impossible, for we are all a-weary. Worse has yet to come; the gale increases, and at length we have experience of a storm at sea, of the which I had often read, but until now had no conception. It is indeed one thing to read in books of roaring winds, and waves as high as mountains, but it is quite another matter to gaze upon and hearken to the strange realities. Creeping carefully up the companion way, I hold on for safety, and venture to look out. The sky o'erhead is black, and blacker still the water, save where the white-crested waves show up in horrible relief. On come the monstrous billows, but the good ship meets them and rides aloft, then plunges deep into the dark abyss, to rise again with buoyant lightness; while the wind shrieks and howls as if in awful agony. A friend speaks, but I hear him not; and yet in fancy I hear voices in the elements they call to me in tones too deep for words, and strike my soul with wondrous awe. I feel no sense of danger, for the solemn grandeur of the scene transports me from myself, and from my littleness, to steep my soul in sheer amazement at the stupendous majesty and boundless power of Him we call Our Father.

And now the storm abates, but not until a boat has been crushed and other damage done. Two of the passengers have become insane and are confined in irons, but one of them recovers before we reach New York, and the other is handed over to the authorities. The brilliant sunshine soon banishes our gloom and despondency, and the ladies and children again come upon deck, and all is cheerful and gay.

On the Sunday succeeding the hurricane there is a large attendance at church. The service is read by the Purser; a gentleman from Toronto presides with great ability at the pianoforte, and we have some good singing, for a first-rate soprano appears in a young lady from Liverpool, who is going to California to get married, while the little body from Aberdeen proves to be a capital contralto. Other voices are not wanting, and the satisfactory result of that morning's service is clearly shown in the collection, which is made on behalf of the Seaman's Orphanage.

Grateful that the scare is over, we do not forget our gallant captain, who for three nights has not undressed, and we resolved to present him with a testimonial of our esteem and admiration. A committee is formed, subscriptions are raised, an address is drawn up, and all arrangements are made with a speed and unanimity only to be obtained by the joint efforts of Great Britain and the United States. At dinner on the following day, our cook exerts himself to the uttermost, and places before us the choicest specimens of his art. The tables are gaily decorated with flags and artificial flowers, the ladies look lovely, as American ladies know how to look when they please, and good temper and happiness reign supreme. Dinner being over, the testimonial is read, and the purse presented. Our captain is taken by surprise; he attempts to respond, but a lump rises in his throat and he breaks down. No matter, we take the will for the deed, and drink to his health with musical honours, finishing with what the Yankees call "three cheers and a tiger.” Then follows "a high old time:" speech succeeds speech with great

rapidity, songs are sung, toasts proposed, recitations are given, and we have what glorious John Dryden calls such

"A very merry, dancing, drinking,

Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time,"

that the two most serious members of the company are unable to resist the contagion of the hour, and they become the most uproarious. These two gentlemen hail from Boston; the one is a Quaker and Bank Director, the other an Episcopal Methodist and Dealer in Notions. They have both the gift of tongues, and they praise Old England and crack up New England with a lavish generosity, which leaves nothing to be desired. It is curious to find so much of the old Adam remaining in these worthy men, after many long years of careful repression; and it is delightful to witness two staid American citizens going almost wild with enthusiasm, as they speak in terms of affection of the people and country from whence they sprang. It was agreed on all hands that we had enjoyed a most delightful evening, and as we part for the night we determine to turn out early next morning, and see the sun rise; but in this matter we were disappointed, owing to the sun getting up before his time, as clearly shown by the ship's clock.

We arrive at New York five days behind time, and troops of anxious friends soon crowd on board to enquire after their expected ones. Great is the joy at finding all well; even we, who are not immediately concerned, join in the general rapture, and are made happy in witnessing the happiness of others. In one case we are especially interested; it is that of a quiet, elderly gentlemen, a bachelor, with an unpronounceable Dutch name. To him come four or five young fellows, who crowd around and call him "dear old Van," and literally hug him with delight. We agree that the man must be possessed of sterling qualities, who can so firmly grasp the affections of his numerous young friends.

The members of the C.L.A. then retire to consider which of their many kind invitations they shall accept first.

A. L.

TE MORITURI SALUTANT.

THE last sad scion of a vanquished race,
Within th' arena's bound he took his place;
Undimmed his eye, unbent his fiery crest,
His arms crossed proudly on his swelling breast.
He who in freedom's cause had scorned to fly,
Joined the salute of those about to die.

When death and life upon a throw are cast,
Time oft uplifts the veil which clouds the past,
He, struggling with despair, condemned to die,
Lived all his life again in memory.

A thousand eyes looked down with eager glare,
And pitiless beheld the stranger there.

Like the waves beating on his native shore,
Fell on his ear the crowd's impatient roar ;
While passed within his mind in swift review
The griefs, the pleasures which his boyhood knew ;
And those long hid by time's absorbing blot,
He saw as though they ne'er had been forgot.

His thoughts roved fondly to the mountain side,
And the rude dwelling which had been his pride;
The babes e'en to his savage bosom near;
The mantling forest where he chased the deer.
To Rome and Cæsar he had done no wrong,
Yet yielded up his life to please the throng.

Ye! who now gaze upon the stricken wall,
Which marks at once Rome's glory and her fall,
Learn from these ruins, shattered and decayed,
How Time has all her cruelties repaid.
The Western stranger now triumphant stands
Where once his life-blood fed the thirsty sands.

C. E. G.

THE HOUSE-SURGEON'S STORY.

SITTING alone by the fireside of my little room, my daily duties ostensibly finished, but my ears ever expectant of the familiar sound of the clamorous door-bell, which I have so often heard heralding some fresh instance of calamity which heeds no regulation hours, and of suffering too keen to wait its allotted turn; how often have I thought over my last few years' experience; how often wondered to what moral change in my own nature that experience might tend? While I have occupied the position of house-surgeon in the largest hospital of, let me say, Hammerton, what phase of human misery, at its sharpest, has failed to become familiar to me? what complication of the tragedy of mortal life is there that has not developed itself beneath my eyes? Here a case so simple as to need nothing beyond a little patience and a little care, and next to it one as surely fatal as though the very arrow of Death were visible in the sufferer's heart; here a complaint which the youngest of our students could diagnose, there a disease beside which the oldest of our physicians halts uncertain; always pain in some one of its thousand forms; always relief, but alas! how frequently a relief but too complete and lasting. What pleasure can be purer than to soothe pain? What misery greater than to stand beside anguish, helpless and hopeless? Yet I not only know them both, I know them habitually, constantly, alternately. The awful blows which level the far fortunes of a life in an instant to the dust; the sudden and appalling calamities which scatter ruin broadcast, and burn themselves into the pages of local history; these, as they come, drop into the routine of my accustomed work, and horrors, such as it falls to the lot of most men rarely or never to do more than hear of, repeat themselves in my daily path with a grim persistency of average. The terrible becomes to me the customary, and life, as I see it, is the ever-varying, never-ending dénouement of a tragedy.

Surely every man circumstanced as I am, must, if he has any regard for his own character, or any care for aught beyond the immediate future, sometimes ask himself-not too confidently-what may be the personal outcome of a life so abnormal, if not so unnatural? To have every finer feeling blunted, and every nerve coarsened and stiffened until its power to vibrate has almost ceased, to lay down tenderness side by side with fear, and to bid adieu to sympathy and sentiment both at once; these may be convenient qualifications for the hospital ward, but they are strange and dubious preparations for life. More than once I have seen these conditions frankly accepted, and the perfection of skill so wedded to the absence of feeling, as to prove it, to my amazement, almost possible to lose human nature in the very service of humanity.

What I have watched in others I have dreaded to discover in myself, and many a time have I anxiously debated the question whether in my own case increase of experience did really mean lessening of sympathy, and steadiness of hand coldness of heart. I trust not I think not. In work such as mine it is very clear that all the merely sentimental part of feeling must speedily be laid aside. Not only must what is ghastly to others become familiar, until it has ceased not only to alarm but to affect, but what may be called the general average of suffering must be allowed to pass with the general average of sympathy, or the very capacity for feeling would be deadened by over-use. Surely, I have reasoned with myself, this is the case in every other walk in life, as well as in my own; the circumstances of my position do but bring into stronger relief a merciful and ever-present law of nature, and the question for me is but the question of all: Do special calls for my compassion meet still with a special response?

This is a long exordium to a very brief story, but I must tell my tale in my own way, and I wanted to explain why, thanks to my habit of self-questioning, some few sad stories stand out very clearly in my memory from a background all too uniformly dark. The last chapter in one of these stories reached me by post but a few days since. You have asked me to write you a short tale-here it is. It is very simple; will it be any the less acceptable for being true?

Not more than a month or two after I had obtained my present post, I received one morning a telegram, containing an urgent summons to a neighbouring town upon family business. It was somewhat difficult for me, comparatively new as I was to my position, to obtain a locum tenens for the day upon so short a notice, but at last I found a good-natured confrère willing to take my place, provided I would promise to release him, without fail, by a certain hour in the evening. My business occupied a longer time than I had anticipated, and I was unable to return until the last train which would permit of my promise being redeemed. This train was a little late in starting; it lost some further time upon the way. I began to feel anxious. Judge of my annoyance when, after a few ominous premonitory whistles, our engine slackened speed, and finally came to a standstill about four miles short of Hammerton. The line was blocked by a breakdown, we were told. It was of no importance-only the axle of a truck broken-a little patience, and we should be able to run in upon the other line of rails. I cannot answer for much patience, so far as I myself was concerned, but we were helpless ; and after a succession of short runs and long stoppages, we finally glided into Hammerton station, just one hour behind time, and just in time to find that the passengers by previous trains, some of whom had been detained much longer than ourselves, had taken every available cab. In a temper none of the sweetest I began to rush at the top of my speed through the busy streets that led to the hospital. The factories had just disgorged their crowds of operatives, who were sauntering homeward in the most exasperatingly deliberate manner, and whose