save his trowsers, displaying to view his short, but amazingly muscular, form. His hair was dripping with water, and he was urging with voice and action those who were engaged in the arduous task of launching the life-boat, and who, he either fancied, or they really were, backward in their exertions.

"Auld as I am, I'll be the first to man her," exclaimed he; and was proceeding to put his words into execution, when I caught his arm and pulled him back.

"For God's sake, Phillips, consider your wife; and do not unnecessarily expose yourself to danger."

"Consider my wife!" exclaimed he, with a bitter smile, and shaking me roughly off; "Can I consider anything, when the Bonny Bess is going fast to pieces, and my two boys are there to share her fate." As he spoke the last words, he rushed desperately into the surf.

"For Heaven's sake," said I, addressing the crowd, "do not allow him to go. Think upon his poor wife, and that, in all probability, he will, in future, be her only support.

My appeal had the desired effect, and old Phillips was held back by main force. In the meantime the life-boat was manned, and launched by the exertions of the stout seamen assembled to render assistance to their unfortunate brethren. Vain, however, were their efforts, for the violence of the waves defied the utmost power of the rowers, and they were driven back upon the shore. Three times with desperate courage did they brave the fury of the elements, and three times were they compelled to retire from mere physical exhaustion. Undismayed, however, they were preparing for a fourth attempt, when it was discovered that the boat had sustained so much injury as to render her totally unfit for service: all hope was lost, and the fate of the unfortunate crew seemed decided.

"Hark! what sound is that?" inquired a person in the crowd, as a shrill scream of anguish, gradually subsiding into a wailing cry, was born upon the storm-blast; and was clearly audible amidst the hoarse roaring of the waves, from the difference of the key.

"It is the evil spirit of the storm," said another, looking fearfully about him.

"To ye're hames-To ye're hames, ye men of Sunderland," exclaimed a tall meagre old woman, attired in the gypsy style, elbowing her way through the press."To ye're hames all of ye. It is the cry of the night hag riding o'th' wind-ye can do nae mair for thae poor fated souls in the ship, sae gang awa, or ye may cum under the blight and curse o'an awsome spirit."

The boldest hearts for a moment shrunk under the influence of superstition; all stood in inactivity, and some were already stealing off, when a tall athletic man bursting from the crowd, exclaimed, "Foul fall ye a' for cowards, an ye listen to auld wives' tales in sic an hour as this. The vessel hae parted, and it is the cry of the drowning mariners that ye hear, and makes yere white livers quake-it is the death-shriek of yere own towns-folk-yere own fathers and brithers.-There! hark! 'tis there again!" At this moment a terrific blaze of lightning illumined the surface of the water for nearly a minute. "See," continued he, "there's something floating towards land—there! now it's lost again-by heaven it's a man-I see it now on the brink of that huge wave-quick lads, fasten a rope round me, for by G-d, Jack Smithson will either bring that man ashore, or stay there to keep him company.'

I surveyed the speaker attentively, as he threw off his jacket and shirt, previous to making his daring attempt, and never remember to have seen a finer or more symmetrical figure. The breadth of his shoulders and chest, might well have formed a model for an Hercules, and the contour of the lower parts of his frame seemed, through his loose seamen's trowsers, to be in perfect keeping with the massy proportions of the

upper.

There was, however, but little time for observation, as the adventurous sailor, passing the end of a rope round his waist, dashed into the surf, and was in a moment lost to sight. Anxiety and suspense were expressed in the countenances of all, as, leaning forward, they eagerly watched for some trace of re-appearance. Soon was he

seen buffeting the waves with almost superhuman strength, and straining every nerve to reach a dark speck which was now and then discernable on the foaming waters. But, amid the assembled mass of spectators, no one watched the dangerous progress of this brave fellow with such intense anxiety as old Phillips. I could perceive every muscle in his frame compressed and tightened, as with clenched hands he endeavoured to trace Smithson's terrible career. At length worked up almost to phrenzy, he strove to release himself from the young men who still held him fast, in order to hinder the commission of any rash act.

"Hands off, ye dogs," exclaimed he, infuriated by resistance, and grasping violently an arm of each, "am I to see my boys perish before my auld eyes, and not do all I can to save them? and Smithson too-brave Smithson, the canniest lad in all Sunderland!"

'Every thing has been done that can be, Mr. Phillips," said I, endeavouring to soothe him," and you will only heap calamity on calamity, by exposing your life at this juncture."

"Life!" exclaimed he; "what's the life of a rotten old hulk like me, to those of the finest lads all Durham can boast of? Off ye lubbers, I tell ye, and let me go." With much difficulty I persuaded the old man to rest quiet, and await patiently whatever event it might please Providence to award.

Meanwhile the intrepid Smithson was borne from billow to billow with frightful velocity at one time he would be completely overwhelmed, then, with the most strenuous exertion, he would again arise above water, at which loud cheers broke from the spectators, who waved their torches and endeavoured to inspire them with their Huzzas!' At length he proceeded beyond where the light extended, and became lost to view. In the course of a short time afterwards, a shout from another part of the shore drew general attention to the spot. I was foremost in the rush that took place, and arrived in time to behold Smithson extricated from the surf by the assistance of his comrades, bearing the motionless form of a young man in his arms. No sooner had his feet touched the land than he fell forwards completely exhausted. The bystanders now divided their attention between the two. One party took up the gallant Smithson, and conveyed him towards the nearest public-house, while another was per forming the same office for the apparently lifeless body which he had brought to shore, when they were interrupted by Phillips, who rushing between them, caught up the corpse in his arms, exclaiming, "It is he-it is my boy, my George."

I never heard the old man speak after this. He was removed from the remains of his son in a state of stupor, and they were conveyed to an adjacent alehouse where every means were used for resuscitation, but without effect. The soul was in the hands of the Redeemer.

Such is the uncertainty of human life-such is the vanity of human expectationssuch is the fallacy of human forethought and human wisdom. Here we are to-day in the enjoyment of life and its benefits, without reflecting on the bountiful source from whence all things are derived, thinking of nothing so little as of the power that bestows blessings and gives us faculties to enjoy those blessings-of nothing less than the time when we shall be summoned to render an account of the manner in which we have used the gifts of Providence. But suddenly the fiat goes forth-the philosopher is surprised in the midst of his air-drawn speculations. The Deist and the Unbeliever are confronted with the Redeemer of mankind, and each, when it is too late, is convinced of the vanity of human wisdom, the shallowness of human penetration, and of the necessity of being prepared.

The humane endeavours of the people were attended with better success in the case of Smithson, who was soon recovered, and I had the satisfaction of seeing this noble fellow able to walk to his own habitation, though the surgeon judged it advisable that he should remain confined for some days to recruit his strength.

I returned home full of melancholy feelings excited by the afflicting scenes of the last few hours, and judging it indelicate to intrude upon the distrest old man and his wife, I sealed up my little arrear of rent, and committing it to the charge of the servant, I packed up my few moveables, and quitted the house nearly as sorrowful and downcast as if I had been an actual sufferer.

In my way to the inn, I learned that the bodies of the most of the crew of the Bonny Bess had been washed ashore, and, amongst them, that of the unfortunate Phillips' younger son.

Not a single individual was saved!

When the first excitation of my feeling had in some degree subsided, I began to ruminate upon the singular circumstance attending the tragical incident I have eudeavoured to relate. How extraordinary, thought I, that the old captain, who, for five and thirty years had never missed a voyage, should all at once become determined against accompanying his vessel on this ill-starred occasion, without any external or apparent cause. The weather was more than commonly favourable-his health was excellent-and there was no business of a pressing nature to induce him to remain at home-there was no presentiment of danger in his mind, for Mr. Phillips was not of a nature to encourage such a feeling, and, moreover, he would have been as chary of his son's safety as of his own; he was also more than ordinarily in good spirits. He could assign no reason for his determination, nor could he describe any particular feeling that prompted him to form such a resolution. However, in spite of raillery and remonstrance, he was firm and decisive to remain on shore during this voyage. He did so, and not many hours afterwards the catastrophe just recorded occurred.

In vain I racked my brains to assign a cause for this extraordinary occurrence. It seemed beyond the power of human investigation, and I could but set it down as one of those mysterious dispensations of Providence, the obscurity of which we seek in vain to dispel.

J. W.

ACROSTIC.

Written on the Death of the Infant Son of G. M. THOMASON, of the Ashton

in-Mackerfield District.

How blest art thou, to quit this scene of care,
Ere sin had clutch'd thee in its iron fang;
Nor doomed long in human woes to share,
Redeem'd and free'd from every bitter pang.

Yielding thyself into the arms of death,
To pass the bounds of thy existence here;
How thy fleet spirit with thy latest breath,
Outstripp'd the wind to meet th' angelic cheer.

May the remembrance of thy infant form,
Around thy parents shed a heav'nly beam;
So that when buffeting the world's rude storm,
On their drear course may quaff religion's stream,
No sin intruding on their life's brief dream.

Cumberland Lodge, Manchester, May, 1836.

}

EDWARD CHEW, JUNR.

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY.

'Tis now eight years since Hymen's silken bands,
Were twin'd, my sister, round thy willing hands;
And though successive years have roll'd away,
Yet love still burns with undiminish'd ray.
When at the sacred shrine he saw you bow,
And heard delighted the responsive vow;

May heaven, he cried, but grant me this request,-
Oh! may I live the inmate of each breast;
Let fortune exercise tyrannic pow'r,

And fate upon them her dread fury pour :
Yet, still by me, and with each other blest,
They'll rise superior to the stern behest.

'Twas heard above, though through life's chequered scene
Unnumber'd sorrows oft would intervene ;

Though cruel death, with keen relentless hand,
Has pierced in every part our social band ;--
Though o'er a mother's grave we've shed the tear,
And mourn'd o'er infant innocency's bier,-
Though pain, in every shape, thy frame assail'd,
Though fortune frowned, and hope's delusions fail'd
Yet, still content, her roseate wreath would throw,
And love, with rapture, place it on thy brow
And, though ere while the fates divide the thread,
And I be number'd with the nameless dead;
O'er thee may heav'n its choicest blessings pour,

And virtue guard thee in each trying hour.

And though from all that's dear, you too must sever,
The love you cherish shall endure for ever.

Ormskirk, February, 1836.

DELIA.

VERSES

Written on the Death of P. Prov. G. M. JOHN RUTTER, of the Faith Lodge.
Bradford, a gentleman universally and deservedly respected.

Though no towering monument's raised to thy glory,
Nor rich scuptur'd marble o'ershadows thy tomb;
Thy virtues still shine, and thy councils respected,
Thy mem'ry's cherish'd, and lamented thy doom.

As brothers for many long years we have known thee.
And looked up to thee as our guide and our head;
Thy intelligent mind will never more cheer us,
Our Order will mourn that a father is dead.

An Odd Fellow in heart, its principles cherish'd,
The Lodge was thy home, and its welfare thy pride;
Nor can envy say that thy post was neglected,
When affliction or sorrow call'd thee to its side.

In the world thou wast upright, honest, and tender,

Thy hands brought thee plenty, thy mind too was peace;
Thy heart always open to relieve the distressed,
And yielding thy bounty thy store did increase.

In friendship's dear circles most fervently loved,

An affectionate husband, father and friend;

An Odd Fellow, Christian, what more need I give thee?

So peaceful thy days, and glorious thy end.

Though removed from our view we will not mourn o'er thee,
Thy spirit has soar'd to the birth-place of love;

Where we hope to receive thy heavenly greeting,
On meeting again in the Grand Lodge above.

Benevolence Lodge, Bradford, 1836.

VOL. 4-No. 3-R.

WM. K. AKAM.

TO A VIOLET.

I would not crush thee, beauteous flower,
Scenting with od'rous breath the vale;
Or with rude hand in wanton hour,

Thy lowly silken form assail.

I wonld not mar thee, tender flower,
Just budding forth in beauty's glow;
Ere long, perhaps, a with'ring hour,
Will lay thee, modest flow'ret, low.

With tinted leaves, and slender form,
Adorning Spring's young vernal wreath ;
But ah! unshelter'd in the storm,

Too soon wilt fade, and droop in death!

Yes, thou, sweet, lowly, purple flower,
Art but a type of man's decay;
For Death's unerring ruthless power,
May smite me ere another day!

Chorlton-upon-Medlock, April, 1836.

GEORGE RICHARDSON.

LETTERS FROM A RAMBLER.

BY GEO. P. JENNINGS, OF THE CUMBERLAND LODGE.

No. 3.

Dear L

Guernsey, August, 183-.

You will perceive by the date of this that I have changed my temporary abobe, and shall endeavour to bring the scenes of another part before you; but as there are some traits in the Jersey character which I have not yet noticed, I shall therewith commence this epistle :

One of the greatest characteristics of the inhabitants of Jersey is industry. They may be said to be, in all respects, a hard-working people, and the constant inclination to make the most of time is observable among all ranks of the native population. It is no uncommon thing to see a group of women going to market, carrying their vegetables and other articles of traffic on their heads, or fastened on their shoulders, in such a manner as to leave their hands unembarrassed, and busily employed with the knitting-needle, nor do they neglect it when sitting in the market-place with their goods: I have even seen women knitting as they rode on horseback.

I cannot refrain from giving you a sketch of a Jersey Farm-house and its inmates, and you must take it as a pretty correct sample of the entire class :-A green shady lane branches from one of the principal roads, and terminates at a high wooden gate, flanked by two granite pillars overgrown with moss.-The gate opens into a yard paved with pebbles on one side stands the Farm-house, built of stone, solid and durable in its structure, and roofed with tile or sometimes thatch; on the other side stand the barn, cyder-press, hay-stacks, &c.; the front of the house is generally partly covered with a vine, which are as common here as woodbine, creeping over cottage doors, is in England. In the interior arrangement all the houses of the old school are similar: the front door opens into a passage which extends through the house, and opens to the back, on the sides of which are situated the parlour, kitchen, and other rooms. The food of the country people is very different from that of the same class in England.— Upon entering such a house as I have described, about the hour of noon, is next to a certainty that you would find a good fire composed of "vraie” and a few faggots, boiling the kettle of soup, which is the staple diet;-this soup, called soupe à la graisse, is made by boiling together cabbage, lard and potatoes, with sometimes (though rarely) a little meat. This soup, is to the Jerseyman, what bacon