the effect of his regular and classic features. Just before he left home on his last cruize

"Ah! little thought he 'twas his last!"

he had married a beautiful girl, to whom he had been long and fervently attached. It was a stolen match, and I, and our chaplain, who united them, were the only ones, on his part, privy to it. How beautifully her delicate white complexion contrasted with his, as they joined hands before our nautical parson, who, by the way, was more skilled in the mystery of lobscouse and sea-pie, than in the ceremonies appertaining to his clerical character. However, the sacred rite was pronounced, the inaudible whisper of assent passed her trembling lips, and the lovely Jane Dayton became the bride of Fred. He looked, alongside of the timid and blushing creature, like a lofty and stately frigate convoying a Baltimore clipper; and he would have been full as prompt and efficient in resenting an injury or insult offered to her, as any of our frigates have ever been in supporting the dignity of the American flag.

Just before we left Gibraltar to run down the coast of Africa, on our homeward bound passage, a vessel arrived, bringing letters to most of the officers of the squadron. Fred, among others, received a packet, which, as was always his custom, he retired to his state-room to peruse. In two or three hours after, when supper was prepared in the wardroom, the steward knocked at his door to call him, and, not receiv ing any answer, opened it-when there poor Fred was seen, lying stretched on the floor, which was crimson with his blood. In his hand, tightly grasped, was the letter he had been perusing, and a glance at this im mediately explained all. His Jane was dead! She had expired in giving birth to a child; and the shock

of the intelligence had proved more than Fred could bear. He had endeavoured to suppress his agony, so as to give no audible intimation of it, and in the struggle of his feelings a bloodvessel had become ruptured, and he had sunk fainting on the deck. Medical assistance was, of course, immediately administered ; and it had the effect to produce a partial restoration. Fred's body recovered-but his mind never did. He was no more the gay, cheerful fellow he had been; a heavy despondency settled on his spirits, which soon took the form of a hasty consumption; and in just two months and three days after he received the intelligence of his wife's death, he breathed his last.

The word had been passed, when the men were turned to, at one bell in the forenoon watch, for all hands to prepare themselves for muster, or, in other phrase, for the ship's crew to dress themselves in their best apparel; and when the quartermaster struck five bells, that is, at half past ten o'clock, an order was sent up from the cabin, for the boatswain to call all hands to bury the dead. Scarcely had the deep sepulchra} voices of himself and mates reverberated through the ship, before every soul on board was on the main deck, gathered together in a compact group, just forward of the mainmast, anxious to show all the respect in their power to their deceased officer. The cheeks of many a rugged tar that day were wet with drops of real sorrow for the fate of poor Fred, who was always the favourite of the crew, in whatever ship he sailed. The body, wrapped up in a tarred hammock, and enclosed in a coffin, which the carpenter had hastily constructed, and over which an American ensign was thrown, was passed up the main hatchway, and placed on the bulwark, ready to launch it into the deep. The solemn words of the Episcopal burial service were read in a slow, impressive manner, by the chaplain, and at the sentence, beginning, "We commit his body

to the deep," the board on which the coffin rested was inclined towards the sea-the coffin slid from it-a splash was heard-a deep silence succeeded-and all that was left on earth of Frederick Gerard, sunk, unseen, unheard, down deep into the bosom of the ocean. Poor fellow,

"No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge!"

THE STANTON GHOST;

OR,

MISTAKE OF THE PRESS.

THE little village of Stanton is one of the most delightfully situated places in the world. It occupies the brow of a green eminence, which overlooks the broad and crystal surface of a beautiful stream, just in that part where the nature of its channel, and the formation of the opposite bank, cause it to dilate to three times its usual breadth, thus giving all the charm and softness of distance to the scenery on the opposite shore. The country, on the inland side of the village, descends, by a romantic and wooded declivity, to a green, secluded valley, where winds a noisy rivulet on its way to join the river, with which it mingles a mile or two below. This pellucid and impetuous little current has its rise in the mountains that skirt the distance; and through the verdant depths where lies its course it babbles and gurgles along over the rocks which interrupt its passage, its natural melody falling on the ear with a happy sound, and awakening sweet emotions in the heart, like the tiny shout and laugh of innocent children, playing in the sun. Through the thick foliage of the trees which shade the valley. glimpses of light occasionally fall on the obstreperous brook, illumining its turbulent bosom, like the few and

far-between gleams of joy which here and there irradiate the stormy current of life.

The appearance of the village itself is as neat and picturesque, as the surrounding scenery is romantic. One broad, clean road (or street, as the inhabitants ambitiously call it) runs through the midst, on the very summit of the ridge, terminating at the promontory, formed by the junction of the rivulet and the larger stream. At this place, a little stone landing is erected. where the lading of a single small sloop is weekly taken in, and her return cargo discharged. The arrival and departure of this handsome vessel, known by the name of the Stanton Packet, are matters of considerable moment to the inhabitants; as by her all their commercial intercourse with the distant metropolis is carried on. About half a dozen houses and stores occupy the most eligible sites in the immediate vicinity of the landing; though the road passes over an interval of more than three-quarters of a mile, before the village can be fairly said to commence. There are no more than fifty houses in all; but, with very few exceptions, these are handsomely constructed, and tastefully disposed; and their white exteriors and green shutters peeping through the poplar, sycamore, locust, and other trees, by which they are generally surrounded; the neat little hanging gardens, enclosed in white palings, and reaching a short way down the declivity towards the river; and the air of comfort, plenty and tidiness which pervades the whole, render it by far the most pleasant looking village in all that part of the country.

The character and manners of the inhabitants might, by a meditative mind, be nearly guessed at from the appearance of their abodes. The neat little church, the glittering spire of which rises up to view from amidst the green and flexile branches of the willows, that shade the surrounding graveyard, tells that they are a religious and sober people. At the