up.

It is appalling to witness the horrorstruck soul trying to express itself by signs. It is awful to see these signs when no face is plainly visible, and no voice is heard. I could not see his face plainly, but his eyes, through his heavy mask, glowed like coals of fire.

"I will go!" I exclaimed. I sprang from him. He clasped his hands together, but dared not follow.

Good heavens! I thought, what fearful thing is here? What scene can be so dreadful as to paralyze the soul of a practiced diver. I will see for myself.

I walked forward. I came to the cabin door. I entered the forward-saloon, but saw nothing. A feeling of contempt came to me. Rimmer shall not come with me again, I thought. Yet I was awe-struck. Down in the depths of the sea there is only silenceoh, how solemn! I paced the long saloon, which had echoed with the shrieks of the drowning passengers. Ah! there are thoughts which sometimes fill the soul, which are only felt by those to whom scenes of sublimity are familiar. Thus thinking, I walked to the aftercabin and entered

Oh, God of heaven!

Had not my hand clenched the door with a grasp which mortal terror had made convulsive, I should have fallen to the floor. I stood nailed to the spot. For there before me stood a crowd of people-men and women-caught in the last death struggle by the overwhelming waters, and fastened to the spot, each in the position in which death had found him. Each one had sprung from his chair at the shock of the sinking ship, and, with one common emotion, all had started for the door. But the waters of the sea had been too swift for them. Lo! then-some wildly grasping the table, others the beams, others the sides of the cabin-there they all stood. Near the door was a crowd of people, heaped upon one another-some on the floor, others rushing over them-— all seeking, madly, to gain the outlet. There was one who sought to clamber over the

table, and still was there, holding on to an iron post. So strong was each convulsive grasp, so fierce the struggle of each with death, that their hold had not yet been relaxed; but each one stood and looked frantically to the door.

to

To the door-good God! To me,

me they were looking! They were glancing at me, all those dreadful, those terrible eyes! Eyes in which the fire of life had been displaced by the chilling gleam of death. Eyes which still glared, like the eyes of the maniac, with no expression. They froze me with their cold and icy stare. They had no meaning; for the soul had gone. And this made it still more horrible than it could have been in life; for the appalling contortion of their faces, expressing fear, horror, despair, and whatever else the human soul may feel, contrasting with the cold and glassy eyes, made their vacancy yet more fearful. He upon the table seemed more fiendish than the others; for his long, black hair was disheveled, and floated horribly down-and his beard and mustache, all loosened by the water, gave him the grimness of a demon. Oh, what woe and torture! what unutterable agonies appeared in the despairing glance of those faces-faces twisted into spasmodic contortions, while the souls that lighted them were writhing and struggling for life.

I heeded not the dangerous sea which, even when we touched the steamer, had slightly rolled. Down in these awful depths the swell would not be very strong, unless it should increase with ten-fold fury above. But it had been increasing, though I had not noticed it, and the motion of the water began to be felt in these abysses. Suddenly the steamer was shaken and rocked by the swell.

At this the hideous forms were shaken and fell. The heaps of people rolled asunder. That demon on the table seemed to make a spring directly towards me. I fled, shrieking-all were after me, I thought. I rushed out, with no purpose but to escape. I sought to throw off my weights and rise.

My weights could not be loosenedI pulled at them with frantic exertions, but could not loosen them. The iron fastenings had grown stiff. One of them I wrested off in my convulsive efforts, but the other still kept me down. The tube, also, was lying down still in my

passage-way through the machine rooms. I did not know this until I had exhausted my strength, and almost my hope, in vain efforts to loosen the weight, and still the horror of that scene in the cabin rested upon me.

Where was Rimmer? The thought flashed across me. He was not here. He had returned. Two weights lay near, which seemed thrown off in terrible haste. Yes, Rimmer had gone. I looked up; there lay the boat, tossing and rolling among the waves.

I rushed down into the machine-room, to go back, so as to loosen my tube. I had gone through passages carelessly, and this lay there, for it was unrolled from above as I went on. I went back in haste to extricate myself; I could stay here no longer; for if all the gold of Golconda was in the vessel, I would not stay in company with the dreadful dead!

Back-fear lent wings to my feet. I hurried down the stairs, into the lowerhold once more, and retraced my steps through the passages below. I walked back to the place into which I had first descended. It was dark; a new feeling of horror shot through me; I looked up. The aperture was closed!

Heavens! was it closed by mortal hand? Had Rimmer, in his panic flight, blindly thrown down the trapdoor, which I now remembered to have seen open when I descended? or had some fearful being from the cabin-that demon who sprung towards me

-?

go;

I started back in terror. But I could not wait here; I must I must escape from this den of horrors. I sprang up the ladder, and tried to raise the door. It resisted my efforts; I put my helmeted head against it, and tried to raise it; the rung of the ladder broke beneath me, but the door was not raised; my tube came down through it and kept it partly open, for it was a strong tube, and kept strongly expanded by close-wound wire.

I seized a bar of iron, and tried to pry it up; I raised it slightly, but there was no way to get it up further. I looked around, and found some blocks; with these I raised the heavy door, little by little, placing a block in, to keep what I

had gained. But the work was slow, and laborious, and I had worked a long while before I had it raised four inches.

The sea rolled more and more. The submerged vessel felt its power, and rocked. Suddenly it wheeled over, and lay upon its side.

I ran around to get on the deck above, to try and lift up the door. But when I came to the other outlet, I knew it was impossible; for the tube would not permit me to go so far, and then I would rather have died a thousand deaths than have ventured again so near the cabin.

I returned to the fallen door; I sat down in despair and waited for death. I saw no hope of escape. This, then, was to be my end.

But the steamer gave a sudden lurch, again acted upon by the power of the waves. She had been balanced upon a rock, in such a way that a slight action of the water was sufficient to tip her

over.

She creaked, and groaned, and labored, and then turned upon her side.

I rose; I clung to the ladder; I pressed the trap-door open, while the steamer lay with her deck perpendicular to the ground. I sprang out, and touched the bottom of the sea. It was in good time; for a moment after, the mass went over back again.

Then, with a last effort, I twisted the iron fastening of the weight which kept me down; I jerked it. It was loosed, it broke, it fell. In a moment I began to ascend, and in a few minutes I was floating on the water-for the air which is pressed down for the diver's consumption constitutes a buoyant mass, which raises him up from the sea.

Thanks to heaven! There was the strong boat, with my bold, brave men! They felt me rising; they saw me, and came and saved me.

Rimmer had fled from the horrid scene when I entered the cabin, but remained in the boat to lend his aid. He never went down again, but became a sea captain. As for me, I still go down, but only to vessels whose crews have been saved.

It is needless to say that the Marmion was never again visited.

EVE

VERY one knows that when a man's head is set, it is very difficult to turn it that when an idea or opinion has once possessed a brain, it is not easy to dislodge it, even if it is a poor tenant who never pays.

"What has that to do with peartrees?"

Everything, Rowley, everything—for that is the introduction. Now, see how ingeniously I shall spin from it.

Many people hold, that pear-trees are to be desired because they bear pears, and that pears are to be valued for the palate, because they are rich, juicy, and delicious-for so they certainly are. That is the notion which has possessed some brains, and I cannot deny that it is plausible; yet it is mainly a mistaken one-a narrow and carnal view.

"But," said my familiar, "when the Professor brings me down one Duchess,' and two Flemish Beauties' (I am speaking of pears), and my lips kiss their cheeks, and their juices flow along my tongue, to gladden the sense, then I hold to that view, and I bless God

Now wait, Rowley, wait, I said; for I was afraid he would say something foolish. So he sat in my porch, and, with his cigar (which I condemn mildly), disputed the fragrance of the honeysuckles, and listened to the wisdom of age.

Whoever, I continued, whoever prizes simply his existence-who thinks highly of his presence, values his deportment, and is content with "being"in other words, whoever believes life is an end rather than a means, and, therefore, is content to be, rather than to do -he may think himself happy; but he is mistaken. You shake your head, Rowley; but it is so.

So it is with pears-they, too, are a means, not an end.

Whoever, having grown a fine pear, is elated, and lays much stress upon the tempting fruit, is in danger of sorrow and disappointment-he may be laying up for himself a future grief. Yet I must allow, that, if the fruit had been nipt by an untimely boy, or arrested by a summer blight, before its juicy flesh had been ripened to perfection, my own sense of propriety would have been shocked; for all things work towards completeness, and thus minister to

our satisfaction. Satisfaction, my dear friend-not happiness-is the end and aim of a true existence. Consider what it is which satisfies, when we look upon a daisy or violet blooming in the shelter of a rugged rock; upon the cedar, the oak, or the beech, spreading its broad branches over the shadowy plain; upon the field of grain, waving in the light of the golden sun; upon the succulent asparagus, pushing through the dark, damp earth-these all come to the fullness of perfection, and we are satisfied with them, for they are complete. It is so with the wood-duck, diving and sporting in the still waters of an inland lake; with the robin, that sings out his soul to his mate brooding on the skyblue eggs; with the slow and stalwart ox, who drags the plow along the fertile furrow; with the hound who courses the wily fox, and with the fox who outwits the chasing hound—these all satisfy us, for they are complete; they do well what they are made to do. Is it not so with men, my friend? We find no fault with a man, or a woman, who does a thing well-but are satisfied; and he who makes a perfect pair of shoes, does as complete a thing as he who sits well on a king's throne, or decides justly on a judge's bench.

It is the same in art: for the completeness of Menét's Rag-picker (two inches high), or his Cat suckling her Kittens (done in clay), is equal in perfection to the Dying Gladiator, or Angelo's Moses, done in marble. literature, also, we find this so, and we are satisfied with Burns's verses to a Mouse, with Leigh Hunt's Abou-benAdhem, with Lowell's

"John P., Robinson, he"

In

It

because they are, in themselves, as perfect and complete as is a Hamlet, or a House of Seven Gables. is, therefore, desirable that men and women should do that well which they can do, and find out as soon as possible what they can do best, and not waste too much time in tears or complaints, because they cannot do something else. The man who raises good potatoes, is eminently worthy, as is he who makes good verses, busts, or coaches, and either of them may be a complete man

(and so great), and satisfactory to himself and to his fellow-men. It is not the thing done, but the spirit of the man who does it, that God loves.

Now it will be clear, therefore, that, to the pear-tree, it is necessary to bear pears, for that is its vocation, its purpose. It was for that, that the brown seed was dropped into the earth; that when the warm, bursting spring came, it sent down its delicate root, and pushed up its tender top, and unfolded its leaves, and stretched forth its branches, and, when the time came, elaborated its juices into buds enfolding blossomsfragrant promises of future fruit.

It is right, therefore, for the peartree to bear pears.

But, for a man, his duty is to furnish the tree with every possible facility and convenience, necessary for it to perfect its purpose; for the tree cannot do this for itself. He is to see that there is good soil, and that it is in good heart (not made over rich), and well dug and broken, so that the rays of the fructifying sun can enter it, and the gentle dews sink into it; then he is to plant the tree in it. And let him do that well-for trees are grateful; they like not to have their roots crowded into a small hole dug in a hard soil-no wellbred pear-tree will submit to such indignity, and many will die if so treatedbut rather into the mellow earth; spread out the roots, and press among them the genial inould, so that they kiss one another; and plant not too deep, but so as to cover, with an inch of earth, the neck whence the roots branch; then sustain the stem with a slender stake, and the first work is done. Whoever has done this, will value the warm April sunshine and the soft April showers, and he will watch in the last of the month, till he shall see the unfolding buds; and then the expanding leaves, and the lusty shoots, wagging in the wind, will give him hope. In another year, he will wait for blossoms, and, when they come, he will be thankful. He will see to it that no marauding caterpillars fatten there, that no curculio whets his tooth in that first fruit; for he will walk in his garden in the fresh morning, in the shimmering noon-tide, and at the shady evening, and will feel that he has something to live for. He will be the providence of his pear-tree, and a worthy

man.

I shall always remember S. G. P., who

:

at last found peace among his peartrees a Salem and repose. He was early driven forth, Ishmael-like, into the wilderness, as other men are, and was in danger of perishing for, was it not necessary, indispensable, to have much wealth, to be a merchant prince, and send forth ventures in ships? To other men, older men, it seemed so, and his rapid energies grappled with these weapons with which to fight the world; for other men and merchant princes were struggling to get what all could not have, and there were many obstacles to be overcome, and much competition. For years he worked like a lion, and knew no rest; he visited many lands and braved many seas, and for what? That he might secure, in his own hand, a larger share of the world's wealth, and so be pointed at as the man who owned much gold. But ships were lost, and fires ravaged, and agents were dishonest, that they, too, might have wealth; and the end saw S. G. P. a ruined man. When he was too old to reform his life, so as to work and not waste his energies, he remembered his father's garden and his pear-trees, and there he went, with a small income, to pass the evening of his days; and there he did pass it, in company with his two good daughters, and in communion with his "Louise Bonnes" and "St. Michels."

To me it was a satisfaction to enjoy his satisfaction; for he was in harmony with his pear-trees, and they, knowing what he wanted, and knowing that he was right, tried to do as he wished, and grew well-as espaliers, pyramids, dwarfs, balloons, or standards. They resisted blights and frosts, blossomed timely, set well, and bore their fruits. It was a delight to see little fellows of three feet high, bearing up bravely their load of half a dozen Duchesses or Wurtemburgs, while stately standards stood and ripened their bushels of Urbanistes and Boscs through all the long

summer suns.

It seemed to me that they leaned to the old man as he walked among them, trimming a little here, praising thereand I do not doubt they had as much satisfaction in him, as he had in them; for he fully appreciated their virtues.

Do not think the old man did this because he wanted pears. He could have bought one for a sixpence any day, and have sat down in the shade and swallowed it would that have sufficed? I

E

VERY one knows that when a man's head is set, it is very difficult to turn it that when an idea or opinion has once possessed a brain, it is not easy to dislodge it, even if it is a poor tenant who never pays.

"What has that to do with peartrees?"

Everything, Rowley, everything-for that is the introduction. Now, see how ingeniously I shall spin from it.

Many people hold, that pear-trees are to be desired because they bear pears, and that pears are to be valued for the palate, because they are rich, juicy, and delicious-for so they certainly are. That is the notion which has possessed some brains, and I cannot deny that it is plausible; yet it is mainly a mistaken one-a narrow and carnal view.

Now wait, Rowley, wait, I said; for I was afraid he would say something foolish. So he sat in my porch, and, with his cigar (which I condemn mildly), disputed the fragrance of the honeysuckles, and listened to the wisdom of age.

Whoever, I continued, whoever prizes simply his existence-who thinks highly of his presence, values his deportment, and is content with "being". in other words, whoever believes life is an end rather than a means, and, therefore, is content to be, rather than to do -he may think himself happy; but he is mistaken. You shake your head, Rowley; but it is so.

So it is with pears-they, too, are a means, not an end.

Whoever, having grown a fine pear, is elated, and lays much stress upon the tempting fruit, is in danger of sorrow and disappointment-he may be laying up for himself a future grief. Yet I must allow, that, if the fruit had been nipt by an untimely boy, or arrested by a summer blight, before its juicy flesh had been ripened to perfection, my own sense of propriety would have been shocked; for all things work towards completeness, and thus minister to

our satisfaction. Satisfaction, my dear friend-not happiness-is the end and aim of a true existence. Consider what it is which satisfies, when we look upon a daisy or violet blooming in the shelter of a rugged rock; upon the cedar, the oak, or the beech, spreading its broad branches over the shadowy plain; upon the field of grain, waving in the light of the golden sun; upon the succulent asparagus, pushing through the dark, damp earth--these all come to the fullness of perfection, and we are satisfied with them, for they are complete. It is so with the wood-duck, diving and sporting in the still waters of an inland lake; with the robin, that sings out his soul to his mate brooding on the skyblue eggs; with the slow and stalwart ox, who drags the plow along the fertile furrow; with the hound who courses the wily fox, and with the fox who outwits the chasing hound-these all satisfy us, for they are complete; they do well what they are made to do. Is it not so with men, my friend? We find no fault with a man, or a woman, who does a thing well-but are satisfied; and he who makes a perfect pair of shoes, does as complete a thing as he who sits well on a king's throne, or decides justly on a judge's bench.

It is the same in art: for the completeness of Menét's Rag-picker (two inches high), or his Cat suckling her Kittens (done in clay), is equal in perfection to the Dying Gladiator, or Angelo's Moses, done in marble. In literature, also, we find this so, and we are satisfied with Burns's verses to a Mouse, with Leigh Hunt's Abou-benAdhem, with Lowell's

"John P.,

Robinson, he❞—

because they are, in themselves, as perfect and complete as is a Hamlet, or a House of Seven Gables. It is, therefore, desirable that men and women should do that well which they can do, and find out as soon as possible what they can do best, and not waste too much time in tears or complaints, because they cannot do something else. The man who raises good potatoes, is eminently worthy, as is he who makes good verses, busts, or coaches, and either of them may be a complete man