Drearily, heavily, through the thick air Struggles the sunbeam to pierce with his glare! Droopingly, listlessly, hang the wet leaves; Slowly the mist trickles down o’er the eaves Seeming, in monotone mournful, to say— “Dust to dust!” “Time flitteth!” “What is to-day!” Silently, solemnly, on the damp sod, Kneel a few stricken ones, humbly, to God! Tearfully, trustfully, goes up the prayer: “Him they loved—him they lost”—may they meet there! * * * * * =AMONG THE MOORS.= =FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.= Arrived at Cadiz in 1847, after a ramble through Spain, we felt an irresistible desire to take a peep at Morocco. We strongly desired to see what Mauritania’s children were like; whether they had black or copper-colored faces; whether they wore turbans or caps, sandals or hose, mantles or jerkins; whether they resembled our play-going recollections of Othello. Exactly at ten o’clock, one night late in October, this desire pressed so strongly upon us, that we decided that existence could not be tolerated an hour longer without an instant departure for Morocco. The beautiful blue Mediterranean was scarcely rippled by a wave; the moon shed a glorious light over its glassy surface, while its bed seemed formed of the myriads of stars which the deep, still waters reflected. A lazy felucca lay motionless on the shore; and, in her, a lazy boatman was stretched at full length. We questioned him as to the practicability of our instant embarkation for Morocco. He turned up his head, eyed us inquisitively, as if to satisfy himself how mad we were, told us to “Go with God,” coiled himself up, and disposed his limbs in that posture of utter, uncompromising idleness, of which only the limbs of Spanish boatmen and Italian lazzaroni are capable. The master of a sailing-vessel had, however, more confidence in our sanity and in his own bark, and we struck a bargain with him.