ough for the enormous sea
which the next moment broke on her starboard quarter. The decks were
deluged with water, which must have swamped the ship had not every
hatch been securely battened; the starboard quarter-boat was crushed
like an egg-shell, and swept from her davits with the wreck of the
bulwarks, which were stove in like a cigar-box; the masts bent like
reeds and quivered to the keelson, and the strong mizzen
storm-staysails burst with the report of a twelve-pounder. The Ariadne
careened until her lee-earrings dipped into the sea, but righted
herself as she came before the wind, and rose like a duck on the back
of the angry swells. It was a fearful night, and every incident of it
is photographed indelibly on my memory. There was not a rag of canvas
on the ship except her heavy main-staysail, and yet one after another
the topmasts splintered and fell, hampering the lower rigging and
littering the deck with the wreck, the broken royals making terrible
work as they whipped about in the storm; but it was utterly impossible
to cut them loose. Well, it's getting late, and I must hurry to the
end of my story. The storm lasted about three hours, and then the wind
fell almost as suddenly as it rose.

"When daylight came there was no trace of the tremendous commotion of
the night except the heavy swell of the wearied sea. We had weathered
the gale in safety, and although the Ariadne was dreadfully battered
and her rigging badly cut up, there was no damage which we were not
able to repair sufficiently well to continue our voyage."

Uncle Joseph paused as if he had no more to say. I waited a moment,
and then ventured to ask, "How did the Ellen get through it?"

"When the sun rose clear I swept the horizon with my glass, but she
was not in sight. She has never been heard of since."

Again the old gentleman paused, but this time I dared not break the
silence. At last he dropped the stump of his cigar into the ash-holder
and said, "I never made but one more voyage after that, and that was
to bring John's orphans to Charleston after their mother's death."

ROBERT WILSON.

ART--EXPERIENCE OF AN IGNORAMUS.

When I remember my first visits to the picture-galleries of Europe, I
am filled with compassion for the multitudes of my country-folk who
yearly undergo the same misery. I hope they do not all know how
miserable they are, and fancy that they enjoy themselves; but with
many the suffering is too great for self-