Down it came! For an instant its vast summit hovered overhead, and then, with a roar like ten thousand cataracts, it poured over us. The ship was swept before it like a feather on a gale. With the waters dashing and hissing over the decks, and whirling in wild eddies under our lee, we drove in the direction of the cape. I held my breath in awe. A strong man might almost have leaped on the extreme point of the promontory. I closed my eyes shuddering. The next instant a hurrah met my ear. I looked up. We had shot by the cape, and miles of dark water were before us. An old tar beside me had given vent to the cheer. “By the Lord!” he said, “but that was close scraping, sir. Another sich would have cracked the hull like an egg-shell. But this craft wasn’t made to go to Davy Jones’ locker!” And with all the coolness imaginable, he took out a huge piece of pig-tail, leisurely twisted off a bit, and began chewing with as much composure as if nothing unusual had happened. A year ago, when in New York, I met the captain again, unexpectedly, at the Astor. We dined together, when I took occasion to ask him if he remembered our winter night’s experience in the Irish Channel ten years before. “Ay!” he said. “And do you know that, when I went out to Liverpool on my next trip, I heard that search had been made all along the coast for the fragments of our ship. The escape was considered miraculous.” “Sir,” I replied, “I’ve had enough of the Irish Channel.” * * * * * TO MRS. E. C. K. BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN. LADY, when first upon my listening ear Thy song harmonious fell, subdued, entranced, And spell-bound by the strain, my spirit glanced Adown Time’s darkening track, and as it hung Upon the magic numbers, seemed to hear The lay that erst to Lycidas was sung, By Siloa’s rapt bard, whose visual orbs Were quenched in the intenser brilliancy Of Truth’s divinest radiance, that absorbs All lesser brightness; thus I mused of thee; But when I saw thee, fair as Hope’s young dream, Freshness like Morning’s on thy brow and cheek, Through which the soul’s celestial light doth beam As through a sculptured vase, I felt how weak Are images of manhood’s pride and fame That birth-right’s priceless value to proclaim, Where genius, wit, and poesy divine, Make woman’s heart of love their best and holiest shrine. * * * * * VALENTINE HISTORIES. BY S. SUTHERLAND.