“The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As it is myself who now tell you this tale—as you see that I _did_ escape—and as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther to say—I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and bearing, my loved brother with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place in the character of the whirlpool. The froth and the rainbow disappeared. The slope of the sides of the vast funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the whirl grew feeble and fluctuating—then ceased altogether—then finally reversed themselves with a gradually accelerating motion. And then the bottom of the gulf uprose—and its turgid aspect had in great measure departed. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-ström _had been_. It was the hour of the slack—but the sea still heaved in mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne violently into the channel of the Ström, and in a few minutes was hurried down the coast into the ‘grounds’ of the fishermen. A boat picked me up—exhausted from fatigue—and (now that the danger was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions—but they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from the spirit-land. My hair had been raven-black the day before, and now it is white as you see. They say too that the whole expression of my countenance had changed. I told them my story—they did not believe it. I now tell it to _you_—and you will put no more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden.” * * * * * SOLILOQUY OF AN OCTOGENARIAN. BY PLINY EARLE, M. D. ’Tis nearly past—this fitful dream, Whose phantoms dazzle to deceive, Like glittering bubbles on the stream, Or meteors in a summer eve; And now, half-opening to my sight, I see the realms of lasting Light. These feeble pulses speak of death; This clouded vision bids me look, With the undaunted eye of faith, To climes for which Elijah took From Carmel’s cliffs his joyous way— Translated to eternal day.