“And now our sweet communion must shortly see its close, And never more, till next time, shall we share in joys like those; No more the fragrant sea‐pie or delectable burgoo, No more on the same plate be seen fish, cheese, and Irish stew. * * * * * * * No longer Mrs. Jarley’s works our mimic stage shall grace, Or the little missionary‐eater show his little face. Of Mrs. J. I would not say one harsh word if I could; No use to tread upon her toes, because they’re only wood. No more the sailor’s plaintive song with tears our eyes shall dim, No more on Sunday morning shall we sing the Evening Hymn;” the fact being that a clergyman on board had once inadvertently chosen the latter for morning service! The epilogue concluded by wishing good luck to all the officers and men and to the good old ship. [Illustration: LEAVING THE COAST OF CALIFORNIA.] Baron Hübner has given us, in his published work before quoted, some interesting reminiscences of, and graphic notes on, his voyage to Japan from San Francisco. A few extracts may be permitted. “_July 4._—The sky is pearly grey. The vessel is all painted white: masts, deck‐cabins, deck, tarpaulins, benches—all are white. This deck, from poop to prow, is all in one piece, and makes a famous walk. Almost all the morning I am alone there. The first‐class passengers get up very late; the second‐class—that is, the Chinese—not at all. They go to bed at San Francisco, and never leave their berths till they reach their destination. You never see one of them on deck. The sailors, having done their duty, disappear likewise. And how easy that duty is in such weather! On leaving the Golden Gate the sails were hoisted, and have remained untouched ever since. The breeze is just strong enough to fill them and keep us steady. The result is a complete calm. The smoke ascends up to heaven in a straight line. So the sailors have a fine time of it. They sleep, smoke, or play down‐stairs with their companions. The two men at the helm—these two are Americans—are equally invisible, for a watch‐tower hides them from sight, as well as the rudder and the officer of the watch. I have thus got the deck of this immense ship entirely to myself. I pace it from one end to the other, four hundred feet backwards and forwards. The only impediment is a transverse bar of iron, as high as one’s head, which binds in the middle the two sides of the ship. It is painted white, like all the rest, and is difficult to see. In every position in life there is always the worm in the bud or thorn in the flesh—or, at any rate, some dark spot. On board the _China_ the dark spot for me is that detestable white bar. Not only am I perpetually knocking my head against it, but it reminds me unpleasantly of the frailty of human things. It is very thin, and yet, if I am to believe the engineer, it is this bar alone which, in very bad