confront me menacingly bright and beautiful. Can it be that yonder great orb is millions of miles away? It is the comet of 1858, with its magnificent fan-like tail and brilliant eye of light. Myriads of stars are coming out now, as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness; but it resembles none of them. It has its own grand majestic aspect, which reminds me of the time when such a portent sun in the heavens was considered as bringing war and desolation in its train. Truly, we have had enough of war and bloodshed since the last fiery messenger of wrath swept across our skies. And now my brief holiday is past-that rest for which the London professional man longs during one part of his busy year, and regrets during another. But I shall carry back to my chambers refreshing recollections of that dark blue sea, of those breezy gorse-covered heights, with their great flocks of blackfaced grazing sheep, of that bare rock sitting so proudly on the waters, like a couchant lion, and of the hospitable and warm-hearted west-country folks. Of these, there are many in Dorsetshire, though it is not a thickly populated county; and there is a cordial life in their country-houses which warms the heart like the ring of the cheery note of their huntinghorns, the solemn music of their sea, and the landbreeze that sweeps unimpeded over their trackless downs. THE BOGWOOD FIRE. SEVERAL years ago there appeared in an Irish newspaper the first fitt or canto of a poem, entitled The Monks of Kilcrea. Though short and fragmentary, it excited much notice at the time both in Ireland and England. A French gentleman, M. le Chevalier de Chatelain, was so struck by the beauty of the poetry that he immediately made a translation of it, and, through the editor of the newspaper, transmitted it to the author, who remained, and still remains, unknown. Afterwards, at long intervals, a second and a third canto saw the light; and notwithstanding several bad rhymes, implying an almost total want of acquaintance with poetry as an art, and a very bad ear besides, displayed so much invention, so much power of imagination, so rich and vivid a fancy, and so deep a sympathy for all that is beautiful in nature, that had the author come before the public in a poetical age, he would have earned for himself a high reputation. But when all the cantos were collected and published by Mr M'Glashan in Dublin, the volume, to borrow David Hume's celebrated phrase, seems to have fallen still-born from the press. The French translator of the first canto appears fully determined, however, that our Celtic fellowcountryman shall not be suffered to drop quietly into oblivion. He has therefore made a version of the whole poem, which has just been published. M. de Chatelain is well known as a translator; we ourselves have spoken of his merits more than once-his Gay and Chaucer are popular both in England and on the continent; but nothing he had previously done could have prepared the public for what he has now accomplished in The Monks of Kilcrea. The scene of the poem is laid far back in history, when the house of Lancaster fought its brilliant battles on the continent, and almost broke up the foundations of English society, in order to precipitate half the nation upon France. Ireland, at that time, was a social and political chaos. In its capital, the Saxon reigned predominant; Norman barons possessed castles here and there throughout the land; while large districts, we might almost say provinces, remained in the hands of native chiefs, engaged in perpetual dissensions, and making way, by mutual slaughter, for the triumph of the common foe. In many parts, the country was little better than a wilderness: the bogs were undrained; rivers were not spanned by bridges; the mountains and glens were densely overgrown with forest; and wild beasts, especially wolves, visited the glimpses of the moon, making night hideous. Monasteries in such an age were not only an advantage, but a necessity. They were created by society because society wanted them; they were to our forefathers what the caravansary is to travellers in the east-places where the wayworn, the houseless, the poor, the wretched, could always find sustenance and shelter. To preserve them from becoming scenes of disorder and bloodshed, they were all converted into places of sanctuary, where an unseen, mysterious power-the power of the Church-watched over host and guest, over monk and pilgrim, and made it criminal, under any circumstances, to break the peace. Three monks sat by a bogwood fire in the shrine of St Bridget, in a small chamber commanding the door of the monastery. Without raved the storm; the rain fell in torrents, then ceased suddenly, and the shattered clouds flying before the wind alternately disclosed and concealed the moon. Ever and anon the convent-bell threw forth its music on the nightair, as a signal to wayfarers that there was a place of refuge at hand. The light of a lamp and of the blazing fire streamed through the wicket, directing and comforting all who approached. Within sat the three monks with a well-covered table before them, food of a substantial kind, and flagons of foreign wine, to refresh the hungry and exhausted traveller. As the night wore on, the monks nodded at each other, and the golden skirts of dreams began to flutter about their fancies. Suddenly there came a tapping, or rather rapping, at the convent door, which, having been opened by one of the brothers, admitted a man somewhat advanced in life, but of colossal dimensions and fierce aspect. His countenance and bearing, his complexion and light hair, proved him to be a Saxon, even before his language had revealed the fact. It was evident that he cared little among the men of what race he might find himself; his iron frame and ready hand, familiar with the sword-hilt, rendered him, in his own estimation, the master everywhere of his destiny. He accepted, with rough courtesy, the hospitality of the monastery, and was engaged in expressing his thanks, when another knock was heard at the wicket, and a second stranger, a smirking Gleeman, came, bowing, towards the good things on the board. But the circle of that night's guests was not yet complete: a third knock, loud and imperative, was heard, and one of the gentle brothers soon led in the new-comer, a Celtic outlaw, tall and strong, with a fell of black hair tinged with gray. He glared like a wolf upon the Saxon; but remembering where he was, took the proffered wine-cup, and having drained it to the bottom, sat down quietly by the blazing fire. Unfortunately, both poets and prose writers, when they desire to find a pretext for relating a certain number of stories, appear to be extremely limited in the choice of a plan. Boccaccio has thrown together a number of persons who have fled from a great city to escape the plague; Chaucer, with superior ingenuity, marshals a number of pilgrims proceeding towards Canterbury, and makes them tell stories at the suggestion of a jolly host, to lessen the tedium of the way; but the author of the Arabian Nights, most artistic of all, contrives a situation in which the storyteller exercises her genius for the preservation of her own life. When you have laid down these three platforms, it seems easy to perceive that all future relaters of stories must adopt some scheme bearing a resemblance more or less striking to one of them. The author of The Monks of Kilcrea has been as felicitous in his conceptions as any among the thousand and one imitators of The Thousand and One Nights. The monks sitting before the bogwood fire, having long ago exhausted all topics of conversation among themselves, and not knowing exactly how to entertain the strangers, hit upon the bright idea of making the latter at once amuse each other and them; they invite them to describe their adventures, and explain by what chance they were conducted on that wild and stormy night to St Bridget's shrine. Who does not know that the bare skeleton of a man, stripped of all its muscles and integuments, is as well calculated to give you an idea of that man's form and features, as the outline of a story to present a true conception of the manner in which that story has been narrated by its inventor? When the business is not only to abridge but to translate poetry into prose, the difficulty of the task is more than doubled. The poet is a magician whose pencil, dipped in all the colours of the rainbow, paints rather than tells his story. He floods your fancy with imagery; he agitates your breast, he stirs your deepest passions and emotions, and thus, if need be, conceals from you the improbabilities or imperfections of his tale. When prose undertakes to deal with the same events and incidents, it immediately perceives the necessity of creating a consistent whole, of accounting for what it relates, of being reasonable, and at times even philosophical. We find ourselves in the midst of these difficulties at the present moment. The bogwood fire is burning brightly before us; the three monks, with cowls drawn forward over their faces, as if to keep out the night-air, are distributing the pastry and pouring out the red wine; the Saxon, the Gleeman, and the Rapparee already exhilarated, are beginning to entertain less objection to each other's company. Accordingly, when the request is made by the monks, the Saxon, as the first guest, breaks abruptly into the history of his life. The Celtic poet, who had obviously never been in Kent, yet selects that beautiful county to be the scene of his first narrative. The hero, a stout yeoman, is left in early youth master of his own fortunes, with a lovely sister to watch over, and property more than sufficient for the wants of both. Of course, Alice had a lover, because no poem written in whatever age, or laid in whatever scene, is thought complete without one. Poetry is the ark in this respect-all animals enter it in pairs. Well, the Saxon's sister, Alice, had a lover, a youth of noble lineage, handsome, wealthy, and besides-which was rare in those days a scholar. Through some perversity of nature, jealousy of his rank, or, still more, of his superiority in knowledge, and all gentlemanly acquirements, the brother hated this youth; and one day, while heated with wine, meeting him accidentally in a wood, he attacked, and would have slain him. Fortune, which is not always unjust, punished the aggressor, who appeared in the combat to be mortally wounded. The lover fled, and was never more heard of; and Alice, whilst she nursed her brother with the deepest solicitude and affection, still mourned secretly for him who had won her heart. The wounded man recovered, the sister died. Remorse then came upon the Saxon, who felt that by the sword of another he had slain the only one that had remained to him of his kindred. A few words suffice my tale to close, Where sleeps at length a young heart broken. King Henry V., just then engaged in the preliminaries to Agincourt, the Saxon, having wasted all his fortune, joined the hero's forces, and enjoyed the excitement of the French war. Performing some act of distinguished bravery, a nobleman in Henry's army, whose retainer he had become, bestowed on him lands in Ireland. On the night when the three monks sat by the bogwood fire, he had been proceeding on some affair of importance to Cork. "Twas evening when I left Macroom, Almost of sense and strength bercft. Here the poet enters into a speculation on the pleasures of drowning. But our Saxon friend had so much upon his conscience that he could not enjoy the dreamy pleasure of entering Nibban by water. He struggled desperately, and prayed to his sister as to a saint, for he was a good Catholic, conjuring her to come to his aid. She came-but her appearance we must describe in the poet's own language: "Twas at the moment when, as lost, And light around about her shone, The conclusion of the Saxon's tale provides for the reader an unexpected and somewhat startling pleasure. From before the bogwood fire, one of the monks rises, throws back his cowl, and reveals himself to the astonished traveller as the lover of Alice and his former foe. The hands that never met in friendship before were clasped firmly now; while the monk, with deep delight, sank on Walter's breast, returning thanks to Heaven that he had not been a murderer. This incident is managed by the poet with singular skill and tenderness. To complete the picture, the spirit of Alice floats into the chamber, and sheds a benign influence on the souls of the reconciled foes. When this tale is ended, the Gleeman is invited to contribute his share to the night's entertainment. Our author does not soar high in search of his characters. The Gleeman has been a tapster in Dublin, where he has learned tales and legends without end. By way of preface to his narrative, he sketches slightly his own life, and supplies an explanation of his roguish air, with the expression of reckless daring which lurks in his countenance. His tale begins in a highly original and striking manner; the characters are admirably contrasted, and their peculiarities brought out with extraordinary felicity; the gorgeous scenery of Ireland in the darkest and wildest period of its history, is likewise spread out before the fancy with masterly power. No landscape-painter could equal in composition or colouring the poet's vivid delineations. Mountains, glens, cataracts, lakes, castles frowning in feudal grandeur from all but inaccessible cliffs, sweep in bewildering panorama before the mind's eye, now enveloped in mist, and now bathed in golden sunshine. Unluckily for our appreciation of the story, the machinery of the fairy system is introduced. This is a grave error in a poet of the nineteenth century. However beautiful they may have been, the fairies have now vanished from the face of the earth, and that, too, more completely than oreads, dryads, or naiads. Of this the reader becomes convinced when, in the Gleeman's story, he passes from the real to the supernatural. Up to that fatal point of transition, his interest is kept painfully alive; he sympathises with the lovers, he detests the tyrant, he is even reconciled by the warmth and hurry of his feelings to the sounds of celestial music which burst from time to time over the enchanted glen. But then suddenly, like a torch in a stormy night, the inspiration is extinguished, and we drag ourselves languidly on to the indefinite conclusion. This termination is almost identical with that of the Saxon's tale, and therefore objectionable. Both in themselves are good, but they should not have been found in the same volume. The French translation of this poem is extremely graceful and charming. It makes Ireland look like a mountainous fragment of France, with rivers, lakes, glens, precipices, far more picturesque and beautiful than any ever beheld in that country. Such is the illusion, the spell created by language. THE MONTH: SCIENCE AND ARTS. THE sayings and doings of the British Association at Leeds-the inauguration of the Newton statue at Grantham-and the comet, have been the things most talked about for the past four weeks. The Leeds meeting is regarded on all hands as a success, for it was harmonious, the papers sent in were numerous, and the income exceeded expenditure by about five hundred pounds. The only drawback was the president's address, which was too long, and weakened here and there by reference to authorities which advanced science very properly holds as of no authority. Among the projects for the future, a fresh series of magnetic observations is thought of; and considering how much knowledge, indeed nearly all that constitutes terrestrial magnetism as a science, has been got out of the last five years' series, we are glad to see tokens of a resumption of the work. The veteran Humboldt declares in its favour, and so do the masters of the science in this country-Herschel, Sabine, Lloyd, and they recommend the establishment of observatories at Vancouver Island, Newfoundland, the Falkland Islands, and Pekin, which have been selected because they carry the chain of phenomena into parts of the globe hitherto uninvestigated. The Norwegian government is to be asked to establish an observatory for the same period at the North Cape; and if they consent, and ours will do what the British Association ask, we think that an important stride will have been taken towards making an exact science of terrestrial magnetism. When we escape from the fairies and the Gleeman together, the Rapparee claims our attention. He is a true Celtic hero, loving solitude, building up half his life out of dreams; now perching with the There was something about the inauguration at eagle amid the pinnacles of some far-off mountain, Grantham which will justify a few words concerning and now rushing with savage joy to engage in it, even after the excitement has died away. We deadly conflict with hostile clans. From the very know that some of our most distinguished scientists dawn of his life, the Rapparee was hemmed round-to borrow an American term-objected to the by a circle of misfortunes; and, worst of all, when raising of a statue to Newton, on the ground that the he imagined himself to have found a sweet balm author of the Principia could not be honoured by any for all his hurts, he discovered that what he had demonstrations of ordinary mortals; but still we may mistaken for balm, was in truth the most deadly be allowed to shew our respect and admiration for poison. The woman upon whom he had staked his transcendent genius, if only as a testimony that we life's happiness became false to him, and her falsehood can respect and admire it, though at a distance. led to wretchedness, madness, death. What remained Moreover, it is something, as in the recent case of to him in this world concentrated itself in the desire Jenner, to have erected a public statue to a man who of vengeance. In conjunction with others, he stormed was neither admiral nor general, and who conquered and gave up to the flames the stronghold of his enemy, empires without the aid of fleets and armies. În the through whom, in the midst of the conflagration, he present instance, the inauguration was rendered imagain and again thrust his vindictive weapon. When pressive, not to say touching, by reason of the delivery revenge had thus been gratified, the triumph of of the oration by the man, take all England through, victory began immediately to give way to feelings best fitted to deliver it, and by the fact that only two of remorse. He wished he had not killed him, and in days previously he had completed his eightieth year. closing his tale he reiterated his conviction that now, What a long life of work, in its highest sense, is as age came on, he should have been almost happy, therein involved! Lord Brougham was elected a were it not that he had blood upon his hands. Be Fellow of the Royal Society in 1803, before thousands happy, then,' exclaimed one of the monks, 'for the who are now fathers of numerous families were born. miserable man who was your enemy did not die by He, however, is not yet the father of that distinguished your hands. In this form-wasted by penitence- corporation, for the venerable Dr Fowler of Salisbury you behold that wicked and proud man, whom you, I dates from 1802; and he, though in his ninety-third see, have forgiven, and whom may God also assoil!' year, has just written a paper on Mental Phenomena for the British Association. But to return to the inauguration: Lord Brougham's oration was a master-piece of argument and eloquence-a rare intellectual treat to those who had the happiness to hear it. It was impossible to listen to him without emotion, as he stood there in the bright sunshine at the foot of the statue, rendering homage to the illustrious philosopher, sketching briefly, yet with essential fulness, a history of the sciences which his imperishable labours lifted at once and for ever into the domain of certainty, and at the same time correcting the misstatements and the false impressions of foreign savaus. That oration will remain among his lordship's master-works. The comet has taken the world by surpriseastronomers as well as the unlearned; and though we live in the days of electric telegraphs, a vast deal of nonsense has been talked and written concerning it. And seeing that most people believe what they read in newspapers, even if they believe nothing else, so there were few who mistrusted the absurd statement started by one newspaper, and propagated by all the rest, that the celestial visitant,' as it was called, moved at the rate of 20,000 miles a minute. However, many a keen eye observed the comet, and able heads have calculated its orbit, and ere long we shall know all that can be known about it in the present state of astronomical science. During the comparative quiet of the scientific societies' vacation, Professor Frankland's lecture, delivered at the Royal Institution, has been much noticed. It is on an important subject-The Production of Organic Bodies without the Agency of Vitality. Up to thirty years ago, chemists believed that it was impossible to produce organic compounds by artificial means, while there was little or no difficulty in producing the inorganic, or those from mineral substances; and the production of the former was regarded as entirely a vital function. But in 1828, Wöhler succeeded in producing urea, and great was the shock thereby given to chemical theory. Here was a product of the animal organism, actually produced and producible by ingenious contrivances in a laboratory. Some years later, Kolbe shewed that acetic acid could be artificially produced; then came Berthelot, making a great step in advance, and produced a whole series of alcoholic bodies-phenyl, naphthaline, and many interesting allied compounds. He produces glycerine, which is the basis of animal and vegetable oils and fats; and grape-sugar and these two, as Dr Frankland observes, yield such a numerous class of derivatives, that upwards of seven hundred compounds can now be produced from their elements without the agency of vitality.' To select a few from the numerous organic bodies which are now capable of artificial formation, will at once shew the growing importance, and suggest the yet greater triumphs to come, of organic chemistry. Thus we find formic, oxalic, hydrocyanic, butyric, lactic, caproic, succinic, and other acids; alcohol, ether, olefiant gas, oil of garlic, and mustard, benzole, and aniline. Some of these are the more interesting, because of their relation to the animal economy; and when we find such substances as alcohol, glycerine, and sugar producible by artificial means, without the intervention of vegetation or any other vital function, we cannot but recognise a power fraught with important consequences. We have more than once shewn in the pages of the Journal how delicate and agreeable perfumes and fruit-flavours are produced from substances apparently the least likely to render up such present elements, from some, indeed, which are offensive. But to produce compounds which enter largely into animal nutrition is something that comes more practically home to us. Valerianic acid used to be obtained from the root of the plant Valeriana officinalis; now it is produced, and at much less cost, from its chemical elements, or from a waste (or rather what was a waste) product in the manufacture of spirit of wine. We might give other instances of the way in which art can be made to supersede the agency of nature; but enough for the present. Moreover, we do not disguise from ourselves, that though much has been accomplished, it will be long before results will be achieved in which the interests of large communities are concerned. At present, artificial sugar, glycerine, and alcohol, cost a hundred times more than those produced in the natural way. On the other hand, we have the hopeful knowledge that the way is opened for great discoveries. Could we but once succeed in forming by artificial means the nitrogenous elements of food, no lone prairie, no sun-scorched desert, no barren rock, would have terrors for the traveller or the castaway, who might happen to retain his apparatus and his store of inorganic constituents. He could create food at pleasure. In calling attention to this subject, it will be seen that we regard chiefly the great practical results which it involves. Trade and science combined, have, within the past twenty years, made us aware of the importance of saving time. Hence we make steam do the work of wind, water, and horses; in bleaching, we treat the sun as a sluggard, and resort to quicker methods; and the fleetest mail is but a snail, compared with our telegraphic wire. Time,' says Professor Frankland, in a passage with which we take leave of the subject for the present-time is also an important element in the natural production of food; and although it is true that the amount of labour required for the production of a given weight of food is not considerable, yet it is nevertheless true that this weight requires a whole year for its production. By the vital process of producing food, we can only have one harvest in each year. But if we were able to form that food from its elements without vital agency, there would be nothing to prevent us from obtaining a harvest every week; and thus we might, in the production of food, supersede the present vital agencies of nature, as we have already done in other cases, by laying under contribution the accumulated forces of past ages, which would thus enable us to obtain in a small manufactory, and in a few days, effects which can be realised from present natural agencies, only when they are exerted upon vast areas of land, and through considerable periods of time.' Australian emigrants and colonists will perhaps take interest in the information communicated to the Geological Society by Mr Brough Smyth-namely, that the colony of Victoria has, at some former period, been the scene of active volcanic phenomena, and that numerous extinct volcanoes yet remain in the country. The extent to which the surface has been altered thereby may be inferred from the fact that, in digging a well at Warnambool, the labourers came upon a bed of coarse grass at a depth of sixty-three feet, identical with the grasses which grow at the present time on the surface. Here we have proof of eruptions which have buried miles of country. It appears, however, that the eruptions consist more of ashes than of lava. Now and then, slight earthquake-shocks are felt; and Mr Smyth suggests that it might be well to inquire whether the upheaval of portions of the country, clearly traceable in places, is still going on. For our part, we think it highly probable that Australia has yet to undergo geological changes which will produce modifications of its climate, and render it much more habitable than at present.-Sir Charles Lyell, earnest in the study of volcanic phenomena, has gone once more to Sicily, to make further observations upon Etna.-Dr Tyndall, equally earnest in the study of glaciers, has spent his holiday in the CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL. Alps, where he made a bold and successful ascent of Monte Rosa, quite alone. Adventurous imitators will now be longing to scale the same lofty peaks; but success does not attend upon all alike.-The exploration of the Brixham cave-to which we referred a few months ago-has been in part accomplished, and some important discoveries made-that is, important to the science of paleontology. We hear that more funds are wanted to complete the undertaking. A fair notion of the progress of New Zealand may be formed from a report recently published on the subject. It sets forth that grass is rapidly superseding the tall dense fern which once overspread the greatest part of the islands; and the result is, that in four years, 1852-56, the number of sheep multiplied from, in round numbers, 233,000 to 991,000; of horned cattle, from 32,000 to 92,000; of horses, from 3000 to 9000. The pasture-though this requires further proof-is said to be richer than here in England. The British population has increased in the same period from 26,000 to 48,000, in which the males outnumber the females by 7000. Auckland is the most populous province, and New Plymouth the least. The imports in 1856 amounted to L.710,868, and the exports to L.318,433; and 101,596 letters were received, and 95,164 despatched. As regards healthfulness, we find that the mortality among the troops is in the proportion of one-third less than in England; and, remarkably enough, it appears that among the soldiers there occur a few suicides every year from home-sickness. Schemes are on foot for frequent and rapid communication with the Australian colonies, seeing that not only is a considerable trade growing up between the two countries, but that the jaded Australian, worn by heat and business, now resorts to New Zealand as a sanatorium, finding there the freshness and verdure denied to him at home. Captain Denham, who is surveying the islands of Australia, reports having seen a bird at Franklin A settlement of inlet, known as the mutton-bird. about ninety persons, formed on the spot, get their living by collecting the eggs, feathers, and oil, in which operation they kill 300,000 birds a year. The oil is described as bright red in colour, and of excellent burning quality. On the Reef Islands the captain found swarms of rabbits, the progeny of a few couples which had been introduced some years earlier by Captain Stokes. Following the example, he took away a dozen brace, to start them loose as the first rabbit colonists in Shark Bay.-Specimens of cotton grown at Moreton Bay have been received and spun at Manchester, and found to make good thread, in which form the cotton has been sent back to the place of its growth, to inspirit the cultivators to further efforts. By news from the Cape, we learn that a meeting had been held to take leave of the missionaries who are to be stationed among the Matabele and Makalolo as aids to Dr Livingstone in his endeavours to civilise The veteran Moffat and those important tribes. Mrs Livingstone were present, intending to start Hence, for immediately afterwards for Kuruman. some time to come, we may hope to get intelligence of the Zambesi expedition by way of the Cape, as well as from the eastern coast. It appears, from the report published by the commissioners of emigration, that expatriation is again on the increase. The number that left the kingdom in 1857 was 212,875, being 30,000 more than in each of the two preceding years. And the registrar-general reveals facts concerning migration which corroborate views expressed more than once in the Journal, shewing that the watering-places frequented so numerously during the summer months are not the most healthy places in England. People crowd to them because it is a fashion to do so, and neglect localities whose And he states a hygienic claims are far superior. A NIGHT ON THE INDIAN SEAS. WE had changed steamers at Aden, and some of the officers had been on shore to inspect the fortifications; one, alas! on the signal for starting being made, had hurried on board through a burning sun, and had been struck by it. He lay dying in the single saloon of the wretched vessel in which we were to cross the I had escaped the Indian Ocean. My journey thus far eastward had been singularly unfortunate. peril of fire, of wreck, of murder, on the route, and now came, as climax to the whole, a night of strange awe, horror, and beauty, which still rests on my memory like some fantastic and wonderful dream. The heat in the Red Sea had been fearful. Every lady of our party had sunk under it, more or less, except myself. We had with us two female servants; one, an Irishwoman, was lying between decks in high fever; the other, a lady's-maid, more exacting and The vessel in which our passage delicate than her mistress, was not to be found when night closed in. across the Indian Ocean was to be achieved, was ill fitted for the purpose. She had been formerly used for carrying coals between Liverpool and Dublin, and was small, dirty, and unprovided with accommodation for passengers. She had been sent to Aden to bring back sick sepoys, with whom she was now returning to Bombay. She had but one small and very dirty saloon, and two berths of minute proportions; but we could obtain no other means of transit at Aden, and were anxious to reach India with all possible speed. The saloon in which the seventeen female passengers were It was destined to sleep, was occupied by the dying man; the two berths by the most suffering invalids. necessary that the remainder of the seventy passengers should pass the night on deck; so extempore beds were made up, the ladies partially undressing to lie down. As I alone was equal to the office of nurse in general, I volunteered to sit up near them, and do what I could to help them, for several were delirious from fever, and all required frequent drink, fanning, &c. I hoped, of course, to be assisted by the maid, and directed the man-servant to go and seek her. He returned, looking very pale and grave. 'I can't find her, ma'am; and indeed,' hesitatingly, 'I don't think we shall ever find her. She has several times told me that she was weary and worn out, and would jump overboard. She is not in the vessel; and a sailor tells me that he and the captain heard a plunge from behind the paddle-box an hour ago-and only look, ma'am, at who's a-following us.' I glanced in mute terror over the side, and saw dark forms lifting the water, and tumbling amidst the waves. Ah, the sharks! I could not speak for horror. Then the captain of the Zenobia-one of the The most amiable as well as manly persons I ever metadvanced, and confirmed the evil tidings. unhappy woman, naturally irritable, and, we hope, delirious, had sought that miserable termination of her discomfort. But there was no time to lose. Horror and awe had to be overcome for the fulfilment of actual duty. There were others suffering, even as that unfortunate had suffered; and I returned silently to my charge. For an hour or so, I was too busy giving drink, &c., to observe the scene around us. The only doctor on board-a young man on his route to join his regiment-came on deck after a time, and whispered the sad news that his poor patient of the saloon had ceased to live, and that he would be buried at daybreak. Two deaths within two hours! He helped me now, however, in my task of nursing; |