said Upton, gently; "you know I'm always ready when you want me."

"And you'll not leave this? you'll not desert me?" cried the other, eagerly.

"Certainly not; I have no thought of going away."

There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I'll not take the responsibility upon meI will not!" said Billy, angrily. "Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye havn't more discretion."

Glencore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said

"We must obey the doctor, Upton'; but don't leave me."

Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word.

"Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe," said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice to Upton, "and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater.

Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!"

This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his hand still resting on the sick man's forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing softly and gently as a child.

"Look at him now," whispered Billy to Upton, "and you'll see what philosophy there is in ascribin' to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable, just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the soliar plexus, but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He's just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine, well-regulated, steady-batin' heart is like a credit on the bank you draw on it, and your draft isn't dishonoured!"

"What was it brought on this attack?" asked Upton, in a whisper.

66

"A shindy he had with the boy. I wasn't here. There was nobody by; but when I met Master Charles on the

stairs, he flew past me like lightning, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin' terribly! Down he went towards the lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin' after him."

"Has he returned?" asked Upton. "Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask after him.

"I'll just step down and see," said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the room on tiptoe.

To Upton's inquiry all made the same answer. None had seen the young lord none could give any clue as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened to Harcourt's room, and after some vigorous shakes, succeeded in awakening the Colonel, and by dint of various repetitions at last put him in possession of all that had occurred.

"We must look after the lad,” cried Harcourt, springing from his bed, and dressing with all haste. "He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even i it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this.".

The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and old timbers of the frame rattled fa fully.

"Do you remain here, Upton. go in search of the boy. Take care Glencore hears nothing of his absence."

And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out.

The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along torrents, and the thunder rolled inces santly, its clamour increased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had repeated to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy going towards the sea-shore, and in this direction he now followed. His frequent excursions had familiarised him with the place, so that even at night Harcourt found no difficulty in detecting the path and keeping. About half-an-hour's brisk walking brought him to the side of the Lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and called out the boy's name several times. The sea, however, was running mountains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in sheets of scatter. ed foam beyond them; so that Har

court's voice was drowned by the uproar. A small sheeling under the shelter of the rock formed the home of a boatman; and at the crazy door of this humble cot Harcourt now knocked violently.

The man answered the summons at once, assuring him that he had not heard or seen any one since the night closed in; adding, at the same time, that in such a tempest a boat's crew might have landed without his knowing it.

"To be sure," continued he, after a pause, "I heard a chain rattlin' on the rock soon after I went to bed, and I'll just step down and see if the yawl is all right.'

Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard calling out from below

"She's gone!-the yawl is gone! the lock is broke with a stone and she's away!"

"How could this be? no boat could leave in such a sea," cried Harcourt eagerly.

"She could go out fast enough, sir. The wind is north-east due; but how long she'll keep the sea is another

matter."

"Then he'll be lost!" cried Harcourt wildly.

"Who, sir-who is it ?" asked the

man.

"Your master's son!" cried he, wringing his hands in anguish.'

"Oh, murther! murther!" screamed the boatman, "we'll never see him again. 'Tis out to say-into the wild ocean he'll be blown !"

"Is there no shelter could make for ?"

no spot he

"Barrin' the islands, there's not a spot between this and America." "But he could make the islandsyou are sure of that?"

"If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure I know him well; he'll never take in a reef or sail; but sit there, with the helm hard up, just never carin' what came of him! Oh, musha! musha! what druv him out such a night as this!"

"Come, it's no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid?"

"Afraid!" replied the man, with a touch of scorn in his voice; "faix it's little fear troubles me; but maybe you won't like to be in her yourself when she's once out. I've none belongin' to me father, mother, chick

or child; but you may have many a one that's near to you."

66

"My ties are, perhaps, as light as your own," said Harcourt. Come, now, be alive. I'll put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him."

"I'd rather see his face than have two hundred," said the man, as, springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the low halfdeck, and prepare for sea.

"Is your honour used to a boat, or ought I to get another man with me?"

asked the sailor.

"Trust me, my good fellow, I have had more sailing than yourself, and in more treacherous seas, too," said Harcourt, who, throwing off his cloak, proceeded to help the other, with an address that bespoke a practised hand.

The wind blew strongly off the shore, so that scarcely was the foresail spread, than the boat began to move rapidly through the water, dashing the sea over her bows, and plunging wildly through the waves.

"Give me a hand now with the hal'yard," said the boatman; "and when the main-sail is set, you'll see how she'll dance over the top of the waves, and never wet us."

"She's too light in the water, if anything," said Harcourt, as the boat bounded buoyantly, under the increased press of canvas.

Your honour's right; she'll do better with half a ton of iron in her. Stand by sir, always, with the peak hal'yards; get the sail aloft in when I give you the word."

"Leave the latter to me, my man," said Harcourt, taking it as he spoke. "You'll soon see that I'm no new hand at the work."

She's doing it well," said the man. "Keep her up! keep her up! there's a spit of land runs out here; in a few minutes more we'll have say-room enough."

The heavier roll of the waves, and the increased force of the wind, soon showed that they had gained the open sea; while the atmosphere, relieved of the dark shadows of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than inshore.

"We're to make for the islands, you say, sir ?"

"Yes. What distance are they off?"

"About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts, and we can bear it."

"And could the yawl stand this?" said Harcourt, as a heavy sea struck the bow, and came in a cataract over them.

"Better than ourselves, if she was manned. Luff! luff!-that's it!" And as the boat turned up to wind, sheets of spray and foam flew over her. "Master Charles hasn't his equal for steerin', if he wasn't alone. Keep her there!-now! steady, sir!"

"Here's a squall coming," cried Harcourt; "I hear it hissing."

Down went the peak, but scarcely in time, for the wind, catching the sail, laid the boat gunwale under. Af. ter a struggle, she righted, but with nearly one-third of her filled with

water.

"I'd take in a reef, or two reefs," said the man; "but if she couldn't rise to the say, she'll fill and go down. We must carry on, at all events."

"So say I. It's no time to shorten sail, with such a sea running."

The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself impelling her, as with every sudden gust the waves struck the stern.

"She's a brave craft," said Harcourt, as she rose lightly over the great waves, and plunged down again into the trough of the "but if we ever get to land again, I'll have combings round her to keep her dryer."

sea;

"Here it comes!-here it comes, sir!"

Nor were the words well out, when, like a thunder-clap, the wind struck the sail, and bent the mast over like a whip. For an instant it seemed as if she were going down by the prow; but she righted again, and, shivering in every plank, held on her way.

"That's as much as she could do,” said the sailor; "and I would not like to ax her to do more."

"I agree with you," said Harcourt, secretly stealing his feet back again into his shoes, which he had just kicked off.

"It's fresh'ning it is every minute," said the man; "and I'm not sure that we could make the Islands if it lasts.'

"Well-what then ?"

"There's nothing for it but to be blown out to say," said he, tragically, as, having filled his tobacco-pipe, he struck a light, and began to smoke.

"The very thing I was wishing for," said Harcourt, touching his cigar to the bright ashes. "How she labours -do you think she can stand this ?"

66

"From the westward, you mean?" Yes, sir-a wind coming over the whole ocean, that will soon meet the land wind."

"And does that often happen?"

The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, the sailor struck off the broken portion d the spar, and soon cleared the wred; while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, laboured heavily, sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliff's looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them.

"The boy-the boy!" cried Harcourt; "what has become of him? He never could have lived through that squall."

"If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too," said the sailor; "she'd have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter."

"It is all over by this time," muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully.

"Pace to him now!" said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over & prayer.

The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly keel uppermost; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise, close at hand, told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke,

save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. Hours passed thuslong, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance.

As morning began to break with a greyish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Harcourt.

"Yes, sir; we're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on well, we'll be soon in slacker water."

"Could the boy have reached this, think you?"

The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking.

"How far are we from Glencore?" "About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land."

"You can put me ashore, then, somewhere here abouts?"

"Yes, sir, in the next bay; there's a creek we can easily run into."

"You are quite sure he couldn't have been blown out to sea?"

"How could he, sir? There's only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he isn't in the Clough Bay, he's in glory."

All the anxiety of that dreary night. was nothing to what Harcourt now suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks' Point, and look into the bay beyond it. Controlling it as he would, still would it break out in words of impatience, and even anger.

"Don't curse the boat, ye'r honour," said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; "she's behaved well to us this night, or we'd not be here now."

"But are we to beat about here for ever?" asked the other, angrily.

"She's don' well, and we ought to be thankful," said the man; and his tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the other's impatience. "I'll try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit."

Harcourt watched him, as he laboured away to repair the damaged rigging; but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor

Glencore upon his sick-bed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of despe ration? Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strongest principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was aroused by the sudden cry of the boat

man.

"There's a boat, sir, dismasted, a-head of us, and drifting out to say."

"I see her!"-I see her!" cried Harcourt; "out with the oars, and let's pull for her."

Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half-amile a-head of them.

"She's empty!-there's no one in her!" said Peter, mournfully, as, steadying himself by the mast, he cast a look seaward.

"Row on-let us get beside her," said Harcourt.

"She's the yawl!-I know her now," cried the man.

"And empty?"

"Washed out of her with a say, belike," said Peter, resuming his oar, and tugging with all his strength.

A quarter of an hour's hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready to capsize.

"There's something in the bottom in the stern-sheets !" screamed Peter. "It's himself!-O blessed Virgin, it's himself!" And, with a bound, he sprung from his own boat into the other.

The next instant he had lifted the helpless body of the boy from the bottom of the boat, and, with a shout of joy, screamed out

"He's alive!-he's well!-it's only fatigue !"

Harcourt pressed his hands to his face, and sank upon his knees in prayer.

It is long since the search for a "northwest passage" has lost almost all its interest in the public mind-so long that, now that it has been found, nobody but a Fellow of the Geographical Society knows, or thinks of inquiring, in what direction it runs, or whither it leads. In truth, the hobby was ridden somewhat overhard. The monotony of the details of Arctic Expeditions wearied the public ear very soon after the excitement produced by the novelty of the adventures of the early voyagers had worn off; and the subject would have waned out of memory years ago, but for the noble fidelity and energy of a wife refusing to abandon her husband to his fate, until inexorable time should efface the last shadow of a hope of his being within the reach of human

succour.

The devotion of Lady Franklin, operating upon the generous heart of a young Frenchman, in conjunction with his own ardent love of adventure and thirst for distinction, lately brought another actor upon the stage, and his untimely, but enviable fate, again, for a moment, arrested the public attention, and caused a passing glance to be turned towards the northern graves of our unfortunate countrymen. No more than a casual thought was, however, given to the crews of the Erebus and Terror; the interest then awakened in the breasts of Englishmen was fixed on the memory of an obscure foreign sailor, to honour which some of the foremost men in England came promptly forward with their purses and their names. It was truly a strange and unprecedented sight that was presented to the two nations, we may, perhaps, say to the world, on the 14th of November, 1853, when the First Lord of the Admiralty, and the veteran of Arctic Expeditions, Sir Edward Parry, declared in their own names, and in the name of a meeting "composed of various classes of Englishmen," their anxious desire to mark their deep sense of the noble conduct of Lieute nant Bellot, of the French Imperial Navy," and their determination to invite their countrymen to unite with them in erecting a monument to his memory. An appeal thus made in

66

England is seldom ineffectual. Subscriptions poured in from all quarters, until sufficient has been accumulated to defray the cost of erection of a granite obelisk, inscribed with the name of BELLOT, and to enable the Committee to present each of the five sisters of the deceased officer with a gift of £300, in token of the feelings entertained for their brother by the English people. Placed upon the bank of the Thames, on the quay of Greenwich Hospital, the monument attests to the mariners of all nations the admission of a French worthy into the most saered shrine of the heroes of England. How is this unparalleled manifestation of respect to be accounted for? The object of it lost his life at the age of seven-and-twenty, by a casualty incidental to his calling. He was a stranger, of humble rank, undistinguished by birth or fortune, unknown in science or art. By what magic were the guardians of the naval Valhalla of Eng land induced to admit him within their precincts? How were the proudest of English nobles brought into a common action, in honour of his memory, with "working men," and coast-guard boat's crews? The answer to these questions is, we think, supplied by the publication of M. Bellot's simple me moirs and journal, and it is creditable to human nature. In the relations of the young sailor with his own family, with Lady Franklin, with the rough, true-hearted men among whom he was thrown in his first Arctic voyage, with the officials of the English Admiralty, is to be traced the origin of the affection and esteem which, spreading from those centres, influenced large circles of Englishmen to delight in honouring bis geniality of heart, earnestness of purpose, and devoted loyalty. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin; and may we not hope that the memory of the hero, and of the frankness and purity in which his worship was set up, will bind together the land that adopted him and that which him birth, gave long after the conventional obligation of a political alliance can be expected