'Last Tuesday night, when town and country were well abed, and let us hope not without thankfulness of heart, nor without having taken thought of "all those who travel by land or sea;"--when even the rancid haunts of vice in London were emptying, and the homeless were slinking off to snatch forgetfulness somewhere out of reach of wind and rain:--in the dead hour of a desolate night, desolate enough among street lamps flickering in a clammy fog, more desolate still when a sickly moon peered dimly through a drift of ragged cloud, and the wind howled and moaned with a roar of rage and anguish--in that desolate night and that dead hour one of those terrible calamities which are remembered for centuries was hurrying near five hundred of our fellow-creatures to sudden death at sea, after a safe and prosperous voyage of twelve thousand miles, within six hours of port, and within stonethrow of the long-wished-for land. Heartrending and disastrous is the shipping intelligence of this week all round our coasts, but the wreck of the "Royal Charter" will be a melancholy fireside tale among our children's children. If, indeed, what is called "progress" be truly defined as an increasing dominion over time and space, then England, marching at the van, atones for her pre-eminence by many a hostage. We talk of bridging seas by the size and speed of our ships, but every now and then we offer up costly sacrifices to avenge our triumphs, and correct our pride.