every locker and pantry is searched this time. Even the hold and coal-bunkers are fumigated to smoke out any who perchance may have concealed themselves there. When these trials have been endured, the steamer increases speed and proceeds on her course to the broad and placid sound that is sheltered by the bar. There she rests at anchor and awaits the protecting shades of night. Here there is no danger. The bristling guns of Fort Fisher and the Mound Battery, and the shoal water on the bar afford double protection. The blockading fleet lies miles away outside. Perhaps from the masthead the outlines of one or two of them can be indistinctly traced — noth ing more.

As dusk falls, a little boat puts out from land. This brings the indispensable pilot, who at once becomes grand master of the ship. Everything depends upon his skill, and implicit obedience to his directions. He has the path before him all mapped out, and can tell the number and latest position of every blockader off the adjacent coast. He has carefully noted the stage of water, marked the channel, set his signal lights, and arranged the indispensable preliminaries of the trip. At length the last glimmer of twilight has vanished. A perceptible haze gathers upon the ocean. Every light in the ship is carefully extinguished. The binnacle is enveloped with canvas. Telegraph lines are rigged fore and aft, to communicate from the pilot forward to the officer who directs the helmsman at the wheel. The lookouts, the captain and subordinate officers take their respective places. Presently a deep sigh comes from the ponderous engine, and a tremor runs through the vessel as she gathers headway and snuffs the fresh breeze that comes from the ocean. Strictest silence is enjoined now. Not a whisper is heard. Even the plash of the patent paddlewheels (never very noisy) is drowned by the monotonous sough of the breaking The funnels emit no vapors or tell-tale sparks. The lights on shore change rapidly with the varying course. A red lantern flashes for an instant to starboard and then goes out, just where a glimpse was caught of a cloaked figure

waves.

seated in a skiff. A pale, white light gleams on the larboard side. A brighter one blazes from Fort Fisher in the distance. And thus the course is laid over the bar. The speed of the vessel increases as the hour of trial approaches, and the lights afloat and ashore flit and intermingle with a rapidity that confuses the senses. Presently the swash and long swell of the sea denote that the bar is passed, and the lights, now grown faint and spectral, seem to keep pace with the vessel as she lays her course along the coast.

The novice sits aft with bated breath and his heart in his throat, a desperate grip upon some stanchion, and his eyes straining far out into the gloom, while, with a sinking sensation like being twirled in a swing, he is hurried through space at a speed of twenty miles an hour, over billows of phosphorescence that roll off into the wake behind. The silence is oppressive, and the suspense painful. But presently a new object of interest absorbs attention. Can you see nothing

there just where the gleam of that brilliant star flashed on the foam? Pshaw! 'tis mere fancy. The shadows always fall deepest where the dull gray of the ocean. blends with the sky. It is the loom of the mist, nothing more. And yet there is something that flits like a shadow, moving as we move an undefined nebula without shape or substance, ever attendant, like an incubus that oppresses one in dreams. Ha! this is exciting! What tension of taut-drawn nerves! What if it should be one of them! We are drawing a little ahead of the thing now. Surely it is a blockader, and one of the fleetest, too. Her scent is keen. These lights on shore betray us whenever we run between them and her. If we could only head her off now and stand out to sea! But not yet! See! she burns a blue light, -- and how it streams over the waves! And there goes a rocket! We can see her plainly enough now — as plainly as she can us and so near, just on our port bow! We are lost beyond hope; yet the ladies are calm and motionless, and the children are sleeping quietly below. Ha! there it comes -a shot. "Take care!" There is a daz

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zling glare like a flash of sheet lightning, a deafening roar from the guns, and all is gloom again. The blue light has burned out. Any one hurt? Were we struck?" "No." "All right; pitch in the rosin, engineer, and shove ahead! Hard-astarboard there at the helm!" There is no occasion for further silence now. It is simply a question of superior speed. The swift craft doubles on her track like a swallow, and stands directly out to sea. In ten minutes she is safe. Still, the engines do not cease their effort, but all night long she leaves the coast at swiftest speed, outward bound for Bermuda. Vigilance is not relaxed. By day there are lookouts stationed aloft, and every craft like a steamer is carefully shunned; at night, again, lights are out as before; and so, day after day, until at length the tall beacon on Bermoethes flashes out its friendly blaze, the steamer runs in under the rocky shore, and the rattle of the cable over the bows tells that she is safely anchored in the roadstead.

In the early morning, with a negro pilot on board, the vessel steams tortuously through narrow channels among picturesque islands,-some bald and waveworn, and others crowned with snowy cottages nestling in groves of cedar, with weather-stained ruins and grim martello towers from which great cannon bristle,and rounding a point abruptly, comes at once in full view of the romantic port of St. George's, with its crowded shipping, its white and yellow limestone houses, its tropical trees, with their great broad leaves, its many skiffs and row-boats passing to and fro, and the grand old hill behind, with its signal-station and frowning battery. There the blockade-runner, had no fear of Federal cruisers, albeit their ports might yawn and cannon bristle within pistol range.

At only one other spot on the globe could be seen in those days the same commercial features that made Bermuda attractive to those interested in keeping open the outlet for cotton. As at Nassau, so here, the attention of the stranger entering the harbor was at once attracted to the sharp and graceful outlines of the numerous lead-colored steamers that lay at anchor in the stream or moored along

side the wharves; and among all the miscellaneous shipping, but two flags were conspicuous the cross of St. George and the Rebel flag, the one with its crimson field and the other with its field of snowy white. The Stars and Stripes were not numerous, for fear of Rebel cruisers had induced the Federal vessels to seek the protecting ægis of the British flag. On shore, long lines of cotton bales lay piled upon the wharves; vessels bound to trans-Atlantic ports were busily loading with the precious staple; gangs of stalwart blacks sweltered in the sun as they plied their cotton hooks. Then, if ever, the negroes of Bermuda had fallen upon "flush times." A crown was as easily earned as a shilling used to be. Boating seemed to be the favorite employment of both sexes. Fleets of skiffs and small craft of all descriptions thronged like bees around a newly arrived ship. Negroes of every size and hue clung to her sides and clambered up the rigging, anxious to earn a sixpence by putting passengers ashore. Ebony Venuses, in short frocks and palm-leaf hats with enormous brims, vied with greasy and dilapidated Sambos for customers. Six boats insisted upon carrying the same passengers. There was always a ridiculous rivalry at the foot of the gangway ladder, and an incessant bandying of epithets and threats. And when some official barge hauled in alongside with vigorous sweep of oars, there was a crash among the lighter skiffs, a clatter of oars and paddles, a jargon of angry voices, a dodging of woolly pates, and a rolling of whites of eyes that threatened disaster somewhere.

The passenger who was fortunate enough to run the gauntlet of this rivalry successfully, did not find St. George's a specially attractive place; nor will he to-day. The hot sun streams up from the dazzling white of its narrow limestone street and is reflected again from the walls on either side. Houses, neat and substantial enough, but without architectural plan, are inconveniently placed in the path just where one wishes to go. Streets, lanes, and alleys intersect each other in labyrinthian perplexity. The banana and pawpaw grow in most im

probable places, and dispute with the cottages for their sites. Descending the hilly roads, the foot slips into a gully, and going up, the toe encounters an inconvenient rock. Soldiers in red coats flash like flambeaux at every turn, and everywhere sailors, blockade-runners, citizens, merchants and lascivious mulatto women congregate like people at a fair. The plaza or open square is crowded with lazy negroes who have nothing to do; not far away, among the shipping, is a camp of black women, huddled like gypsies around their pots and fires, engaged in cooking for such as are hungry and not curious as to culinary secrets. Near at hand is the market wharf, crowded with fishing boats, whose sable proprietors skin huge fish with dexterous knives as easily as one draws off his glove. These will always give good weight for an extra price per pound. Trade is active in all the shops, and not one but has some interest in the blockade. The beer and gin shops drive a thriving business; the clothing shops coin money; and in the larger establishments huge piles of blockade goods fill every nook and cranny. Every one has his hands full of business. Ships cannot bring supplies fast enough. Shops are repeatedly emptied and replenished. The large hotels cannot begin to accommodate all who apply, even though the charges are exorbitant. Supplies of coals constantly arrive for the blockade runners, and many a swift steamer that comes from England finds her most profitable venture in the direction of a Confederate port.

As

Such was the aspect of things in the once lethargic, staid old town of St. George's during the palmiest days of the blockade. Who will say that the social benefits derived equalled the pecuniary profits? What old resident did not shudder at the corruption that danced attendance upon a feverish trade. every project and every venture, in those days, looked toward the southern coast, of course the inhabitants were intensely "secesh." More than one resident of the islands ran the blockade to fight the battles of the South. The songs of "Dixie" and the "Bonny Blue Flag" were heard everywhere. Even the negroes

caught the infection, and sang how "Jeff Davis is a gentleman and Abe Lincoln is a fool." Confederate papers were received almost semi-weekly. Confederate flags were chalked upon the walls and gateways. Pictures of prominent southerners and of Rebel cruisers adorned the photograph galleries. Almost every house had some memento of the Confederacy. British goods were always in great demand by the blockade runners, for they would have no dealings with Yankees. Accordingly in the shops could be found bushels of Connecticut pins and cases of Massachusetts shoes marked "London," elegant felt hats from New York labelled "Paris," and good, old Irish whiskey from New Jersey; for there were many articles that could be purchased cheaper in the United States than in Europe, and the laws of trade are inflexible "the longest pole knocks down the most persimmons." And so quantities of these goods found place in blockade cargoes to the great profit of speculative patriots in the Northern States.

In that period of promiscuous scrambling for wealth, it was a relief to escape from this contaminating atmosphere of St. George's to shake the dust from the feet, and fly at a spanking gait over the hard lime road toward Hamilton. It is the regular mail route, and a finer road is seldom seen. It is a luxury to drive over such a road. The breeze almost always blows fresh from the ocean and tempers the heat of the ardent sun. Elegant equipages are encountered at frequent intervals, for they have fine carriages in Bermuda. The wheels fly around with a low, pleasant clatter as they reel off the easy miles, and the horses step off over steep ascent and level way alike, with a gait that never flags.

Seldom is found more varied or picturesque scenery than among the islands of Bermuda. There are wooded dells as secluded as if far remote from sea, where mangroves grow and the aroma of the sage bush perfumes the air. There are dark avenues of cedars, whose dense foliage shuts out the sun. Here, on a rising knoll, an aristocratic cottage peers out from among palmetto groves and clustering banana and pawpaw. Hedges

of oleander in luxuriant bloom grow high above the limestone walls that gird the road, and through the vista we catch a glimpse of the blue ocean beyond. Then an abrupt turn in the road leads to a narrow neck of land and reveals an unobstructed view. On the right is the broad expanse of ocean, with snowy sails pencilled on the far horizon, and sparkling lines of foam that break over the coral reefs nearer shore; on the left, an archipelago of islets some of them densely wooded with outlines sweeping gracefully into all conceivable curves, while others are mere isolated hummocks of rocks, where the surf never ceases to thunder. Now we cross a substantial bridge that joins two islands, and looking over the rail down into the deep green water, twelve feet or more, can see the large fish sporting on the bottom. Then there is a ferry to cross, and after that the rond skirts the rocky shore so closely that one can toss a pebble into the emerald sea and hear the sough of the waves that mɔin and murmur in the selfsame caves that Calaban knew of long ago. Here are rocks chafed into every fantastic shape by the angry surges which in storms dash far over the roadway. At intervals, pieces of wreck are strewn relics of fated ships lured to destruction by the siren voices of sweet Bermuda, so peaceful when the sea is calm. At intervals great watertanks are cut into the rocky hillside to catch the rain, for the Bermudians have no wells, and must provide against times of drought. Approaching Hamilton, the road turns inland again, cut through the solid rock in many places, and winding over hill and dale, through shady groves of cedar; past elegant mansions, half hidden by foliage and protected from intrusion by massive walls, whose tops bristle with spikes of broken glass laid in cement; past little patches of arrowroot and sweet potatoes; then through avenues of palmetto and China trees, that lead up to a pretty chapel and its churchyard; and at last to the coast again, where there are romantic little bays with houses perched upon the very shore, ornamental gardens shut in by sea walls, boat-houses, bathing-houses, and jaunty yachts at anchor.

All the buildings in Bermuda are built of limestone, for the whole island is but a quarry; and when a carpenter wishes to build, he takes his saw and saws himself a house from the material at hand. The people are aristocratic, but hospitable; the mansions elegant, the gardens spacious and beautiful; the shaded avenues and suburban retreats afford many delightful drives.

At Somerset are fine farms and grazing fields for the cattle that are brought from New York and Nova Scotia for the Bermuda market. At Ireland Island are spacious storehouses for the garrison, an iron floating battery, several strong fortifications, and an extensive quarry. Here also are some of the finest docks in the world, all built by convict labor that extended through many years of toils (for Bermuda was a penal colony once), and here are the huge wooden hulks in which they were confined, still moored to the quay. Some men-of-war are always stationed here.

What more need be said in praise of Bermuda, or in descriptive detail? It is true that the flush times of the old blockading days have passed away. The golden gains they then enjoyed were as transitory as the so-called Southern Confederacy itself. The commercial fabric upon which many hopes were built has crumbled. The motley crowd of speculators and cormorants that thronged her streets is dispersed forever. Her wharves no longer swarm with shipping. Once more she has lapsed into the healthful quiet of her former peaceful life. The little colony lives and moves in blissful independence of the vexed questions that distract the world outside, unmoved by the turmoil of political strife. Her governor regularly draws his ample salary, her legislators receive their stated pay for settling the momentous affairs of the island, and the citizens are happy in the possession of a sufficiency of the good things of this life. Invalids still seek the genial atmosphere of her winter months, and hold their visits always in kindly remembrance. Happy is Bermuda! no longer vexed with the fever of excitement that was attendant on the blockade.

N

OTWITHSTANDING all that has been written about Henry Clay, his Speakership has been neglected. It was overshadowed by his later career. Yet had Clay's public life ended in 1825, with the close of his service as Speaker, that alone would have marked him as one

of the greatest of Americans. The accounts of Clay's Speakership are based to a great extent on reminiscences and hearsay, rather than upon the records. It has been my purpose to supplement the personal narrative by use of the Congressional Journals and Debates. This material has peculiar value because it disproves the assumption that the political development of the Speaker's power dates from recent times. I hope to be able to show that Henry Clay was the first political Speaker.

The choice of Clay as Speaker of the House of Representatives in 1811 marks a great change in the spirit of the American people,—a change, first, in the objects of their national system, and, secondly, in the parliamentary methods by which those objects were attained. In 1811, the active young Republicans, who were boldly taking matters into their own hands, rebelled against their cautious elders, and demanded a more vigorous policy. War with Great Britain was the emphatic cry. President Madison was unfit to direct military operations. Congress had shown. Congress had shown weakness and timidity. A crisis had come when the nation needed a new leader, and needed him in a position which should correspond to his consequence and power. The natural leader of that moment was Henry Clay. the position he was given from which to lead the country was the chair of the House of Representatives is a fact of great significance.

That

The new principles set forth during Clay's long service were, first, the increase of the Speaker's parliamentary power; secondly, the retention of his personal influence; and, thirdly, the estab

He

But

lishment of his position as legislative leader. As a presiding officer Clay from the first showed that he considered himself not the umpire, but the leader of the House. His object was clearly and expressly to govern the House as far as possible. In this he succeeded to an extent never before or since equalled by a Speaker of the House of Representatives. Clay was the boldest of Speakers. made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was a political officer. Speakers now, to be sure, following the example of such predecessors as Clay, seek to give their party every possible advantage from their position in the Chair; yet, on occasions when nothing is to be gained, they attempt to keep up the fiction of the Speaker as a parliamentary officer. Clay had no thought of effacing himself in the least degree. He allowed no opportunity of expressing his attitude on the subjects that came before the House to pass unused. When in 1812 the repeal of Non-intercourse came up, instead of simply throwing his casting-vote with the nays, he took occasion to express "the pleasure he felt in having opportunity to manifest his decided opposition to the measure." He was the first Speaker, moreover, and one of very few, to vote when his vote could make no difference in the result. He demanded the right for the first time when the attempt was made in 1817 to pass the Internal Improvement bill over the President's veto. Often Clay was very arbitrary. When Mr. Winthrop became Speaker, Clay gave him this advice: "Decide promptly, and never give the reasons for your decisions. The House will sustain your decisions, but there will always be men to cavil and quarrel over your reasons." His conception of the Speakership was too wide for the canons of parliamentary law of that time. When an aim was set clearly before him, he was too impatient to think of choosing between proper and improper means. He took the means which would