great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes; the wheels revolve; the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow,' and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his ĕrrand. 2 4. And so hope was effulgent, and lifhe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur -home is not far away. And every morning it was still one night nearer home, and at evening one day nearer home! Eight days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of New'foundland Boldly they made it, and plunging in, its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. 4 5. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, bōth steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. At a league's' distance, unconscious, and at nearer approach unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. 6. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer, to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went 1 1 Prow, the fore-part of a ship.- Ef fül' gent, shining with a flood of light. Lithe, pliant; flexible; easily bent.- Newfoundland (nủ' fondland').-—* Lèague, three miles. over the ship's side, oh that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "except these abide in the ship ye can not be saved." They de parted, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters, gaining upon the hold and rising up upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. 7. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind-had he stood to execute efficiently the commander's will-we may believe that we should not have to blush for the cowardice and recreäncy' of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe2 of the collision to the catastrophe of SINKING! 8. Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is bōrne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and the flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been 1 H. W. BEECHER. 1. 160. LIFE. F all our hopes and all our fears What earthly thing could pleasure give? 1 Rêc' re an cy, a cowardly yielding. Ca tås' tro phe, calamity; dis aster; a final end. Oh, who would venture then to die? 2. Were life a dark and desert moor, Where mists and clouds eternal spread And tempests thunder overhead; Who dwell in darkness and in death? 3. And such were life, without the ray And beautiful the flowers that bloom, And all is joy, and all is love, Reflected from a world to come. BOWRING. 161. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. HE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we re THE fuse to be divorced.' Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament. 2. Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved-when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals-would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love 1 Di vòrced', separated. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 375 which survives the tomb is one of the noblest a.tributes of the soul. 3. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ?1 4. No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh! the grave! the grave! It burys every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious' throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him! 5. But the grave of those we loved, what a place for medita tion! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene;-—the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mutc, watchful assiduities.3 6. The last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble, flutter ing, thrilling, oh! how thrilling! pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate. There settle the ac 1 Rev' el ry, a carousing with noisy merriment.- Compunctious (kompångk' shus), repentant; sorrowful.- As si dù'ity, constant or close application; untiring attention. count with thy conscience for every past benefit anrequited,' every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never, never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition.2 7. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whōle happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;-then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant in the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 8. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of Nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile3 tributes of regret; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite' affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. WASHINGTON IRVING 1. I 162. PASSING AWAY. ASK'D the stars in the pomp of night, 'Un re quit' ed, not repaid; not done or given in return.- Contrition (kon trish' un), repentance; deep sorrow for sin.-Fu' tile, trifling; worthless. Con' trite, worn; sorrowful; bowed down with grief.— "E ter' ni ty, duration or continuance without end.- Dow'er, the part of a man's property which his widow enjoys during her life, after his death; here means gift or possession. |