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rolled till the muzzles of their guns dipped in the water. But the crews cheered loudly and the firing became incessant. The Americans discharged their guns as the "Wasp" went down the wave, so that the shot fell either on the deck or hull of the "Frolic." The Englishmen fired as their ship went up the wave, and their shots struck the rigging of the "Wasp" or were wasted. The result was soon apparent. The slaughter on the "Frolic" became something terrible. The topmasts and rigging of the "Wasp" were so cut to pieces that when the last brace was carried away Master Commandant Jones, fearing the masts would fall and the "Frolic" escape, determined to board her and end the battle. Wearing ship for this purpose, he ran down and struck her. As the side of the "Wasp" rubbed across the bow of the "Frolic" her jibboom came in between the main and mizzen rigging, and passed over the heads of Master Commandant Jones and Lieutenant Biddle. She now lay so fair for raking, that orders were given for another broadside. While loading, two of the guns of the "Wasp" went through the bow ports of the "Frolic," and when discharged swept the deck.

At this moment a seaman named John Lang leaped upon a gun, cutlass in hand, and was about to board when he was called down; but he would not come, and climbing on the bowsprit of the "Frolic," was instantly followed by Lieutenant Biddle and the crew. Passing Lang and another sailor on the forecastle, Lieutenant Biddle was amazed to see that, save the man at the wheel and three officers who, as he came forward, threw down their swords at his feet, not a living soul was on the deck. The crew had gone below to avoid the terrible fire of the "Wasp." As no one present was able to lower the flag, Lieutenant Biddle leaped into the rigging and hauled the ensign down. The sight which then met him was dreadful. The gun deck was strewn with bodies, and at every roll of the sloop water mingled with blood swept over it, splashing the dead and swirling about the feet of the victors. The berth deck was crowded with dead, wounded, and dying, for of a crew of one hundred and ten men, but twenty were unhurt. On the "Wasp" the loss was five killed and five wounded.

Master Commandant Jones now ordered Lieutenant Biddle to take the prize into Charleston. But while he was busy attending the wounded, burying the dead, clearing away the

wreck, and preparing the "Frolic" for the voyage, a strange ship under a press of canvas was seen coming toward him. The stranger was the British seventy-four-gun frigate "Poictiers," Captain John Poer Beresford, who, throwing a shot across the "Frolic" as he sped by, ranged up near the "Wasp" and forced her to surrender. The two ships were then taken into Bermuda.

Just one week later another ship duel was fought with the usual result. After parting with the squadron of Rodgers, the "United States," Captain Decatur, cruised off to the southward and eastward, and on Sunday, October 25, when off the Azores, fell in with the British frigate "Macedonian," Captain John Surnam Carden, who instantly made chase. But Decatur had no intention of escaping, and the action, like its predecessors, was short and decisive. In ninety minutes the "United States" had shot away the mizzenmast of the "Macedonian," had dismounted two of her main-deck guns and all but two of the carronades of her engaged side, had killed forty-three and wounded sixty-one of the crew, had put one hundred shot in her hull, and made her a prize. On the "United States" twelve men were killed or wounded. It was the old story of bulldog courage, stubborn resistance, and frightful slaughter on the part of the British; and of splendid gunnery and perfect discipline and seamanship on the part of the Americans.

Placing his lieutenant on board the "Macedonian " as prize master, Decatur ended his cruise, convoyed her home and set her in Newport, while he passed on to New London, which he reached December 4. Lieutenant Hamilton, a son of the Secretary of the Navy, was then sent to Washington with letters and the captured flag. Reaching the capital on the evening of December 8, he learned that a great naval ball in honor of the capture of the "Guerrière" and the "Alert" was in progress at Tomlinson's Hotel, that the flags of these two vessels were hanging on the wall of the ballroom, and that the President, the Secretaries, and a most distinguished company were there assembled. Hastening to the hotel, he announced himself, and in a few minutes was surrounded by every gentleman at the ball and escorted to the room where, with cheers and singing, the flag of the "Macedonian" was hung beside those of the "Guerrière" and the "Alert."

THE GERMAN'S FATHERLAND.

BY ERNST MORITZ ARNDT.

[ERNST MORITZ ARNDT, German poet and patriot, was born in the Isle of Rügen, December 29, 1769; died at Bonn, January 29, 1860. He wrote in 1806 the first series of the "Spirit of the Times," which procured his exile; later he was editor of The Watchman at Cologne. In 1848 he advocated the formation of the German Empire. He was a professor and miscellaneous writer, but his fame rests on his lyrics of the Napoleonic period, to inspire his countrymen.]

WHERE is the German's fatherland?

The Prussians' land? The Swabians' land?
Is't where the grape glows on the Rhine?
Where sea gulls skim the Baltic's brine?
O no! more grand