The Atlantic Monthly | Page 6

particular."
[B] This story is given in Garinet's Histoire de la Magie en France, p. 75.
[C] Yet in a recent case, occurring in England, and authenticated in the strongest manner, the "sound of carriages driving in the park when none were there" is one of the incidents given on the authority of the lady who had witnessed the disturbances, and who furnishes a detailed account of them. See "Facts and Fantasies," a sequel to "Lights and Sounds, the Mystery of the Day," by Henry Spicer, London, 1853, pp. 76-101.

THE RHYME OF THE MASTER'S MATE.
FORT HENRY.
None who saw it can forget How they went into the fight, Four abreast,-- Thereby was the foe perplexed,-- With the Essex on the right, That is nearest to the Fort, And the Cincinnati next, The St. Louis on her left, All so gallant and so deft, And the brave Carondelet.
Boom, boom, from every bow! (They'll have to answer that!) From the Rebel bastions, now, There's a flash. Cool, keep cool, boys, don't be rash! Mind your eyes, as the old Boss said; Keep together and go ahead,-- Not too high and not too low, Fire slow!
Paff! Now we have it from the Fort, And the Rebels all a-crowing; While the devils'-echoes laugh, With a loonish thunder-lowing, After every gun's report: 'Tisn't bird-shot they are throwing,-- 'Tisn't chaff! Ping! Ping! If you've ever seen the thing That can fly without a wing Swifter than the Thunder's bird, Lightning-clenching, lightning-spurred,-- If you've ever heard it sing, You will understand the word, And look out; For, beyond a mortal doubt, It can sting!
Thump! 'D y' ever hear anything like it? Sounded very much like a ten-strike,--it Appears they're after a spare! Bet it made the old Boss jump, Or at any rate awfully screw up his brows,-- Hit the pilot-house, And he's up there,-- Must 'a' been a hundred-pounder,-- Had the twang of a conical ball,-- Would 'a' gone plumb through a ten-foot wall. Isn't the old Cinc. a trump?
They meant that for a damper! Square it off with an eighty shell And a fifteen-second fuse, (With all the latest news!)-- Pretty well done, boys, pretty well! Guess that'll be apt to tell 'Em all about where it came from, And where it's a-going to, What it took its name from, And all it's a-knowing to! See 'em scamper!
The Conestoga, the Tyler, And the Lexington, you know, Are in line a half a mile, or A little less, below,-- Just this side of the Panther (Little woody island), They've their orders----Oh, But, after all, how can their Wooden-heads keep silent? Wonder 'f it don't make 'em feel bad, Even if they ain't all steel-clad, At being slighted so!
'Tisn't so bad a day, Although it's a little cloudy,-- Or rather, as one might say, Smoky, perhaps,-- A little hazy, a little dubious, A little too sulphury to be salubrious. D' ye mind those thunder-claps? Do you feel now and then the least little bit Of an incipient earthquake fit, Accompanied with awful raps? But give 'em gowdy, give 'em gowdy, And it'll soon clear away!
Old Boss ain't to be balked.-- All this, you know, Was only the way (or nearly so) The boys talked, And felt and thought, (And acted, too,) The harder they fought And the hotter it grew.--
But there was a Hand at the reel That nobody saw,-- Old Hickory there at every keel, In every timber, from stem to stern,-- A something in every crank and wheel, That made 'em answer their turn; And everywhere, On earth and water, in fire and air, As it were to see it all well done, The Wraith of the murdered Law,-- Old John Brown at every gun!
But the Fort was all in a roar: No use to talk, they had the range,-- Which wasn't strange, Guess they'd tried it before,-- And the pounding was not soft, But might well appall The boldest heart. Cool and calm, Trumpet in hand, Up in the cock-loft, Where 't was the hottest of all, Our brave old Commodore Took his stand, And played his part, Humming over some old psalm!
Tut! did ye hear the hiss and scream Of that hot steam? It's the Essex that's struck,-- She never had any luck: Ah, 'twas a wicked shot, And, whether they know it or not, It doesn't give us joy!
Thorough an open port it flew, As with some special permit to destroy; And first, for sport, Struck the soul from that beautiful boy; Then through the bulkhead lunged, And into the boiler plunged, Scalding the whole crew!
We know that the brave must fall,-- But that was a sight to see: Twenty-three, All in an instant scalded and scathed, All at once in the white shroud swathed! A low moan came from the deck Of the drifting