-going, school-going, orderly times ? If so, you may have seen my uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular”, upright, downright good man that ever labored six days and rested on the seventh. - 2. You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line seemed drawn with “a pen of iron and the point of a diamond;" his considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not best to be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect' opening and shutting of the mouth; his downsitting and uprising, all performed with deliberate forethought; in short, the whole ordering of his life and conversation, which was, after a military fashion, “to the right about face — forward, march.”

3. Now, if you supposed, from all this sternness of exterior, that this good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken. You often find the greenest grass under a snow-drift; and though my uncle's mind was not exactly of the flower-garden kind, still there was an abun. dance of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.

4. It is true he seldom laughed, and never joked himself; but no man had a more serious and weighty conviction of what a joke was in another; and when a witticism 4 was uttered in his presence, you might see his face relax into an expression of solemn satisfaction, and he would took at the author with a sort of quiet wonder, as if it