hear me now, or one dear to both of us may rue this night for ever." As I spoke, I moved a step or two with my hand stretched toward him, but shrinking against the tree, as if there were infection in my touch, he waved me back with impatience, and made a mute sign for me to go on. But at this moment an interruption occurred which put a sudden termination to the painful scene, and deferred the explanation which must at some time be had between us.

The sky, calm and cloudless when we first reached the Battery, had changed with that rapidity common to our autumnal climate during the time that we had been upon the Battery. The moon was ever and anon overcast, and the thick scud which obscured her light, was driven in by a raw wind direct from the ocean. Yet the tempest in our own bosoms had prevented us from observing the rising storm, until, as the gale freshened, it came to our ears charged with the cries of some one in distress. The voice was seaward, and we both rushed to the water-side. The uncertain light which here fell upon the short chopping sea, rendered it impossible to distinguish an object a yard from the shore; but, throwing himself upon his breast, so as to lean over the wharf, Brashleigh discovered a drowning man struggling in its shadow, and vainly trying to cling to the slippery logs which at that time faced the pier. Without a moment's hesitation he threw himself into the water, which, notwithstanding the few last Indian-summer days, was perishingly cold from the ice which had already began to float down the river. The poor wretch to whose rescue he sprang, was nearly exhausted before my gallant friend could seize him, and his limbs were so benumbed with cold that he would slip again and again from the slippery logs as Brashleigh would raise him from the water.

For me to share their danger, would but double the peril of all of us; yet at that hour of midnight there was not a human being with. in sound of my voice, and how to aid my noble friend I knew not. But now, while he seemed rapidly losing his vigor, his comrade made new and desperate efforts, which the self-sacrificing Brashleigh seconded by placing his hands upon the slimy logs, and allowing the man, by treading upon them, to secure the firm footing of a moment; in the same moment by leaning low from the coping of the wharf, I seized the arm of the stranger and drew him safely to the top, while Brashleigh sank back exhausted in the waves. I was on the point of springing into the water beside him, when, upon turning to the rescued man for some aid and co-operation, I saw him flying from the spot, and almost immediately lost in the darkness beyond. There was no time to curse his hideous ingratitude. His preserver had once more gained the side of the wharf, and was clutching at its slippery face with his bruised and benumbed fingers.

I glanced round frantically for something to aid us. The clouds parted for an instant, and providentially I caught sight of a bench a few yards off; a moment sufficed to tear it from the grass in which it was rooted-and, lowering it over the side of the pier, my friend twined his arms around one end, and I soon again embraced him in safety.*

The wretch for whom my noble friend thus perilled his invaluable life, proved subsequently to be a deserter from one of the islands in the Bay, and from Brashleigh's military figure mistook him for his officer. This, however, was ascertained long afterward when the same individual became an actor in scenes not less exciting, which Brashleigh and I were yet destined to share together. I saw him home that night, nor did he then again allude to the passages that had recently passed between us; and I retired to take counsel of my pillow as to the part it now became me to act both as a lover and as a friend.

LETTER

FROM MISS E. D., BOSTON, TO MISS J. B., NEW-YORK.

My darling Jean, the town is dull,

Your Emma's tired of evening parties ;

Oh, what a glorious man I saw

The other night at Miss M'Carty's!
I'm wearied with this ceaseless whirl,

This dissipation cold and stupid-
His name! I cannot tell his name,-

At least not now; (down! saucy Cupid.

Don't think, my dear, I mean the boy
Whose roguish eye is so inviting-
I'm speaking to my spaniel-dog,

Who won't lie still while I am writing.)

We know not where Vanderlyn got this anecdote, but this is precisely the way in which Mr. Charles King, now of the New-York American, saved the life of a deserter from Governor's Island during the last war; with only this difference that Mr. K., hearing the cries of the sufferer while entering his dwelling in State Street at midnight, rushed alone to his rescue; and when so ungratefully deserted by the man whom he had saved, was himself preserved by some persons, who hearing him shout for assistance, came down to the water-side, and drew him out, when nearly exhausted, in the manner above related.-Eds. Am. Mon.

If you could only see his eyes,

So large, so dark, so full of meaning(Not Cupid's, but the man I saw

Against a pillar proudly leaning!)

He danced with me some thirteen times,
And called, and called the next day after,
Morning and evening, and we spent

The rosy hours in chat and laughter.
He stayed last night till half past twelve,
Then, like a joy, from me he glided;-
Oh Jeanie, will you write me where

To pass the summer you've decided?

Nahant's a bore-and so are all,

The fashion-haunted watering-places,
Where one for ever sees the same
Dull etiquette and duller faces.
Give me some quiet, green retreat,
Where birds their tuneful notes prolong,
And flowers lie scattered under feet,—
With him to sing that charming song.

Oh, Jeanie, I have heard him sing!

His voice is rich as bubbling fountains He sung of climes remote, of streams,

And emerald vales, and diamond mountains;

And I the while-what did I do?

Ah yes! I tore a song to shivers,

But how could I be tranquil, when

I heard his tones-the fond deceiver's!

He looks such quartos full of love,

Such tones of soul-entrancing feeling,

It has no need of words-his eyes

Were to mine own such thoughts revealing.

Now do not think that I'm in love;

No, no! my dear, the thing is silly.

I'll stop a moment, for my maid

Has called me off to read a billet.

Oh, Jeanie, Jeanie, he's proposed!
I am in such a horrid flurry-

Do, pray excuse this hasty scrawl-
I am not used, you know, to hurry.

The billet was from him,

And what the world to say in answer;

No matter, he'll not scold, should I

Reproach him with "You naughty man, sir!"

The measuring-line has crossed the grave
"What a fine town-lot! Yes, there must
A splendid city locate here;
Just see how handsomely the wave
Curls round to form a steamboat landing!"
Such is the speculating lust

In land, pe rchance, that half the year
Lies under water; but no matter,
Rivers will rise, and they must scatter
Who have more faith than understanding.
Such rivers too-the arteries

Of this young empire's heart; just hear
The pulse that Fulton gave them throbbing;
The woods ring out

With echoing shout,

As puffing by with giant wheeze,

The steam-king speeds in full career

O'er lurking snag and sawyer bobbing.
But hark! 'tis dark,

Yon tireless bark

Like a demon appears in its restless flight;
The cloud that by day

Hung over its way

Is turned to a pillar of fire by night.
And the mountains ring

To the dread fire-king,

And the waves sweep by with a furious flow,
Their crests lit up with an angry glow.
One splash-one flash-

One horrible crash,

And alas! Speculation, alas! for thy cash!
One moment above, and the next below,
To the bottom the mammon and fire-king go.
What a snag was there! but to-morrow you'll see
Speculation afloat again, lightened and free.

But ne'er again shall he, the brave,

Adventurous youth, who nameless lies
In yonder nook beside the wave,

Pursue the visionary star

That lured him from his home too far;

Too far from those familiar eyes,

That beamed a world of light for him,

The light of love that sparkles yet,

And never, never shall grow dim;

Though hope deferred those lids shall wet,
And not an echo shall return

Of him who love for glory gave,

Nor dreamed how false its flame could burn,—
That love alone lights on for ever;

The meteor ray

That led astray,

Set lurid in yon treacherous river

That murmurs o'er the Stranger's Grave.

Cincinatti, 1836.