; om | involved in both)‘

ae

”

‘Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave.

_ LITERATURE,

# ~~ Pi Lt Pee THE SABBATH OF THE YEAR. 5 oninan When comes the Sabbath of the Year, Tis eweet in woodland paths to stray, Ere vet the foliawe, flattering sere, ‘ is swept to damp decay 4 To wnse in Nature's quiet halls, Where. like a saint, she stands at pray While solemn thonght the soul enthrals, ‘ And we her rapture share r Phe streams that all the Summer long ; Sang iyrics loud in careless glee, Glide onward with a soberer song, ‘

A tenderer melody

Thev hash their voices to a hymn, Sabdaed and soft, though echoing c'ear

Througt: woodland aisles and arch ways din, The ve spers of the year

Though the winged choir afar has flown, Yet now the West winds breathing seevis

Like the religious organ’s tone,

Or music heard in dreams

Up lightly from upaumbered rills,

r

‘ur spreading tloate a vapour gray ' s t 2%

Like incen

Where thousands kneel to pray.

se that some temple fills

The rustling of the leaves aloft

Wien the bland breeze the branches st

8, Is like the murmuring low and soft of

myriad wors

The lingering wild-flowers blooming fair

wz of the frost of death,

Sead apward, like auuttered prayer,

Thongh drean

Lhe fragrance of their breath

Like friars, the aged trees around Seem telling beads in fitfal prayer, Whene'er a dry leaf to the ground

D’rops through the misty air

We feela presence undefined, As We cateh their vague words on the We |!

ia Of @pIritaal things ;

nd

wi

ear them wave their wings

Yea, all we feel, and see, and hear, Te serious mood the seul compels, As when there falls upon the ear

rhe sound of Sabbath bells

If thou art wearied with the jar.

The dust, the noise, the fret of life,

And thou wouldst only bear from far

7 I

The tumult of the strife—

When comes the Sabbath of the year, Witi

thin the wild-woed enter thou Cares from thy heart shall disappear,

The shadows from thy brow

in that wide fane not reared by hands, Shall blessings unto thee be given, As porr apon the parched sands The welcome showers from Heaven.

And thon shalt know that it was good, Listening, to join in Nature's prayer, And, wandering in the solitade, Her silent rapture share.

MAN

“ee

THE OLD AND THE CHILDREN.

Spring was busy in the woodlands, Climbing op from peak to peak,

As an old man sat and brooded, With a flash upon his cheek.

Many years press’d hard upon him, And his living friends were few,

And from oat the sombre future Troutles drifted into view.

There is something moves one strangely In old rnins grey with years;

Yet there's something far more touching In an old face wet with tears.

And he sat here, sadly sighing U'er his feebleness and wrongs, Thongh the birds outside his window Salk'd of samwmer in their songs!

Bat, beheld, a change comes o’er him : Where are al! his sorrows now ?

Could they leave his heart as quickly As the gloom cloud left his brow ?

Up to the green shade of his garden, Past the dial, he saw run

Three young yirls, with bright eyes shini ig, Like their brown heads in the sun.

There was Fanny, famed for wisdom ; And fair Alice, famed for pride ; And one that could say ‘ Uncle,’ And said little else beside.

Then they took him from his study. Through long lanes and tangled bowers, Out into the shaded valleys, Richly tinted o'er with flowers.

And he bless'd their merry voices Singing round him as he went,

For the sight of their wild gladness Filled his own heart with content.

And that vight, there came about him Far-off meadows pictured fair,

And old woods in which he wandered, Ere he knew the name of care ;

And he said, ‘ These angel-faces Take the whiteness from one’s hair!’

DAYS

oe

GONE BY.

Though we charge to-day with fleetness. Though we dread to-morrow’s sky, There's a melancholy sweetness Iu the fame of days gone by.

Yes, thoagh time has laid his finger On them, still with streaming eye,

There are spots where I can linger Sacred to the days gone by.

Oft as memory’s glance is ranging Over seenes that cannot die,

Then I feel that all is changing, Then I weep the days gone by.

Sorrowful should I be and lonely, Were not all the same us I,

‘Tie for all, »ot my lot only, To lamen* the days gone by.

Cease, fond heart ,—to thee are given flepee of better things on high,

There is still a coming Heaven Brighter than the days gone by !

Faith lifte off the sable curtain Hiding huge eternity,

Hope accounts the prize as certain, And forgets the days gone by.

Love in grateful adoration Bids distrust and sorrow fly, And with giad anticipation Calme regrets for days gone by.

+ om ++ oe

THE VOLUNTEER COUNSEL.

A THRILLING STORY.

Jduhe Taylor was licensed, when a youth of twenty-one, to practise at the bar. was poor, but well educated, and possessed extravrdinary genius. Ue married a b sauty, who afterward deserted him for another.

On the 9rh of April, 1810, the court house in Clarksville, Texsa, was crowded tw over- flowing. An exciting cass was abvut to be tried. George Hopkins, a wealthy pianter, had offered a gross insult to Mary Ellison, the young and beautiful wife of his overseer ‘he busband threatened to chastise bim for the outrage. when Hopkins went to Ellison's houses and shot him in his own door. The

murderer waa arrested, and bailed two answer!

theeharge. This occurrence produce great e@eitement, and Hopkins, in order to turn the tide of popular icaaeea bad circulated Pepurte against her character, and sie had eaed hom for siander. Both suits were pend- ing—for murder and slander.

The interest beer me deeper when it was known that Ashley and Pike, of Arkansas | and 5.58 Prentiss, of New Orleans, by enor- mous fees, bad been retained to ‘defend

¥

jever and anon he flung his long and bony

| palling colors that in comparison heil itself |

| And then fixing both purtratts on the shrink- jing Llopkins fastened them there forever.

He |

Hopkins was acquitted. The Texas law- yers were Ove rwheimmed by their opponeats it was a fight of a dwart aguinst giants.

Ihe slander suit was for the 9tn, and the throng of spectators grew in nurabers as well as excitement. Public opinion was setting in for Hopkins; bis money had procured witnesses who served bis powerful advocates. When the slander ease was called, Mary El- lison was left without an atturney—ali bad withdrawn. ‘* Have you no cuunsel?’’ in- quired Judge Mills, looking kindly at the plasouff. ‘+ No, sir; they bave all deserted me, and | am tov pour to employ any more, replied the beaa.itul Mary, bursting inte tears.

‘+ in such a case, will not some chivalrous member of the profession volunteer ?’’ said the Judge, glancing round at the bar.

[ne toirty lawyers were silent.

++ | will, your wonor,’” said a voice from the thickest part ol the crowd, behind the bar.

At the sound of that voice many started —t) was so unearthly, sweet and mournful

The first sensation Was changed into laughter when # tall, gaunt, spectral figure eibowed tis way through the crowd, and placed himself within the box. Hos clothes ivoked sv shabby thet the court hesitated tu let the case proceed ander his management

** Lias your bame Deen entered on the rolls of the State ?°’ demanded the Judge.

«+ Lt is immaterial,” answered the stranger, his thin, bloodless lips curling up witha sneer. ** Here is my license trom the highest tribunal in America!’’ and he handed the Judge a broad parchment. The trial went on

He suffered the witnesses to tell their own story, aud he allowed the deience to lead off Ashley spoke first, followed by Pike and Pren- uss. Tue latter brought the boase down in cheers, in which the jury J ined.

lt was now the stranger s turn. Ile rises before the bar, not betund it, and 80 near the wondering jury that be might touch the foreman with bis long, bony finger. He pro- ceeded to tear to peices the arguments of Ashley, which melted away at his touch like

| frost before a sunbeam; every one looked |surprised. Anon becawe to the dazzling wit tue poetlawyer, Pike. Then the curl of his lip grew sharper, his smooth face began to kindle up, and his eyes to open, dim and dreary no longer, but vivid as lightning, red as fire globes, and giaring as twin meteors The whole soul was in theeye ; the full heart streamed out of his face. Then, without be- stowing an allusion to Prentiss, he turned | short round onthe perjured witnesses o! Ulopkins, tore their testimony into shreds, and hurled in their faces such terrible invec- tives that all trembled like aspens, and two of them fled from the court-house. The ex- citement of the crowd was becoming tremen- dous. Their united life and soul seemed to hang upon the burning tongue of the stranger, and be inspired them with the power of bis passions. Ile seemed to have stolen nature’s | lung hidden secret of attraction. But bis greatest triumph was to come.

His eyes began to glance at the assassin. Hopkins, as bis lean, taper fingers assumed the same direction. He hemmed the wretch | with a wall of strong evidence and impreg- nable argument,cutting off all hope of eseape. He dug beneath the murderer's feeta dilemma, and held up the slanderer to the scorn and contempt of the populace. Llaving thus girt him about with a circle of fire, he stripped himself to the work of massacre.

Ob! then it was a vision both glorious and dreactul to behoid the orator. His actions became as Im petuous as the motion of an oak ina hurricane. His yotce became a trum- pet filled with wild whirlpools, deafening the ear with the crashes of puwer, and yet inter- mingled all the while with a sweet under- sung of the softest cadence. His forehead glowed like a heated furnace, his counten- ance was haggard like that of a maniac, and

arms on high, as if grasping alter thunder- bults.

He drew a picture of murder in such ap-| |

|

might seem beautiful ; he painted the slan-

noonday, when shining on such @ monster. |

Tne agitation of the audience amvuunted almost to madness.

All at once the speaker descended from his perilous height. His voice wailed out for the murder, dead and living—the beautiful Mary, more beautiful every moment as her tears flowed faster—till men wept and sob-

| bed liked chiidren.

He closed by a strange exhortation to the | jury. and through them to the bystanders: he advised the panel, after they should bring in a verdict for the plaintiff, not to offer viu- lence to the defendant, however richly be| | might deserve it ; inother words ** not to lynch | the villain, but leave his punishment wi b God.”’ This was the most artful trick of ail,

and best calculated to insure vengeance.

The jury returned a verdict of fifty thou- sand dullars ; and the night afterwards Hop- kins was taken out of bed by lyncuers, und beaten almost to death.

oF

THE GHOST-RAISER.

oe | My Uncle Beagley, who commenced his | commercial career very early in the present | | century a bagman, will tell stories. Among | | them he tells bis single ghost story so often, | that | am heartily tired of it. ‘In self-de-| | fence, therefore, I publish the tale in order! that when next the good, kind old gentleman | offers to bore us with it, everybody may say | | they know it. L remember every word of it. | Une fine autumn evening, about forty years ;ago, L was travelling on horseback from | Shrewsbury to Chester. I felt tolerably tired, and was beginning to look out fur some snug Way-side inn, where | might pass the! | night, when a sudden and violent thunder- | storm came on. My horse, terrified by the! lightoing, fairly tovk the bridle between his teeth, and started off with me at full gallop | through Janes and cross-roads antil at length | | | managed to pall him up just near the door of a neat-looking country inn. * Well,’ thought I, ‘there wes wit in | your madness, old boy, since it brought us to} | this comfortable refuge.’’ And alighting, |! 1 gave hin ip charge to a stout farmer's boy) who acted as hostler. The inn-kitchen, | which was also the guest-roum, was large. | clean, neat, and comfortable, very like the | pleasant hostelry deseribed by Isaac Walton | Chere were severdl travellers already im the | rvom—probably, like myself, driven there | |tor sheiter—and they were all warming | | themselves by the blazing fire while waiting | for supper. I joined the party. Presently | | being summoned by the hostess, we all sat) | down, twelve in number, to a smoking repast /ot bacon and eggs, corned beef and carrots, and stewed hare | ‘The conversation natnrally turned on the ' mishaps occasioned by the storm, of which every one seemed to have his fuil share. | | One bad been thrown off his horse ; another, | idriving In a gig, had been upset into a | maddy dyke ; and had gots thorough wet- ting, and agreed unanimously that it was | dreadi{ul weather—a regular witches’ sub- | bath : Oe Witches and ghosts prefer for their sab- | | bath a fine movnlig .t night to such weather jas this!"

These words were uttered in asolemn tone, and with strange emphasis, by one of the company. tle was a tall, dark-looking man, /and | had set him down ip my own mind as |a travelling merchant or pedlar. My next | neighbour was a gay, well-looking, tashion- ably-dressed young man, who, bursting into |a peal of laughter, said : | * You must know the mannersand customs of ghosts very well, to be able to tell that they dislike getting wet or muddy.’

The first speaker giving him a dark fierce look, said :

* Young man, speak not so lightly of things above your comprehensivn.”’

* Do you mean to imply that there are such things as ghosts ?"’

** Perhaps there are, if you had the cou- rage to look at them ."’

The young man stood up, flashed with anger. But presently resuming his seat, he | said, calmly :—

* That taunt should cost you dear if it were not such a foulish one

* A foolish cne !*’ exclaimed the merchant, throwing on the table a heavy leather purse. |

' |

| |

;

}

j

* There are fifty guineas. 1 am content to_

| Make vender forest m the slanting sun

‘ore the hour is ended, I r:

} , ud-

not sacceed in showing you, who are rh a

stinately prejudiced, the form of any 0 he:

your deceased friends ; and af, alter you he

3 our recognized him, you allow him to kiss y

lips.’

We all looked neighbor, still rn th replied :

* You will do that, w

‘ Yes,’ said the other— fifty guineas, on condition that y

i 7 lose.’

a similar sun, if you . a

Atter a short silence, the young mio sal gaily :

* Fifty guineas, more than a poor colleg but here are five, whien, if you ure L shall be most willing to Wager. ie

The other took up bis purse, saying ip a)

lose them, if, bef

at each other, but my young

e same mocking muuber, ;

| ill you?’ { “1 will stake these vu will pay

1

my worthy sorcerer, are ege sizar ever possessed ; satisfied,

contemptuous tone: ‘Young gentleman, you wish to draw back '’ *[ draw back!’ exclaimed the student. |

* Well, it I had the filty guineas, you should ver L wish to draw back. . ‘Here,’ said L, * are five guineas, which

a, < I will stake on your wager. ,

No socner had | made this proposition than the rest of the company, attracted by the singularity of the affair, came ftorward

d and in minute

to lay down thuir money ; ; were subscribed. otf winning

or two the fifty guineas

The merchant appeared 59 sure

that he placed ali the stakes In the seudent 8 hands, and prepared for hisexperiment. We

‘ all 3 r . selected for the purpose a& sineii Summer

see whet!

ua

house in the garden, perfectly isvlated, and having no means ef exit outa window anda loor, w! ich we carefully fastened, after placing the young man within. We put writing materials on a small table in the summer house, and took away the candles

We remained outside, with the pediar | imongst us. Ina low solemn voice he be- yan to chant the following lines :—

‘*What riseth slow from the ocean caves, And the stormy surf? The phantom pale sets his blackened foot

On the fresh wreen turf.”’

Then raising bis voice solemnly, he said :

* You asked to see your friend, Francis Villiers, who was drowned, three years ago, off the coast of South America —what do you see ?’

‘[ eee,’ replied the student, ‘a white light arising near the window ; but it hasno torm ; and it is like an uncertain cloud.’

We—the spectators—remained prutound- |

ly silent.

* Are you afraid?’ asked the merchant in |

a loud voice.

‘lam not,’ replied the student, firmly.

After a moment’s silence, the pedlar stamped three times on the ground, and sang :

* And the phantom white, whose clay-cold face

Was once so fair, Dries with his shroud his clinging vest, And his sea-tossed hair

Once more the solemn question ;

** You who would see revealed the mys- teries of the toumb—what do you see now?

The student answered, in a but like that of a wan describing things as they pass betore him ;

‘1 see the cloud taking the form of a phantom; its head is cuvered with a long veil—it stands still!

* Are you afraid ?’

“1am not!"’

We looked at each other in horror-stricken

| silence, while the merchant, raising his arms

above his

voice :

head, chanted in a sepulehral

* And the phantom said, as he rose from the wave, He shall know me in sooth ! I will go to my friend, gay, smiling, and fond, As in eur firs® youth !”’ *¢ What do you see?” said he. **T see the phantom advance; he lifts his veil—’tis Franeis Villiers ! He approaches the table—he writes !—‘tis his signature !”’ ** Are you afraid ?”’ A feariul moment of silence ensued ; then

| the student replied, but in an altered voice :

** Lam not.” With strange and frantic gestures, the

| merchant then sang : |derer so black that the sun seemed dark at |

** And the phantom said to the mocking seer, I come from the South ;

Pat thy hand on wy hand—thy heart on my heart, Thy mouth en my mouth !"’

** What do you see ?’’

‘*He comes—he approaches—he pursues me—he is stretching out his arms—he wili have me! Help! help! Save me!’’

‘+ Are you afraid now!’’ chant in a mocking voice.

A piercing ery, and then a stifled groan, were the only reply %o this terrible question

** Tlelp that rash youth!’ said the mer- chant bitterly. **L have, L think, won the wager; but it is sufficient for me to have

given him a lesson. Let him keep his money, |

”

and be wiser for the future.

He walked rapidly away. door ot the summer-house, and found the student in convulsions. A _ paper, signed with the name **Francis Villiers,’ was on the table. As soun as the student's senses were restored, he asked vehemently where was the vile sorcerer wo had subjected him to such a horrible ordeal—he would kill him!’ ife sought him throughout the inn in vain; then with the speed ot a madman, he dashed off across the fields in pursuit of him—and we neither saw either of them again. ‘That, children, is my Ghost Story!

*» And how is it, Uncle, that after that,

We opened the

you don’t beheve in ghosts !’’ said IL, the first |

time | heard it.

** Because, my boy,’’ replied my Unele, |

‘*neither the student nor the merchant ever returned ; and the forty-five guineas, beiong-

ing to me and the other travellers, continued |

equally invisible. Those two swindlers ear-

ried them off, after having acted a farce, |

which we, like ninnies, believed tu be real.’’ ee

THE FALLING LEAVES.

Round through the charmed circle of the year have we come euce more to the season of failing

eaves. I suppose there is no emblem of human

life so hackneyed as the fading and falling leaf, |

sinee the prophet wrote those words of terrible truth: * We do all fade as a leat; and our ini- quities, like the wind, have taken us away. Read this verse again before the example of yon whirling leaf. Was ever anything more helpless against the blast that drives it along? So are we helpless agaiust sin and death until God's help comes, A poet hus thus expanded the idea :— Like the dry leaf that Antumn’s breath Sweeps from the tree, the mourniny tree ; So swiftly and so certainly Our day are blown-about by death ; For life is built on vanity, Renewing days but deaths renew. I told thee so, I told thee so, And, U my seul, the tale was trre’

But, notwithstanding the lesson of every re-|

turuing auttinn, no truth is slower learned by human oature than the evanescence of the sum- mer of its prime. The subject is unpleasant, though during the June of life that disiant decay may have a certain attraction of romance; and amid the blaze of busy existence, the long. well filled days, we may even project a wish toward the quiet leaf-falling period, after flowers have blossomed and fruits been borne. Only the true Christian can contemplate with more than cow- posure the surely coming winter ef age and in-

j firmity, and the dark days of decay and death | | that must precede the rising of bis new year with |

God :— Those fading leaves, Phat, with their rich varieties of hues,

So beautifal, in you awake the thoaght | Of winter, cold drear winter, when those trees Each like » flesbless skeleton shall stretch lis bare brown bonghs.

| To we their many-coloared beauties speak

Of times of merriment and festival, Pie year's best holiday: | call to mind

|The schoolboy days, when in the falling leaves

Isaw with eager hope, the pleasant sign Of coming Christmas.

To you the beauties of the autumnal year Make mournful emblems, and you think of man Doomed to the grave’s long winter, spirit-broken ; Bending beneath the burden of his years,

Sense-dulled and fretfal, * fullof aches and pains,” |

Yet clinging still to life. To me they show Tie calm decay of nature, When the mind

Retains its ‘strength, and in the languid eye Religion’s holy hope kindles « joy

That makes old age look lovely. O, my friend, That thy faith were as mine !

So wrete Southey concerning the different aspects which the same season presents to the worldling sud to the Christan. and every reader can say Whether of the two is happiest for its thuker.

Chateaubriand says: “A moral character is attached to autumual scenes, The leaves falling like our years; the flowers fading like our hours ; the clouds fleeting hke our illusiens; the hight diminishing like our intelligence ; the sun growing | colder like our affections ; all bear seeret relations | to vur destinies.’ The brilliant Frenchman saw |

calm yoice, |

asked the mer- |

i romnise resurrection pret type and antitype 3 phat io all this is renewal of strength. the soil for nextyear sved for next yea blessings, diminished fight 18 for prolongation |

y elsewhere. Aad so the autumn bears 1b glory eis here. 4 ai ~ a bosom the gern of spring. Tennyson thus | flower gardey :—

not the decay there |

the

ripen

clouds !

rai atresh} the ot its pi A spirit haants th Dwelling amidst f Lo himself he talks : : For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you thay hear Lim sob In the walks; Earth ward he bows Of the mouldering flowers,

‘tures this season in the e year 8 lust hours, hese yellowing bowers ;

and sigh th the heavy stalks rhe air is damp, and hushed, and close,

\ s \s u sick man’s room when he taketh repose

An hour before death : : and my whole soul grieves,

My very heart faints, , KC the moist rieh smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath,

|

And the year ® lust rose }

How exactly described is the depression of the |

varden-sceve in late autumn! The time of un-|

ecemly work has come, and gardeners

: the summer's refuse, and while,

|

selves clearing away preparing tur the spring; | | |

| iK

On the high naked tree the robin pipes

Disconsolate, aud through the dripping haze

Cie dead weightot the dead leat bears 1t down. James Grahame has been in the churchyard,

and seen

ere and vellow leaves, with eddying Fill up the furrows tween the hillocked “raves Ab! does net the sadness of the season make | one long for the new heavens and the new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness? even though it must be preceded by that awtul time, when, 1 |

the sublime imagery of the Hebrew prophet :— All the host iven shall be dissolved, And the heaveus shail be rolled togetherasa scroll, | And all thei shall fail down : As the leaf falleth off from the vine, andasa falling

|

os ot

bi ¢

fiy from the fig-tree.

Surely as these short years of ours wax from spring and wane inte winter, is coming a wonder- | ful new world, whereof God bas tuld us some- | what in such words as these:

* Aud by the river upon the bank thereof, on | this side and on that side, shall grow all trees tor meat, whose leaf shall net fade, neither shall the | (fruit thereof be cousumed; it shall bring forth | uew fruit according to lis months, because their waters they issued out of the sanctuary; and the | fruit thereof shall be for meat, and the leaves | thefeof for medicine.”

Whatever be our interpretation of Ezekiel’s inspired vision, itis certain that it points toa | peried and a place where decay and death shall | be unknown, for they shall then be swallowed up

jin life, asin‘ a river that caunot be passed over.”’

FOREIGN A DB COLONIAL NEWS.

COLLISION WITH AN ICEBERG OFF CAPE HORN.

|

A correspondent ofan English paper, who was a passenger in an Australian ship which narrowly escaped destruction by av iceberg, furnished the

| following graphie narrative of the occurrence :

| | ships, the Royal Standard, belonging to the cele- | brated Whiie Star Line of Packets. We were i upwards of three hundred statute adults on board, | exclusive of the captain, officers, stewards, and seventy-one crew, aod had asa carge, three thou- sand bales of wool, and six hundred thousand dol- lars worth of gold. was attended with no particular jacident; of course, there was the usual routine of sea-sickness, the formation of ‘ messes,” and the unpacking, and the metamerphoses occasioned by changes ot

|

dress that are now familiar to all old stagers. After passing the genial intertropical climate of the Antipedes, we rapidly approached the “Horn,” when the weather became insensibly ‘old

‘ Morning, noon and night, groups of passen- gers huddled er crept round the huge funnell of our p, for we were an auxillery screw, to ga- ther alittle warmth. Ou Sunday, April 3rd, lat | tude 56 degrees south, longitude 149 degrees west, we saw the first iceberg, and a beautiful sight it was! It waaa majestic mountain of ice floating | along like a mags of burnished silver, about three hundred and sixty feet, as ascertained by the sex- tant, in height; and about two miles in length at | the base. As the sun shown full upon it, it pre- sented a splendid appearance, and, as our relative positions altered, it assumed a variety of shapes ost fantastic, aud light-houses, cathedrals, churebes, &e, were easily conjured up without much strength of imagiuation. As we stoed, one and al! gazing at this Autartie wonder of the deep, looking atit threugh their glasses, seme |sketehing it in their nute-beoks, and all asseciat- jing with it ideas of novelty and beauty, no one dreamed that the next day would be one of such awful peril that the total destruction of our ship and all on beard appeared inevitable.

Movday, April: 4th, opened with thick, hazy weather anda good breeze, betore which we were going, Without steam, ten Knots an hour, appre- hensive of no danger. Suddenly we ran into a dense fog, and immediately after one of the double look-out gave the alarm, * Broken water ahead !” land alinost immediately after, “lee on the star- m At that moment I was writing the

Si

; Soe

beard bow! newspaper I conducted on board, in the engineer’s | | wess-room; but hearing the ovise and the ominous ery, * Helm hard a-stat board!” I rushed on deck, | and, looking over the bulwarks, saw, to my hor- ror, an immense mountain of ice towering far above our main-top-gallant mast. which was two | | hundred feet above the water line, and so cluse to | us that any one could have jumped on to it. Ail hands were immediately summoned ou deck, and everything dove to prevent what new appeared inevitab e—a collision, between our ship acd the iceberg. The yards were trimmed, the sails ad- justed, and everything done to prevent a eatas- | | trophe, but in vain. The monster mountain of lice drew nearer and nearer to us. At length the j inevitable moment came; one heavy roll of the | ship, and the yards of the foremast grated rigbt | | into the solid mass of ice, tearing out and hurling down upon the deck immense blocks of ice, some of them of enormous size. At the same moment the main and mizzen top-masts snapped at the | cap with tremendous noise, and, being made of | }iron, hung over with all their gear amidst the rig- ging, to the great danger of every one on deck. While this was guving on the men at the wheel stood faithful to their duty, although one of them | had his coat rent in two by a lump of ice that fell in frontof him, yet did net touch him. The scene ee deck was now indescribable. Loudly were | the orders passed fore and aft to the hands, and as heartily obeyed, to adjust the yards and trim the ship so as to help hee to torge abead of the iceberg, many of the passengers rendering good assistance in this emergency. Under the toreeastle deck were gathered groups of men, pale, silent, awe- struck. ‘Two strong stalwart men bad hold of my hands, with big beads of tears relling down their cheeks, eryingtor mercy. Between decks, women | aud children were loud in their passionate cries ; | and in the intermediate wasan elderly gentleman, a widower, with five children, in the agony of woe, expecting his and their immediate destruction. Suill the worst. was not come; again the ship’s | | yards crunched into the iceberg: where I stood I ‘looked up and saw that this mountain of ice ac. tually overhung the ship, standing then six hun- dred feet out of the water. There were two large | fissures running from the top a considerable wav |}dewn, and as the ship rolled over 1 feared the yards would go into one of these fissures; had | they done so, they would have brought down tons | of ice that would have sent us te the bottom in }a moment. We were spared that doom . but the /oext instant the fore-top-gallant mast, jib-boom, | fure-topsai! yard, studding sail boom, and all their gear went at the next cruneh, tearing and split- ting the sails to ribbous. At the same time, over the forecastle deck came rolling vast torrents of | water, flooding the decks and creating a fresh | The Roval Standard was now a helpless log; crippled and diswautled. she presented the most pitiable appearance, aud with her masts, yaras, chains and ropes all hang-

’ | souree of danger.

‘all but

jing over and dangling about in most dangerous | 2° known as the ** Central Block.’’ The | confusion, the marvel is that no ene

co : ) Was seriously | injured, if not killed. Srill the worst was not come, and but for the |

|

vod fill their eral chalices | stood, expecting a watery grave.

fon henceops, the boat saved one

I was, very recently, a passenger from Austra. | é lia to Liverpool on board one of the noblest | this was shortly atter followed by a rusiing |

The first part of our voyage |

|take possession thereof, as did the Spanish

Pale and trembling men gazed, first at the ice-

' ‘Phe fallen leaves nourish | berg, then at the ship presenting a picture most of the ; herbage; the taded flowers | desvlate, and then at each other; many shook the act of emancipation, at least 2,000 000) jghed, r’s bloom; the fleeting | hands, and bade each other good-bye; and all) worth of property has been destroyed, and | jn Italy, and in 1348, the plague de

kor myself, | was too stunved and startled to feel exerted ;

j} seemed iucapable of any feeling but that of dul

amazement. Nota tear came to my relief, pot a word escaped my lips. Wife and children I felt [should never see any more; and so, holding a

| |

}

| fellow passenger's hand, | caluily awaited the | awiul moment, the summons to which bad cowe

su unexpectedly, and under such fearful circum- stances. Meauwnile the captain was shouting to the boatswain, * Do you see the end uf the berg 2” again and again, for all our safety lay in our speedily gaining open sea, At length, alter many times * Not yet, sir,” be said, ** Yes, sir, close by; and im another minute we had passed ou enemy, aud were in open sea once more.

Three loud cheers passed fore and aft, and again we shook eaeh other by the hand, and thanked God tor our deliveranee.

; neobisliigila el chit nil laanes

AWFUL SHIPWRECK —English papers give the particulars of the loss of the American ship Lagle

busy them: | Speed while on ber way with four buadred and | ove nimety-seven coolies from Port Canning to Deme- |

The wreck took place wear Haliday s Is- |

| rara. land. Aug. 22. Three or the Eagle Speed's bouts |

were lauuched, manned by the crew. Including the coolies who threw themselves into the water | hundred and sixty-nine, and all the Europeans. The steamer | Lady Elgin, which was near, left for Port Cann- |

sweep, /ing. The ship continued to float all that mght,! than this poor town ; tt is a positive se} ul- |

and did not sink till seven on Wednesday morn- | ing. Two steamers were at once sent round from Calcutta, and the Lady £1 Port Canning. They found three coolie lads on | the mast of the wreck, and saved about sixty

more Who had flouted to Haliday’s and Butcher's |

ls, where the tigers ure said te have des troyed some, ‘The coclies assert that the last European attempted tu fire the ship. Of the four

hundred and ninety-seven coolies, two hundred

Islanc

}and sixty seem to bave perished on ib-*t terrible

Weduesday morning or afterwards in th: | ungle i cesehacuategte NiiaiidelipiacxApsioibidie REMARKABLE DISCOVERY, '* TRUE.

The Missouri Democrat of a recent date |

tells the following story :— ‘Mr. James Lumley, an old Rocky Movn- tain trapper, who has been stopping at th Everett House for several days, make. remarkable statement to us, and ou if authenticated, will produce the g excitement in the scientific world. | «Mr. Lumley states that about the middie of last September be was engaged in trapping

\

ih

in the mountains about seventy-five or one |

hie

‘hundred miles above the Great Falis of ¢ Upper Missouri, and in the neighborhood otf |} what is known as Cidotte Pass.

sunset one evening be beheld a bright Jumi-

nous body in the heavens, which was moving |

| with great rapidity in an easterly direction.

| It was plainly visible for at least five seconds, |

| when it suddenly separated into particles, re sembling, as Mr. Lumley describes it, the bursting of a sky-rocket in the air. A few |minotes later he heard a heavy explosion, ‘whieh jarred the earth very perceptibly, and