“Your loving child, MARGARET.”

THE VOYAGE.[A]

The seventeenth of May, the day of sailing, came, and the Elizabeth lay waiting for her company.  Yet, even then, dark presentiments so overshadowed Margaret, that she passed one anxious hour more in hesitation, before she could resolve to go on board.  But Captain Hasty was so fine a model of the New England seaman, strong-minded, prompt, calm, decided, courteous; Mrs. Hasty was so refined, gentle, and hospitable; both had already formed so warm an attachment for the little family, in their few interviews at Florence and Leghorn; Celeste Paolini, a young Italian girl, who had engaged to render kindly services to Angelino, was so lady-like and pleasing; their only other fellow-passenger, Mr. Horace Sumner, of Boston, was so obliging and agreeable a friend; and the good ship herself looked so trim, substantial, and cheery, that it seemed weak and wrong to turn back.  They embarked; and, for the first few days, all went prosperously, till fear was forgotten.  Soft breezes sweep them tranquilly over the smooth bosom of the Mediterranean; Angelino sits among his heaps of toys, or listens to the seraphine, or leans his head with fondling hands upon the white goat, who is now to be his foster-parent, or in the captain’s arms moves to and fro, gazing curiously at spars and rigging, or watches with delight the swelling canvass; while, under the constant stars, above the unresting sea, Margaret and Ossoli pace the deck of their small ocean-home, and think of storms left behind,—­perhaps of coming tempests.

But now Captain Hasty fell ill with fever, could hardly drag himself from his state-room to give necessary orders, and lay upon the bed or sofa, in fast-increased distress, though glad to bid Nino good-day, to kiss his cheek, and pat his hand.  Still, the strong man grew weaker, till he could no longer draw from beneath the pillow his daily friend, the Bible, though his mind was yet clear to follow his wife’s voice, as she read aloud the morning and evening chapter.  But alas for the brave, stout seaman! alas for the young wife, on almost her first voyage! alas for crew! alas for company! alas for the friends of Margaret!  The fever proved to be confluent small-pox, in the most malignant form.  The good commander had received his release from earthly duty.  The Elizabeth must lose her guardian.  With calm con-[Transcriber’s note:  A word appears to be missing here.] authorities refused permission for any one to land, and directed that the burial should be made at sea.  As the news spread through the port, the ships dropped their flags half-mast, and at sunset, towed by the boat of a neighboring frigate, the crew of the Elizabeth bore the body of their late chief, wrapped in the flag of his nation, to its rest in deep water.  Golden twilight flooded the western sky, and shadows of high-piled clouds lay purple on the broad Atlantic.  In that calm, summer sunset funeral, what eye foresaw the morning of horror, of which it was the sad forerunner?