thousand times better than a state of suspense. I cannot call my hopelessness by the name of despair. It is rather a cool indifference to every thing; an insensibility to all around. This was now my condition. I laughed, as I remembered the tears which not long ago I had shed, and thought recklessly upon my situation. Sitting in the stern, I coolly took a pipe from my pocket, filled it, deliberately lighted it, and smoked with quite the same nonchalance as though I had been in my own study. The future, the coming morrow, was banished from my thoughts. I remembered no more what had occurred; or, rather, I did not think of it. I gazed calmly and fixedly around me. 'Yet every thing that I saw, even the smallest object that met my eye at that time, has never since been forgotten. The memory of that scene, and all things connected with it, is graven deeply, in burning letters, upon my very soul. I can recall my feelings and actions, and tell, most minutely, the appearance of the whole river, with its quickly-passing shores. Yonder, far up the river, you see a rough crag. Upon it, at that time, were the remnants of an Indian camp. I counted all the poles, and can now tell their exact number. It was about eight o'clock as I passed that crag, and when I came to the place where we now are, and out into the bay, it was ten. up 'Here, a change came over my feelings. The moon, which thus far the clouds had concealed, now appeared, shining brightly, and lighting the whole river with rays of softest glory. The surface of the water was calm and serene, glowing in the reflected rays of the moon, and mirroring the stars that shone around her. The distant banks of the river and shore of the bay were dark in the thick foliage of the trees that covered them, and from them an occasional light gleamed forth brilliantly, shining far over the surface of the water, which already beamed with phosphorescent sparks. How tranquil, how serenely beautiful, was all that I saw! So quiet was the water, that I almost thought the movement of the boat had ceased. I became soothed and affected by the peaceful scene. Tender thoughts came to my mind ; thoughts of home-thoughts of Keenie, who now might watch in vain for my return to the lonely home. How she would expect me, wondering why I remained so long away from her! But this was a subject upon which I did not dare to think. It brought to me the bitterest anguish, and caused burning tears to roll down my cheeks. 'Courage! all may not be lost. I will not yield to unmanly weakness I will hope!' 'Alas! I could not hope! Hope does not come at the command of the will. She arises of herself, and often unexpectedly waves her bright golden wings before the despairing soul. Here, no hope could come: nothing could deliver me from a lingering death! Horrible thoughts came to me: why should I allow myself to die thus slowly? to perish gradually by the keen pangs of starvation, burning with unquenchable thirst? In this still, calm flood I can find a quick termination for my sorrow, a sudden release from misery such as I cannot bear. I leaned over the side, and looked down into the water. How still! how profound the depth! Oh! to slumber there far down within its silent recesses, with these waves flowing mournfully above, ever more! 'Yet I could not, I would not, die. 'No!' I cried; already has my rashness brought me to the portals of death: it shall not now cause me to pass irrevocably over that dismal threshold. I will live, till life itself can hold on no longer!' 'The booming of the distant surf upon the rocky shore sounded a melancholy, dirge-like music in my ears, that echoed in my soul. Such,' thought I, 'will be my requiem, as the flowing and receding tide carries this boat and its lifeless burden backward and forward, up and down. I shall hear it as the last breath departs, and as it gives place to the deep sound of those awful billows which thunder upon the shore of eternity!' 'Oh, how long was that night! The stars twinkled above me; the surf sounded unceasingly. The clouds changed and changed. The moon now was obscured behind them, and, again coming forth, shone with unveiled brightness from the clear sky. And I floated on, tortured by a thousand sad and dismal feelings, by thronging emotions all unutterable. 6 Morning at length came, and with it new miseries. Oh, how long had been the night! How often I had cried, 'Will it never end?' Years seemed crowded into those hours of suffering, which morning ended not. Ended! no other afflictions were yet in store. The sky was clouded, and the atmosphere became moist. Instead of the gentle twinkle of ten thousand stars, there was a dismal canopy of vapor, and where the moon-beams had fallen so beautifully, so soothingly, descended showers of rain. I looked around, and did not know where I was. I was far from the mouth of the river, out on the broad bay of Fundy. On one side, a rocky coast lay many miles distant, and on the other, farther still. But I had drifted farther away than this, for now, I was borne back by the last of the returning tide. Soon, it would begin to ebb, and I would again be carried away. Sick at heart, I found no hope brought by the morning, and I looked back with regret on the calm night. Now, the rain was falling in torrents, the wind was blowing, the waves were beginning to rise. In the distance, the hazy horizon filled me with a new fear for well I knew the fog sign. Yes, the fog, the thick, dreadful fog, was coming, swiftly coming; and all would be covered, all hidden from view. At that time, as though my cup of misery were not yet filled, my eye, roving around, caught sight of a schooner crossing the bay. But it was too far away to be of any assistance. In vain I shouted. In vain my voice shrieked out words wrung from me by the agony of utter despair. Oh! if the fog might but have kept away for a few, but a few hours, I might have been carried nearer, I might have been saved. But this was denied me. Gradually the dismal banks of mist came on, gathering all around, enveloping land, sea, and sky, in their damp, chilly folds. All around and all-above me settled the opaque covering, and no longer could my eyes behold the sky, no longer could my sickening glance descry the distant land. Accumulation of miseries! Gradually had they been heaped upon me; worse and worse had become my fate, hourly more dreadful my situation. There was now nothing to draw my thoughts away from my fate. It came upon me, and confronted me. Death stared at me from the waves that rushed furiously around my frail boat, eager for their prey. It peered through the dismal folds of the veil of fog that enshrouded me on every side. It came laughing amid the gusts of wind that howled over the sea. And, more dreadful, more unutterably horrid than all, the fiend of famine of starvation-glared upon me with his hollow, burning eyes from the boat where he with me had fixed a habitation! Oh, that day! how slowly its hours crawled on! Hunger came upon me, and the weakness of excessive fatigue and exhaustion overpowered me, the one combatting the other. At last, fatigue conquered; and I fell heavily in the bottom of the boat, where I lay long in broken slumber. The rain fell. The waves washed over me, breaking into the boat. Nothing but the most overpowering weakness could have made me sleep so long. A sleep-I cannot call it a sleep. It was continually broken by the rude tossings of the boat at the shock of the waves, and by the horrid dreams that thronged in my vivid fancy. It was no sleep, but a long night-mare. When, late on the following morning, I awoke, I found myself almost incapable of motion, and aching with intense pain. My hunger increased, and, all through the day, gnawed me with its insatiable fangs. I became careless of every thing but the sufferings of starvation. I chewed pieces of wood: I fell on my face in unutterable gratitude, when I snatched a dead fish from the water; thanking Heaven for giving me some cessation to my agony. Thus, through all this day, and again, through another dreary, dismal night, I lay in the boat, sleepless, weak, and miserable. Words cannot describe my sufferings. They are inconceivable. I crawled into the stern, where I gathered myself up, intending to die there. With my knife, I cut my name on the side of the boat, and feebly lay waiting my fate. such as had greeted my ears on the first night. It could not be delayed much longer. One day more, and my soul would have left the worn-out body. I sat there, and thought the fog was not so thick as before. The wind had changed, and was blowing it away. On a sudden, a sound arose; a low, unmistakeable sound, the deep booming of the surf upon a rocky shore. I could not be wrong: land was near! The fog gradually, and, after a time, swiftly departed. I saw a dark cloud, which soon became land. It was not more than a mile away, and I was rapidly approaching it. Oh! how my heart throbbed! As I drifted toward the land, I had the most frantic fears that the tide might turn, and then I watched anxiously, fearfully trembling. The hours of my suspense seemed years. But I was coming nearer and nearer, and now I saw the rough shore; but oh! how sweet it was! how dear in its roughness! I saw log-houses with rocks around them; I saw men cutting stones, piles of which lay around. With a last exertion of strength, I rose up in the boat, and gave a loud cry : "Help! save me!' 'It went across the water. I was heard. I saw the men look up. They saw me. They ran to the shore, entered in a boat, came rowing toward me. They came nearer and nearer-I was saved! 'They carried me to a house, and took care of me. I was feverish and delirious; but after a week or so, I was able to leave. I gave them my warmest blessing — they would not take any thing else—and left. 'I was received by my friends as one raised from the dead. Poor Keenie! as I entered the house, she, all pale and wan, tottered to meet me, and fell fainting in my arms.' SAINT SIMON STYLITES AND THE FLEA. TRADITION affirms that a certain St. SIMON, in the plenitude of his self-mortification, lived, for several years, perched on the top of a pillar, whence he never descended; from which circumstance, he received the affix 'Stylites' to his name. The rest of the acts of this redoubtable saint, lo are they not written in the book of the 'Lives of the Saints,' written by Bishop ALBAN BUTLER ? SAINT SIMON knelt on his pillar of stone, On the top of his pillar, (just three feet wide,) Never a change of raiment had he: Nothing he wore, not even a shirt, Save a brown serge dress, which, the truth to confess, The peasants brought him his dinner of herbs, On the top of his perch, like a scarecrow gaunt, With a pious grace and a solemn face, Though his angular knees were getting sore. Though his knees were sore, and his legs were cramped, Oft his body twitching, for his back was itching, And he durst not scratch it while saying his prayer: For a vow he had made not to lower his arms Till his prayers were done, though he broke his back; And if they descended before he had ended, OLD NICK Would have bundled him off in a crack. Scarce had he got to his fifteenth 'avé' Ere the good Saint's eyes looked squintingly down, 'Sicut erat in principio'- here he groaned; 'Et nunc'here the Saint took the look of a martyr; When he came to 'et semper,' he had nigh lost his temper, And his pious phiz looked like the 'mug' of a Tartar. For, something was crawling up his leg, Till it stopped a little above his knee; Such boarders, in swarms, had been there before; Yet, still his devotions the Saint pursued, For he deemed this attack some fiendish snare; 'Paters' and 'avés,' how fast they flew! Ne'er had he prayed with such speed before; Oft times he closed his fingers and thumb, Determined the blood-thirsty assailant to crush; The prayers were done; and on finger and thumb With finger and thumb on the rascally flea, Saint SIMON Pounced, with a movement quick, Causing a fizzle and scream, and a dense cloud of steam, The 'Old Coon' himself, in his own proper shape, With very long teeth, and a very long tail; A huge pair of horns, hoofs not troubled with corns, With a yell and a kick, he vanished from sight; In the reach of Saint SIMON he dared not to linger; While the good saint could but howl with trouble and pain, MORA L. YE saints of the day, who have 'heard out' my lay, I hope from the story a moral you've learned: Cleveland, O., 1854. J. H. A. Bone. |