what the cargo, of which she had been despoiled by the devouring waves, was not even to be surmised.  The linen on the child was marked J. de F.; and this was the only clue which remained for its identity.  For more than an hour did Forster remain fixed as a statue upon the rock, where he had taken his station with arms folded, while he contemplated the hoarse waves dashing against the bends, or dividing as they poured themselves between the timbers of the vessel, and he sank into deep and melancholy thought.

And where is the object exciting more serious reflection than a wreck?

The pride and ingenuity of man humbled and overcome; the elements of the Lord occupying the fabric which had set them at defiance; tossing, tumbling, and dancing, as if in mockery at their success!  The structure, but a few hours past, as perfect as human intellect could devise, towering with its proud canvas over space, and bearing man to greet his fellow-man, over the surface of death!—­dashing the billow from her stem, as if in scorn, while she pursued her trackless way—­bearing tidings of peace and security, of war and devastation—­tidings of joy or grief, affecting whole kingdoms and empires, as if they were but individuals!

Now, the waters delight in their revenge, and sparkle with joy, as the sun shines upon their victory.  That keel, which with the sharpness of a scythe has so often mowed its course through the reluctant wave, is now buried—­buried deep in the sand, which the angry surge accumulates each minute, as if determined that it never will be subject to its weight again.

How many seasons had rolled away, how many millions had returned to the dust from which they sprung, before the kernels had swelled into the forest giants levelled for that structure;—­what labour had been undergone to complete the task;—­how many of the existent race found employment and subsistence as they slowly raised that monument of human skill;—­how often had the weary miner laid aside his tool to wipe his sweating brow, before the metals required for its completion had been brought from darkness;—­what thousands had been employed before it was prepared and ready for its destined use!  Yon copper bolt, twisted with a force not human, and raised above the waters, as if in evidence of their dreadful power, may contain a history in itself.

How many of her own structure must have been employed, bringing from the north, the south, the east, and the west, her masts, her spars, her “hempen tackle,” and her canvas wings; her equipment in all its variety; her stores for the support of life; her magazines of quiescent death.[1] And they who so fearlessly trod her decks, conscious of their own powers, and confident in their own skill; they who expanded her thousands of yards of canvas to the pursuing breeze, or reduced them, like magic, at the approaching storm—­where are they now?  How many sighs have been lavished at their absence! how many hearths would have been gladdened by their return!  Where are the hopes, the fears, the ambition, and the pride; the courage and the enterprise; the love and the yearnings after their kin; the speculations of the present, and the calculations of the future, which occupied their minds, or were cherished in their bosoms?  All—­all wrecked!