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leave the cove, but spent most of the time in repairing damages to the cable, which broke again in a short time, so that there was no other course left but to re-land it and commence all our work over again. Accordingly, on Monday morning, the bark was again towed near the shore, and the end of the cable taken to the Telegraph House by means of boats, and made fast as before. The wind, however, continued to blow with such violence, that we remained at anchor all night, in the hope that the weather would prove more propitious the following morning.

The next morning broke clear and calm; hardly a ripple played upon the surface of the ocean, and our hopes brightened with the sun, which rose without a cloud to mar its splendor. The bark was soon placed en rapport by means of a hawser; and the steamer getting under weigh, the work of paying out the cable began in earnest, and with every prospect of success; for, with fair weather, success seemed certain.

For two miles all went well; the machinery worked admirably, and the cable slipped over the rollers without "let or hindrance;" but when that length of cable had been laid, a kink occurred, and it was found necessary to stop the steamer to repair the damage. This occupied only an hour, and then we went on again; but the white flag, which had been agreed upon as a signal for stopping the steamer, soon made its appearance on board the bark, and notice was given that even the slowest speed of the steamer was too fast to allow the workmen on board the Sarah L. Bryant to pay out the cable with safety to it and to themselves. We again proceeded as slowly as possible, no accident occurring, though a report reached us at midnight that the cable had parted. This report was altogether without foundation, as we afterward learned that it was only a kink that had occurred, which it was necessary to take entirely out, and splice the cable, which was successfully done. On starting again, all went on favorably till about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, when the wind, which since 2 o'clock had been gradually increasing, rose to a gale, and it was found impossible to continue the work on board the bark, and another kink occurring in the cable, both vessels were compelled to lay to. The storm now raged with great violence; the sky was wild and threatening,

and the ocean was covered with a dense mist, that completely hid from our view the island of St. Paul's, fourteen miles distant. Some forty miles of the cable had already been laid, though the distance in a straight line was several miles less. Under these circumstances, Mr. Canning was forced to abandon the original plan of making Cape North the place of connection, and endeavor to land the cable at the island of St. Paul's, which was considerably nearer. Had the weather continued moderate, our task would have been completed in a few hours; but the fates willed it otherwise, and we were obliged to cease our exertions, and devote all our energies to maintaining our position until the storm should abate.

An attempt was now made to take the kink out of the cable, but the bark pitched so much that it was with the utmost difficulty that the workmen could keep their feet, and to work was impossible. Every one now turned to Mr. Canning, expecting momentarily to hear him give the word to cut the cable, as for some time every hope of saving it had been abandoned, and fears were entertained for the safety of the vessel. But Mr. Canning was loth to give the word which should stamp the enterprise a failure, while there was the slightest possibility of carrying it out successfully. The strength of the cable was severely tested; for, during the height of the storm, both vessels held by it, and it would undoubtedly have held to the end had it been deemed prudent to have tried it so severely. The gale, instead of abating, continued to increase; still the cable held; but, at 63 o'clock, the captain of the bark informed Mr. Canning that the safety of his vessel required that the cable should be cut, and that he should himself be obliged to give the fatal word in case Mr. Canning still refused to do so. Under such circumstances, Mr. Canning was forced to submit. A few blows of the ax accomplished the sad work, the vessel pitched forward as though she would bury herself in the waves, and forty miles of the cable lay at the bottom of the ocean. Thus did the war of elements set at naught the energy, enterprise, industry, and ambition so creditably displayed by the projectors of this great work. Thus man proposes, thus God disposes!

The cable, of which we give a sectional view, was manufactured by Messrs. W. Kuper and Co., at their Submarine Cable manufactory,

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London. The copper wire was insulated in gutta percha by the Gutta Percha Company, of City Road, London, under the immediate superintendence of S. Statham, Esq. The process of manufacturing the cable is as follows: The insulated copper wires are first laid round! a centre core of hemp, the exterior and spaces between each wire being wormed with hemp yarn so as to form a perfect circular rope or cable. It is then provided with another covering of hemp yarn, the whole of the yarn used being soaked in a preparation of Stockholm tar, pitch, oil, and tallow. It then receives its outside covering of twelve No. 4 guage iron. The whole of this process, except the insulation of the wires, is carried on at one time by extensive and ingenious machinery erected for the purpose, and cables can thus be manufactured of any combined length that can ever be required.

After the cable parted we headed for Sydney, with the bark in tow, where we arrived safely on Thursday afternoon. Here we spent two days and a half in taking in coal and provisions. It is a flourishing place of about five thousand inhabitants. It is the great coal dépôt of Cape Breton, and carries on considerable trade with Boston. The principal mine is situated three miles from the port, and employs about two hundred men and one-fourth as many horses. The coal is raised through a perpendicular shaft three hundred and six feet in depth. The daily product of the mines is about seven hundred tons. A railroad conveys the coal to Sydney.

After being tossed about in the merciless manner we had for so long, the prospect of standing firmly upon our feet again was too alluring not to be at once enjoyed, and the steamer had barely dropped her anchor before every body rushed for the boats. The town itself presented no particular objects of interest; but on the hill which rises above it stood an encampment of the Micmac Indians, and thither the whole of the party soon made their way. The encampment or village consisted of about twenty lodges made of white birch bark, and the Indians numbered, including children,

about one hundred. The children formed more than half the population, which, for filthiness and wretchedness, we should think, was without a rival in the civilized or uncivilized world. The men were lounging about, devoting all their energies to doing as little as they could, and yet continue to breathe; while the women, nearly every one of whom was strapped to a pappoose, which in its turn was strapped to a board. were engaged in making baskets, bows and arrows, and little birch canoes, specimens of which were eagerly purchased by their visitors. Every body bought a basket, most of us were provided with an impracticable canoe, and bows and arrows enough were carried off to put out the eyes of the officers, passengers, and crew. In one of the lodges more cleanly than the rest. and showing some slight indications of care and neatness, was seated a young Indian maiden about eighteen years of age. She was very beautiful, both in form and features, and soon became the centre of attraction to all the young men of the party. The baskets and other traps made by her fair hands met with a ready sale. Every one of our Benedics seemed desirous of carrying off with him some token of remembrance of her; and so great was the competition, that the price of her wares soon rose in the market three hundred per cent. Her stock was quickly exhausted; but as she promised to have a fresh supply ready in the morning, the disappointed ones comforted themselves with this assurance. She must have been the most industrious Indian maiden on record, for early in the morning, when the disappointed of the night before visited her lodge, they found the supply even greater than at first. In a single night she had woven dozens of baskets, made a score or two of canoes, and bows and arrows enough to equip her whole tribe for the "war path." This would have been enough to have redeemed her from the charge of idleness which lies against the whole Indian breed, but for the fact that the other lodges were destitute of the wares we had observed in them the night before. The conclusion was forced upon us, that the members of the tribe, seeing what good prices her articles commanded, had consigned

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their whole stock of baskets to her, "for sales | longer than we anticipated, many of the passenand returns," and that she was doing business gers had been obliged from necessity to neglect on commission, and not on her own account. their toilets, and some of the party had presentA few miles from Sydney there is another In-ed dian village, where the remainder of the tribe, to the number of three hundred, reside.

very faded appearance for some days; but as we passed the Narrows every body made his or her appearance looking trim and neat. The gentlemen, even those who had during the greater part of the voyage affected red shirts, à la " Mose," displayed spotless fronts and collars, so that a general feeling of surprise was elicited at the sudden respectable appearance of one another. It seemed that all had saved at least one of those articles of apparel without which no gentleman's wardrobe can be considered complete as a corps de reserve, with an idea of “astonishing the Browns," but the general coincidence of a prudential feeling destroyed the singularity of the effect expected to be produced.

We arrived safely at the pier from whence we started on the 5th of September, having been absent just twenty-nine days.

Having replenished our stock of coal, we left Sydney on Sunday morning, homeward bound; and though a general feeling of sadness prevailed, on account of the unavoidable failure of our expedition, every heart beat lighter at the thought of home. Our gallant captain participated in this feeling, to some extent at least, as he showed by the manner in which he gave the order to "start her." During the operation of laying the cable his voice was continually heard giving directions to the engineer. We were obliged to proceed at a snail's pace for the reasons before mentioned, and our stoppages were frequent. Whenever we started again, the captain would call out from his place on deck, "Hook her on, Mr. Scott, and let her go slow!" but as soon as we were clear of the wharf at The excursion, though unsuccessful in its Sydney, and the bows of the steamer were point-principal object, was still rich in delightful ined homeward, his clear voice rung in our ears, "Hook her on, Mr. Scott, and let her go fast!" And fast we went! the paddle-wheels fairly spun in the water, and the spray flew from the steamer in a Niagara of foam. While at the top of our speed, the mate was observed looking over the bows with a thoughtful gaze. Thinking something was wrong, a young gentleman with an inquiring mind asked what the matter was. The mate, with a quizzical look, which plainly informed the young gentleman in search of knowledge that he was "sold," answered that he

was afraid the friction of the water would set the bows on fire.

cidents, and will be remembered with gratification by all who participated in it. Another attempt to lay the cable will be made next year, which will undoubtedly be successful, as it will be payed out directly from a steamer.

THE KNOCKER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "LOSS AND GAIN: A TALE OF LYNN." "Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst."-Macbeth.

episode of some unearthly epoch, which was in the world, and yet not of it. Phantom-like and strange, it is shadowed upon the memory. Such an episode is this in my own.

PAUSE at the threshold of my story to remember that in the life of every human being there is an experience which seems to be Our homeward voyage was marked by no par-detached from it; an awful and soul-thrilling ticular incident, if we except a grand fancydress ball which took place during the time. It was to a great extent an extempore affair, but none the less delightful on that account. The dresses were varied, none of them particularly splendid, but a more outré or grotesque assemblage was never collected. Every thing that could give oddity to expression of face or costume was brought into requisition, and even the waiters' dusters, composed of peacocks' feathers, were pressed into the scene, and served to set off the charms of one of our most beautiful lady passengers to great advantage. Indians, Nuns, Apollos, Cupids, Sultanas, Jim Baggs-all appeared in the saloon, dancing and flirting together in the most amiable manner possible. Jim Baggs found a capital representative in the person of a distinguished artist, and won thunders of applause by his vocal efforts, which were so successful that no one could be tempted to offer him the "shilling," without which he re-siderable degree of interest or anxiety for him fused to "move on."

We had fair weather during nearly the whole of our return trip, and as the green shores of Staten Island hove in sight, and we passed Sandy Hook, every body commenced their preparations for going on shore. As we were gone

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Several years ago I renewed my intimacy with a gentleman and his wife who were then residing in Boston. The gentleman-his name was Paul Barry-had been a schoolmate of mine, and at a later day my friend and companion at college. He left before me, and, contrary to all expectations, entered upon mercantile pursuits. Our friendship was always somewhat anomalous in its character. When we were in each other's society, there could be no friendship more devoted, confiding, and intimate than ours. At separation, it seemed to fail, and reserve its warmth for our next meeting. We never corresponded, and were continually losing sight of each other. For my own part, I believe that I never felt any con

in his absence. I think his feeling for me was much the same. I do not pretend to explain this. Perhaps it was the result of an idiosyncrasy-a twin peculiarity in our natures; or of mutual habits of concentration, or absorption into our individual pursuits. His life was an

active one, mine nomadic. Our friendship al- | than by supposing that when I was absent he ways renewed itself naturally upon meeting, and gave it all to her, and when I was present shared in our long intercourse was always frank and it between us. earnest, and never marred by any disagree

ment.

Barry's wife was a singularly beautiful woman. I had known her, too, in my boyhood. We were all, in our young days, residents of the same country village. She was then, as remembrance pictures her, a gentle girl, with a countenance as clear as the light of the morning, and eyes as softly blue as the summer sky. As such she passed into my boyish heart-its graceful image of First Love-the pure seraph that changed with maturer years into a quiet and tender memory, and hallowed its object forever. Our love had never been confessed; it had never thought of confession. It had never dreamed of consummation. It was the highest form of an unimpassioned devotion; it was spiritual, pure, and adoring. The old tale of the sculptor inspired with a divine passion for the holy beauty of the statue, was a symbol of my love for her. But no; mine was even more shadowy.

I spent much time with them, at frequent intervals, for many years. My own life was rather vagrant, and passed for a long period unmarked by any unusual event. A man of leisure, with a moderate income, I spent my years with the restless happiness of a butterfly, wandering from place to place as the insect might fly from flower to flower, as carelessly as if the golden summer of existence were eternal, and time were to bring no other season. Yet there was one spot where my nomad wings rested often and longestwhere the flowers were sweeter for the one little bud that had grown among them. Our threefold love became four-fold. Barry (when I was present) must needs have divided his regard between myself, his wife, and his child. There was enough for all, for the years brought increase of love to us for each other. The affection that I bore for my friends' baby-girl was as tender as their own. The little being loved me, too, with familiar interest. When I first bent down to look into her tiny face, I saw the softened likeness of her father's dark eyes in hers. As years passed, and she could stand by me, her face revealed itself into a living memory of her mother's gentle beauty, and the mother's soul shone strangely from her soft, dark eyes. SoI used to think—as time takes away the bloom of her youthful loveliness, it will be but to bestow it, with added graces, on her child.

Gradually I know not why-my affection for the parents seemed to centre in the little girl. A strange and mystic tenderness toward her took possession of me. Thus it continued for a long period. At last, an event occurred which, for a time, seemed to have utterly divorced this mysterious feeling from me. circumstances of that event led me to another city, and terminated in my marriage.

The

I am inclined to think that Barry's attachment for her was formed suddenly, within a few months after his departure from college. If it was otherwise, then I knew nothing of it. She never seemed to be an object of peculiar interest to him when we both dwelt in the same village with her, and he was never more than an acquaintance of the relations with whom she resided. They were both orphans, dwelling at opposite extremes of the small hamlet, in the families of their guardians. I heard nothing of his love when we were both at college, though I was then on terms of the closest intimacy with him. After his departure, and during the time that I remained there, I heard nothing of him, except that he was about to engage in business. Immediately after my own emancipation I visited him in Boston, and met with a double sur- My wife died a year after our union. A prise; first, in finding him married; and sec- slight cold that she had contracted resulted in ond, in meeting, as his wife, the half-forgotten a virulent scarlet fever, attended with inflammaiden of my boyish devotion, now lovely in mation; and although every medical attention the full bloom of her womanhood. My meet- was paid her, she died, and died in the night, ing with her, under the circumstances, was very suddenly. All the circumstances of her death pleasant. My affection for her, touched with were tragical. I can not recall them now witha deeper reverence, was as true as ever. It had out horror. From the moment she died until been pure and innocent; it could pass into a the body was removed, the house was filled high and gentle friendship without a pang. The with an overpowering odor of camphor. I do tender beauty that I had once loved as a sweet not know what it meant. I was too much spring blossom was as dear to me when gather-stricken to direct any details; but from that ed in its summer loveliness to the bosom of my moment the smell of camphor became intolerfriend. able to me, so closely and terribly was it associated with my fearful calamity.

It was a very happy reunion. A triad of explanations took place amidst much laughter. Barry was momentarily surprised to hear of my attachment for his wife-only momentarily. He seemed to comprehend, with a fine instinct peculiar to him, the relations we now bore to each other, and subsequently, and in many ways, gave every possible encouragement to our intimacy. He loved me well. I can not better explain the nature of his regard, as I now understand it,

It was an appalling blow. I shut myself up for weeks, and saw no one. I was stunned with grief. But I recovered soon, for my hour of sorrow had not yet come. The wound closed; it was to open again, in anguish, hereafter. The quick stroke had paralyzed me. Consciousness was to come slowly with other years, and agony and the blackness of spiritual darkness were to follow.

Before two months had elapsed my bewilder- | fancied that it indicated a hereditary fatality. I ment, my stolid sorrow, passed into a feeling knew of no living relations remaining to my of restlessness. I gave up my house and went friends. They were then, to me, the sole reprefrom Philadelphia, where all this had happened, sentatives of their respective families. If there to New York city, where I had relatives. As was a hereditary destiny, it centered in the race I began to resume a cheerfulness, which was of Barrys; for the children born to that house but the pallid ghost of my former tone of mind, had been males for two generations, to my knowla desire to see my friends again stirred within edge, and had therefore kept their individuality, me. The same mysterious feeling for the child, whereas the orphan brides whom they had wedthe weird attraction to her, returned with ten-ded were of different families, and had merged fold force. I obeyed it. I went to Boston.

This was the period mentioned in the commencement of my narrative as that in which I renewed my intimacy with the Barrys. It is marked by the incident which I am now to record, and which is impressed on my mind with mournful distinctness. I remember it as one might remember the shadow of a cloud which passed over him at noonday, before some terrible calamity befell him, and which remains in his memory forever as the precursor of his dis

aster.

One summer day I was at Barry's house. It was the little girl's seventh birthday. She was sitting on my knee, with her dark tresses lying loosely on my arm, and her soft, earnest eyes looking into mine. Mrs. Barry sat at the piano, playing, as she conversed, a lively tune that rippled and tinkled airily from the keys. Her husband was carelessly reclining in a cushioned chair near her, beating time with his fingers on the cover of a book. We had been chatting gayly for some time-the pleasant tune, and the singing of a canary bird in a gilded cage by the window, trilling brilliantly in our light and mirthful talk-when our conversation paused, and a sudden silence, so common and so strange, succeeded. As if that silence was ordained that it might flash upon my brain-clear and strange as if an unearthly voice had spoken it -a singular thought, lighting up a wide range of recollections, revealed them to me, bathed in the wild colors of fatality. I can not determine how these instantaneous mental transitions, which seem to know no intermediate process, are effected. Some bold metaphysicians have thought that there are ideas which are resolved in the mind by mental processes so subtle that they escape cognizance. It may be that this thought, which burst up like a colorless flame, irradiating things long known to me with the pallid tints of supernaturalism, was the residium left by such mental chemistry. I happened to think that my friends had been each only children, and orphans from their infancy! And then the darkness was lifted from the long waste of memory-I remembered more!

Let me endeavor to present the details of a recollection which was seen by me at one glance whose every relation was comprehended at one view. Barry and his wife were both only children-orphans from their infancy-and brought up under guardianship. Their parents had been also only children, and were also orphans from their infancy! How much further this peculiarity reverted to their ancestry, I did not know. I

their nominal identity in theirs by marriageonly resembling them in the peculiarity of solitary orphanage and decease at childbirth. It is strange, though common, how things known in youth, and even of peculiar interest to us then, will become blurred or obliterated as we grow to manhood. We strive to trace the images-the effaced inscriptions-the dim datesupon its surface, and fill the smooth gaps with conjectures; and then-we are uncertain. I remembered, or thought I did, having heard some gossip's tale in my youth, which averred that the Barrys were an old family, whose ancestor a fugitive Huguenot-had, by some wild sin, entailed the curse of male descent and perpetual orphanage on the line until the offense was expiated. The memory was half-effaced in my mind. I was doubtful whether it was a remembrance or a fancy. Yet it now took plausible form and vague likelihood when I thought of what I knew. Was it accidental coincidence that had for two generations-it might be for morebrought to the solitary children of an ancestral line such a fate as this? Accident! As if, in the majestic order of the universe, there can be accident! as if what we call accident, is not really the certain effect of a certain cause proceeding from a certain occasion, which is governed by, and proceeds from, Law! Here was coincidence, declaring the existence of a fatal and impassable destiny which hung over the children of an ancient house in obedience to some stern ordinance, which brought to them orphan brides, and then, at every lonely birth, the final shadow, the coffin, and the sepulchre, and guided their solitary scions to unions forever fraught with the same results, and overshadowed by the same doom! How long had this been? Was it hereditary retribution for some original evilsome ancient blot on an ancestral scutcheon-a doom involved in the great mystery of some unexpiated sin?

The time had died away-I knew not when. The bird was quiet in his gilded cage. No sound came from the street without. A single ray of yellow sunlight streamed through the curtains, and floated like a golden shadow on the wall. The little girl sat quietly with her head resting on my arm, and her eyes closed. The doom had been revoked-a female child had been born to the house of Barry: she had outlived her infancy and was not an orphan: the mystic judgment had not been repeated on her parents. Looking down into her face, as the thoughts crossed my mind, I was conscious of a vague sense of dread to see her eyes unclose, and, for

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