fierceness of a tropical sun, has bronzed the cheek; but nothing can change the nobleness of manner nor the kindliness expressed in the whole face, and especially in the merry twinkle of his wicked black eyes. And if by chance they have their backs close to some cabin door, they may hear the mingled sound of sobs and kisses, which tell of a sad scene going on within. Perhaps also they may remark a woman's form bending over a letter to some child left behind, and they turn away their heads as they see the scalding tears course one another down the pale cheek. Who can witness a mother's grief?

In the midst of all this, the stewards bustle about, replenishing decanters, removing articles here, and depositing fresh supplies there. The scene is one of confusion. Etiquette is but slightly regarded, dresses are disordered; but all are equally careless, for all are too much absorbed in themselves to pay any attention to others.

But there are others in the ship who are little concerned in the misery which they see around them. The officers, crew, and stewards are too much accustomed to such scenes to take any notice of that which I have been describing. Here and there you may see the purser or the doctor conversing with some passenger whom they have met before or to whom they have been introduced, but the majority are quite callous and go about the ship as if such a thing as parting never was. The clatter of knives and forks and the fragrant smell of cooking comes from the quarters of those whose services are not at present required. They all know that they will be home again in six weeks or two months, and so the trip is nothing to them, But of those we see around us how many will look upon the shores of old England again?

But hark! what was that bell? Ah! each one knows too well the meaning of that sound. All is confusion once again. The friends of passengers must leave the ship and the passengers themselves hurry on deck to see the last of well loved faces. Tears which have been dried up flow again; embraces and kisses-warmer now than ever in life beforeare exchanged; and, in sad silence, the separation takes place at last.

Many a struggle is made no doubt to force back the tear, but it will gush out, and perhaps it were better that it should freely flow. We may safely say that no eye is dry now. Old and young, male and female there is no distinction-for every heart has its load of grief. You may see a young man trying to brave it out, for he thinks it unmanly to be seen to weep. But first the lips will quiver and then .... It is no shame to him, the shame would be the other way. Sad are the faces upturned to the deck, and sadder still those which fondly gaze from the deck to the shore. Every now and then a handkerchief is waved, and a weary effort is made to smile-efforts which only produce more tears.

Meanwhile the mails have arrived from London; and, in the square boxes of various colours, which indicate their particular destination, they are hurried from the railway carriage to the hold of the ship. There

is a dull monotonous thump as they are turned over and over, and in a monotonous tone of voice the name of the port to which each is destined is lustily called out "Cál-cutter, Cál-cutter, Hóng-Kong, Alexandria, Mádras, Hong-Kong, Cál-cutter," and so on, and so on. Can we not picture to ourselves the contents of some of those boxes? The various sorts of letters-from the curt and formal "Sir," to the hearty "My dear old boy;" from the business-like conciseness of the merchant, to the closely-written and love-prompted lines of the absent wife? Perhaps in this is a letter from a distant country rectory to the valiant son who is serving his Queen under a burning sky; in that, an amusing and hearty missive from a brother in legal chambers to one who is doing a "roaring trade" on his own account far away in China; in that the gentle words of a loving sister, or an old school-fellow who longs to meet his friend once more, and hates the country which parts them. From old college rooms, which have resounded with the cheery laugh of him who is now a useful member of the Civil Service, may come a letter in the next box. The well-known face has been missed at many a wine, and the complaint so often made has been, in this case, repeated, that India takes away all the men who ought to stay in England. Loving lines will be found from some gentle girl who will devote her whole life, far from friends and kindred, to him from whom she is now separated in body, but with whom she is ever present in spirit. "In sickness and in health" her place will be by his side, and nobly she will fulfil her task. A mother's love, depend upon it! has prompted many of the letters which those mail-boxes carry; and we can imagine how the face will light up with animation, and the eyes drink in every word which those letters contain. Truly "as waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country." Is it not tantalising to think that this paper which you touch has been within those dear walls, nay, has been touched itself by hands which you fain would grasp-which calls up so much of peace and happy days gone by, of youthful aspirations and manly resolutions? Can we not venture to say that in recalling all these, a letter performs an almost holy task? You who have been faint and weary in life's ceaseless struggle, have you not been refreshed by the calm quiet sentences of admonition and encouragement "from a far country?" When giving up in despair, has not the recollection of home, and the dear faces at home, vividly called up by the perusal of a letter, cheered you on to do your duty all the more thoroughly? An expression, a chance word, calls up before you so many associations. It may be the old school-room, the face of the kind and patient master whom you then thought cruel and spiteful, but whom you learnt to appreciate and love before he was laid in his quiet grave-God rest his soul!--the playground, and the corner where all disputes were fairly settled with the fist; the old home, every room so well-known, that you seem almost to be in the house itself; the pew where you used to sit Sunday after Sunday; the dear faces of mother,

brother, sister, and perhaps one other, dear as all these! Those ugly boxes are not so prosaic as they seem.

There they are all on board now. The last person steps over the ship's side, the gangway is closed up, a hoarse voice roars out a command unintelligible to a landsman's ear, the ropes are slowly let go, and the giant vessel is towed round by a shrimp of a tug. If you were not so sad, you would notice the beautiful appearance of the ship, her perfect symmetry and elegance combined with the most effective strength.

Stand here at the dock head and watch her as she is left to herself, and the screw makes its first wild plunge into the seething waters. A noble sight she is, and she carries a dearly loved freight! Let us give three sounding English cheers and a hearty "God speed" to her as she steams gracefully and rapidly away.

PHOTOGRAPHS OF FAMILIAR FACES.

BY A FEMALE PHOTOGRAPHER.

THE WORSHIP OF THE GOLDEN CALF.

EVEN more wide spread than the spirit of flunkeyism, is the worship of the Golden Calf. What puts the finishing touch to the comic side of the question (for it has its tragic, nay, even its atrocious phase)-is, that the same persons who are themselves toadied as the possessors of a title, will in turn bend the knee to this yet more potent idol. Needy honourables and seedy lords will play second fiddle to the vulgarest-minded millionaire who keeps a good table, lends them money, and allows them to ride his thorough-bred horses. Lady Lavinia Lackland will be charmingly condescending to the millionaire's fat wife, who takes her out for a drive, doing a little shopping by the way, to have an opportunity of showing Lady "Lavinny" that she purchases the material for six dresses at one fell swoop, without inquiring the price, though she makes sad havoc with the pronunciation of the words moire antique. But Lady Lavinia only smiles benevolently at such little slips of the tongue; for now and then a seventh dress is put up amongst the rest, to be given by the plebeian queen of thousands, to the penniless scion of the "upper ten thousand," after a glance of disdain at her faded silk gown, with an expression of wonder, "How ever your ladyship can wear that old thing." Still her ladyship pockets both the present and the affront-the latter being less poignant coming from "such people" than from one of her own set; and when Mrs. Billion drives to the florist to purchase nosegays for herself and ladyship to go to the opera, though she calls the floral offering a "bucky," Lady Lavinia, mindful of Shakespeare's theory about the rose, wisely considers it smells as sweet, and looks as well as if a few more of the letters forming the orthography of the word bouquet, were included in her rich friend's vocabulary.

Mrs. Billion, however, not only mangles French words, and distorts the names of Italian tenors, she has besides an unhappy knack, whenever she falls into the familiar vein, of interlarding the account of anything she has seen or done, with "says I," and "says she," at about every fifth word. Worse still, she indulges in that most villanous transgression of Lindley Murray's code, by frequently asserting that "It was me," or "It was him." Only when people are rich enough to purchase every luxury they can think of, they of course feel privileged to do as they like, not only "with their own" (like a late nobleman who considered himself born to that right), but with the Queen's English into the bargain.

Nicholas Billion, Esq., M.P. (familiarly styled "Old Nick by his

former associates in the dust contractor's yard), reigns equally despotically, of course, over his male friends; who, equally of course, show the same indulgence to his foibles, as Lady Lavinia displays towards his wife. Though he distributes his h's with charming impartiality, docking off some and putting on others, that does not prevent Lord Folio, who has taken a degree at Oxford, and is excrutiatingly alive to a false quantity, being, nevertheless, happy to be seen shaking hands with him in Whitehall. Lord Folio is an abject worshipper of the Golden Calf, and knows that Mr. Billion could buy him up, body and soul, and conscience into the bargain, any day he pleased; hence his delight in showing the public that he is on familiar terms with the man who has so cleverly transmuted common dust into gold dust. Yet were Nick Billion one of those self-made men, too simple-hearted to conceal their origin, and who never ape grand airs, ten to one but what his high-born parasites would hold him in sovereign contempt--forgetting they themselves sprung from, and will return to, that same dust some of these days.

Mr. Billion reigns supreme over a whole line of railway, which runs through the county where lies his estate. The railway is his hobby and his favourite toy. Only, it must be confessed, a railway is a rather dangerous plaything. Now, he pleases occasionally to use it like an omnibus. Being invited to dine some thirty miles off, he orders a special train for the purpose. He is five minutes behind time, and were he simple Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones, with five hundred a year, he would have come up to the station only to witness the last wreath of smoke curling in the distant horizon; but he is Mr. Billion-therefore the train must wait for the great monied man. And yet this delay of five minutes had nearly occasioned a collision with another train that was exact to its time, thus risking to precipitate some scores of human beings into eternity because one rich man was going to dine out. directors are intense worshippers of the Golden Calf.

But railway

Another, and far more odious phase of this wide-spread worship, is the treatment of rich delinquents. If a man is known to have plenty of money in his pocket, though he may have behaved like the veriest blackguard, in some drunken brawl, bail will be complacently allowed him, though from the mere fact of money being no object to him, he is more likely to forfeit his securities than a poorer man. When I see in the newspapers, instances of this sort of worship of the Golden Calf, I ask myself by what right we inveigh against the corruptibility of Russian officials, or Spanish Alcades, or Eastern Cadis, since English Justices, who would scorn to take a bribe, yet bow down before the golden idol, though it benefits them in no possible manner. I allude, of course, chiefly to provincial Dogberries-for I remember many instances in which some of the London magistrates have shown a highminded contempt for the Golden Calf.

When shoplifting is committed by a rich lady, who comes in her carriage to the draper's establishment, it is called by the pretty name of