Loose the fore-course before you quit the yard there, then up aloft and loosen everything you can find."

All was done as ordered, and done rapidly, as is ever the case on board a well-ordered vessel, when there is occasion for exertion. That occasion now appeared to exist in earnest; for while the men were sheeting home the topsail, a flash of light illuminated the scene, when the roar of a gun came booming across the water, succeeded by the very distinct whistling of its shot. We regret that the relict of the late Captain Budd did not behave exactly as became a ship-master's widow, under fire. Instead of remaining silent and passive, even while frightened, as was the case with Rose, she screamed quite as loud as she had previously done that very day in Hell-Gate. It appeared to Spike, indeed, that practice was making her perfect; and as for Biddy, the spirit of emulation became so powerful in her bosom, that, if anything, she actually outshrieked her mistress. Hearing this, the widow made a second effort, and fairly recovered the ground some might have fancied she had lost.

"Oh! Captain Spike," exclaimed the agitated widow, "do not-do not, if you love me, do not let them fire again!"

"How am I to help it !" asked the captain, a good deal to the point, though he overlooked the essential fact that, by heaving-to, and waiting for the steamer's boat to board him, he might have prevented a second shot as completely as if he had the ordering of the whole affair. No second shot was fired, however. As it afterward appeared, the screams of Mrs. Budd and Biddy were heard on board the steamer, the captain of which, naturally enough, supposing that the slaughter must be terrible where such cries had arisen, was satisfied with the mischief he had already done, and directed his people to secure their gun and go to the capstan-bars, in order to help to lift the anchor. In a word, the revenue vessel was getting under way, man-of-war fashion, which means somewhat expeditiously.

Spike understood the sounds that reached him, among which was the call of the boatswain, and he bestirred himself accordingly. Experienced as he was in chases and all sorts of nautical artifices, he very well knew that his situation was sufficiently critical. It would have been so, with a steamer at his heels, in the open ocean; but, situated as he was, he was compelled to steer but one course, and to accept the wind on that course as it might offer. If he varied at all in his direction, it was only in a trifling way, though he did make some of these variations. Every moment was now precious, however, and he endeavoured to improve the time to the utmost. He knew that he could greatly outsail the revenue vessel under canvas, and some time would be necessary to enable her to Eget up her steam,-half an hour at the very least. On that half hour, then, depended the fate of the Molly Swash.

"Send the booms on the yards, and set stun'sails at once, Mr. Mulford," said Spike, the instant the more regular canvas was spread forward. "This wind will be free enough for all but the lower stun'sail, and we must drive the brig on."

"Are we not looking up too high, Captain Spike? The SteppingStones are ahead of us, sir.”

"I know that very well, Mulford; but it's nearly high water, and the brig's in light trim, and we may rub and go. By making a short cut here, we shall gain a full mile on the steamer; that mile may save

us."

VOL. XX.

SS

"Do you really think it possible to get away from that craft, which can always make a fair wind of it, in these narrow waters, Captain Spike?"

“One don't know, sir. Nothin' is done without tryin', and by tryin' more is often done than was hoped for. I have a scheme in my head, and Providence may favour me in bringing it about."

Providence! Spike had his Providence as well as a priest, and we dare say he often counted on its succour, with quite as rational grounds of dependence as many of the pharisees who are constantly exclaiming, "The Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord

are these."

Sail was made on board the Swash with great rapidity, and the brig made a bold push at the Stepping-Stones. Spike was a capital pilot. He insisted if he could once gain sight of the spar that was moored on those rocks for a buoy, he should run with great confidence. The two lights were of great assistance, of course, but the revenue vessel could see these lights as well as the brig, and she, doubtless, had an excellent pilot on board. By the time the studding-sails were set on board the Swash, the steamer was aweigh, and her long line of peculiar sails became visible. Unfortunately for men who were in a hurry, she lay so much within the bluff as to get the wind scant, and her commander thought it necessary to make a stretch over to the southern shore, before he attempted to lay his course. When he was ready to tack, an operation of some time with a vessel of her great length, the Swash was barely visible in the obscurity, gliding off upon a slack bowline, at a rate which nothing but the damp night air, the ballasttrim of the vessel, united to her excellent sailing qualities, could have produced with so slight a breeze.

The first half hour took the Swash completely out of sight of the steamer. In that time, in truth, by actual superiority in sailing, by her greater state of preparation, and by the distance saved by a bold navigation, she had gained fully a league on her pursuer. But, while the steamer had lost sight of the Swash, the latter kept the former in view, and that by means of a signal that was very portentous. She saw the light of the steamer's chimneys, and could form some opinion of her distance aud position.

It was about eleven o'clock when the Swash passed the light at Sands' Point, close in with the land. The wind stood much as it had been. If there was a change at all, it was half a point more to the southward, and it was a little fresher. Such as it was, Spike saw he was getting, in that smooth water, quite eight knots out of his craft, and he made his calculations thereon. As yet, and possibly for half an hour longer, he was gaining, and might hope to continue to gain on the steamer. Then her turn would come. Though no great tra veller, it was not to be expected that, favoured by smooth water and the breeze, her speed would be less than ten knots, while there was no hope of increasing his own without an increase of the wind. He might be five miles in advance, or six at the most; these six miles would be overcome in three hours of steaming, to a dead certainty, and they might possibly be overcome much sooner. It was obviously necessary to resort to some other experiment than that of dead saing, if an escape was to be effected.

The Sound was now several miles in width, and Spike, at first, pro

posed to his mate, to keep off dead before the wind, and by crossing over to the north shore, let the steamer pass ahead, and continue a bootless chase to the eastward. Several vessels, however, were visible in the middle of the passage, at distances varying from one to three miles, and Mulford pointed out the hopelessness of attempting to cross the sheet of open water, and expect to go unseen by the watchful eyes of the revenue people.

"What you say is true enough, Mr. Mulford," answered Spike, after a moment of profound reflection, "and every foot that they come nearer, the less will be our chance. But here is Hempstead Harbour a few leagues ahead; if we can reach that before the blackguards close we may do well enough. It is a deep bay, and was high land to darken the view. I don't think the brig could be seen at midnight by anything outside, if she was once fairly up that water a mile or two." "That is our chance, sir!" exclaimed Mulford cheerfully. "Ay, ay, I know the spot, and everything is favourable try that, Captain Spike; I'll answer for it that we go clear."

Spike did try it. For a considerable time longer he stood on, keeping as close to the land as he thought it safe to run, and carrying everything that would draw. But the steamer was on his heels, evidently gaining fast. Her chimneys gave out flames, and there was every sign that her people were in earnest. To those on board the Swash, these flames seemed to draw nearer each instant, as indeed was the fact, and just as the breeze came fresher out of the opening in the hills, or the low mountains, which surround the place of refuge in which they designed to enter, Mulford announced that by aid of the night-glass he could distinguish both sails and hull of their pursuer. Spike took a look, and throwing down the instrument, in a way to endanger it, he ordered the studding sails taken in. The men went aloft like cats, and worked as if they could stand in air. In a minute or two the Swash was under what Mrs. Budd might have called her "attacking" canvas, and was close by the wind, looking on a good leg well up the harbour. The brig seemed to be conscious of the emergency, and glided ahead at capital speed. In five minutes she had shut in the flaming chimneys of the steamer. In five minutes more Spike tacked, to keep under the western side of the harbour, and out of sight as long as possible, and because he thought the breeze drew down fresher where he was than more out in the bay.

All now depended on the single fact whether the brig had been seen from the steamer or not, before she hauled into the bay. If seen, she had probably been watched; if not seen, there were strong grounds for hoping that she might still escape. About a quarter of an hour after Spike hauled up, the burning chimneys came again into view. The brig was then half a league within the bay, with a fine dark background of hills to throw her into shadow. Spike ordered everything taken in but the trysail, under which the brig was left to set slowly over towards the western side of the harbour. He now rubbed his hands with delight, and pointed out to Mulford the circumstances that the steamer kept on her course directly athwart the harbour's mouth! Had she seen the Swash, no doubt she would have turned into the bay also. Nevertheless, an anxious ten minutes succeeded, during which the revenue vessel steamed fairly past, and shut in her flaming chimneys again by the eastern headlands of the estuary.

SPRING-TIDE;

OR, THE ANGLER AND HIS FRIENDS.

BY PAUL PINDAR, GENTLEMAN.

THE FIRST DAY.
Senex.-Julian.

Senex. This way: our road lies along this path and over yonder stile, on the other side of which is the river. What a morning for the angler! The sun has hidden himself, and these light clouds bode no rain, while the gentle south wind stirs the leaflets and curls the surface of the water. Öh the merry month of May! how often have I sighed for these scenes of my early childhood, while pent up in chambers in London. Truly a man must have experienced such durance to render him fit to enjoy the country as he ought.

Julian. There is some truth in that remark. Often, when gazing on a beautiful prospect, I have noticed that my country companion did not participate in my raptures; yet even scenes like these are cheer. less in foul weather; we cannot have perpetual May.

S. God forbid that we should, for then we should lose the benefit of contrast. Yet I am not one of those who would forsake the country even in foul weather. Yes,

When the rotten woodland drips,
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay.

It has its charms for me in all seasons. What sight more beautiful than hedge-rows and coppices glittering in the sun's rays on a frosty morning. Flocks of wild fowl, no longer secure in their sedgy retreats, are scouring the country in all directions; small birds, tamed by hunger, draw near your dwelling, and robin in his scarlet pour point, perched on the window sill, begs a crumb from your trencher.

J. Excellent! You should write a panegyric on Dan Winter, and recite it to the owls who haunt the tall elms near the house. One of these creatures kept me awake the whole night when I last visited you. Its hooting was incessant.

S. Not a word, as you love me, against the "anchorite of birds." I have an especial veneration for such of the feathered race as haunt old buildings, and delight in watching the jackdaw in church towers, though he differs much from my solemn friend the owl. Just observe them about the turrets of the old minster in a cathedral town. Garrulous grey pates vie with the bipeds below them. They chatter, quarrel, fall out, and cuff it at times, like the lords of the creation: doubtless like them, too, they prate of politics and of a pedigree, but they cling with filial fondness to the old fane, however fierce the storm may howl around it. But of all birds "commend me to the owl." J. Do you recollect Drayton's picture of your favourite:

'Twas near the eaves and shelter of a stack,
Set to support it at a beech's back,
In a stubb'd tree, with ivy overgrown,
On which the sun had scarcely ever shone,
A broad-faced creature, hanging of the wing,
Was set to sleep while every bird did sing."

S. Ay, ay he who wrote the lines :

"Can grave and formal pass for wise,

When we the solemn owl despise ?"

was a Cockney, and knew nothing of the bird. Minerva did not despise him when she adopted him for her crest, and thousands of Attic drachmas, still existing, attest that the Athenians held him in veneration as I do. Other birds may be loud at prime and complin, but the owl's is the midnight service. Apart from the superstitious feeling of which some of the best informed of us are scarcely free, there is something inexpressibly solemn in the note of the bird of night. Did you ever, when threading a wild wood, come upon some ivy-sheltered nook protected from the blaze of the noontide sun, and see the owl perched in his solitary retreat so near you that you might strike him down with your staff. I have, when a boy, often encountered him in that way, and felt awed at the presence of the majestic bird. How he loves the mouldering pile which piety raised and fanaticism shattered from rooftree to crypt: his lineage could tell of the times when rude and impious hands battered and defaced corbel and mullion, and delicate tracery wrought by the cunningest craftsmen in christendom. Here he abides in dignified solitude, from which he emerges only when the world is asleep.

J. Yes, all except the poacher and the night-prowler; and here I am disposed to say a word in behalf of your favourite. I verily believe he assists in imparting awe and solemnity to darkness, and this has a salutary effect upon the morals of your village population. When once your chawbacon becomes habituated to late hours and night-walking, he is, if young, easily persuaded to become poacher, and so on from bad to worse until the hulks or the gallows close the scene.

S. True, every word of it, and therefore long let that noble bird be honoured. Long may he find a refuge in the retreat he loves. As a friend has eloquently written of him-"The illuminated rites, the swelling organ, the monkish magnificence of processions have passed away; theirs was but a transient possession, but your owl shall be mitred abbot to the end of time!"

J. Your friend, however, excites no veneration among the birds of the air, who thrash him soundly when they catch him abroad. "Mine heritage," says the prophet, "is unto me as a speckled bird;-the birds round about are against her."

S. I have often thought of that passage as I have seen the owl reeling and blundering through the air at day-light, assailed by small birds of all sizes, even including the titmouse and the wren. But these little creatures sometimes attack the cuckoo and the hawk as their common enemy, in the same manner, and occasionally suffer for their temerity from the talons of the latter. These allusions in holy writ remind me that a few years ago some witling talked of writing a book to show the acquaintance of the inspired writers of the Old Testament with natural history, as if nature's huge volume did not lie before them in those ancient days when books were few and precious.

J. Wonderful discovery! I believe there is an advertisement not long since issued, announcing a work illustrating Shakspeare's knowledge of natural history!

S. A veritable mare's nest! - but here's the river, and yonder comes, my ally, Simon Paradice, a true specimen of the "Chaw bacon -shrewd, but honest, and grateful for little kindnesses.