mance of man's existence. 'O Brother!' says Carlyle; O Brother! who hangest as a drop, still sungilt, on the edge of Oblivion, to whom is given the priceless gift of Life, which you can have but once; for you waited a whole Eternity to be born, and now have a whole. Eternity waiting to see what you will do when born-this priceless gift——' But read for yourselves, young fellows, if you have not yet done so, Sartor Resartus,' 'Lectures on Heroes,' 'Cromwell,' 'Past and Present,' 'French Revolution'-all; and if you do not think they are 'the grandest chariot in which king-thoughts ride;' if you are not lifted and stirred to nobler, loftier, healthier life and action; if you do not, after reading his brave words, his holy thoughts, lay down the book, and thank God for His message to you, and pray Him to bless the large-hearted, far-seeing, good, and valiant writer; if a strong personal affection for him does not arise within you, which makes you say, 'I must see this man, this hero,'—if you do not feel this, you are different from me; for I so longed to see him that directly I arrived in England on one occasion, having been given a letter of introduction, I started off to Chelsea.

After the Eastern manner I took gifts with me, such as I thought he would like most, some of the most delicious tobacco and choicest cigars I ever brought home. I was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Carlyle, a strikingly agreeable lady was, and in a minute or two in came Carlyle; and I looked into the face, and spoke to him whom I then thought, and still believe to be, one of the greatest men of any age or country. A tall, rugged, genial man in a dressing-gown, was all the impression I got of him. I told him I belonged to a ship at Portsmouth; he said he had once been in Portsmouth also; and in about three minutes. -for I did not want to take up his time—I had said 'Good-bye,' and was standing in the

street.

My feelings were somewhat of a medley, I must confess-disappointment predominating; unreasonable, I grant; for what went I out to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? Nay, but a prophet; and I had seen him, and one to whom Frederick Robertson's description of the Baptist is singularly applicable. ‘Religion in Jerusalem' (read England) had long become a thing of forms. Men had settled into a routine

of externals, as if all religion centred in these. Decencies and proprieties formed the substance of human life. And here was a man in God's world once more, to tell the world that life is sliding into the abyss; that all we see is but a shadow; that the invisible Life within is the only real life. Here is a man who could feel the splendours of God shining into his soul without the aid of forms. He had made an enemy of the man of religion, the Pharisee. But he was passing into that still country, where it matters little whether a man has been clothed in finest linen or in coarsest camel's hair; that still country where, the struggle-storm of life over, such as he find their rest at last, in the home of God, which is reserved for the True and Brave.'

CHAPTER IV.

ON to Cadiz, and up the Mediterranean, the huge ninety-gun ship to which I belonged carried my thirty messmates, the superior officers, and the ship's company of eight hundred men ; a floating town, with abundant accommodation for all its inhabitants. In beating up to our moorings in the Grand Harbour at Malta against a head wind, the Captain had given the order to go about; but, by the advice of the Master Attendant, and against his better judgment, he stood on for a quarter of a minute longer, which resulted in our running on the rocks at the foot of Fort St. Angelo. Off came the Port Admiral in his barge, and, pulling suddenly round the stern, came upon a number of my messmates doing a brisk traffic with the bumboats which had collected there. The Captain was at the gangway to receive him as he came on board, and thus he delivered himself: 'Here, Captain C. Here is the finest line-of-battle ship in the

world on shore, and the midshipmen buying fruit out of the stern ports!' Horror of horrors! Every midshipman's leave was stopped during our stay in Malta; and, consequently, we were only too thankful when we had refitted and had started on a cruise again.

Malta being the head-quarters of the Mediterranean fleet, there were usually a number of ships wintering there; and, before the days of steam, a squadron of line-of-battle ships sailing up the Grand Harbour, and picking up their buoys like yachts, used to be a wonderfully pretty sight. Here ships which had been detached to different parts of the station periodically returned to refit; the officers of ships that had not met before made and returned formal calls upon one another, followed by invitations to dinner, and thus opened the way to individual intimacy, as is the way on shore.

The midshipmen amalgamate generally without much formality, though, as may be imagined, their diversity of character is very great, as well as apparent, for they are at an age when they do not mask their eccentricities, or disguise their individualities, except under compulsion,