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Same tunes but different keys.
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.
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 recognitions. Service in saloon. Prayers read for
Smooth sea. Portholes opened. State-room steady and
Brushed teeth and cleaned nails.
Walked the deck like an old salt. Greeted as such by of. ficers. Homesick? How absurd !
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;
Deep and black the river rolled;
Not a beggar upon his beat;
Swept through every desert street.
I was struggling in the storm,
Suddenly an ancient form
And with trembling croak, it said-
You will find a woman-dead.
“Never stepped a finer creature,
When she was a simple maid; But she did like many another
Loved it inan, and was betrayed.
Riding, diamonds in her hair;
DJ you hear?) and now-she's there!"
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,
All its beauty-wrinkled clay.
Clothes nor fuel-food nor bed,
Whereon lay the ghastly head.
"Nothing!”-yet what more could pity
Crave, for one about to die,
(Sweet, though every word a lie!) In the morning of her pleasure,
In the midnight of her pain,
Treasured-ay, and not in vain.
And a date upon a stone
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.
WANTED.-ANSON G. CHESTER.
The world wants men-light-hearted, manly men-
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