Sometimes for a quarter of a century the sluggish stream of life oozes by, bearing no hint of deeds, or faces,--that perchance shed glory, or perhaps lent gloom to the far past,--a past well-nigh forgotten and inurned in the gathering grey of time,--and suddenly without premonition, the slow monotonous current ripples and swells into waves that bear to our feet fateful countenances, unwelcome as grave-ghouls,--and the world grows garrulous of incidents that once more galvanize the shrouded Bygone. For four years the minister had received no tidings of those whom he had so reluctantly joined in the bonds of wedlock, and not even a reminiscence of that singular bridal party had floated into his quiet parsonage study; but within twenty-four hours he seemed destined to garner a plentiful harvest of disagreeable data for future speculation. He had not yet reached his lawyer's office, when, hearing his name pronounced vociferously, Dr. Hargrove looked around and saw the postmaster standing in his door and calling on him to enter. "Pardon me, my dear sir, for shouting after you so unceremoniously; but I saw you were not coming in, and knew it would promote your interest to pay me a visit. Fine day at last, after all the rain and murky weather. This crisp, frosty air sharpens one's wits,--a sort of atmospheric pumice, don't you see, and tempts me to drive a good bargain. How much will you give for a letter that has travelled half around the world, and had as many adventures as Robinson Crusoe, or Madame Pfeiffer?" He took from a drawer a dingy and much-defaced envelope, whose address was rather indistinct from having encountered a oath on its journey. "Are you sure that it is for me?" asked the minister, trying to decipher the uncertain characters. "Are there two of your name? This is intended for Reverend Peyton Hargrove of St. ---- Church -- V----, United States of America. It was enclosed to me by the Postmaster-General, who says that it arrived last week in the long-lost mail of the steamship _Algol_, which you doubtless recollect was lost some time ago,--plying between New York and Havre; It now appears that a Dutch sailing vessel bound for Tasmania--wherever that may be; somewhere among the cannibals, I presume--boarded her after she had been deserted by the crew, and secured the mail bags, intending to put in along the Spanish coast and land them, but stress of weather drove them so far out to sea, that they sailed on to some point in Africa, and as the postmasters in that progressive and enlightened region did not serve their apprenticeship in the United States Postal Bureau, you perceive that your document has not had 'despatch.' If salt water is ever a preservative, your news ought not to be stale." "Thank you. I hope the contents will prove worthy of the care and labour of its transmission. I see it is dated Paris--one year ago, nearly. I am much obliged by your kind courtesy. Good-day."