any one on that lonely shore; nothing but a pounding to pulp under the thousands of tons of water that must fall, striking like an almighty hammer. Such is the inner sun-sea—an awful thing—a thing to remember with dread—a thing which to think of precludes sleep or, entering into it, produces a horrible nightmare, in which the feet are fast in a rock, or held there by some rock-wedged crab, or sunk in the sand, or as heavy as lead; and the eyes start and the body becomes damp with agony, a mere foretaste of the watery grave which is even then preparing—the nerves so shaken as to be temporarily paralysed, and, unable to run, crawl or move, or even to shout, the victim stands inert and hopeless; unable to do anything but think and watch the avalanche rush forward and mount high overhead; and just when the wave breaks, and the tons of water are falling and crushing the very limbs apart, the capacity to step aside returns, too tardily to benefit; the voice comes too late to save, for no help is possible; yet help does come, for the cry brings wakefulness again, and one is thankful to live a little longer and go to one’s long home in some more restful way. Yet it is only fancy, and a matter of little moment whether, when that time comes, we cross the river with a wild and agonising wrench, or enter into rest lying on our own bed, nestled in some loving arms, our hands held by those whom only, in the whole of creation, it is hard to leave. In either case we go, and though this world is so hard for many that it is a matter of very little concern _how_ the end comes, providing it does come, and quickly, so that the rest and quietness found on the bosom of dear, kind Mother Earth are granted; yet somehow, we are all of us weak, and life is so hard, so full of pain and suffering, with so little comfort, that we cannot keep down the hope that the end will be quiet and happy, merely “a sleeping and a forgetting,” and surely a hard and cruel fate will not deny that one isolated happiness to its victims.