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“To-morrow, gentlemen,” said our captain, as we ascended
from the supper-table to the deck, “is the ever-memorable anniversary
of our national independence. I shall prepare, in my
department, that it shall be welcomed with due honors. It will
be for you to do your part. A committee, I suppose — eh, gentlemen?”

Here was a hint; and the excellent Captain Berry never
looked more like a stately Spanish Don, in a gracious moment,
than when delivering that significant speech.

“In plain terms, captain, we are to have a dinner corresponding
with the day. I have pleasant auguries, my mates, of puddings
and pasties. There shall be cakes and ale, and ginger
shall be hot i' the mouth too. Nay, because thou art a Washingtonian,
shall there be no wine? Shall there not be temperance—
after the manner of Washington — namely, that goodly
use, without abuse, of all the precious gifts of Heaven? The
hint is a good one, captain. We thank you for your benevolent
purposes. It will be for us to second your arrangements, and
prepare, on our parts, for a proper celebration of the Fourth of
July.”

“I rejoice that I am understood, gentlemen. It is usual, on
board this ship, to show that we duly sympathize with the folks
on shore. We are still a part of the same great family. There
will be shoutings in the cities to-morrow. The country will
shake with the roar of cannon from Passamaquoddy to the Rio
Grande. Boston will blaze away, and Gotham will respond,
and Baltimore and Norfolk will cry aloud, `What of the day?'
to Charleston and Savannah; and these in turn will sing out to
Mobile and New Orleans, and the whole gulf, to the Rio Grande,
will catch up the echoes with a corresponding uproar of rejoicing.
And shall we say nothing? we who sail under the name of the
great partisan warrior of the Revolution? Gentlemen, those

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pretty little brass pieces, that now sleep at your feet, are stuffed
to the muzzle with eloquence. They will give tongue at the
first signs of the dawn, and I trust that all on board this ship
will be prepared to echo their sentiments.”

“In other words, captain, we must have a celebration.”

“Even so, gentlemen, if it be your pleasure. We shall have
a dinner — why not an oration? Why not our toasts and sentiments,
as well as our friends in Charleston and New York.
We are here a community to ourselves, and I venture to say
that no community is more unanimous in regard to the dinner
at least.”

“Or the drink.”

“Or the puddings.”

“Or the pies.”

“The pasties.”

“The ices.”

“The — the —”

There was no end to the enumeration of the creature comforts
which were to prove our unanimity of sentiment, and a
feeling of the mock-heroic prompted us to take up with due
gravity the hints of our captain.

We agreed upon a president, and he was — the captain; a
vice, and he was — no matter who.

We appointed a committee of arrangements, with instructions
to prepare the regular toasts. And — we appointed an orator!
This was a little shrivelled-up person in striped breeches, with
a mouldy yellow visage, and green spectacles. Nobody knew
anything about him, or, in fact, why he came to be chosen. He
was at his books all day; but it was observed that whenever he
had condescended to open his jaws it was to say something of
a dry satirical character. He was accordingly appealed to,
and made no scruple about consenting; only remarking, by
way of premonitory, that “it was no easy matter to know the
opinions of all on board ship; he should therefore simply unfold
his own, satisfied that if they were not exactly those of the company,
it was only their misfortune, which it should make them
highly grateful to enjoy that opportunity of repairing.”

Some of us thought this speech smacked not a little of a delightful
self-complacency, but it was said so easily, so naturally,

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and so entirely as if the speaker had no consciousness of having
delivered himself other than modestly, that we concluded to
leave the matter in his hands, and forebore all comment. In
this resolution we were confirmed by seeing him begin his preparations
the next moment by an enormous draught from the bar;
the potency of which, judging from the infinite depth of its color,
was well calculated to afford to the orator all the inspiration that
could ever be drawn from an amalgam of Snake and Tiger.
Such was the title which he gave to a curious amalgam of the
sweet, the sour, the bitter, and the strong — bitters and brandy,
lemon and sugar, and, I think, a little sprinkling of red pepper,
being the chief elements in the draught. We felt persuaded,
after this specimen of his powers, that his tastes would be sufficiently
various, and his fancies sufficiently vivid; and we saw
him pull off his spectacles, and put off to bed, with full confidence
that neither sleeping, dreaming, drinking or waking,
would he defraud our honest expectations.

His departure did not constitute a pernicious example. It
was followed by no other of the party. Soon, the ladies appeared
on deck, and we grouped ourselves around them, my
Gothamite friend planting himself on the right of Selina Burroughs,
closely, but a little in the rear, as if for more convenient
access to her ear.

“So squat the serpent by the ear of Eve,” I whispered him
in passing.

“Ah! traitor,” quoth he, sotto voce also, “would you betray
me?”

“Do not too soon betray yourself.”

“Hem! a sensible suggestion.”

We were not allowed to proceed any farther. The lady began
with reproaches.

“I am told, gentlemen, that you took advantage of our departure
last night to say some of your best things — told, in
fact, some of your best stories. How was this? But we must
not be made to suffer again in like manner, and I propose that
we begin early to-night. Signor Myrtalozzi”— turning to an
interesting professor of Italian, who formed one of the party —
“we should hear from you to-night. If I did not greatly misunderstand
you, there were some curious histories recalled to

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you this morning in our conversation touching the `Tarchun,'
and `Sepulchres of Etruria,' by Mrs. Hamilton Gray?”

“You did not err, señorita. In my own poor fashion, I have
gleaned from these and other picturesque chronicles a story of
three thousand years ago, which may be sufficiently fresh for
our present audience.”

“In this salt atmosphere?”

“Precisely. With your permission, señorita, I will narrate
the legend thus compiled from the antique chronicle, and which
I call —

A TALE OF THE ETRURIAN.