LOSS OF THE ARCTIC.

IT was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages;-from Rome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the capitals of various nations, all of them saying in their hearts, we will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoc tial fury, and then we will embark; we will slide across the appeased ocean, and in the gorgeous month of Octo ber we will greet our longed-for native land, and our heart-loved homes.

The

And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. They crowded aboard. Never had the Arctic borne such a host of passengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was come. at Greenwich. The signal-ball fell It was noon also at Liverpool. anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and national sympathy. The bell strikes; the wheels revolve; the signal-gun beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage, Death was the pilot that steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor whispered his errand.

And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there was still that which hushed every murmur,-"Home is not far away." every morning it was still one night nearer home! Eight And days had passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the vast shallows of Newfoundland. Boldly they made it; and plunging in, its pliant wreaths

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The wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rushing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible.

At a league's distance, unconscious; and at nearer approach, unwarned; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled Neither commander nor officers deemed nor shivered. that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect) ordered away his boat with the first. officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved."

They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stein, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind,-had he stood to execute sufficiently the commander's will,-we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of SINKING!

Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burial-ser vice. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded

the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been.

Henry Ward Beecher.

THE IRISH PICKET.

I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy,
Wid not a spalpeen near,
An' silence, spacheless as the grave,
Is all the sound I hear.

Me gun is at a "shouldher arms.
I'm wetted to the bone,

An' whin I'm afther shpakin' out,
I find meself alone.

This Southern climate's quare, Biddy,
A quare and bastely thing,

Wid Winter absent all the year,
And Summer in the Spring.

Ye mind the hot place down below?
And may ye niver fear

I'd draw comparisons-but then
Its awful warrum here.

The only moon I see, Biddy,
Is one small star asthore,

An' that's forminst the very cloud.
It was behind before;

The watchfires glame along the hill,
That's smilin' to the south;

An' whin the sintry passes them
I see his oogly mouth.

It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And drhamin swate I'd be,
If thim ould rebels over there
Would only lave me free;
But when I lane against a shtump,
An' shtrive to get repose,
A musket ball, he's comin' shtrate
To hit me spacious nose.

It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,
A shparkin' here wid me,
And thin, avourneen, hear ye say,
"Acushla, Pat, machree !"

Says you,

"Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I,
"Get out of that,'
Says I, "Me arrum mates your waste,'
Says you,
"Be daycint, Pat."

An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy?
It's thim I think of, shure,

That looked so innosint and shwate
Upon the parlor flure;

I'm sure you're aisy with the pig,
That's fat as he can be,

An' fade him wid the best, because
I'm tould he looks like me.

Whin I come home agin, Biddy,
A sargint tried and thrue,
It's joost a daycint house I'll build,
And rint it chape to you;

We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall,
A duck-pond nately done,

With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch,
An' garret-all in one.

But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree,

An' well I know the crathur's there,
To have a shot at me.

Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers,
And howld yer dirty paw,

Here goes!--begorra, Biddy, dear,

I've broke his oogly jaw!

Orpheus C. Kerr (R. II. Newell).

AT THE MORGUE.

Deal gently, Preacher,
With this poor creature,
So fair of feature,

So mute and cold!

One lieth yonder,
The city's wonder,
Who scorned to proffer

Her charms for gold.

Come nigh and study
Her winsome body:
Those lips, once ruddy,
Now dank and pale;

The hair, whose sable
Bestrews the table;
Would we were able
To guess her tale!

The Morgue hath paid her
Its last grim duty;
That sacred beauty

Lies all confessed.
What impress lingers
Of baby fingers

(Was there no ring hers?)
On yon white breast!

For this she yielded

Life's strong endearment,
Think what her fear meant,

What her despair!
Was there no morrow
From which to borrow
Other than sorrow,

For one so fair?

Father above us,

Save those who love us!

Read what her hand wrote,

Just ere she died:

"No friend, no dear one, Hath helped or hindered; I have no kindred,

In the world wide."

No stay was given Of earth or heaven, How she had striven Unto this last! Honor was left her: Ere man bereft her Of this one jewel,

Her spirit passed.

Spotless and pure,
She doth endure
The slab, the sewer,
The body's shame;
Her all defending,
To the storm bending,
She made this ending,
Hiding her name.