pectations of the besiegers; when just was made, and the boats seemed to fly at the entrance of the careenage, she hove towards the fort. Captain Faulknor, in about, then again stood for the mouth of the mean time, in a most spirited and galthe harbour, and a second time retired. lant manner, entered the harbour, through Captain Faulknor of the Zebra, who had the fire of all their batteries, and laid his in the mean time been exposed to an in- sloop alongside the walls, there being cessant shower of grape, despairing of deep water close to; when the enemy assistance from his consort, determined terrified at his audacity-the flat boats to make the attempt alone. Running his full of seamen, pulling towards themsloop close to the wall of the fort, he and the appearance of the troops from all drove the enemy from their works by the quarters, struck their colours to the Zebra. closeness and rapidity of his fire, then A well-directed and steady fire from the landed, scaled the ramparts, at the head gun-boats under Lieutenant Bowen, as of his ship's company, before the flat- also from our batteries, was of great serbottomed boats could land, and hoisted vice. The alacrity and steadiness of the the British colours, which were immedi- officers and seamen in general under my ately saluted by three cheers from the fleet. command was such, that I had not the The detachment of seamen in the flat-least doubt of success against the whole bottomed boats approached the breach in force of the enemy, had they disputed front, and took possession of the town of our entrance. Fort Royal, assisted by a battalion of grenadiers and light infantry from Prince Edward's camp at La Coste.

The loss of Fort Louis soon induced Rochambeau to surrender Fort Bourbon; and the whole of the island, by the reduction of these places, fell into the possession of Great Britain. The loss sustained by the navy at Martinique was fifteen killed and thirty-two wounded. The squadron now sailed from hence to attempt the reduction of St. Lucie, which surrendered after the semblance of a defence.

Sir John Jervis, in his dispatches, adds as follows:-"No language of mine can express the merit of Captain Faulknor upon this occasion; but, as every officer and man in the army and squadron bears testimony to it, this incomparable action cannot fail of being recorded in the page of history."

In addition to this, we give the copy of a letter from Commodore Thompson, on the same subject :—

"Fort Royal, March 20th, 1794. "SIR-I have the pleasure to acquaint you, that the only loss we have sustained in the capture of Fort Royal is, the pilot of the Zebra killed, and four seamen belonging to the same ship wounded. So soon as I perceived she could fetch in, I gave orders to Captains Nugent and Riou, who commanded the flat boats, which, with the men embarked in them, were lying upon their oars, to push in, and mount the walls; when every exertion

"The fort is full of ammunition and stores of all sorts, but the buildings are in a miserable condition from the effects of our bombs, and gun-boats, and batteries "I have the honour to be, Sir,

"Your most obedient humble servant, "J. THOMPSON."

Sir Charles Grey, in his dispatches, highly commended Captain Faulknor, and the exertions of the navy:-"The navy acquitted themselves with their usual gallantry (particularly Captain Faulknor, whose conduct justly gained him the admiration of the whole army), carrying the fort by escalade, about twelve o'clock on the 20th instant, under the able conduct of Commodore Thompson, whose judicious disposition of the gun and flat boats, assisted by that spirited and active officer, Captain Rogers, contributed materially to our success.'

"

STRIKING INCIDENT

IN THE LIFE OF A MIDSHIPMAN.

ABOUT the middle of the last war, the Polly tender, commanded by Lieutenant Watts, came swooping up one evening to the small town of Auchinbreck, in Scotland, and, resolving to pounce, without warning, upon her prey, as soon as she had anchored in the roads, sent on shore the press-gang to pick up as many of the stout boat-builder lads as they could catch. The towns-people, however were not so unprepared as the captain of the tender imagined; some of those, indeed, who were fit for sea, ran

the point of Scarlough, to prevent the necessity of going through the streets, which might have been dangerous in the excited state of the people's minds; and, stretching across the fields, and along the side of the hill, he steered steadily on in the direction of his paternal home, which was about a mile and a half from the Point, but only one mile from the town. The moon had now risen, but was only visible in short glimpses through the clouds that were hurrying across the sky; and the tall, strange shadows of the willows and yews that skirted the churchyard, appearing and disappearing as he passed, probably by recalling the associations of his earlier years, made William shrink, and almost tremble. His own shadow, however, was a more pleasing thing to look at. The dress, which, grown familiar by usage, he would not have noticed elsewhere, was here brilliantly contrasted in his recollection with the more clownish and common garb of his boyhood—for he already reckoned himself a man; and the dagger, projecting smartly from his belted side, gave, in his opinion a finish quite melo-dramatic to his air. He drew out the tiny blade from its sheath, and its sparkle in the moonlight seemed to be reflected in his eyes as he gazed on it from hilt to point; but the expression of those eyes was changed as they discovered that its polish in one place was dimmed by blood. This could easily be accounted for by the affray on the beach-and at any other time and place it would have been thought nothing of;-but at this moment, and on this spot, he was as much startled by the sight, as if his conscience had accused him of a deliberate murder. The im

up into the hills, but by far the greater number collected about the corner of a building-shed as you go on to the main street, and, when the signal of hostility was given, by the capture of a man by the press-gang, they rushed down upon them in a body, every one with his axe on his shoulder, like a troop of Indians with their tomahawks. It had now become so dark that the sailors had much to do to keep their footing upon the loose stones of the beach, which was just at this time rendered a still more troublesome passage by the scattered materials of a pier, then beginning to be built; and, besides, their number was so small compared to the towns-people, that, after a few strokes of the cutlass, and as many oaths as would have got a line-of-battle ship into action and out again, they were fain to retreat to their boat, pursued by the boat-builders, young and old, like furies. A midshipman, sitting in the stern, whose name was William Morrison, a fine lad of fifteen, observed the fate of the action with feelings in which local and professional spirit struggled for the mastery. One moment he would rub his hands with glee, and the next unsheath his dagger in anger, as he saw the axe of a fellow-townsman descend on the half-guarded head of a brother sailor; but, when the combatants came within oar's length of the boat, and the retreat began to resemble a flight, the esprit de corps got the upper hand in the Auchinbrecken midshipman's feelings, and, unsheathing his dagger, he jumped nimbly ashore and joined in the fray. At last the sailors got fairly into their boat without a single man being either missing or killed, although the list of the wounded included the whole party; and the land-pressions his mind had received while men, apparently pretty much in the same circumstances, although unable, from their number and the darkness, to reckon as instantaneously the amount of the loss or damage, after giving three cheers of triumph, retired in good order.

William Morrison, after discharging his duty so manfully, was permitted to go on shore the same evening, to visit his friends; and, indeed, the captain could not have known before that he belonged to the place, as he surely would not have confided to the lad so unpopular a task as that of kidnapping his own relations and acquaintances. He was landed at

passing the church-yard, now returned upon him with added gloom; a kind of misgiving came over him; and a thousand boding thoughts haunted him like spirits, and hanging, as it were, on his heart, dragged it down farther and farther at every step. He bitterly regretted that he had not remained in the boat, as he had at first resolved, a neutral spectator of the strife. How did he know that his hand had not been raised against the life of his own brother? As far as he could see or learn, indeed, no fatal accident had occurred; but there have been instances of people walking cheerily off the field of

battle, and dying of their wounds after all. And yet it was not likely—it was hardly possible-that John could have been in the affray, his indentures protecting him from the impress. These cogitations were speedily followed by others of as gloomy a character; for the thoughts breed faster than we can perceive them, and each multiplies after its kind. It was a year since he had heard from his friends, and five years since he had seen them. Who could tell what changes had taken place in that time? Who could tell whether poor John had even lived to be killed by the press-gang ? His father, his mother, and his sisters were they dead, were they living, were they sick, or in health? His sister had been always a delicate girl, one of those gentle and fragile flowers of mortality that are sure not to live till the summer; perhaps consumption, with the deceitful beauty of his smile, had already led his fair partner down the

short dance of life.

Tormenting himself with such speculations, he arrived at his father's house. Here he was surprised, bewildered, almost shocked, to observe a new and handsome farm-house in place of the old one. On looking farther on, however, he did detect the ancient habitation of his family, in its original site; but it seemed, from the distance where he stood, to be falling into ruins. His whole race must either be dead or banished, and a new tribe of successors settled in their place; or else uncle William must be deceased, and have left his father money enough to build a new house. He walked up to the door, where he stood trembling for some minutes, without courage to put his hand to the latch, and at last went round to the window, and, with a desperate effort, looked in. How his heart bounded! His father was there, still a stout healthy man of middle life, his hair hardly beginning to be grizzled, by the meddling finger of the old painter, Time; and his mother, as handsome as ever, and her face relieved by the smile either of habitual happiness, or of some momentary cause of joyful excitation, from the Madonna cast which had distinguished it in less prosperous days; and his sister, with only enough left of her former delicacy of complexion to chasten the luxuriant freshness of health on the ripe cheeks of nineteen. John, indeed,

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was not there; but a vacant chair stood
by the table ready to receive him, and
another-a second chair, beside it, only
nearer the fire-for whom?-for himself.
Some
His heart told him that it was.
one must have brought the tidings of his
arrival; the family circle were at that
moment waiting to receive him; he could
see his old letters lying on the table be-
fore them, and recognised the identical
red spalsh he had dropped, as if acci-
dentally, on the corner of one of the
despatches he had written after his first
action-although he had taken the trouble
to go to the cock-pit to procure, for the
occasion, this valorous token of danger
and glory. But John-it was so late
for him to be from home!—and, as a new
idea passed across his mind, he turned
his eyes upon the old house, which was
distant about a hundred yards. It was
probable, he thought, nay, more than
probable, that his father, when circum-

stances enabled him to build a new house
for himself, had given the old one to his
eldest son; and John, doubtless, was
established there as the master of the
family, and perhaps at this moment was
waiting anxiously for a message to re-
quire his presence on the joyful occasion
of his brother's arrival. He did not cal-
culate very curiously time or ages, for
his brother was only his senior by two
years; he felt that he was himself a man
long ago, and thought that John by this
time must be almost an old man.

While these reflections were passing through his mind, he observed a light in the window of the old house; but he could not well tell whether it was merely the reflection of a moonbeam on the glass, or a candle in the interior. He walked forward out of curiosity; but the scene, as he approached the building, was so gloomy, and the air so chill, that he wished to turn back; however, he walked on till he reached the door, and there, sure enough, his brother was wait ing on the threshold to receive him. They shook hands in silence, for Wil liam's heart was too full to speak, and he followed John into the house; and an ill-cared-for house it was. He stumbled among heaps of rubbish in the dark passage; and, as he groped along the wall, his hand brought down patches of old lime, and was caught in spiders' webs almost as strong as if the spinner

in a letter I received at Smyrna ;-surely that cannot be all."

"I have more to tell," said John, solemnly; "my apprenticeship is out." "What in four years!-you are mad, John! What do you mean?"

"The indenture was cancelled this evening."

"How?" cried William, with a gasp, and beginning to tremble all over, without knowing why.

"I was wounded on the beach," said John, rising up, and walking backwards towards the window; while the moon, entering into a dense cloud, had scarcely

his figure.' "It was by the point of a dagger," continued he, his voice sounding distant and indistinct, “and I died of the wound !"

had meant to go a-fowling. When they had got into the parlour, he saw that the building was indeed a ruin; there was not a whole pane of glass in the window, nor a plank of wood in the damp floor; and the fire-place, without fire, or a grate to hold it, looked like the entrance to a burying-vault. John, however, walked quietly in, and sat down on a heap of rubbish by the ingleside; and William, following his example, sat down overagainst him. His heart now began to quake, and he was afraid, without knowing what he had to fear. He ran over in his mind the transactions of the evening—his walk, his reflections, his anxi-sufficient power to exhibit the outlines of eties-embracing the whole, as if in one rapid and yet detailed glance of the soul, and then turned his eyes upon his brother both in fear and curiosity. What fearful secret could John have to communicate in a place like this? Could he not have spoken as well in the open air, where it was so much warmer, and in the blessed light of the moon? No one was dead, or likely to die, that he cared for; his dearest and almost only friends were at this moment talking and laughing round their social table, and near a bright fire, expecting his arrival, and John and he were here! At length, repressing by a strong effort the undefined and undefinable feelings that were crowding upon him, he broke the silence, which was now beginning to seem strange and embarrassing.

"And how have you been, John?" said he, in the usual form of friendly inquiries; "and how have you got on in the world since we parted?"

"I have been well," replied John; "and I have got on as well as mortal man could desire."

"Yet you cannot be happy; you must have something to say-something I am almost afraid to hear, Out with it, in God's name! and let us go home."

"Yes," said John, "I have something to say; but it will not take long to hear, and then we shall both go home. I was apprenticed to the boat-building four yearsago."

"I know it," replied William; " "you wrote to me about it yourself, John.' "I was made foreman before my time was out."

"I know that, too," said William ; "Fanny gave me the whole particulars

William was alone in the apartment, and he felt the hair rising upon his head, and cold drops of sweat trickling down his brow. His ghastly and bewildered look was hardly noticed by his parents and sister during the first moments of salutation; and, when it was, the excuse was illness and fatigue. He could neither eat nor drink (it seemed as if he had lost altogether the faculty of swallowing), but sat silent and stupified, turning his head ever and anon to the door, till it struck one o'clock. About this time a knocking was heard, and the sister, jumping up, cried it was John come home, and ran to open the door. But it was not John; it was the minister of the parish; and he had scarcely time to break the blow to the parents with the shield of religion, when the dead body of their eldest son was brought into the house.

BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

After the action, an Irishman, named Phelon, who was cook's mate of the Genoa, was observed to skip about the galley with the most ludicrous manifestation of joy. On being questioned, he shouted out, "Och, by the Powers I'm glad that the villains hav'nt spoilt the coppers the devil a shot has touched them."

London-Printed by JOSEPH LAST, 3, Edwardstreet, Hampstead-road; and published by W. M. CLARK, 19, Warwick-lane, Paternosterrow; J. PATTIE, 17, High-street, Bloomsbury, and may be had, by order, of all Booksellers.

WHEN We read of the brilliant victories | picturesque in themselves, but doubly which have been achieved by our armies over forces vastly superior in point of numbers and physical strength, we feel a glow of admiration and respect for the conquerors. This applies to the memorable battle of Assaye, which was so gloriously fought and won by the brave army then under the command of the immortal Wellesley.

On the 24th of August, 1802, General Wellesley crossed the Godavery, with the whole of his force, and reached the large and noble city of Aurungabad on the 29th. There are pleasant breaks in the hot toils of marching and campaigning in India, when a place is approached that rewards the gaze, as riding slowly up, dome, cupola, and tall minar rise grandly in the distance;-objects singularly noble and VOL. I.

so with the adjuncts of the palm-tree and feathery cocoa-nut, and that sunset sky, where long dark stripes, of the very blackest purple, divide the deep, the glowing vermilion, after a manner that no painter either could or would dare to copy. These things, and a soowarree, perhaps, coming on the way with huge elephant and camels, and long-maned horses, fretting handsome under their weighty housings, and their turbaned riders, and all the historic associations that crowd up to cultivated minds at the sight;-these are the beguilements of Indian marches; and after different manners and degrees, delightful alike to the march-worn soldier, and to the thoughtful leader riding in the van.

As soon as the enemy heard of the