rolled in with such resistless violence. We could only listen in silent horror. We heard the very grinding of her timbers, as shock on shock hastened her dissolution; and amid the fury of the storm, and their frantic cries for aid, never shall I forget, in the momentary lulls, the sickening continuous wail of a young boy lashed in the mid-rigging,—his supplicating exclamation, “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!” Often, years after, in my dreams, did I hear those plaintive cries, and see that young boy’s face turned imploringly to Heaven, while that “Ai Jesus!—Ai Jesus!” rang wildly in my ears. But a short time could human fabric sustain the ceaseless plunge of the foaming elements. By the lightning flashes, we could see the number of the sufferers lessen, as relaxing their hold, they dropped off exhausted one by one—swept into the rocky caverns below; until, a longer interval of darkness—a more intense flash of lightning—and all had disappeared. Nought was left but the white foam as it rushed tumultuously boiling and coursing over the long reef before us. It was so brief—so hurried—the appearance of our fellow-creatures in their agony, and their disappearance so sudden, that it seemed a feverish dream. But the dead, mutilated bodies—ceroons of indigo and tobacco—and broken planks, swept along the shore on the following morning, convinced us of its sad reality. The corse of the young boy, ungashed by the ragged rocks, I found, and caused it to be buried apart from the rest in the church-yard, for it appeared, as if there was in his childish helplessness, a claim upon me for protection. That expression of agony I ne’er heard since—save once: and that—but Davy, we have had all the sport we are like to have to-day—get up the anchor, and we will fan along up to the harbour. So—let her jibe—now put her before it—ay—that will do.—As I was saying. Shortly after the close of the last war, buoyant with youth and hope, I made, what was then not so common as now, the tour of Europe—lingering long in Old Spain, fascinated with the romantic character of the countrymen of Cervantes—of the gallant Moors—of the Alhambra and the Cid. It chanced one evening, strolling about the streets of Madrid in pursuance of adventure, that, passing through one of the most unfrequented squares, I was attracted by lights shining through the long Gothic windows of a large chapel or cathedral. I approached, and entering with some curiosity found it entirely silent. No living soul was present within its walls. The lofty chancel and altars were shrouded in mourning. By the wax candles on the altars, I could see the fretted arches—the shrines and monuments along the walls—and the family banners wreathed in gloomy festoons above them. I wandered about, alone and uninterrupted. Nought moved, save the old blood-stained flags, as they fitfully waived to and fro in the wind. I gazed around me in admiration on the rich shrines and their appropriate pictures. Here, with her offerings of flowers,