forecastle, though I would not have looked so well in a drawing-room. When the sailors saw me thus employed, they did not know what to make of it, and wanted to know whether I was dressing to go ashore; I told them no, for we were then out of sight of land; but that I was going to pay my respects to the captain. Upon which they all laughed and shouted, as if I were a simpleton; though there seemed nothing so very simple in going to make an evening call upon a friend. Then some of them tried to dissuade me, saying I was green and raw; but Jackson, who sat looking on, cried out, with a hideous grin, "Let him go, let him go, men-he's a nice boy. Let him go; the captain has some nuts and raisins for him." And so he was going on when one of his violent fits of coughing seized him, and he almost choked. As I was about leaving the forecastle, I happened to look at my hands, and seeing them stained all over of a deep yellow, for that morning the mate hal set me to tarring some strips of canvas for the rigging, I thought it would never do to present myself before a gentleman that way; so for want of kids I slipped on a pair of woollen mittens, which my mother had knit for me to carry to sea. As I was putting them on, Jackson asked me whether he shouldn't call a carriage; and another bade me not to forget to present his best respects to the skipper. I left them all tittering, and coming on deck was passing the cook-house, when the old cook called after me, saying, I had forgot my cane. I But I did not heed their impudence, and was walking straight toward the cabin-door, on the quarter-deck, when the chief mate met me. touched my hat, and was passing him, when, after staring at me till I thought his eyes would burst out, he all at once caught me by the collar, and with a voice of thunder wanted to know what I meant by playing such tricks aboard a ship that he was mate of? I told him to let go of me, or I would complain to my friend the captain, whom I intended to visit that evening. Upon this he gave me such a whirl round, that I thought the Gulf Stream was in my head, and then shoved me forward, roaring out I know not what. Meanwhile the sailors were all standing round the windlass looking aft, mightily tickled. Seeing I could not effect my object that night, I thought it best to defer it for the present; and returning among the sailors, Jackson asked me how I had found the captain, and whether the next time I went I would not take a friend along and introduce him. The upshot of this business was, that before I went to sleep that night, I felt well satisfied that it was not customary for sailors to call on the captain in the cabin; and I began to have an inkling of the fact, that I had acted like a fool; but it all arose from my ignorance of sea usages. And here I may as well state, that I never saw the inside of the cabin during the whole interval that elapsed from our sailing till our return to New York; though I often used to get a peep at it through a little pane of glass, set in the house on deck, just before the helm, where a watch was kept hanging for the helmsman to strike the half hours by, with his little bell in the binnacle, where the compass was. And it used to be the great amusement of the sailors to look in through the pane of glass, when they stood at the wheel, and watch the proceedings in the cabin; especially when the steward was setting the table for dinner, or the captain was lounging over a decanter of wine on a little mahogany stand, or playing the game called solitaire, at cards, of an evening; for at times he was all alone with his dignity; though, as will ere long be shown, he generally had one pleasant companion, whose society he did not dislike. The day following my attempt to drop in at the cabin, I happened to be making fast a rope on the quarter-deck, when the captain suddenly made his appearance, promenading up and down, and smoking a cigar. He looked very good-humored and amiable, and it being just after his dinner, I thought that this, to be sure, was just the chance I wanted. I waited a little while, thinking he would speak to me himself; but as he did not, I went up to him and began by saying it was a very pleasant day, and hoped he was very well. I never saw a man fly into such a rage; I thought he was going to knock me down; but after standing speechless awhile, he all at once plucked his cap from his head and threw it at me. I don't know what impelled me, but I ran to the lee scuppers where it fell, picked it up, and gave it to him with a bow; when the mate came running up, and thrust me forward again; and after he had got me as far as the windlass, he wanted to know whether I was crazy or not; for if I was, he would put me in irons right off, and have done with it. But I assured him I was in my right mind, and knew perfectly well that I had been treated in the most rude and ungentlemanly manner both by him and Captain Riga. Upon this, he rapped out a great oath, and told me if ever I repeated what I had done that evening, or ever again presumed so much as to lift my hat to the captain, he would tie me into the rigging, and keep me there until I learned better manners. "You are very green," said he, "but I'll ripen you." Indeed this chief mate seemed to have the keeping of the dignity of the captain, who in some sort seemed too dignified per sonally to protect his own dignity. I thought this strange enough, to be reprimanded, and charged with rudeness for an act of common civility. However, seeing how matters stood, I resolved to let the captain alone for the future, par. ticularly as he had shown himself so deficient in the ordinary breeding of a gentleman. And I could hardly credit it, that this was the same man who had been so very civil, and polite, and witty, when Mr. Jones and I called upon him in port. But this astonishment of mine was much increas ed, when some days after, a storm came upon us, and the captain rushed out of the cabin in his nightcap, and nothing else but his shirt on; and leaping up on the poop, began to jump up and down, and curse and swear, and call the men aloft all manner of hard names, just like a common loafer in the street. Besides all this, too, I noticed that while we were at sea, he wore nothing but old shabby clothes, very different from the glossy suit I had seen him in at our first interview, and after that on the steps of the City Hotel, where he always boarded when in New York. Now, he wore nothing but old-fashioned snuff-colored coats, with high collars and short waists; and faded, short-legged pantaloons, very tight about the knees; and vests that did not conceal his waistbands, owing to their being so short, just like a little boy's. And his hats were all caved in, and battered, as if they had been knocked about in a cellar; and his boots were sadly patched. Indeed, I began to think that he was but a shabby fellow after all, particularly as his whiskers lost their gloss, and he went days together without shaving; and his hair, by a sort of miracle, began to grow of a pepper and salt color, which might have been owing, though, to his discontinuing the use of some kind of dye while at sea. I put him 676 CYCLOPÆDIA OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. down as a sort of impostor! and while ashore, a gentleman on false pretences, for no gentleman would have treated another gentleman as he did me. Yes, Captain Riga, thought I, you are no gentleman, and you know it. CAROLINE M. SAWYER. CAROLINE M. FISHER was born in the latter part of the year 1812, in the village of Newton, Massachusetts. She was carefully educated at home by an invalid uncle, who was thoroughly conversant with foreign literature, and succeeded She comin imparting his fine taste as well as varied accomplishments to his pupil. menced writing at an early age, but did not make her appearance in the magazines until after her marriage with the Rev. T. J. Sawyer, an eminent Universalist divine, in 1832, when she reIn 1847 her husband moved to New York. accepted the presidency of the Universalist Seminary at Clinton, New York, where they have since resided. Mrs. Sawyer has written a number of poems and prose tales for the periodicals of the day, which have not been collected. She has also translated in prose and verse from the German. THE BLIND GIRL. Crown her with garlands! 'mid her sunny hair Twine the rich blossoms of the laughing May, The lily, snowdrop, and the violet fair, delay And queenly rose, that blossoms for a day. Bring forth the lyre of sweet and solemn sound, To notes of sorrow tune their trembling breath; She seeth now! She has been dark; through all the weary years, come. She seeth now! A lonely lot! yet oftentimes a sad And mournful pleasure filled her heart and brain, And beamed in smiles-e'er sweet, but never glad, As sorrow smiles when mourning winds complain. Nature's great voice had ever for her soul A thrilling power the sightless only know; Strike the soft harp, then! for the cloud hath past, 'Neath the cool shadows of the tree of life, Ah, yes, she seeth! through yon misty veil, Come the low echoes of celestial words, That strangely swells when none awake its ebords. LOUISA C. TUTHILL LOUISA C. HIGGINS, a member of an old New England family, was born at New Haven, and at an early age, in 1817, married Mr. Cornelius Tuthil of that city. Mr. Tuthill was a gentleman of Lite rary tastes, and edited, for two years, a periodical called The Microscope, in which the poet Percival was first introduced to the public. After the death of Mr. Tuthill, in 1825, Mrs. Tuthill became an anonymous contributor to the magazines. Her first appearance in propriâ per. sona as an author was on the title-page of The Young Ladies' Reader, a volume of selections published in 1839. This volume was followed by The Young Ladies' Home, a collection of tales and essays illustrating domestic pursuits and duties. Her next production consisted of a series of tales for young persons. They are entitled I will be a Gentleman; I will be a Lady; Onata d, right Onward; Boarding School Girl; Anything for Sport; A Strike for Freedom, or Law and Order; each occupying a volume of about one hundred and fifty pages of moderate size, published between 1844 and 1850. In 1852 Mrs. Tuthill commenced a new series with a tale entitled Braggadocio. Queer Bonnets, Tip Top, and Beaut ful Bertha, followed in 1853 and 1854. She has now in progress another series entitled Success in Life, including six volumes, with the titles The Merchant, The Lawyer, The Mechanic, The Artist, The Farmer, and The Physician. Mrs. Tuthill is also the author of a novel for mature readers published in 1846 with the title My Wife, and of a tasteful volume, The History of Architecture, published in 1848. In 1849 she prepared The Nursery Book, a volume of counsel to mothers on the care of their young offspring. The writings of Mrs. Tuthill are admirably adapted for the class to whom they are addressed, and have met with success. They are sensible and practical in their aims, and written in an agreeable style. Mrs. Tuthill is at present a resident of Princeton, New Jersey. dise, and afterwards studied law. He next passed five years in travelling through the United States, supporting himself by lecturing and writing letters in the newspapers. At the expiration of this period he passed a second term of five years in a similar manner in the Old World. PlayMiles. Mr. Miles's newspaper correspondence, under the staid signature, on the lucus a non lucendo principle, of Communipaw, would fill several vofumes. But a single episode of his journeyings, Rambles in Iceland, has yet appeared in book form. It is a pleasant record of a tour, involving some adventure and exposure in an unfrequented part of the world. In place of a citation from its pages we however present a more comprehensive, and at the same time concise account of Mr. Miles's "voyages and travels," which we find in the New York Illustrated News of October 29, 1853. The statement was elicited by some exception being taken at one of Mr. Miles's letters on Western railroads,-his accuracy being called in question on the plea that he was "the stationary correspondent of the Post." In the name of buffaloes and sea breezes what would you have, my dear fellow? I've been in every sea-port on the Atlantic, from Newfoundland to Key West; danced over the sparkling waves of the Moro Castle; "schoonered" it through the Gulf of Mexico; travelled every foot of the Mississippi, from the Belize to the Falls of St. Anthony, 2,300 miles, and the most of it several times over; wandered five hundred miles into the Indian territory, beyond the white settlements; steamed up the Illinois; stayed a while at Peoria, got caught there in an awful snow storm, and then went through the great lakes and the St. Lawrence to the Falls of the Montmorency. I have visited every great curiosity, nearly every state capital, and every State in the Union except California and Texas. Across the "herring pond" I travelled through almost every kingdon, and saw nearly every crowned head in Europe; wandered over the highlands of Scotland; stoned the cormorants in Fingal's cave; shot seagulls in Shetland; eat plovers and other wild birds in Iceland; cooked my dinner in the geysers; cooled my punch with the snows of Mount Hecla, and toasted my shins at the burning crater on its summit. I trod the rough mountains of Norway; celebrated"Independence Day" off its coast; fished in the Maelstrom, or near it; ate sour crout with the Dutch, frogs with the Frenchmen, and macaroni with the Italians; walked over the top of Vesuvius in one day, from Pompeii to Naples; lay all night near Etna's summit, seeing an eruption with red hot rocks shooting a thousand feet in the air; sailed by Stromboli at midnight; landed where St. Paul did at Rhegium, saw the Coliseum by moonlight, visited Corsica's rocky isle, Sardinia and Elba, and steamed close to Monte Christo's home; admired the Chateau d'If at Marseilles, and spent months among the vine-clad hills of la belle France. Why, yes, man, I've been up in a balloon and down in a diving bell; shot alligators in the Mississippi and sparrows in Northumberland; eaten "corn dodgers" in Tennessee, black bread in Denmark, white bread in London, and been where I found it precious hard work to get any bread at all. I've rode in a Jersey wagon in Florida, a go-cart in Illinois, and on an English express train at fifty miles an hour, and gone a-foot and carried a knapsack when I found travelling dear and wanted to save money. I've been sixty-five voyages at sea; rode over nearly every railroad in Europe and more than one-half in this country, and travelled over a hundred thousand miles, and scarcely slept six nights in a place for more than ten years. RICHARD B. KIMBALL, A DESCENDANT from an old and influential family, was born in Lebanon, New Hampshire. After completing his collegiate course at Dartmouth in 1834, and devoting the year following to the study of the law, he went to Europe, where he continued his legal studies in Paris, and made an extensive and thorough tour in Great Britain and on the Continent. On his return he commenced the practice of his profession at Waterford, New York, but soon after removed to the City of New York, where, with the exception of the time occupied in a second European tour in 1842, he has since resided. Mr. Kimball has for several years been a constant contributor to the Knickerbocker Magazine. In 1849 his novel St. Leger or the Threads of Life was reprinted from the pages of that periodical. It is the story of a mind in pursuit of truth, and the mental repose consequent on a decided faith. In connexion with this main thread we have many scenes of active life, romantic adventure, and picturesque description. In the same year Mr. Kimball published Cuba and the Cubans, and in 1853 a pleasant volume of tales and sketches, entitled, Romance of Student Life Abroad. land, in 1821. She removed with her father early to the West, and reside 1 in Kentucky at Lexington and Louisville, where she was married to Mr. George Welby. She died in 1852. The chief edition of Mrs. Welby's poems was published by Messrs. Appleton in 1850, with a series of tasteful illustrations by R. C. Weir. The frequent elegiac topics of the verses of this author may have assisted their popularity. They are mostly upon themes of domestic life and natural emotion; and, without profound poetical culture, are written with ease and animation. THE OLD MAID. Why sits she thus in solitude? her heart As if to let its heavy throbbings through; Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore; And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. It is her thirtieth birthday! With a sigh Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers, And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its links of golden hours! Translates itself in silence on her cheek. And yet she does not wish to wander back! On pleasures past, though never more to be; That binds her to the past is memory! She seems to soar and beam above them all! And fresh as flowers are with her heart-strings knit; And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through For she hath lived with heart and soul alive Of her soft bosom-cell, and cluster there; Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss, And now she hovers, like a star, between Her deeds of love, her Saviour on the cross! Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, Though she hath ofttimes drained its bitter cup, But ever wanders on with heavenward brow, And eyes whose lovely lids are lifted up! She feels that in that lovelier, happier sphere, Her bosom yet will, bird-like, find its mate, And all the joys it found so blissful here Within that spirit-realm perpetuate. Yet sometimes o'er her trembling heart-strings thrill Soft sighs, for raptures it hath ne'er enjoyed; And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill With wild and passionate thoughts the craving void. And thus she wanders on,-half sad, half blest,— Without a mate for the pure, lonely heart, That, yearning, throbs within her virgin breast, Never to find its lovely counterpart! JANE T. WORTHINGTON. Tis lady, the wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, s physician of Ohio, whose maiden name was Jane Tayloe Lomax, was a native of Virginia. He writings in prose and verse appeared frequently in the Southern Literary Messenger. Her composi tions were in a vein of excellent sense and refinement. MOONLIGHT ON THE GEAVE It shineth on the quiet graves To the still graveyard comes, It throweth shadows round, It falleth with unaltered ray On the simple and the stern, On which its beam bath shone, It gleameth where devoted ones Yet it is well: that changeless ray It teacheth us no shade of grief LUCY HOOPER, MISS HOOPER was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, February 4, 1816. She was carefully trained by her father, and was wont in after life to attribute her facility in composition to the exertions of this parent. At the age of fifteen she removed with her family to Brooklyn, where the remaining ten years of her life were passed. Most of Miss Hooper's poems were contributed to the Long Island Star, a daily paper, where they appeared signed with her initials. She was also the author of a few prose sketches, collected in a volume in 1840, with the title Scenes from Real Life, and a prize essay on Domestic Happiness. Lucy Hooper died on Sunday, August 1, 1841. Even as a prophet by his people spoken And that high brow, in death, bears seal and token. Of one whose words were flame: Oh! Holy Teacher! could'st thou rise and live, Would not these hushed lips whisper, "I forgive?" Away with lute and harp, With the glad heart for ever, and the dance, The silent dead, with his rebuking glance, CATHARINE LUDERS. A NUMBER of brief poems of a delicate and simple turn of expression and of a domestic pathetic interest have appeared from time to time in the * 8vo. pp. 404. magazines and the Literary World, by "Emily Hermann." The author is Mrs. Catharine Luder, lately a resident of the West, in Indiana. THE BUILDING AND BIRDS. We are building a pleasant dwelling, And the orchard trees are set; Yellow violets soon will open, With tiny streaks of jet. The wild-cherry buds are swelling, And crocuses are in blow.. In the tops of the tulip-giants, In the red-bud and the oak, The spring-birds are all beginning The pleasures of home to invoke. They've built in our little parlour, Where the floor was lately laid, And it pleased us to give them shelter In the nice new nest they made. Those merry grey forest-rangers To the green West now have come, Wayfarers, like us, and strangers, To build them a pleasant home. They've reared a domestic altar To send up their hymns at even; Their songs and our own may mingle Sometimes at the gates of heaven! PLANTING IN RAIN. We planted them in the rain, When the skeleton building rose, The murmuring bell we hear, For lowing herds are nigh, With softened twilight in our heart, Wild doves and orioles Build in the orchard trees, And where, on earth, are people poor Who greet such friends as these?. They at our porch peep in And sing their roundelay, While bright-eyed rabbits near the steps,. In their nimble, fearless way. In autumn, with apron in hand, Cornelia waits near yon tree, To catch the fruit from the grateful root, And mouldering trees have lain, Much happiness dwells for human hearts,, Under vines that were planted in rain. THE LITTLE FROCK.. A common light blue muslin frock The sleeves are both turned inside out, |