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feeling; no matter whether of hope or fear, joy or sorrow, love or hatred, as each in turn may require the co-operation of the whole, or when all, save one, become so paralysed or subordinate in action, that we cease to be under their respective influence. It was thus we stood assembled together on the deck, scarce conscious of each other's presence, all absorbed by one feeling, all intent on one purpose: the sails were left flapping in the wind, and the wind whistled mournfully through the rigging, as if performing a dirge over the departed. At length doubts were entertained whether the heads of the unfortunate seamen were yet to be seen: "I can only see one," exclaimed Captain Dove, who had stationed himself on the mizen rigging, to have a more extensive view, “and the boat is approaching the spot; it is now pulling in a different direction."

"Oh! I fear it's too late," observed Mrs. Glumbs.

"It turns again," continued the captain, "and now stops."

"They have got them, they are taking them into the boat," said one of the

crew.

It was evident they were not pulling, and that some were standing up, but we could not discern their motions distinctly: they resumed their seats, and pulled towards the ship-Captain Dove descended to the deck.

Hope and fear contended for the mastery over us, as the boat approached. We could not see the sufferers, but they were probably at the bottom of the boat, exhausted, perhaps insensible.

"Yes, there is one!" exclaimed Triptolemus, "I see his head!"

"It's Vernon, then, no doubt," said one of the crew; "he is the best swimmer, and poor Wentworth's gone."

The boat came alongside-we looked into it, but no one spoke-the ladies descended mournfully to the cabin: Charles Vernon and Wentworth were not of this life-the hat of the former was all that was found.

"And could you see nothing of them?" inquired Captain Dove, when the crew came on deck. "We saw one of them for some time, but when we got to the spot he had disappeared, and the water was the colour of blood: at that moment we thought we saw him again above water; but it was the back fin of one of the largest sharks I ever beheld, and we afterwards saw three of them."

"Poor fellows!" exclaimed Captain Dove, with emotion; "poor fellows!"

he repeated to himself, as he walked to the opposite gangway. For a few moments he was absorbed in painful reflection, he passed the fingers of his right hand across his eyelids as he resumed his station at the quarter-deck, and he gave orders to make sail, with a dispirited and oppressed heart.

The two sufferers had been employed painting the sides of the ship, and a plank, which formed a moving stage, was suspended overboard by two ropes at the extremities of it, for them to stand on. Vernon had been on deck, and returning to his duty full of life and animation, he jumped with boyish gaiety on the fragile board, and severed it in two.

THE WHALE FISHERY.

IF, among the perilous and adventurous occupations of a sea-life, there is one requiring more energy, activity, skill, courage, and patient endurance than another, it is when man, in a fragile skiff, comparatively a nutshell, defies and attacks in his own element the mighty monarch of the ocean, one of the fiercest and most active of all the finny tribes, the sperm whale. This enormous creature, as much a fish of prey as the shark, measures nearly eighty feet in length, and from thirty to forty in circumference; the head, shaped like a huge box rounded at the corners, and rising a little towards the neck, in some species forming nearly one-third of the whole. The tail, moved with as much facility as the whip of a wagoner, is horizontal, and from eighteen to twenty-four feet in breadth; while a tremendous lower jaw, from twenty-five to thirty in length, thickly studded with conical, curved teeth, ten or twelve inches long, is moved as adroitly as the tail, and both, when running on his side, with a power that would crush a ship, and a noise like thunder. To these irresistible faculties he possesses the agility of the salmon, leaping from the water, and— as the instance of the unfortunate American South-seaman in 1821-falling on the decks of ships with a weight capable of shattering or sinking the largest. This redoubtable animal wars not only with many other fish, but with some of the more peaceable of its own species, pursuing, attacking, and with its long sharp teeth, tearing the flesh from the carcasses of many of the whale-tribe.

The ships employed in this trade to the South Seas sail at all seasons; they require to be in good repair, newly coppered, with three years' provisions of the best quality, and a liberal supply of sails,

rigging, sea-stores, and antiscorbutics, the success of the voyage often depending on their ability to keep at sea.

The coast of Peru and Galapagos Islands were, until lately, the great resort of these fish; but, with a singular instinct, they have abandoned those shores, and taken to the coast of Japan, the Feejee, Navigation Islands, and the Indian Ocean. During the passage out, the crews, from thirty to thirty-five, according to the number of boats in each vessel, are employed in preparing the latter and their gear; for, on entering the trade winds, or even off the Western Islands, sperm whales may be met with. The boats are usually from twenty-three to twenty-eight feet long; sharp at both ends, like a canoe, with six men, five rowers and a steersman, and capable of carrying seven or eight hundred weight of whale-line and other materials. instruments of attack, are the harpoon with a barbed prong, and a lance. Lookouts are placed at the mast-head; and when a fish is seen, it is made known to the deck by the cry of "Town oh!" "Where away?" is the demand, which is answered by denoting the quarter it is

in.

The

The course of the ship is directed towards it, and the boats prepared for lowering; when near, they are off in an instant, and skim the sea with the fleetness of the dolphin. On approaching the fish, great precaution is necessary, generally pulling up in her wake until near, but steering clear of the sweep of the tail until abreast of the shoulder or fin, and then closing, the harpoon is struck before the hump, at the moment, if possible, when the animal is diving, the skin being at that moment more tight. When this is done, the boat is sheered off, clear of the convulsive play of the tail, which is thrown about with great violence, with a tremendous noise, and lashing the sea into a perfect foam. She now either sets off at full speed, or "sounds," that is, goes perpendicularly down. In the former case the boat is towed behind at a tremendous rate, the people sitting perfectly still, as the least motion would risk the loss of the boat and all on board; in the latter, the line must be veered unchecked around the loggerhead, a round piece of wood, ten inches in diameter, fixed in the stern of the boat-this operation requiring much skill, is not the least dangerous. If the fish is large, a signal is made by tossing up an oar or hoisting a flag, when a second boat comes with more line to bend on in case of need. After a time, the animal

comes again to the surface, blowing and spouting up the water many yards, which at a distance looks like smoke. A fresh attack is now made, the boat already fast hauling alongside, and with a lance nine feet in length, including pole, commencing to probe her between the ribs. after each thrust withdrawing the instrument. She now begins to spout blood; the water, and sometimes the men and boats, being covered with it, all the time cutting or dipping her tail, to the great danger of the boats, which require much management to keep them clear. the last convulsive agonies, she runs round on her side in a circle, clashing her lower jaw, and shortly after turns up, and generally dies with her head towards the sun. She is then towed alongside, secured, and the ceremony of cutting-in is commenced.

MARTIN WERNER.

A SKETCH.

In

THE shades of evening were beginning to creep darkly over the surrounding objects, ere Martin Werner laid down his brushes and palette. His easel was placed so as to catch every ray of light from the solitary window that illuminated the room in which he sat. He had been working all the day to finish his picture, and it was with a heavy sigh that he now desisted. But the sigh was not one of despair, for his nature was sanguine, and there was a buoyancy in his soul that had never yet deserted him. This might have resulted from the consciousness of a genius that must either at the present or a future time, find its reward in the applause of thousands; or it might be only the light-heartedness of youth and health. But certainly, to look at himself and his abode, most persons would have said that Martin Werner had great cause for melancholy. The apartment was large and cold, but he consoled himself by saying that he could not complain of having no room to work in; and though the window would not open to admit air as well as the yellowish light by which the painter worked, yet draughts poured in from every direction, which, he said, kept up a constant circulation of fresh air. No fire cast a cheerful glow over the desolate region, and the corner opposite to the empty grate was occupied by a lowly bed, beside which stood a large chest, containing the painter's wardrobe. Martin Werner had laid aside his colours, and was carefully searching for something that lay at the bottom of this chest.

At

length, he dragged forth the object, and proceeded to the window to examine its contents. It was a leathern purse, and from it he drew--carefully wrapped in paper to preserve its lustre a shining coin. In a happier hour he had been attracted by its brightness, and had determined never to part with it. But now the hand of stern necessity was held forth; he had tasted no food all day. He gazed upon it, and, for a moment, a tear dimmed his eye; for it recalled distinctly his mother, in her distant home; his brothers, tossing on the fickle and deceitful waves; and his sisters, even now, perhaps, thinking how their brother's pictures would be admired and gazed at in the great city. The whole course of his life passed as in a dream before him. Again he was in the cottage home which had sheltered his infancy; again he heard the shouts of the happy urchins who had been his playmates; again he wandered from them, and stood alone with nature-the blue vault above and the lovely earth beneath; he heard the gurgling of the thousand streamlets the roar of the distant ocean-the songs of the wild birds-and high overhead the lark, the sweetest songster of them all, sending forth its notes, distinct and clear.

"I cannot part with it," he said, unconsciously aloud; "surely such a dream of happiness is worth starving for. Besides, my picture will be finished tomorrow, and I can wait till then.”

With this heroic resolution he replaced his treasure; and folding his arms, he stood at the window, whistling one of the plaintive little airs of his country. Group on group of chimneys, of all shapes and sizes, formed the most prominent feature in the landscape before him; and houses, with flat roofs and steep roofs, a strange heterogeneous mass of buildings, through which the eye in vain wandered for some pleasing object on which to rest. Among them, however, our artist's imagination went to work. Lofty domes and stately palaces arose at the waving of the magic wand of his fancy-forms of beauty and lovelinesss, wandering amid gardens of luxury and delight, while angel messengers bore peace and happiness to their solitude. From these visions of bliss he turned to the destruction of worlds and empires, and the awful depths of the infernal regions-the gigantic billows overhanging the shuddering group of devoted wretches collected on a rock during the great deluge, or the conflagration of majestic cities, doomed by the will of heaven to destruction.

Again his dreams were painfully interrupted by the pangs of hunger; he thought that sleep might lull him into insensibility to them, and stretched himself on his bed. But sleep came not; and, after tossing about for some time, he started up and sought, through several streets, the shop of a baker. One he at last espied, and hastily entered. The shopkeeper cast a suspicious eye upon his customer; for his clothes were not so new as they had been, and were, besides, covered with divers spots and patches of paint, which did not, by any means, add to the gentility of his appearance. Our artist demanded a loaf, in payment whereof he laid down his last bright coin. The baker took it, scrutinized it, turned it over and over, then dashed it violently against the board, and declared it a counterfeit.

"A counterfeit," exclaimed the painter, dismally. But fearing that his tone and look might betray his circumstances, he added carelessly, at the same time laying down the coveted loaf, "well, it's of no consequence; I don't happen to have another with me now: good night, sir."

Affecting an independent swagger, he left the shop, and hastened down the street; but, had he looked back, he would have seen the sharp face of the baker peering after him, as he muttered to himself, "You don't happen to have any more with you, sir, now? Ay, ay, you're a pretty scamp, I warrant you; and I shall look twice at your money if ever you come to my shop again."

Martin Werner hastened home. Till that hour he had not known absolute want, and even his buoyant spirits threatened to desert him at the approach of grim penury. Once more he ransacked his chest, for in one corner he remembered to have seen a crust. He found it; it was mouldy, and covered with dust; but he shook that off, and ate it with a keen relish; then got into bed, and slept more soundly than he who had supped upon all the delicacies that wealth could pro

cure.

The morning sun was shining brightly upon him, through the window, when he awoke. He leaped from his bed, exclaiming, as he hastily dressed himself, "The crisis of my adversity is past! The sun shines gaily on my morning's work; I will take it for an omen — a prognostic of brighter days to come!"

Under these favourable auspices he finished his picture; and we need not tell how rapidly he rose to fame.

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CARDINAL PETRALIA, a Sicilian by birth, and a Franciscan, had for a long course of years inhabited the convent of Saint Francis of Assisi. Although a prince of the church, and high penitentiary, high casuist, and first confessor of Christianity, he led the life of a monk. A cell, furnished with all the severity of the order, and an apartment equally simple, composed all his rooms. He was as the good angel of the Trastenerins, so liberally his hand scattered its bounties amongst them; and the holiness of his life was proverbial.

But his fame was not confined to such narrow limits; it extended beyond the walls of Rome. The rumour of his vast acquirements and great piety had spread so far, that the highest personages, even kings, every day consulted him upon difficult questions of morality and Christian discipline. A judge supreme, and

Page 395.

without appeal in all cases of conscience in Catholicism, his decrees had the strength of laws, and were received every where as oracles inspired by God.

His

Emulous to have so great a saint for confessor, sovereigns had often, though unavailingly, invited him to their courts; but he invariably declined the direction of royal consciences, saying with Jesus, that he was sent only to the lowly. profound humility but increased his renown, and his glory beamed from the depth of the obscure Trastenerin convent, like the sun from the height of heaven, to spread over both worlds.

The cardinal had the high square forehead, black deep-set eyes, strait nose, and perfectly oval face, with that dignity of exterior, indicating the Greek or Sicilian origin; for Sicily is the offspring of Greece, and despite invasions, and foreign conquests, has preserved herself more Greek, perhaps, than the mother country. His beard and hair were white, his eye-brows retained their sable hue, which rare phenomenon imprinted on his physiognomy a singular character of strength and energy.

This was not, however, its habitual expression. In repose, his countenance

had a tranquillity, a seraphic quietude; his features had even an oriental power of immobility, recalling by its permanence the ecstatic contemplations of the Chinese bonze and Indian faquir. Perhaps an eye skilled in the analysis of the human countenance, might have read many hidden things on that inert and passive face: for, furrowed less by years than thought, his wrinkles seemed to tell that griefs and conflicts had been known to his deep and unfathomable spirit. But common observers see not so much. Tall and well formed, his long monastic robe still increased the imposing dignity of his bland and placid appearance.

Such was the individual who now pursued his way to the Marian Mount, whither he had invited to a private conference Anselm, a young Roman, of exceeding popularity amongst the lower orders. When the cardinal reached the appointed place of meeting, Anselin was already there.

"You are," said the cardinal to him at once, without prefatory observations, "the individual whom I most esteem in the world: the confidence I am going to place in you, will prove this better than any protestations. It is the story of my life that I am going to relate. I shall lay my heart bare before you, and reveal things which no eye has penetrated, no ear heard, and which my lips will pronounce to-day for the first and last time; bosom secrets, which have slumbered in my soul for forty years. Listen to me, then: I ask but one favour; it is that you will not interrupt me. This is no discussion, it is a narrative; and to make it, I have need of your passive attention, and all my own self-collection."

Seated on the mountain turf, Anselm was mute with surprise and attention. The cardinal collected himself for a moment, as if to gather strength to accomplish his energetic resolution; he rose, and paced beneath the cypress with hurried tread, then tranquillized, reseated himself by the side of Anselm, and commenced as follows, with a strong and distinct voice.

"You know that I am a Sicilian, but you do not know that I am the bastard of a valet. Born in shame and obscurity, I was educated in a Foundling Hospital. I shall not recal my early days; I remember only that I was accused of obstinacy and passion, and was beaten, and that I was reared with contempt and brutality, with the rest of my companions in misfortune. At sixteen I was made a valet. I lived two years with a noble

man of Palermo, where my office was to stand at table behind his chair, and in the street behind his carriage. Quarrelsome, insubordinate, and a gambler, for two years I lived the degrading life of the ante-chamber. At length, for some conduct displeasing to the major-domo of the mansion, whose favourite I had ingratiated myself with, I was ignominiously driven from the house.

“Behold me then at eighteen years of age, alone in the world, pacing the street with ten ducats in my pocket. I had a taste for the romantic, and was fluent of speech; I became a comedian. The young head of a wretched strolling company, I wandered two years through Sicily, acting plays in barns and taverns. Weary of this life, I entered into a regiment garrisoned at Syracuse. The barracks were intolerable to me, and at the expiration of three months I deserted, to escape the degradation of corporal punish

ment.

"I fled to a distance, and remained for six months concealed in the barren mountains of Madonia, sleeping on trees and in caves, and living upon wild fruits, and milk stolen at night from the cattle in the folds.

"Solitude led me to reflection. My wandering life became more insupportable to me as winter approached, and with it snow, rain, and hunger.

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Disgusted with thus vagabondizing amongst the mountains, I began seriously to think of returning to the cities, and again filling some social situation.

"Oh! many times, when from the heights of the Madonian, I saw some distant steeple glittering beneath, did I bitterly exclaim, was there then no room for me in those brilliant cities? Was I banished from the family of humanity? I felt the secret workings of those unknown germs that required for their development the fertilizing sun of society.

"Solitude was hateful to me. I wandered for whole days amongst the rocks and forests, braving a thousand times dangers and suprises, to see, were it only at a distance, the face of a man. An irresistible impulse impelled me to the world; and when dread of the punishment that awaited me, and horror of the galleys drove me back to the desert, the return to myself was frightful; in my melancholy I could have cursed heaven and earth; in my despair I was ready to throw myself from the precipices.

"If I resisted these impulses to suicide, that seemed to court me from the depth of the abyss, it was neither from religion

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