CCLXV. THE SAILOR.

THIS is an extract from a speech on flogging in the navy.

WHAT is the American sailor, that he is to be treated worse than a dog? He has been my companion for more than a quarter of a century, in calms and storms, privations, sufferings, and hunger, in peace and in war. I have lived with him, side by side, by sea and land. I have seen him on the Western Ocean, when there was no night to vail his deeds. I have seen him on the coast of Africa, surrounded by pestilential disease. I have seen him among the West India Islands, in chase of pirates. I have encamped with him on the California mountains.

I have seen him march through the enemy's country, over mountains and through rivers, with no shoes on but those of canvas, made by his own hands, and with no provisions but what he took from the enemy. And, finally, I have lain beside him on the cold ground, when ice has formed on his beard. His heart has beat close to mine. I ought to know him. I do know him; and, this day, before the assembled senate of the republic, I stand up to speak in his behalf. I hope he will find an abler advocate. I am sure he will find such on this floor. But, nevertheless, hear me.

American sailors, as a class, have loved their country as well, as any other equal number of citizens, and have done more for her in peace and in war. And what has his country done for him? You have neglected to give him even your thanks, and more, to cap the climax of his country's ingratitude, these memorialists would have him scourged. They would scourge him for drunkenness, when they put their bottle to his mouth. They would scourge him for inattention to his duty, when injustice and wrong have made him, for an instant, discontented and sullen. Shame! shame!

The American sailor, by his superior qualities, as a man, has enabled you to rival in commerce the boasted mistress of the ocean. Where is the coast or harbor, in

the wide world, accessible to human enterprise, to which he has not carried your flag? His berth is no sinecure, his service is no easy service. He is necessarily an isolated being. He knows no comforts of home, and wife, and children. He reaps no reward for the increase of treasure he brings to you. When on shore, he is among strangers, and friendless. When worn out, he is scarcely provided. for; making men rich, he lives and dies poor. Carrying the gifts of civilization and the blessing of the gospel through the world, he is treated as an outcast from the mercies of both.

But look to your history, which the world knows by heart, and you will find, in its brightest page, the glorious achievements of the American sailor. Whatever his country has done to disgrace him, and break his spirit, he has never disgraced her. He has always been ready to serve her, always has served her faithfully. He has often been weighed in the balance, and never found wanting.

FROM COMMODORE STOCKTON,

CCLXVI.-THE WRECK.

ALL night, the booming minute gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun.
Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark from India's coral strand,
Before the raging blast,
Had vailed her topsails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.

We saw her treasures cast away;
The rocks with pearls were strown,
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone.

And gold was strown the wet sands o'er,

Like ashes by a breeze,

And gorgeous robes: but oh! that shore

Had sadder things than these.

We saw the strong man still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside;
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died.

And near him, on the sea-weed lay-
Till then we had not wept-
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept.

For her pale arms a babe had pressed,
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp.

Her very tresses had been flung,

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, 'mid that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye:
He had known little of her dread,
Naught of her agony.

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,

Through all things vainly true,

So stamps upon thy mortal part

Its passionate adieu!

Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not

The moaning of the sea!

FROM MRS. HEMANS.

CCLXVII.-ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA.

"ONLY one night at sea," 'twas thus the promise ran, By frail, presumptuous mortal given, to vain, confiding man; "Only one night at sea, and land shall bless thy sight,

When morning's rays dispel the shadows of the night.'

The pledge has been received, the vessel leaves the shore, Bearing the beautiful and brave, who ne'er shall greet us

more;

And every heart beats high, as bounding o'er the wave,

The gallant bark moves on to bear them to their grave.

The merry beams of day before the darkness flee,

And gloomy night comes slowly on, that "only night at sea." The watch upon the deck their weary vigils keep,

And countless stars look down in beauty o'er the deep.

Within that stately boat the prattler's voice is still,

And beauty's lovely form is there, unheeding of the ill; And manhood's vigorous mind is wrapped in deep repose, And sorrow's victim lies forgetful of his woes.

But, hark! that fearful sound, that wild appalling cry, That wakes the sleepers from their dreams, and rouses them -to die:

Ah, who shall tell the hopes that rose, so soon to flee;

The good resolves destroyed by that "one night at sea!"

That hour hath passed away, the morning's beams are bright, As if they met no record there of that all-fearful night; But many souls have fled to far eternity,

And many hearts been wrecked in that “ one night at sea.'

Great God! whose hand hath launched our boat upon life's sea,
And given us as a pilot there a spirit bold and free,
So guide us with thy love, that our frail bark may be,
'Mid waves of doubt and fear, "only one night at sea.'

CCLXVIII.-ĒNNUI.

ENNUI; (pro Ang-we,) languor, heaviness.

CAMPAGNA; pro. Campahn'ya.

Leech. BUT you don't laugh. Come, man, be amused, for once in your life! You don't laugh.

Sir Charles. O, yes, I do. You mistake. I laughed twice, distinctly,-only, the fact is, I am bored to death! NEW EC. S.-39

Leech. Bored? What! after such a feast as that you have given us? Look at me, I'm inspired! I'm a king at this moment, and all the world is at my feet! Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late. You are a young fellow, forty-five, and have the world yet before you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried everything, heard everything, done everything, know everything; and here I am, a man of thirty, literally used up.

Leech. Nonsense, man! used up, indeed! with your wealth, with your twenty estates in the sunniest spots in England, not to mention that Utopia, within four walls, ir the Rue de Provence, in Paris.

Sir C. I'm dead with ennui!
Leech. Ennui! poor Croesus!

Sir C. Croesus! no, I'm no Croesus! My father,you've seen his portrait, good old fellow!-he certainly did leave me a little matter of twelve thousand pounds a year; but, after all

Leech. O, come !

Sir C. O, no; there are some people who can manage to do on less, on credit.

Leech. I know several. My dear friend, you should try change of scene.

Sir C. I have tried it; what's the use?
Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe.
Sir C. I have; there's nothing in it.
Leech. Nothing in all Europe?

Sir C. Nothing! O, dear, yes! I remember, at one time, I did, somehow, go about a good deal.

Leech. You should go to Switzerland. Sir C. I have been. Nothing there. People say so much about everything. There certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's, less trouble, and more in it.