“Run aft with that sheet—send out the kites aloft there, more merrily—we shall drop the rascals now, my gallant fellows,” shouted the elated captain, as we swept like a sea-gull away from the foe; while the men, inspired by the boldness and success of the manœuvre, worked with a redoubled alacrity, which promised soon to place us without reach of the enemy’s fire. The desperate efforts of the frigate to regain her advantage, were, meanwhile, of no avail. Taken completely by surprise, she could neither throw out her light sails sufficiently quick, nor direct her fiery broadsides with any precision. Not a grape-shot struck us, although the water to larboard was ploughed up with the iron hail. We soon found that we outsailed her before the wind, and in less than an hour we had drawn beyond range of her shot. * * * * * THE DEPARTED. Her parents are weeping, she sheds not a tear, Loved voices are calling, alas! can she hear?— The hyacinth blossom is plucked from its stem, The casket is broken, and scattered the gem. Pale Death! the grim archer, hath bended his bow, The arrow hath vanished, the dove is laid low; Ah! fair was the victim thus fated to bleed, And well might the spoiler exult in his deed. * * * * * THE MAJOR’S WEDDING. A VERITABLE STORY TOLD BY JEREMY SHORT, ESQ. “Ah! Mr. Editor, glad to see you in this cramped hole—no air, hot as a furnace—egad, I’m almost baked; and as for smoking one’s meerschaum, or drinking claret in a stage coach, you might as well dream of heaven in the paws of a prairie bear. Ah! you’ve got a cigar, I see—God bless the man that first invented tobacco. But hark ’e, who was that tall, slim, low-shouldered gentleman, with the long neck, that sat in the bar-room corner, in a semi-animated state, and hadn’t spoke for a half an hour until he growled back your salutation?” “Who? Jeremy—that was a poet.” “A poet! heaven protect us from such madness. Is he married?” “No—he swears he’ll never wed any one but a poetess; and you know they’re a scarce article in the market.” “Egad, I thought he was a bachelor, for who ever heard of a married man writing poetry? Flummery, sir, flummery—whipt cream and sugar—away with your poetry! Give me the real solid prose, your regular beefsteak, with a spice of wit to make it palatable, boy. Now there’s Oliver Oldfellow, he used to be as poetical as a scissors grinder before he got married, but after that he came to his senses, and—Lord love you!—he hasn’t written a line these twenty years.” “You’re savage on the poets. But if what you say is true, there ought to be a law against poets marrying.”