The prize meantime, proving to be richly laden, was allotted to me to conduct into port, as the first lieutenant’s wound prevented him from assuming the command, and the second lieutenant chose rather to remain with the brigantine. Beatrice Derwent was, as a matter of course, to continue on board the merchantman. Thus did destiny again link my fate with this lovely creature, and by one of those simple accidents which so often occur, open for me a train of events, whose transaction it is my purpose to detail in the following crude autobiography. The sensations with which I watched the receding brigantine, after assuming my new command, and hauling up on our course, may well be imagined. Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed since I first launched on the deep, a nameless, unknown, irresponsible midshipman; and now, by one of fortune’s wildest freaks, I was commanding a prize of untold value, and become the protector of the loveliest of her sex. “There’s a divinity that shapes our fortunes, Rough hew them as we will.” It was not till the third day after parting company with the brigantine, that Miss Derwent, with her maid, appeared once more upon the deck. The shock of her uncle’s death had brought on an illness, which confined her during that time to the cabin; and even now, there was a languor in her fine countenance, and a melancholy in her dark eye, which, though they added to the interest of her appearance, betokened the acuteness of her grief. She was attired in a dark silken dress; her hair was plainly braided back, and she wore no ornaments of any kind whatever. Rarely had I beheld a vision of such surpassing loveliness. I stepped forward to assist her to a seat. She smiled faintly, her eyes sparkled a moment, and then a deep blush shot across her saddened features. But I will not detail the scene that ensued. Suffice it to say that, from that moment I loved Beatrice; and that though she had not bid me hope, there was nothing in her conduct to bid me despair. * * * * * SABBATH BELLS.—IMPROMPTU. BY WILLIS G. CLARK. Sweet Sabbath! to my ear, Thy bells, with mingling tone, Tell of the distant and the dear In yon far blue unknown. Of happier days they tell, When o’er the vernal ground, Fairer than Ocean’s richest shell, Young Nature breathed around: When Hope, as at a shrine, To Fancy poured her lay, And hues, inspiring and divine, Painted the live-long day. Sweet bells! They have a voice, Lost to the usual air, Which bids the sorrowing heart rejoice, Though life no more be fair. Though dust to dust has gone, They speak of brighter hours, When Memory, as from a throne, Surveyed her paths of flowers.