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Ah," continued he, shaking his head significantly, "they call me a pirate, but I might have done them some good service when I lay at Barataria. But I am not a pirate. You see there?" said he, pointing suddenly toward the point of the beach.

"I see," said our skipper; "what does that mean?"

The object to which our attention was thus directed, and which we had previously observed with any thing but admiration, was the dead body of a man dangling from a rude gibbet erected on the beach.

"That is my justice. That vaurien plundered an American schooner. The captain complained to me of him, and he was found guilty, and hung."

"These look like graves," said Captain Kearny, pointing to two equivocal looking hillocks in the sand.

"Carambola Captain, yes; that was a terrible villain; he was caught in a plan to murder my steward, who then had in his hands almost all my people's money; we gave him court-martial fairly, and he was sentenced to be shot by the steward, and so he was. A very great villain. Will you go on board my brig?"

On board this vessel there was evidently a greater attention paid to "the shipshape," and more of discipline. La Fitte led the way into his cabin, where preparation had already been made for dinner; to partake, which we were frankly invited, and which invitation (I can answer for one) most willingly accepted. Sea air and exercise are proverbial persuaders of the appetite; and Monsieur La Fitte's display of good stew, dried fish and wild turkey, cured in the sun, as he told us, were more tempting than prize money,—that is, just at that time. There was, however, a surprise in store for us that, hungry as we were, made us almost oblivious of our dinner. Forth, from a state room, issued—A Lady— one of the most glorious specimens of the brunette ever dreamed of. A full and voluptuous form of faultless outline-beautiful features, and sleepy black eyes, with the blackest and most luxuriant hair that ever curled, made up a "tottle," as Joe Hume says, to drive a squad of sentimental youths like ourselves to poetry or suicide.

She was evidently a Quatroon; and, as La Fitte did not introduce us, we did what our timidity could, and, taking advantage of a rather courteous gesture in answer to a proffer of some boiled yam, I commenced an acquaintance by some very apposite remark, the precise context of which I have forgotten, and, judging from her manner, should have acquired some footing in her good graces, had she understood my vernacular, which, alas! she did not. Our intercourse, therefore, was carried on through the medium of signs, and limited to reciprocities in turkey and French wine. Meanwhile M'Kenny had remarked to La Fitte our mistake of the day before, and our visit to Matagorda. He listened with attention, and answered briskly: "It is lucky you did not meet them; they are Camanches; I know them; those very fellows killed and ate two of my men.”

"Ate? said I."

"Yes, ate; ay, ate; they are cannibals; stay while I tell you; I send one of my people one day there to hunt; in the evening he does not come back; next day I send more to look for him, but nobody finds him; I think then that he has fallen into some pit, or has run away; some days afterwards two more of my men go to hunt; in the evening they are missing; then I do not know what to think; I take a party and search every where, but find nothing of them; as we return we hear a shout; we return it, thinking it may be our people; directly we hear another shout, and we see a man running for his life to us, and half a hundred of the devils after him; when they saw us they stopped, and in a moment they all vanished; when the man came to us it was Juan Perez, our carpenter; he was so frightened and breathless at first that he could not speak, but presently he told us; that the Indians had killed the man who went out first, and eat him; and Perez, with his companion, had been also captured; that very day they were to have been a feast for the savage villains, and one of them had been knocked in the head; Perez had slipped his hands from the rope which confined him, and ran for life, and, lucky for him, we were near enough to save him; I afterwards took as many men as we wanted for safety, and went to the place from which Perez escaped; the Indians had gone, but we saw the remains of their fire, and the blackened bones of their victims; I assure you there is no doubt.

The quatroon had been, during this time, flirting dreadfully with our Mid, as far as dividing oranges into quarters and drinking silent healths could go. All at once she placed the glass, which she was raising to her lips, on the table, and, rising hastily, left us without further leavetaking. Glancing my eye at La Fitte, I intercepted one single look of that black eye directed towards her, so concentrated and severe in its meaning, that I did not wonder that it frightened the poor girl away from the table.

We afterwards became quite sociable, under the influence of the most generous and racy wines, honestly come by, no doubt, all except the skipper, who kept a bright look out upon all that was going forward, and allowed us, I suppose, to be as communicative as we pleased, in the hope of hearing something in return which might be useful to Govern

ment.

Meanwhile our conversation ran into the various topics which a sailor's experience can suggest, and La Fitte spoke unreservedly of his hazardous and adventurous life. He was evidently educated and gifted with no common talent for conversation; and, while listening to many a tale of shipwreck and storm, peril and daring, it seemed to me that I had realized some of the romances which had whiled my school days, and had heard from his own lips the exploits of one of the sea kings. "Come gentlemen," at length La Fitte observed, after a pause, at the end of a thrilling story of Cape Antonio, which I have at this hour perdu in my port-folio

"You do not like my wine;-Fernan," (speaking to the steward) "Caffe!"

"I should like very much to hear your life, Captain," I remarked. He smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "It is nothing extraordinary," said he. "I can tell it you in a very few words. But there was a timeand he drew a long breath-when I could not tell it without cocking both pistols. Bah-come, I'll tell you my life.

"Eighteen years ago I was a merchant in San Domingo. My father, before me, was a merchant. I had become rich. I had married a wife She was rich and beau- -," he stifled a sigh, and went on. "I determined to go to Europe, and I wound up all my affairs in the West Indies. I sold my property there. I bought a ship, and loaded her, besides which, I had on board a large amount of specie, all that I was worth, in short. Well, sir, when the vessel that I was on board had been a week at sea, we were overhauled by a Spanish man-of-war, commanded Senhor Chevalier D'Alkala. Yes, I remember his name, for I settled my debt to him afterwards, at any rate," he continued, with a thoughtful kind of chuckle. "The Spaniards captured us. They took every thing-goods, specie, even my wife's jewels. They set us on shore upon a barren sand key, with just provisions enough to keep us alive a few days, until an American schooner took us off, and landed us in New Orleans. I did not care what became of me. I was a beggar. My wife took the fever from exposure and hardship, and died in three days after my arrival. I met some daring fellows, who were as poor as We bought a schooner, and declared against Spain eternal war. Fifteen years I have carried on a war against Spain. So long as I live I am at war with Spain, but no other nation. I am at peace with the world, except Spain. Although they call me pirate, I am not guilty of attacking any vessel of the English or French. I showed you the place where my own people have been punished for plundering American property. At New Orleans I refused to be the enemy of America." "Captain, will you take coffee?"

I was.

This ceremony over, we went on deck, and made our adieu to the gallant rover. The fair-no, not the fair, but the beautiful Lindamira, did not re-appear. With feelings far more interested for the gallant rover than either would have chosen to confess, we shook hands, as for the last time in this world; and, by the glorious light of a summer moon, we rowed back to the brig. No sounds broke the silence, save the occasional blowing of the porpoise at his unwieldly sports. The stars sparkled with a brilliancy unknown in more northern climates. The breeze from the land was redolent of fragrance; and what, with La Fitte's 's story and his dinner, so little disposed did our party seem for conversation, that the first proof of animal life among us was the boat's thump against the brig's counter, and our coxswain's order " Up Oars."

T.

:

THE IDEAL.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

By the Author of "Pocahontas."

And wilt thou, then, forsake me, at the last,
Replete with glorious fancies as thou art?
Alike thy joys and gentle sorrows past,

Deaf to my yearning pray'r, wilt thou depart?

Can nothing win thy fleeting hours' delay,

Thou, of my early youth the golden prime?—
In vain the wish! Thy waters who shall stay,
Gushing to swell th' eternal tide of time?
Extinguished now the brilliant suns, that shed

Above my morning path their cheering light;
Th' IDEAL gone, the lovely visions fled,

That filled my swelling heart with warm delight.

Ah me! the sweet belief has passed away

In beings gendered in my dream alone;
All-all, to stern reality a prey,

The beautiful, the godlike forms are gone!

As erst, with fond desire, th' enamored Greek
Embraced the statue which his chisel wrought,
Until the marble's cold and tintless cheek

Kindled with feeling, blushed with glowing thought.

So, with the clasp of love, my youthful arms
Entwined themselves round Nature's beauteous form,
Till, on my poet-breast, her kindling charms
Awoke to life, fresh, animate and warm.

Then lived for me the tree, the shrub, the flower;
The streamlet's silver-fall was music then;
From lifeless things, from hill and vale and bow'r,
An echo answered to my thoughts again.

How rich the buds of promise, that put forth,
Along my life's path, as I wander'd on!
How few of these have 'scaped the chilly North!
How soon the freshness of these few is gone!

With bounding courage winged, through fairy land,

Happy in dreams that cheat the fleeting hours, Untouched as yet by sorrow's fetter-hand,

How sprang the youth along that path of flowers!

Aloft to ether's furthest, palest star,

His checkless wishes bore him, in their flight; No thought so high, no enterprize so far,

But on their soaring wings he reached its height. How lightsome was he borne through ambient air! What task seemed weary, in that joyous day! How graceful swept, before his triumph-car,

The airy heralds of life's summer way!

Love, with her sweet reward, I ween, was there,
And Happiness, with golden wreath bedight,
Glory, in crown of stars that blazed afar,

And Truth, resplendent in her garb of light.
Alas! midway th' inconstant troop divide;

The fair companions of his path are gone; Faithless they turn their devious steps aside,

Faithless forsake the wanderer, one by one.

Light-footed Happiness, the foremost, fled;

And Truth was lost, amid a brooding storm; The lowering clouds of Doubt arose, and shed Their sable influence o'er her radiant form.

Around unworthy brow I saw the wreath,

The holy wreath, conferr'd by Glory, shine; And ah! I felt the soul-entrancing breath

Of Love's own spring-time all too soon decline.

Lone and more lone the dreary path did seem,
And more forsaken still, and darker aye;
The lingerer Hope scarce shed one flickering gleam
Athwart the rudeness of the murky way.

Of all the clamorous attendant train

Who yet remains, where'er my footsteps roam? Who lingers still, to comfort and sustain,

And follows, even to the last, dark home?

Healer of ills, with which the world is rife,

Thou, Friendship! of the soft and gentle hand; Thou, who dividest all the cares of life,

Whose love, unchang'd, all ordeals can withstand;

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