XI. Away, away! the gale Stirs the white-bosomed sail; Hence!-look not back to freedom or to fame; Night-watchings, days of gloom, The bitter bread of tears, the bridal couch of shame. XII. "Even now some Grecian dame Beholds the signal flame, And waits expectant the returning fleet; 'Why lingers yet my lord? Hath he not sheathed his sword Will he not bring my handmaid to my feet?' XIII. "Me too the dark Fates call; Their sway is over all, Captor and captive, prison-house and throne ;- I tell of others' lot; They hear me, heed me not! Hide, angry Phoebus, hide from me mine own." THE SMUGGLER'S LAST TRIP. BY THE AUTHOR OF "TALES AND CONFESSIONS. THERE is a certain part of the coast of Kent, which may be described with sufficient minuteness to make it serve as a local habitation for the following story, without wounding unnecessarily, by too great resemblance, the feelings of a respectable family, still numbered among its inhabitants. The circumstances I have undertaken to relate, if stripped of some details not generally known, would seem to involve merely one of those calamitous occurrences which visit, like a periodical curse, every neighbourhood where the wild and lawless trade of the smuggler is carried on; but, taken conjointly with the peculiarities alluded to, they come home to men's bosoms with a strange and startling sensation, and cause us to turn an inward look of wonder, mingled with fear, upon the mysteries of the human mind. The sea at this place is seldom calm, even when the winds are still. What is technically called a "jabble," rises perpetually upon the rocks, and renders it unsafe for very small craft to anchor within their shadow. But in a gale of wind, at least when its fury is directed landward, the assault of the waves is tremendous. The noise, as they strike against the cliff, resembles the discharge of artillery; and on a dark and wintry night, the traveller in this storm-land has often been known to pause aghast, and turn his straining eyes towards the sea, in the idea that a naval engagement was in progress, either between men or fiends. It may be mentioned also, as something curious, that the "voice of the cove," as it is called, is usually heard before the coming of the tempest, or imagined to be so, and that at the ominous sound, even when skies are clearest, the mariners in a neighbouring village haul their boats far up on the dry beach. The cliffs, as if worn and scooped out by the action of the tide, present at a distance the appearance of a large segment of a circle hanging over the water. The outline of their lofty summits, when seen at sea, is singularly picturesque; and so rugged and uneven are the sides, that no one has been known to attempt either to descend or scale the ridge, except an unfortunate peasant, many years ago, who taking fright in the middle of the adventure, loosed his hold, and reached the bottom, a dead man. When the tide is completely out, however, the natives of the district frequently pass round the base of the rocks, along a tract of hard, fine sand; and this, too, is the time chosen for landing goods by stealth, when a small G smuggling vessel, so steep is the beach, can run her bows upon the dry sand, while her stern floats in deep water. The fact will perhaps not be sufficiently adverted to by readers whose experience has lain exclusively inland, that in maritime places, where the free trade is habitually carried on, there is by no means attached to the profession, the stigma which elsewhere classes its followers with the most desperate of the rogues and vagabonds of society. Surprising as the circumstance may be thought, and lamentable as it really is, there are more places than one, in both kingdoms, where the known and professed smuggler is received with as much consideration as any other individual in the place; and the writer of this narrative has frequently met, in apparently respectable houses, with persons who owed a great part of the estimation in which they were held, to the daring courage and skill with which they set at defiance the laws of their country. It matters not, however, what station they may hold in society. The same inevitable circumstances produce the same form of character; and the same moral cycle goes round with the captain and the meanest of his crew. A consciousness of crime at length hardens, by habit, into desperation; and animal courage, unrefined by sentiment, acquires the characteristics of ferocity. They deny, and yet feel, that their trade is robbery. Familiar, both in imagination and reality, with blows, imprison ment, and the other casualties of war, they at length even dip their hands in blood, without shrinking. Their enemies, however, are their countrymen: their object is not honour, but gain. The shameful character of their profession is burned, as it were, into that of their minds, and the mark of outlawry is written upon their foreheads. What length in the scale of moral degradation had been gained by the young man who was a principal actor in the following circumstances, cannot perhaps be ascertained with much accuracy; but he was a professed smuggler, noted for his daring courage and successful adventures; and yet, in the midst of all, when he could hardly be said to have reached the prime of youth, and when his winnings, recklessly squandered as they were recklessly acquired, offered no security from dependence, he formed the resolution of abandoning his disgraceful trade. The cause of this determination, singular in all its circumstances, was a passion, which sometimes-though very rarely-works the wonders in real life that are so liberally ascribed to it in romance. Francis Hardy was the only son of a half-pay officer, who had resided many years near the Cove. He was brought up to be a gentleman, and at his father's death, found himself a beggar. With little of that steadiness of principle which is the most distinguishing trait in the character of a gentleman, he was yet a fine, high-spirited youth, and perhaps engaged at first in the scenes from which he was not destined speedily to emerge, from a |