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“Discretas insula rumpit aquas!”

The islands came in sight again, and ho! land! and Raynor
Rock!

Glad enough was I to hear our bow grind the sand near
Raynor's hut, on the evening succeeding our court's last
night's entertainments. Ned Locus had come in, and Peter
Probasco was smoking his usual short pipe, and the boys had
some fresh fish and “things accorden.” Zoph and I had had
a hard pull, and we were bay-salted and shivering, but not so
tired as to prevent us from bringing up a good bunch of brant.—
More of them, and a few of the black ducks, and sheldrakes,
and that goose, anon.

“That's a lie, mister, that story you told t'other night. Have
my doubts it's all a lie. I've said it.”—Such was Peter's judgment.—
“Mr. Locus, you dreamt that sometime or other.”

“Stick it out, Ned,” said I, “why the fellow is trying to
get angry!” and Ned actually had worked himself into such a
state of feeling, that between the excitement of the story, and
the soft impeachment of its veracity, and his liquor going down
the wrong way, his face was suffused, and seven or eight

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globules of eye-water ran a race for the goal of his pea-jacket
upper button.

“My friend,” he at last rejoined, “you're mighty civil.
Quite complimentary, forsooth. Do you suppose that I could
undertake to coin a story so minute, and particular, and specific—
so coherent and consistent in all its parts, so supported
by internal and circumstantial evidence—”

“So ingeniously stolen from Ovid,” interrupted I.

“ `Et tu brute,' Cypress!”

“I make no doubt it's all true, mostly,” said Daniel. “I've
been by the bridge and seen the place where Mr. Locus sot,
when he come out.”

“Well, gentlemen, what's the unbelievable part of the story?
You don't deny the brook, or doubt its being inhabited by mermaids,
do you? Then why shouldn't I be as likely as any
body to see one?”

“Festina lente,” cried I.

“Not so fast, I pray thee,” said the quiet Oliver. “I admit
the brook, but I deny thy eyesight. Thy water-nymph
lived but in thy brain, she is the offspring of thy dreams only—
none but pagan priests and poets, and dreamy boys, and
quaker sea-captains, have seen the creature of fancy, called a
mermaid.”

“Why, Oliver! you infidel! Do you deny the Oceanides,
the Nereides and Naiades, the Limnades and Potamides—”

“No such families in the island, d—d if there is,” cried
Peter.

“Have you never heard of Galatea and Amphitrite, Melita,
and Leucothoe, and Thetis, Calypso, and glorious Arethusa—?”

Peter.—“Never heerd of such people before.”

Oliver.—“Vile incarnations—the false deities of the old

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heathen poets. Too much antiquity hath made thee mad,
Ned, or rather, too much deviltry hath made thee a quiz.”

“He don't quiz me,” said Daniel, with a compression of
his lips that said “I know too much.” “I don't know 'bout
carnations and deities, or old poets, and I reckon I don't believe
iniquity ever made Mr. Ned Locus mad, but what I know I
know. Sam Biles is my wife's cousin's aunt's sister's brother-in-law,
and he's been a sealer. Sam knows. Seals is nothen
but nigger mermaids, as Silas said last night, or night afore.
Sam told me he see 'em often together, and the mermaids
licked 'em and kicked 'em 'bout jist as they was amind to.
They caught one one day, but she played the devil among the
sailors, and the captain chucked her overboard.—Shaa! why
Jim Smith see a mermaid once down to Gilgoa inlet, riden a
sea-horse—don't you b'lieve it—ask Jim.”

“Ah! Daniel, Daniel,” said Ned, “they're a set of unbelievers—
don't try to persuade them.”

“Shut up. Shut up, boys. Change the subject. Here;
will you smoke?” said Raynor, producing some short stub
pipes, and an old segar box stuffed with tobacco.

It has always been our rule that “when we are at Rome,
we must do as the Romans do.” So, it is to be recorded, that
we committed, or rather submitted to, that sin. We smoked.

Puff. “What luck on the whole”—puff—“boys”—puff—
puff—“this fall?”—puff—puff—puff—; and so on. We will
not smoke thee, reader. We got fairly into conversation,
now, and different speakers sustained the dialogue, half a
dozen speaking at once, sometimes, so that I cannot put down
a tithe of what was said.

“Middlen, sir, middlen. We've got some. We come
'cross a good school of drums this afternoon. How is times
down to York?”

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“O, so so. There's nothing new or strange. People are
fighting, as usual, about politics, like fools, and calling each
other names, which, if rightly applied, ought to be ropes to hang
them. Is the bass fishing good, this season?”

“Moderate, moderate. How does the old general stand
his hand?”

“Bravely, bravely. They've tried to make him out a tyrant,
usurper, cut-throat, fool, and every thing else that is stupid,
and base; but `it's no use.' Do you kill many coot?”

“Coots is scace. I see a smart bunch, jest at sundown,
up into Poor-man's harbor. Do you think the Jackson men
will get it next 'lection?”

“No doubt; no doubt; not the least doubt. The farmers
of the north, and west, are men of sense and spirit, and there's
no mistake about the farmers of Queens, and Suffolk, as you
yourself well know. But they are doing their d—dest in
New-York. They are trying to buy the Irish, and have made
such golden overtures to our leading paper as will require uncommon
virtue to resist. You must remember to go and vote,
boys, for the old man. Every vote counts. He's the hero of
New-Orleans, you know—protector of beauty and booty—can
you ever forget the time when—”

“You don't catch me voten, I reckon,” interrupted long
John, bending his crane-like neck, so as to bring his head at
right angles with his body. “I never voted but onest, and
that was last fall, and I reckon I did a smart deal o' harm
then. Mr. Locus fetched me up. It rained a little, and he
ris an umberell over my head, as we sot in the wagon, and I
an't got over that, neither. Now I expect that umberell must
have given me a kind o' chill, or somethen, for I an't been
right ever sence.”

“It wa'n't the umberell,” cried out one of the group; “it

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was on 'count o' your voten the wrong ticket, to 'blige Mr.
Locus—that's the how—and it made you feel bad—and you
knowed it.”

“What, John! What, John! are you serious?” continued
I. “Do you really intend to sacrifice your inestimable right
of suffrage? The right for which your fathers fought, and
bled, and died? Reflect. Consider. It is the glorious privilage,
as well as the religious duty of every freeman, to go to
the ballot box. Liberty, the liberty of an American citizen—”

“Stop it. Stop it,” roared out Ned Locus. “No politics,
Cypress. What's the use? You'll only set me a-going, and
I can talk as fast you, and we'll like enough get angry.”

“We may as well let it alone,” said the quiet Oliver. “There
are no converts to be made in Suffolk, not even if Daniel
Webster was to come and talk to it. We'll beat thee next
fall even if he should.”

It will readily be perceived that at the date of this dialogue,
I was what is called at Tammany Hall, “a consistent democrat.”
Ned has always thought it a pity. But he does not
on that account, shut me out from his heart, and treat me as
if he thought I wore a caput supinum, as some mad zealots
have, in the rage of their disappointment, sometimes ferociously
advised him to do. Ned and Oliver both belonged to
the party that thought the constitution was in danger, and that
the country was doomed to utter ruin, unless the dynasty of a
certain very respectable financial institution was perpetuated.

“I'll bet you the expenses of the trip, on that,” replied
Ned to Oliver's vaunt.

“I never bet, Neddy. It's against our rules. But it's got
to be done. Don't get mad. It's no use.” And then he
wound up with his everlasting saw about the boiling of pork.

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“D—n your easy impudence. We'll have five thousand
majority in the city alone.”

“Order! order!” cried Raynor. “Gentlemen, have the
goodness to come to order, for a song from Venus Raynor,
Esquire,—one of his own composing—that song, Venus, you
made about the people that were drowned down to Oyster
pond point.”

The usual apologies and excuses were soon disposed of,
and then Venus opened his mouth and sang a most pathetic
ditty, to which we all listened with sincere delight, for it was
sung with the pathos, tenderness, and grace of nature. I was
enraptured with it, and, next day, got Venus to go to the lighthouse
and write it out for me. The following is a copy verbatim
et literatim;—


“Come all ye Good people of evry degree
come listen awhil with attention to me
a sorowful story i am going to relate
a mournful disaster that hapenned of late
O Oyster-pond tremble at that awful stroke
remember the voice that gehovah has spoke
to teach us we are mortals exposed to dath
and subgect each moment to yield up our breath
on monday the 12th of december so cold
in the year 18 hundred as i have been told
the winds blowing high and the rains beating down
when a vessle arived at Oyster-Pond town
their anchors being cast thir ships tore away
all hands for the shore were preparring straitway
down into the boat soon they did repair
and on to the shore was praing to steer

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But mark their hard fortune it is mournful indeed
yet no one can hinder what god has decread
the council of heaven on that fatal day
by death in an instant calld numbers away
A number of men in their halth and their prime
called out of this world in an instant of time
the boat turning plundge them all into the deep
and 5 out of 7 in death fell asleep.
the sorrowaful tidings was caried straitway
to friends and relations without more delay
but o their lamentins no launge can express
more point out of joy great grief and distress
the widows are bereaved in sorrow to mourn
the loss of their husbands no more to return
besides a great number of orphans we hear
lameting the loss of their parents so dear
Also a young damsel a making great mourn
for the untimely death of her lover that gone
for the day of their nuptials apointed had been
and the land of sweet wedlock those lovers to join.
Alas all their lamentings are all but in vain
their husbands are drowned they can't come again
o friends and relations lament not to late
the council of heaven has sealded their fate
their bodies when found were all conveyed home
on the sabbath day following prepared for the tomb
their bodies in their coffin being all laid a side
in Oyster.Pond meeting house ally so wide

“Bravo!”—“Well sung, Venus;”—“Encore!”—“That's
a damnation nice song;”—and several other critical eulogiums
where wreathed around the head of the beach troubadour.

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“Now, Raynor,” said I, “we've had nothing out of you,
yet. Since Venus has given us a wrecking song, suppose
you give us a wrecking story—a true one. Tell us about
your saving the life of Captain Nathan Holdredge.”

“No, no,” protested Raynor; it's late now, and soon as
the moon gets up. we've got to go into the surf;—and you
know all about it.”—

“Tell it. Go ahead; or I'll summon a court of Dover and
have you fined.”

“Don't do that. Here goes then for THE WAY THE OLD
MAN SAVED CAPTAIN HOLDREDGE;” and the intrepid veteran
went on as follows; I took it from his own mouth, and the
whole story is his without embellishment, or addition. If I
could only give his voice—his eye—his hand—his attitude—
I should be happy:—

“It was eighteen years ago. The lighthouse war'nt built.
I was fishing off agin Bellport, twenty miles east of here. I
got up on the 17th day of October, early. The first thing I see,
was a ship on the beach. I went over to her, and it appeared
as if they wanted no assistance; the wind was
blowing at the east, and it was stormy—rain storm—it was
between break of day and sunrise. I was going to return
back again to the hut where we staid, and they beckoned,
and hollowed to us to stay;—then they let down their jolly
boat under the stern;—the captain, second mate, and one sailor
came ashore in her. When they came ashore, I knew the
captain. It was Captain Holdredge.—After being there a
little while, the captain invited me to go on board with him
and take something to drink with him—some brandy;—and
he would send a demijohn on shore for the rest of the crew,—
my crew. I discovered that there was much agin difficulty
in goin to the ship, as there was coming from her. The

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wind was off shore, and sea breaking on;—then I told him,
if you will let me and one of my men and him go aboard, I
would go—he wanted to take the two sailors, and they insisted
upon going, and he was a' mind they should too,—but
if them two sailors is a going to go, I sha'nt go. These sailors
seemed to be rather affronted at my opinion, and seemed to
think that they could go as well and long as me or any
other man.

“Then I told him I choosed not to go. Then Hol dredge
said, stay where we was, and he and the men would go and
get a demijohn of brandy, and bring it ashore. They then
started for the ship. She lay in the surf. The surf was pretty
big. The vessel lay about one hundred yards from the dry
land. It was this same Raccoon beach. The wind was east.
The ship's name was the “Savannah.” She was a packet
ship. She had five passengers. She was from Savannah,
loaded with cotton—four hundred bales, as I was told.

“When they got off against the ship, they was about twenty
yards to the west of her. The current carried them there;—
then, heading up east to the ship, brought them right broadside
to the sea;—the second sea capsized them—turned the
two sailors out, and pitched the captain underneath. The
two sailors came immediately ashore by the help of the sea;—
and the jolly boat kept, to all appearance, about the same
distance from the beach, and worked westward. I endeavored
to try to get to her, for I knew the captain was under her.
I endeavored to get to her all I could. The sea broke over
my head and knocked me down two or three times—I still
endeavored to assist him at some rate or other—I got so that
I touched the jolly boat—I just put my hand on her, and
whether it was my touching of her or not, she took a
pretty rank heave of the sea, and she turned down on one

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side pretty smartly, and the captain came out on the side
opposite from me. I discovered that he was alive and
apparently made some effort to help himself—but the current
of the sea carried him along faster than I could travel, and
in one moment he appeared to give up all, and roll along the
sea. Then I thought to myself it was no way to get him.
So I then thought to myself there was no way to save him,
but to return to the beach, and run about one hundred yards of the
west of him. All the while I was running, I kept my eye on
him. I kept watch of him—when I came to a sea poose—
I went in to the east of it—went out into the ocean as far as
he was standing and bracing against the sea—breaking over
my head—and just afore he got to me, there come a large
sea and seemed to hide him—buried him all up—and as
he about come abreast of me, I discovered him, and catched
him by the collar of his coat—I then sung out for assistance
to some of the rest of my crew who was on the beach—It
was about forty yards from the dry sand. One man run in. I
gave him left hand—I had hold of Holdredge with my right
hand. More of the crew came in and took hold of hands,
and it made a smart and long trail of it. I should think there
was as much as eight of us—and so we drawed him up on
the beach.—Some of the crew said he was stone dead, when
we got him out. I discovered that he was not dead by his
stirring one of his arms. I turned him round on the beach
where it shelved, and got his head the lowest, and then rolled
him backwards and forwards on his face, till he discharged
considerable water out of his mouth, and some blood out
of his nose. I suppose this blood from his nose, was from
the jams he got under the jolly boat. All the time I discovered
he was coming to. I told the crew, that owing to
the cold storm, he never would come to, unless we got him

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by the fire. Myself and three others took him in our arms,
and carried him about a quarter of a mile to our fishing hut—
blowen and rainen all the time from the east—got him to the
hut—built on a good fire—and prepared a little warm chocolate,
and got a little of it down him, and he come to fast.
In about three quarters of an hour he spoke. The first word
he spoke, he asked, “where's the ship?” I told him the ship
was safe on shore.

“Well, I don't know how—he recreuted and began to talk.
He had a mind to go to her. It was'nt worth while to go
to her. The passengers and crew had all come away. They
come away in my fish boat—after I got Holdredge to the
hut, the men all went to the surf. I staid with Holdredge
watching till next morning, when his nat'ral senses seemed
to come again. Next morning he took full charge of the ship,
as much as ever, and would employ no commissioners.—He
employed about twenty hands himself, at two dollars per
day, and took charge of the vessel himself. Unloaded—got
all cargo out—sent it down by lighters—would'nt employ any
wreckmasters—vessel went to pieces—his crew worked upon
the rigging, and took it off.

“Got ashore. He was in sight of the highlands at sundown,
going then S. E. I was by and heard him make his protest—
he turned in about twelve o'clock, and gave up to the mate,
and told him to keep that course till two o'clook, and then tack
ship, and stand in for the land, until they got into thirteen
fathom water—and then call him, if he wa'nt up before. He
waked, and found the ship had a different motion, and jumped
out of his berth, and looked out of the companion-way, and
saw the breakers under her lee—he giv orders to tack ship
immediately, but before she got about, she struck!—she paid

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off contrary, and got on to the beach—spread and tacked
every sail to get her off, but to no purpose.

“Menia, was the first mate.

“Walford, second mate—Walford was one of the men who
came ashore, and was upset, and was rolled ashore by the
waves.

“About the second day, word came on from Patchogue.
that his wife was there, and wanted him to come ashore
very much, if he was alive. He then went ashore to see
her. When he come there, she said she was very glad to see
him, looking as he was; for she had understood, at New
York, that he was cast away, and that Raynor Smith had fell
afoul of him, and beat him almost to death, and he told her—
so he telled me himself,—to cast that off, for it was all false,
for Raynor Smith was his protector, and the only one that
saved his life, and said to her, if it hadn't been for him, you
wouldn't never seen me more.”—

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