FEELINGS EXCITED BY A IONG VOYAGE.

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he first comes in sight of Europe. ciatiors in the very name. with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered.

There is a volume of assoIt is the land of promise, teeming

5. From that time until the period of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war that prowled like guardian giants round the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the moldering ruins of an abbey' overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill—all were characteristic of England.

6. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was en abled to come at once at the pier. It was thronged with people; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or rela tives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship belonged. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded to him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to rec'ognize each other.

7. But I particularly noted one young woman of humble dress, but in'teresting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor, who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck, in the shade; but of late his illness had

'Teem'ing, bringing forth in abundance.- Mêr' sey, the river on which Liverpool is situated. Ab' bey, monastery; a residence of

monks or nuns.

so increased that he had taken to his hamn ock,' and orly breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died.

8. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, and so ghastly, that it is no wonder even the eye of affection did not rec'ognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features, it read at once a whōle volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek and stood wringing them in silent agony.

9. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances-the greetings of friends-the consultations of men o business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers—but felt that I was a stranger in the land.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

145. LINES TO A CHILD ON HIS VOYAGE TO FRANCE TO MEET HIS FATHER.

1.

2.

LO, how impatiently upon the tide

The proud ship tosses eager to be free.
Her flag streams wildly, and her fluttering sails
Pant to be on their flight. A few hours more,
And she will move in stately grandeur on,
Cleaving her path majestic through the flood,
As if she were a goddess of the deep.
Oh, 'tis a thought sublime, that man can force
A path upon the waste, can find a way
Where all is trackless, and compel the winds,
Those freest agents of Almighty power,

To lend their untamed wings, and bear him on
To distant climes.

Thou, William, still art young,
And dost not see the wonder. Thou wilt tread
The buoyant deck, and look upon the flood,

1 Håm' mock, a swinging bed. Buoyant (bwai' ant), floating; light, lifted up.

LINES TO A CHILD.

Unconscious of the high sublimity,

As 'twere a common thing-thy soul unaw'd,
Thy childish sports uncheck'd: while thinking man
Shrinks back into himself-himself so mean
'Mid things so vast, and, rapt in deepest awe,
Bends to the might of that mysterious Power,
Who holds the waters in his hand, and guides
The ungovernable winds. 'Tis not in man
To look unmoved upon that heaving waste,
Which, from horizon to horizon spread,
Meets the o'er-arching heavens on every side,
Blending' their hues in distant faintness there.
8. 'Tis wonderful!—and yet, my boy, just such
Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless,2
As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes.
As calm and beautiful. The light of Heaven
Smiles on it, and 'tis deck'd with every hue
Of glory and of joy. Anon, dark clouds
Arise, contending winds of fate go fōrth,
And hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck.

4. And thou must sail upon this sea, a long,

Eventful voyage.

The foolish must.

The wise may suffer wreck,

Oh! then, be early wise!

Learn from the mariner his skillful art

To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threatening storm, and trace a path
'Mid countless dangers, to the destined port
Unerringly secure. Oh! learn from him
To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thy sail from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,
Which, though it trembles as it lowly lies,
Points to the light that changes not, in Heaven.

5. Farewell-Heaven smile propitious on thy course,

2

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'Blend' ing, joining; mingling. Fåth' om less, too deep to be measared; that which can not be understood.- Propitious (pro pish' us), highly favorable to success.

And favoring breezes waft thee to the arms
Of love paternal. Yes, and more than this-
Blest be thy passage o'er the changing sea
Of life; the clouds be few that intercept
The light of joy; the waves roll gently on
Beneath thy bark of hope, and bear thee safe
To meet in peace thine other Father,-GOD.

CHRISTIAN DISCIPLE.

146. CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.

AGAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I can not

the slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or injustice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the opprobrium,' how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning, or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice.

2. Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary3 case. In some respects, it has hardly a precedent anywhere-certainly none in our New England history. An agèd man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly' murder, for mere pay. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet-the first sound slumbers of the night hold him in their soft, but strong embrace.

the

3. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot, he paces lonely hall, half-lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent' of the stairs, and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till it turns on

1 Op pro' bri um, reproach with contempt or disdain; disgrace.—2 Assas sin a' tion, the act of murdering by secret assault, or by sudden violence. Extraordinary (eks trår' de na rf), uncommon; remarkable.— 'Prêc' e dent, something that may serve for a rule in after cases of a like nature; some instance of a like kind.-- Båtch' er ly, cruel; bloody.

CRIME ITS OWN DETECTER.

341

its hinges; and he enters, and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the murderer; and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his agèd temple, showed him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death!

4. It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work; and he yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon.' He even raises the agèd arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over the wounds of the poniard ! To finish the picture, he explores the wrist for the pulse! he feels it, and ascertains that it beats no longer! It is accomplished! The deed is done! He retreats-retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him; the secret is his own, and he is safe!

5. Ah, gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds every thing as in the splendor of noon,— such secrets of guilt are never safe; "murder will out."

6. True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears cătch every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a blaze of discovery.

7. Meantime the guilty soul can not keep its own secret. It is false to itself—or, rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of

1 Bludgeon (blůd' jun), a short stick, with one end loaded, and heavier than the other; a thick stick or club.- Poniard (pon' yard), a small dagger.