the latter, until I could discover whether or not the old man's dream had effected what I had failed in. Now that it was obvious that it had done so, I drew aside the curtain. On beholding the emaciated form of him from whom she had been so long parted, and who, but a few hours before, she had never thought to behold again, she stood horror-stricken, paralysed by the conflicting feelings that rushed upon her. Her eyes were tearless, all sounds of sorrow hushed; with hands clasped, her head bent forward, her features fixed, her form rigid and apparently breathless, she seemed a statue of despair rather than a thing of life. I trembled for the consequences when she should speak, or he direct his looks towards her. Never, never shall I forget the agony of that moment! He moved! He turned as if again to address me. She, whom with his dying breath he had just blessed, and who was probably at that awful moment the sole object of his thoughts, stood in life, if such indeed it might be called, beside him! His half-closed eye rested upon her! the pupil dilated, he gazed fixedly but wildly; he struggled to raise himself; I supported him in the attempt. Once or twice I heard a rattling in his throat, as if he strove to speak, but could not; then in a piercing voice, which seemed to have struggled with and for an instant escaped the power that was about to silence it for ever, he exclaimed, "This is no dream! it is my own Ruth !—my daughter!" and flinging open his arms, she, thus startled from her trance, sprang forward and fell upon his bo som. Within a few minutes after this touching scene, I was called to the door of the chamber; I found it was the physician: I took him aside and hurriedly explained to him the events of the last few hours. We then approached the bed: the old man was dead! his arms were extended across his child, whose face was buried in the pillow. On raising her up, a stream of blood rushed from her mouth; a vessel had been ruptured! In less than half an hour her spirit, too, had departed. VOL. I. THE WELCOME BACK. OH! sweet is the hour that brings us home, Where hands are striving as we come To be the first to greet us. When the world has spent its frowns and wrath, 'Tis sweet to leave the roving path, And find a fire-side blessing! Oh! joyfully dear is the homeward track, If we are but sure of a welcome back! What do we reck on a dreary way, If we know there are lips to chide our stay, To the glance that flashes pleasure? 26 NIGHTS AT SEA; Or, Sketches of Naval Life during the War. BY THE OLD SAILOR. No. VIII. WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. THE DYING PRISONER. IF Lord Eustace had felt gratified at having captured one frigate, how much greater were the pleasure and pride of his heart when he beheld two fine frigates and an armed transport gracing his triumph! Yet, the greatest cause of satisfaction to his noble mind arose from a conviction that two of his lieutenants would be made commanders, and the same number of passed midshipmen would ship the white lapelles, whilst his brave fellows would receive a very handsome sum as head and prize-money. It was a fine, clear night, with warm weather, and smooth water, and the vessels moved but slowly through it. Lord Eustace was too anxious for the security of his ship to turn in, so he wrapped himself in his boat-cloak, and took an occasional short snooze upon the sofa, visiting the deck at every interval, to make sure that a strict look out was kept upon the prisoners. Nugent was equally on the alert; for, though he could not expect present promotion, yet the captures they had made would, he was well aware, tell hand. somely in his favor on some future occasion; besides, notwithstanding his boasted appliances to book-making, and having what Spurzheim would have called "da bomp of consheit vera large," he was a good officer, attentive to his duty, and obedient to the routine of the service. The purser and the doctor, though only civilians, found plenty to do; the former in attending to the French officers, the latter in looking after the wounded. Meanwhile Plumstone and Peabody, the marines, kept watch and watch, visiting the prisoners, and manifesting to them that all attempts at rising would be met with condign punishment. Nor were those nosegays* of the navy— the warrant officers-less diligent in their stations. The gunner, with his assistants, was down in the magazine filling cartridges. The carpenter and his crew actively employed themselves in debating upon the best mode of plugging a shot-hole; whilst old Savage lean. ed over his picture-gallery, looking into the blue depths of the ocean, and praying for the gift of Glendower to "call spirits from the vasty deep," for the boatswain's bottle was empty, and he longed for a "flash of lightning" to titillate his throat. By his side stood Jack Sheavehole, wondering what his superior could be thinking on, although giving a shrewd guess at the cause which induced him to ruminate so ardently. It was near four bells in the middle watch (two o'clock in the morning,) when old Savage turned round to his subordinate, and * Called "Nosegays" from Lord Melville having pronounced them the very flowers of the service. |