triumph is so proudly won, no victory more keenly prized. Here, no girlish whim can raise to highest hope, or sink to dead despair. No fickle fortune woo on to excitement, and then with one adverse chance heap ruin on our lives. No cup that cheers and thrills through every pulse, to leave us dry with fever and regrets. No stern mandate of command condemn to calm, while comrades fall, and friends die unavenged. Though science has been learned by years of toil, by nights of watching-though only months of practice have given the power the thrill that fills the sailor's heart, as his skill masters the storm, is deeper far than any other sense. The noise appals, but he has done his work; the tempest rages, but his charge careers on in safety beneath his master-hand: promptly she obeys each guidance of the helm,-secure "A sailor watches and a seaman rules." Roar on, brave wind-gale, look, look your closest; yell midst the ropes, crack every spar, all, all is secure, and you may do your worst. The army of wildness flies on to seek for other less prepared fleets; the peaceful waters drift about in wreathy sprays; the waves curl up their crests with sympathetic feeling to the savage blast; but on it goes, and now the black clouds pour down their load, like woman's tears for woman's wanton work. At first they flow in scattered drops; the eyelids too surcharged to cast their bursting floods; but soon let loose, they faster, faster fall, in almost sheets of water. Thus after rage has raved its full it melts away, and the very torrent of the flow but the more quickly clears the scene. Meanwhile is Jack asleep-do these hardy fellows sculk below, fearful of the rain?—No, see how they pour from each hatchway and retreat; each bears a tub, a votive offering to the storm, and places it to receive the precious store-tubs, kettles, and pots are all now in great request, and while they fill, Jack stands looking on, with no more clothes than decency compels. The weather is hot and, like ducks after drought, many of the younger seamen are dipping and soaking with extreme delight wherever it has accumulated. The rain is over, and were it not for the wet decks and dripping gear the storm would seem to have been a dream. So calm, so clear, so peaceful is the night! Far, far away to leeway the black mass, like spectral fury, makes its rushing orgies through the night, but all else is calm and clear as nights of fabled story. The sails again are set. Each as it takes its strain flaps fretfully and scatters the wet about in mimic showers; but, soon content to rest, swells with the breeze, and with heaving bosom sinks to sleep. Or own old wind, scattered before by that wild wanton, now creeps back; the dog vane that had dropped its pretty feathers sadly spoiled, spirts up, and beneath the soft influence of the wind again blows out and marks its course. The excitement is over, a calm of feeling, all the sweeter for the ruffle, follows. We value what we have always in proportion to what is lost-what sorrow without its balm!-what joy, alas, without its pain! But listen, the bell has tolled, the drowsy orderly has struck a very funeral dirge: a prescience of death seems hovering round; and yet it cannot be, the very air refreshed with rain seems redolent of life-the warmth of tropic heat sends each drop of blood in steady coursing through every veinall man seems life, the air itself is breath,-can Death be here also ? has he found us out in this vast sea,-has he not enough to do in crowded city or on battle fields,-why wander here among the few, the homeless? No spot obscures the moon-the stars twinkle in joyous glitterings. Have they no sympathy-have they no hearts that feel and weep? Oh! quiet moon, thy sight is joy; shine on, dim not thy lustre for the dead; shine on for us the weary-hearted waiting ones; light our paths of action or endurance, and breathe on us the hope that we too may find a rest. It is too true the doctor, worn with watching, all his skill exhausted, reports a death. Was that wild tumult sent to bear the spirit off? was that the herald to escort him home? Might not the sailor die in calm and rest? Where is the spirit now? He knows what we all dread, yet long to know; the Rubicon is passed for him, the immortality begun: but how was he prepared? Here's hope, sweet hope again: nor hope alone, 'tis hope with certain promise; small his advantages, small the talent committed to his rough keeping, and well he did his duty here. His cause, we know, needs no sinner's pleading. In certain trust it rests with Him who is all love the Lord of storms, of deeps, of time, of all. The log is marked, amidst its technical details the one line is his only epitaph, the sigh, the firm hope, the only remark that one the less is now with us amidst this world of waters-this troubled sea of life. The men gather in knots about and speak in low tones and abrupt sentences; stories of his good deeds are told and find ready listeners, and though, perhaps, the sympathy expressed is but " well, poor fellow!" still it is hearty and soul-full. And now the night grows cold and weary, the angel of death is abroad, and the cloak is tighter drawn as his damp presence seems to fill the air; star after star fades, but, like play-house, when the parts are done, and the few lingering lights yet by their dimness but enhance the gloom, the eye is tired and seeks rest; the mind works sluggishly, nor clearly thinks,-the bell strikes eight, the gloom is broken, the merry call for other watchers rings what matter now for rain or wind,—how warm the bed-how sweet, how sound the rest thus won by toil and watching! THE NOTE-BOOK OF A CORONER'S CLERK. BY THE AUTHOR OF "EXPERIENCES OF A GAOL CHAPLAIN." CHAPTER XXXII. A GUESS AT THE RIDDLE. "Yet life hath bubbles too, that soothe awhile ALARIC A. WATTS. HUMBLING are the feelings which the contrast of the duration of existence in the animate and inanimate creation suggests to that hasty and superficial observer-man. The river glides on murmuring and glistening as in our boyhood's careless days; the forest which witnessed our childish sports still wails and trembles in the breeze; the tree which flourished in majesty in our infancy flourishes in majesty still; the beetling cliffs-a favourite shelter in our schoolboy-hours-against which the foaming billows hissed and lashed in vain, still frown on the angry waters which toss and fret below. But man-the sport of destiny, ever in a state of progressive and sure decay-passes swiftly from the scene: Nature, enduring and majestic, remains the same. The Court lay smiling under a bright May sun, when the jurors wended slowly thither upon their last sad duty. The fountain threw up its taper column, glistening with a thousand hues, and played merrily and musically in the sunshine; the deer were cropping leisurely the dainty herbage; the oaks waved their massy branches slowly and heavily in the breeze; the squirrel leapt gaily from bough to bough: while he,-the late owner of all,-lay still and silent in his darkened chamber. The usual formal preliminaries disposed of, Bohun proposed that the jury should at once proceed to the Baronet's room and view the body. Those whom he addressed rose in silence, and proceeded in the direction he indicated. The sleeping-room was large, and filled with curiously-carved furniture, the fashion of which had long since passed away. On an antique bed, the hangings of which were crimson damask,-once handsome, but now faded and moth-eaten,―lay the late Sir Philip. On a little stand by his bed were placed one or two books of devotion, a small MS. journal which he kept of the passing day's occurrences, and a beautifully-finished miniature of his father. He lay precisely as death had seized him. There seemed a profusion of covering strewed over the limbs; the face, however, was fully exposed, and the small, gentle, delicate features were distinctly visible. By the body, attired in deep mourning, her eye watching intently the movement of every juror-sat Mrs. Ravenspur. She curtsied distantly and proudly as the jury entered this was the sole intimation she gave of being conscious of their presence. No exclamation, no remark escaped her. Save to issue some indispensable order, she had never quitted the apartment since her master VOL. XXVII. E breathed his last; and then, by locking up the room and possessing herself of the key, she effectually barred the entrance of all intruders. A faithful guardian was she of the dead. The jury stood for a few seconds grouped around the bed, and two or three, bolder than their fellows, commented in a low and muffled tone on the strange fate of him who lay before them; but not one-and the anxious woman's eye watched with lightning glance their every movement-attempted to approach the corpse, or to disturb the folds of the various dressing-gowns with which it was encircled. The brief examination over, the jury retired. What made the watcher, thus far so impassive, clasp her hands joyfully as the last visitant left the chamber, and hiss between her thin and compressed lips the strange monosyllables, "Over" and "Well?" The first witness called was the attendant surgeon, Mr. Hopeman. His testimony was given rapidly and off-hand; but Bohun, contrary to his wont, noted down every syllable. "I was summoned to the Court," he began, "somewhere about seven on Tuesday morning. I found on my arrival that Sir Philip had just expired. My presence was, therefore, useless; and I had other patients elsewhere who required my assistance. I did not remain in the room more than fifteen minutes at most: there was nothing for me to do. Mine was a bootless errand. I consider the death of the deceased fully accounted for on natural grounds. He died of hæmorrhage on the lungs. I had expected for many weeks previously some such fatal result. Nothing could quiet the agitation of his mind. He had become impressed with an idea that the proceedings de lunatico would be renewed, that another commissioner would be sent down, and another investigation become necessary. Nothing could disabuse his mind of this chimera. It killed him. I told him that to live he must keep his mind tranquil, and resist, not encourage, painful impressions. My counsel he did not or could not follow; and the result is what the jury have seen today. I am perfectly satisfied there was no foul play. Death was the effect of disease.' Hilda was next summoned. She deposed,-calmly, and without the slightest appearence of emotion,-that hearing her master's bell ring violently about seven in the morning, she hurried into his room, where she found him gasping for breath, and blood oozing freely from his mouth and nostrils; that she instantly raised him upright in her arms and held him there, calling loudly for assistance, which was soon given; that the Baronet only spoke once, and then but a few unimportant words, which she declared she had forgotten in the alarm and agitation of the hour; could not recall them if she tried. Sir Philip died ten minutes before Mr. Hopeman, the surgeon, arrived, whom she had summoned to the Court by a mounted messenger. Patience Orme, the still-room maid, deposed to seeing her master the night before, when he appeared more nervous and fluttered than usual, and repeatedly asked the witness whether she "had heard that another commissioner had arrived, and that there was to be a fresh inquiry?" She told him she "had not; and that she believed all was ended." He replied, he feared she" was wrong;" that "the matter was not at rest." Paid no very great heed to his remarks, as he often appeared frightened and tremulous. Was in the room when he died. He spoke clearly and with great firmness to Mrs. Ravenspur. His words were, "Do you remember your promise, and will you strictly fulfil it, as you hope to meet me in heaven?" Would swear those were the words-the very words-those, and no more. Mrs. Ravenspur made no reply; but raised her finger to her lips, and then pressed her dying master's hands. Could not even form a guess to what he alluded. Sir Philip was always "weighed down with frets and fears; but he was a kind and considerate master: and a benevolent, good man." Other testimony was given of similar tendency, when the jury remarked that they were satisfied that death had been caused by disease, and were prepared so to shape their verdict. Bohun was proceeding to give effect to their opinion, when Spinkle bustled in. He at once addressed the Coroner, lamented his unavoidable absence elsewhere, hinted his strong suspicions of foul play, begged that the inquiry might not be abruptly closed, declared himself an open enemy to the "hush-system," and ended by desiring that Bohun would give orders that he might inspect the body. The Lawman hesitated. Spinkle's dashing and decided style of address startled him; but soon rallying from his momentary indecision, he negatived the request. The other, unabashed, renewed the application, and was indulging in a vast amount of iteration, when the jury protested against a needless waste of time-particularly as they were unanimous that no cause for suspicion existed. My principal then saw his advantage, and seized it. "Pardon me for saying," cried he, with emphasis, "that in the relative position which the late Baronet and yourself occupied during his life-you being neither his medical attendant nor private friend, but during a most painful period in his career assuming a hostile bearing towards him,-your present request appears officious and indelicate: I am at a loss to understand how, as a gentleman, you can urge it!" "Hear! Hear!" vociferated the jury with one mouth. A day was fixed for the performance of the last sad obsequies. Mrs. Ravenspur, as sole executrix, possessed and exercised full powers. Sir Philip's earnest desire that he might be laid among his flock, in the humble village cemetery, was obeyed, as well as his written injunction that all funeral pomp, all idle parade, should be avoided. His confidant never left him: and his oft-expressed wish to be" meddled with after death by no strange hands," was strictly and literally carried out;—she desired, and she had none to help her! The will was the next mooted point. Count Fontenay submitted it to more than one legal casuist, with the intention of disputing its provisions; but the document was too plainly and clearly drawn to admit of cavil. By it passed to Hilda Ravenspur every shilling in the shape of personalty which the Baronet could bequeath. She swept all. But her season of playing the great lady was brief. It lasted-to anticipate events-but three years. Sharp and severe illness laid her, after that interval, by Sir Philip's side. She wandered much in her last hours; spoke of certain persons in terms which startled and distressed those who |