uproar; for they did not know, and I took care that they should not know, the cause of the delay. I persuaded the manager to go to the front and inform his patrons that Mr. Balfour had met with so serious an accident as to necessitate his removal from the theatre. 'A farce, however,' said the wily manager, 'shall be put on in a few minutes.' 'Aye,' thought I, 'a farce by all means, there is something more than a farce here.'

"The wounded man, laid on a little couch, was dressed in a beautiful costume of some other country; his fast paling cheeks were painted with a rich bloom, but his life blood was trickling down the white velvet of his dress. A very brief glance at the nature of his wound showed the necessity of immediate and careful removal. A stretcher was obtained, and as we bore him away, the audience was shouting loudly for Balfour, and the manager said: 'It's a loss to me of thirty pounds a week, this game is. I can't get another at his price, and such a gentleman, that's true.' We bore him to my employer's, for I knew the old doctor's heart, and that the poor young actor might have some chance of recovery if we had him in our own care. As we put him down in the surgery, I had to bend over and place my arms around him, and I fancied that his face was familiar to me, but for the life of me I could not remember when or where I had seen his features. Once or twice he had vainly endeavoured to lift his hand to his breast, and naturally enough I thought that there was another injury of which we were not aware, so I placed my hand in his bosom. A faint sweet smile came over his face as I took from his breast a little book. I knew that book again, Charley, and when I opened it the initials, A. F. L.,' told me that the man before me was our old friend Willis. The ancient affection welled up to my heart and into my eyes. We got him removed to bed, and the doctor said that we would sit with him all night. Towards midnight I fancied that the life flame was flickering away, and as I aroused the old doctor dozing in his chair, Willis awoke from a kind of stupor, and spoke to me: 'Frank,' said he, 'they think it was an accident. It was not, it was suicide. I could not bear it any longer. Ayez pitié de moi. I was carried away by the words I was uttering, for I was playing Claude Melnotte, and when I came to the love passages I thought of Florry, and Pauline changed into my own Florence. They thought in front that I was acting. Oh, Heaven help me, and bless Flo!' In a few moments he became quite delirious, and rambled about 'Hamlet by Mr. Balfour,' and gave quotations from plays as to his love, ‘vain, frantic, guilty if thou wilt,' and his Florence. Once or twice he mentioned my name, and I am not ashamed to say, Charley, that I cried like a child by the side of that bed as I held poor Willis's fingers in mine.

"At daybreak there was another change, this time hailed by us with deep joy. Immediately the old doctor prophesied my friend's recovery, and he was right. Willis recovered slowly. I persuaded him to leave 2 E

VOL. VI.

his course of life and enter into partnership with me. We invested in a practice then vacant in London, and removed once more to the metropolis. I thought that after such a lapse of time all traces of the girl he loved would be lost, but I was wrong, deeply, cruelly wrong. The very first afternoon after our arrival we were walking arm in arm down the street, and we involuntarily stopped at the police station, where there was a large board with placards as to rewards for the capture of offenders, and descriptions of found bodies. One of the latter attracted the notice of Willis, and with a ghastly look he directed my attention to it. It was something as follows:

"FOUND DROWNED.-March 3d, 1864. Sex-Female. Age-(Supposed) 23. Hair-Auburn. Eyes-Blue. Dress-Very rich. Chiefly dark silk. A chain round the neck, with locket containing a portrait suspended. Underclothing marked 'A. L. F.' Place of Inquest.—The British Sailor.'

“Poor Willis hurriedly made some inquiries as to the whereabouts of the public-house named, and we hastened to the place. The landlord showed us into a room, and upon the table lay the corpse of one of the most beautiful girls it has ever been my lot to see. There was a mass of yellow hair around a face as sweet and peaceful-looking as an infant's, but the blue eyes were wide open as though in astonishment at life with its bitterness and its mockery of happiness. The little fingers, upon one of which there was a small ring, were clasped across her breast. 'Poor darling,' said Willis, 'she was proud of her little hands.' There was no need for him to open the locket and show me his portrait, or to say that the poor drowned girl was his Florence, the initials, A. F. L., had told me that. She would not give me a piece of her hair, Frank, he said; she said it was unlucky. I may take a lock now, poor darling.'

"I left the room, for I did not wish to intrude upon his grief. In about half an hour he rejoined me and we went home. I had not felt so sad for many years as I did upon that evening. The drowned girl with her 'hurricane of hair,' her staring blue eyes, and her sweet calm face, haunted me. Willis was equally gloomy, and at an early hour he bade me good-night and went to his chamber. The next morning I was down before him, and as breakfast was waiting I went up and knocked at his door. There was no reply, and I went in. The bed was undisturbed, and upon the floor lay Willis, dead."

"Good heavens! Frank."

"Yes.

He had been dead some hours. A faint perfume about his lips told me what poison he had taken. And thus died Willis, our poor young Willis."

“Poor golden-haired Florence," said Charley, as he gazed into the fire.

"VIA SOUTHAMPTON.”

"THE MAILS, ETC., SOUTHAMPTON.-The B-, Capt.

left Southampton yesterday, with the mails for the Mediterranean, India, and China. She carries passengers, among whom are the following-"

How often have our readers seen a similar announcement in the daily papers, and either passed it by with silent contempt, or glanced over the lines rapidly and carelessly, without reflecting what the words really mean. They are of a very ordinary nature, and yet they represent a scene of bustle and confusion, of misery and activity, such as few imagine. It is difficult, in the midst of the quiet and comforts of home, to realize what must take place when a large ship, laden with passengers and mails, is leaving for a distant country. But just reflect, you who know how much extra work is caused in your little household when a larger number than usual is going to grace your dining-room mahogany, what must be the amount of provisions demanded by (say) 150 passengers, irrespective of the officers, engineers, and crew requisite for the management of such a vessel as we are imagining? and what must be the activity put forth to take on board the necessary supplies? Consider, you who fly from your home, in the summer or autumn, as if that home were plague-stricken, what is the confusion throughout the house when you are "packing up" for that six weeks or two months' jaunt, and compare with that the confusion that must arise when the luggage of 150 people, who are starting on a six weeks' voyage, is all being tumbled into the hold on the same day? Add to all this a proportionate amount of stores, and the mails for all the stations (and they are many) at which the steamer will call, and you may then fancy that there is some commotion when the mails leave Southampton.

In many families-amongst such, for instance, as have relatives or friends in India-the glance is less rapid, and the eye looks down the list of passengers to see if there be any familiar name. And if there be, no doubt the person who is reading the newspaper will put it down for a moment, and refer to some one else in the room, as to whether "that Smith who was in Jones' house in Calcutta wasn't A. B. Smith;" and probably the reply will be: "No, that was C. D.; this A. B. Smith is in the Civil Service, and married that pretty Mary Brown-the daughter of old Colonel Brown, who, they say," etc. etc. ; or the exclamation may be: "By Jove! Robinson's going out again. What's in the wind now! Bob told me his governor was come home for good. I hope there's nothing the matter with the house out there."

Yet, believe me, the words do represent a very bustling, and a very heartrending scene. They mean that loving hearts are aching; that loving eyes, dim with age or flashing with all the fire of youth, are now equally dimmed by the gushing tear. They mean that the farewell word is spoken, and the farewell embrace exchanged between those who will never meet again in this world. They mean that proofs of affection and sentences of burning love, buried in the darkness of those mail boxes, are going far away to gladden many an eye, and bring joy and relief to many a weary heart.

Picture in your imagination, kindly reader, a large, powerful, and beautiful steamer lying alongside the wharf of Southampton Docks. Bustle and confusion on shore, bustle and "confusion worse confounded" on board-a motley group of dock labourers, customs officers, passengers laden with many a parcel, and friends of passengers equally laden; children of various ages, and Indian ayahs with dusky skins and language and dress foreign to English ears and eyes, stewards and officers running from place to place; and a crowd of idlers and bystanders, to whom the whole proceeding must bear the aspect of a joke, and to whom it must seem that the object of one and all is to cause as much disturbance as possible. Here you will see a young husband, all ardour in the service of the adored wife, running frantically here and there, piled with railway wrappers and shawls, clinging desperately all the while to a hat-box, a bird-cage, a carpet-bag, and two umbrellas, and stopped in his wild career by the energy of an unhappy mother who has lost sight of ayah and child. There you may notice two handsome young men, utterly indifferent to the whole scene, talking earnestly and volubly, but with no smile on their faces, and, if you could but know it, with little happiness at their hearts.

There, a group of three or four who are being introduced by a common friend, and who grin and try to look pleasant as only persons who are being introduced can look. In another place you will see a little scamp of a boy all rosy with health, and exulting in the confusion around him, running with marvellous dexterity between the legs of every one, and laughing and shouting because he can elude the vigilance of his faithful black nurse, and disturb the equanimity of everybody. Or, if you step forward, you may see strong men bending under the weight of immense portmanteaus, which set forth in large letters the names and destinations of their owners. All kinds of live stock for the voyage, and chairs belonging to the passengers encumber the deck; while over all the steam is roaring, and the "Blue Peter" waving remorselessly, and in seeming triumph.

If such be the scene on deck, it is not less interesting to view the saloon while lunch is going on. A long, and not very lofty room it appears-with four or five wide tables in the centre, on each side of which, seats, fixed to the deck, are arranged. On each side of the saloon are doors, at intervals, concealed by curtains, leading to the passengers'

cabins. The saloon is lighted by skylights, and the stern ports, during the day, and by lamps which do the double duty of giving light to the saloon and to the cabins at the same time, by night.

Here, then, at the different tables are various groups devouring a lunch which many are glad to find. Poor souls! they could eat little at the sad early breakfast which they knew was to be the prelude to leave-taking. Very various are the characters and ages of those around us. At the corner of this table is a young fellow, who is evidently not a passenger, chatting gaily to a friend, who from his sad look you may easily guess is leaving home behind. The former rattles away on this subject and on that, and tries to cheer his friend; but a sad smile is the only reward of his volubility, and he is quite at a loss what to say next. Near these two you may observe a fine old man with white hair, and a sunburnt complexion, who gazes affectionately every now and then on the features of a delicate looking youth, whose red and inflamed eyes tell tales of many a tear, but who tries to brave it manfully now. A tall, powerfully made man makes " a long arm" over his shoulder, for the decanter, and you guess not incorrectly from his rollicking manner that he is an old campaigner. Close by him stands a younger and slighter man, with high white forehead and sunken cheeks, whose face indicates hard reading and not a little "wasting of the midnight oil." In him you recognize the Competition Wallah-a noble type of a thorough English gentleman, bold and manly, ready for any fun, yet one who will never shirk his duty. A friend, one of the same body, stands near; and a college mate, who does not accompany them, drinks success, long life, and happiness to his two well loved brethren. A mother with her child on her lap, is snatching the few mouthfuls of food which her peevish child will allow her to take during the intervals of attending to his wants. A frail young girl who, God help her! is going out to the "market," is on the opposite side, and close beside her sits her aged mother. Will she ever see her child again? Some few, having satisfied their wants, give place to others; and these, standing about may notice ayahs rolled up like balls, squatting at cabin doors with their knees up to their chins; they may see children eagerly snatching at biscuits, and devouring them with unbecoming haste; they observe, no doubt, the pretty young ladies with whom there will be plenty of fun by and bye when things have settled down a little. They can see, what we have not had time to notice, the eager manner in which friends gaze on each other's faces; they hear the kind gentle voices speaking words of encouragement, or exacting promises; they look round quickly when they hear a laugh, as now and then they do, proceeding from youngsters who have nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by leaving a country which has never been particularly kind to them. There, at the extreme end of the saloon, their eyes may light-and lighting, will surely pause on the stalwart form of him whom they at once recognize as the captain. Exposure to many weathers, and to the