“Don’t be foolish,” I replied; “Don’t die till I call the surgeon.” It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time. “No, no; don’t call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he’s done all he can, sir. But it’s here—it’s here!” and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn’t make out which. I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words. “Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,” “Indeed, Tom,” I replied; “hadn’t you better confess the mur—” murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom’s situation. The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends. As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued— “Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.” “Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence.” “Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; “give us your hand, sir.” I instinctively shrunk back with horror! “Don’t be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse,” and then his Saracen’s Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the Belle Sauvage. I couldn’t resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, “Pull it out, sir!” “Pull what out?” “My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!” I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found? Why, a PIGTAIL—his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution. A silhouette of a bulldog pulling a sailor's pigtail A NAUTICAL TALE. SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. No. II. You say you would find But one, and one only, Who’d feel without you That the revel was lonely: That when you were near, Time ever was fleetest, And deem your loved voice Of all music the sweetest. Who would own her heart thine, Though a monarch beset it, And love on unchanged— Don’t you wish you may get it? You say you would rove Where the bud cannot wither; Where Araby’s perfumes Each breeze wafteth thither. Where the lute hath no string That can waken a sorrow; Where the soft twilight blends With the dawn of the morrow; Where joy kindles joy, Ere you learn to forget it, And care never comes— Don’t you wish you may get it? “SYLLABLES WHICH BREATHE OF THE SWEET SOUTH.” JOEY HUME is about to depart for Switzerland: for, finding his flummery of no avail at Leeds, we presume he intends to go to Schaff-hausen, to try the Cant-on.