reason or patriotism of a mixed crew of a man-of-war!" was an expression often used by my friend when relating this exciting story. Had he given the order to man the boats for the rescue, leading the way himself as he intended, it had been done, and the rescue propably accomplished, long before the more sordid part of his crew, attracted and excited, at the moment, by the splendor and importance of the achievement, would have found time to "count the cost," or exclaim, (as they did,)" You will get all the honor, and we, poor devils, will lose the prizes." Had he, even after the pause and parley with the crew, sprung, sword in hand, amongst the disaffected and arrested them, as he was on the point of doing, he still might have accomplished the rescue, but he did not. The remark of one of them that their "commander” had not" ordered them to catch soldiers," forcibly reminded him that he was only second in authority, and his noble commander was too ill, and too unconscious, to take any interest in what was passing on deck, or to give an order if he were brought thereand when Lieutenant S saw Napoleon on his return home pause, when nearly opposite the brig, and seemingly take a last, and, he could imagine, reproachful look, his heart sank within him, and he descended to his cabin with ardent and agitated feelings, and a prostration of spirits, not to be described. For several hours he remained below under the greatest excitement--on the one hand, indignant at the dastardly conduct of his crew, and on the other a lingering hope that something might yet transpire to enable him to accomplish what he would at that moment have risked a dozen lives to accomplish; alternately revolving the chances that the British gun-brig (for whose crew in the dawn of morning he had felt and expressed the liveliest sympathy) had gone to the bottom, and therefore that his disguise would not for some days be detected, and the hope that during the day his crew, either through fear, or by strong inducements and hopes of large rewards, might join in and consent the next morning that Bonaparte should take his ride; alternating, I say, between hope and despair, he had almost wished the sea to overwhelm his ship and end his anxiety, when he was startled by the cry of “Sail, ho!" which brought him to the deck almost at a single bound, and, to his utter dismay, the re-appearance of the gun-brig in the

offing, regaining her cruising ground, put to flight the last vestige of hope that he, who had once had a most providential opportunity, should ever have another, to attempt to rescue the great prisoner, and with a sinking heart he gave orders to his disappointed and distressed officers, to make sail seaward, thus avoiding the approaching cruiser, who, apparently in great alarm, commenced firing signal guns, and made all the sail her crippled condition would admit. The Chacabuco had hardly gained an offing before the admiral's ship was seen standing out of the harbor prepared for action-and it was no doubt this affair that gave rise to the reports which reached Sir Hudson Lowe, and even Napoleon's ears, that an attempt had been made to rescue him.

The Chacabuco had stretched far beyond the ken of the alarmed brig, and was left almost becalmed. There she lay, to all appearance as calm as the ocean on whose quiet bosom she was floating, which contrasted sadly with the perturbed feelings of her officers-intense disappointment-chagrin—a feeling of culpability-a self-accusing spirit of duty unperformed, engendered feelings in their hearts towards the recreant officer and disaffected portion of the crew, which it had taken but little to excite into desperation: and the crew, nearly all of whom had now sided with the disaffected, although performing submissively and in sullen silence their usual round of duty, it was but too apparent were under the influence of more than common feelings-a half-smothered threat uttered in the way of a joke, about "catching soldiers," the self-condemned and sinister features of the foreign officer in question

the more than doubtful visage of three or four leading tars-all spoke, in language stronger than words, that a volcano was under them, which the first spark of additional insubordination or revolt would ignite into the deadliest conflict for mastery. It was not till the second day that Lieut. S-- thought it necessary to consult his officers, nor was he even then willing to alarm his fast sinking commander, but he said enough to some of his chief officers to intimate to them the necessity for an informal interview and consultation, and the captain of marines, young Ln (who had throughout the whole affair behaved most nobly, participating with Lieut. S in the most fervid enthusiasm for the attempt at rescue) had noticed enough to induce him to look

well to the condition of his department. From this state of anxiety, doubt, and danger, they happily were relieved in the afternoon of the second day by the always cheerful and exciting cry of "Sail ho!" and in a few hours they spoke and boarded the American ship from Manilla, from whom they learnt that one of the Spanish ships was disabled and undergoing long repairs at Manilla, and the other they had parted company with only a few days before; she intending to proceed direct to Cadiz, without calling at St. Helena.

Thus, then, was a new motive of action at once brought into exercise on board the self-condemned Chacabuco, in which both officers and crew seemed glad to participate-"a change came o'er the spirit of their dreams"-all was life and bustle. It was almost certain that their clipper brig could reach Cadiz before her expected prize-perhaps fall in with her on the way, and when the order was given to make all sail for Cadiz, it was obeyed with that alacrity and hearty good will, which again spoke louder than words, that with the mixed crew of the Chacabuco, gold had a thousand more charms than honor. Every sail was spread to the breeze, and the ship bounded gaily over the ocean::-if relief from very great anxiety had lighted up the faces of her officers, so had the hope of regaining the confidence of their officers and of capturing a noble prize, swept away from the brawny cheeks of her motley crew every vestige of discontent-cheerily they manned the ropes and loudly they praised the sailing qualities of their darling craft

"Their march was on the mountain wave, Their home was on the deep"

and while the face of every jolly tar glistened with gladness and hope, their eagerness and anxiety to overtake the letterof-marque gave a certain pledge that they would now do their whole duty. And the opportunity was very soon afforded them, for on their arrival off Cadiz they ascertained that they were in advance of the expected prize, and they accordingly took their station to intercept and capture her.

In this position the Chacabuco had remained, constantly prepared for action, for more than three days, when a little after dark on the fourth a sail was descried bearing directly down for the port, and in a short time there was every indi

cation of her being the large armed ship which had so long been the object of their anxious and eager pursuit, and that she had by some means or other an intimation of her danger, for she was coming down under the greatest possible spread of canvas. The Chacabuco was not slow in beating to quarters-placing herself directly in the chops of the harbor, with her matches lighted, she waited the approach of her antagonist, who to her surprise she found all prepared for defence, even to her boarding nettings, and from her size and armament gave token that the conflict would be dreadful, and dreadful it was.

Three several times did the Chacabuco attempt to board, the last time from the main-yard, by springing into the quarter boat of the ship, which was immediately cut away and afforded part of the boarders the means of safety till rescued after the action, during the whole time of which, being nearly an hour, the ship kept steadily on her course into port, seemingly conscious that her only safety was in reaching the anchorage before her crew, which was so fast diminishing, should be wholly killed or disabled. In this she succeeded, and when the Chacabuco reluctantly gave up the fight, both ships were nearly amidst the fleet of merchantmen in the harbor, and a sloop of war, apparently British, was under way for the scene of action.

If the officers of the Chacabuco had felt disheartened at St. Helena, the crew now in their turn felt the bitterness of disappointment in its fullest force: they had fought like bulldogs; nearly one-third of their number had been killed or mortally creant foreign officer; they had boldly held wounded-among the former was the reon to the fight at desperate odds till they were in danger of being surrounded in port, and when they gave it up and bore out to sea, fortunately rescuing in their way from a watery grave, their brave companions who had attempted to board, and were cut down in the quarter-boat, the keenest disappointment and despair were depicted in every face, heightened no doubt by the bitter recollection of delinquency of duty at St. Helena. The fight was a desperate one, and was fully described and commented on by the Cadiz papers of the day; and as at night the Chacabuco's colors had not been dis. tinctly seen and understood, she was reported and believed to be some desperate piratical corsair.

Cut up and disabled to such a degree that it became necessary, on the first recurrence of heavy weather, to throw overboard most of her heavy guns-her crew thinned by death and mortal wounds it became in the minds of her officers very doubtful if the Chacabuco could reach Buenos Ayres; and in a few days it was determined to bear up for a port in the United States, and she finally reached Savannah with the greatest difficulty, where, while waiting for orders and the means to refit, many of her officers resigned, and most of her crew escaped. Her brave commander immediately left for the North, where, it is believed, he soon breathed his last. Lieutenant S obtained leave of absence to visit his friends residing in a seaport

on the Gulf, who induced him to throw up his commission; but disappointment and disease soon made such rapid inroads on his constitution, that, in a year or two, he had barely health enough left to enable him to return to his native State in the North, where, in August, 1822, he breathed his last in the arms of his parents.

The brave captain of marines, young Ln, returned to the fond embrace of his parents in New York; the surgeon, Dr. B., became a resident of Florida. Who took charge of the Chacabuco, and when she sailed for Buenos Ayres, the writer has now no means of ascertaining; but her arrival at Savannah must still be fresh in the recollection of many of the present merchants of that place.

Ir is singular, perhaps a little disgraceful, the extent, the variety of ways, with which we have contrived to exhibit our dependence on England for the literary products with which are fed, what we choose to consider, our very intellectual natures. It could not, in reason, appear strange that all good works of English production should be imported-re-published, if you please-with great haste, and read with equal eagerness and delight. To have neglected them would, in fact, have been but an evidence of little taste on our part, as well as of small reverence for that noble mother of all the "enterprising Saxon race," whom it must be confessed, we ought not to forget. Nor is it matter of surprise that we have not ourselves produced a greater number of excellent books, which might have prevented the necessity of borrow ing so freely from abroad. We are young as yet; we have had a wilderness to conquer-cities to build-commerce, government, social order to establish in short, our physical interests to care for first-a remark which, though often made, is almost as true as if it were less common! But we have gone quite beyond what was necessary in our literary

"PORTRAITS.”*

indebtedness to Great Britain. We have not only devoured all original English works-which was well enough, provided we had always known first what we were eating, or sufficiently digested it when eaten-but we have borrowed from English translators all our current versions of foreign authors. There is hardly an instance to the contrary. All the fine French and Italian classic authors, the best versions of which have for the most part appeared since we first undertook to build up for ourselves a literature, have been made familiar to us through English translations. With the modern stock of continental literature, the case is nearly as bad. Some dusty scholar has rendered into American two or three unattractive German works, never yet naturalized in England-though in truth we cannot well remember what they are. All other exceptions are confined to French novels-to the introduction of which we should prefer to lay no claim-the discredit to our taste is greater than the honor to our diligence.

But what possible reason has there been for such refusal among us to engage in this department of literary labor? Pride of being original? Scorn of working at