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Same tunes but different keys.
Closets reverberate similar strains.
Hurrah without the "h."
Bowls and other crockery in demand.

Ejections more frequent. Quantity diminishing, but quality kept up.

Port holes barred. Fresh air to be avoided.

Don't want to see Europe. Nothing there to see. Won't pay for this.

A sail passing to starboard! Don't want to see a sail.

A whale spouting near “the banks !” Don't want to see a whale.

Want to go home. Had enough.
Evening, carried on deck by steward (or rather dragged).
Stopped at half-way house for refreshments. Felt better.
Rested an hour on deck. Gazing toward the setting sun.
Homesick! Oh, no!

Tried to go back alone. Slipped and rolled down stairs. Stopped at bottom. Convenient resting place.

Hauled to room by steward. Called for basin.
More arrowroot and brandy. Quite soothing.
Hat and shawl hung up on floor.
Slept on lounge with overcoat and boots.
Dreamt of home, sweet home!

SUNDAY.

Improving
Washed face and hands for first time. Combed my hair.
Recognized by friends as a man that was.
First clean collar. Brushed and cleaned my clothes.

More recognitions. Service in saloon. Prayers read for
the Queen.
Quite appropriate. Shall see her shortly.
Dinner at 4. Fearful appetite.
A pig in appearance. A pig in fact.
Iceberg at 5. Served up on deck. Left table at once.
100 feet high and 2 miles square. Very cooling.
Next course, fruits and coffee. 6 p. m.-5 sails in sight.

MOXDAY.
Recovered. A new man. Exquisite toilet.

Smooth sea. Portholes opened. State-room steady and

Brushed teeth and cleaned nails.
Wonderful transformation! Cravat tied. Very distingue.
Looked around to see if any had been sick.
How could they on such a quiet voyage ?

Walked the deck like an old salt. Greeted as such by of. ficers. Homesick? How absurd !

TUESDAY.
Fine weather. Little motion.
Invalids coming to the surface.
Present appearances indicate past distress.
I greeted some and congratulated others.
Said they had not been well. [I believed them.]
Expressed my sorrow and extended my sympathy.

WEDNESDAY.

Not sea-sick, but sick of the sea.

THE SURGEON'S TALE.-BARRY CORNWALL.

Verdict-" Found Dead." Some years ago, a paragraph appeared in sonic of the daily newspapers, giving an account of an inquest held on the body of a young woman " fonnd dead " in some obscure street or lane in London. The body was discovered, frightfully emaciated, scantily clothed, and in a poor garret which was entirely destitute of every article of furniture, and other comforts, except a few ragged love-letters which she had preserved through every privation. According to the evidence, she had been at one time a person of cousiderable beauty, and had evidently died of hunger.

'Twas on a dark December evening,

Lond the blast and bitter cold;
Downward came the whirling waters,

Deep and black the river rolled;
Not a dog beneath the tempest-

Not a beggar upon his beat;
Wind and rain, and cold and darkness,

Swept through every desert street.
Muffled to the teeth, that evening

I was struggling in the storm,
Through pestilent lanes and hungry alleys;

Suddenly an ancient form
Peered from out a gloomy doorway,

And with trembling croak, it said-
"In the left-hand empty garret

You will find a woman-dead.

1 1

“Never stepped a finer creature,

When she was a simple maid; But she did like many another

Loved it inan, and was betrayed.
I have seen her in her carriage

Riding, diamonds in her hair;
And I've seen her starving, (starving,

DJ you hear?) and now-she's there!"
Up the worn and slippery stair

with a quickened pulse I sprung; Fainine, filth, and mean despair

Round about the darkness hung: No kind vision met my glances

Friend or helper of the poor; So the crazy room I entered,

And looked down upon the floor. There, on the rough and naked boards,

A long, gaunt, wasted figure lay,
Murdered in its youth by hunger,

All its beauty-wrinkled clay.
Life's poor wants had left her nothing,

Clothes nor fuel-food nor bed,
Nothing-save some ragged letters,

Whereon lay the ghastly head.

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"Nothing!”-yet what more could pity

Crave, for one about to die,
Than sweet words from one she worshiped,

(Sweet, though every word a lie!) In the morning of her pleasure,

In the midnight of her pain,
They were all her wealth, her comfort,

Treasured-ay, and not in vain.
And with her now they lie moldering,

And a date upon a stone
Telleth where, to end the story,

Love's poor outcast sleeps alone. Mourn not; for at length she sleepeth

The soft slumber of the dead, Resting on her loved love-letters

Last fit pillow for her head.

BBBB

WANTED.-ANSON G. CHESTER.

The world wants men-light-hearted, manly men-
Men who shall join its chorus, and prolong
The psalm of labor and the song of love.
The times wants scholars-scholars who shall shape
The doubtful destinies of dubious years,
And land the ark that bears our country's good,
Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.
The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare
To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;
To clutch the monster error by the throat;
To bear opinion to a loftier seat;
To blot the era of oppression out,
And lead a universal freedom in.
And heaven wants souls-fresh and capacious souls
To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers
Beneath the glory of its central sun.
It wants fresh souls-not lean and shriveled ones;
It wants fresh souls, my brother-give it thine!
If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act;
If thon, indeed, wilt be what scholars should;
If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive
To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,
Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors,
Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts,
Each single heart with myriad raptures filled
While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,
Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

PYRAMIDS NOT ALL EGYPTIAN.-G. O. BARNES.

Mankind are toiling for a deathless name. Various are the schemes devised, and the plans pursued, to gain this one world-sought end-to rear a pyramid that shall not decay, but grow broader and higher with “the roll of ages.” This is the nucleus of the world of thought. At its altar are immolated the smile and tear, the swell of delight and revenging throb, the sweets of duty, and joys of life, and hopes of heaver. No hardships, nor privations, nor sacrifices, but here are freely shrined Eating the bread of sorrow and drinking the tears of inourning, the individual world eagerly pursues the phantom of hope, till death stops the chase and rolls them into the tomb. Dreaming of this, the peasant forgets his grief, and only seeks to become dear in his own circle, though icicles hang from his brow and freeze around his heart.

The student ekes out his life in midnight thought, tumbles into the grave, only craving a wandering sigh when years have rolled away. The conspirator cuts the bands of civil law, touches the spring of revolution, and heaves whole empires into a sea of tears, that his name may eddy away on the raging billows. The warrior builds his pyramid on the bloody battle plain; and where bayonet, and fire, and blood blend their terrors, he deals death with his saber, and flings heart's blood at the sun with his glittering blade. The moral deceiver erects his in a more solemn realm. He blots out the sun of hope, rolls man up in self, and pushes a whole world to the doleful caverns of an eternal night. And what an illustration of this is Mohammed, that form of terror which blazed ath wart the moral heavens, consumed the vital atmasphere, and shrieking with his latest breath, “Oh God! par. don my sins,” plunged into the awful whirlpool of shoreless

How has the bleak, black summit of his pyramid been shattered by the scathing fires of heaven's judgment? To give his name to posterity, Cæsar crossed the Rubicon, ård Rome was free no more. He built a terrible pyramid upon the ruins of the “Eternal City.” But think you its vast height gave him pride, or availed him aught when the cold steer of Brutus' dagger rankled in his heart, and poured his blood on the Senate floor of Rome?

To gain an undying name, Alexander drew the sword of conquest, lit up the land with burning cities, quenched their sighs with tears, extorted the sigh of anguish from millions, and then died, seeking in show himself a god. And Bonaparte too, that lion, swimring in blood, went over Europe tying laurels on his brow with heart-strings, and writing his name with his blood-streaming sword, full on the thrones and foreheads of kings. The powers of his mind, throbbing in inidnight dreams, shook the civilized world; and yet tho

remorse.

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