THE FALL.

"Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep."-COUNT FATHOM.

WHO does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara

falls,

Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls;
Where down beneath, Despair and Death in liquid darkness

grope,

And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without

Hope;

While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning

wave

Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave;
And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or

bliss;

One-only one-hath ever lived to rise from that abyss!
Oh, Heav'n! it turns me now to ice with chill of fear

extreme,

To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream!
In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and

and light,

I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might:
On-on-still on-direct for doom, the river rushed in force,
And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its

course.

My eyes I closed-I dared not look the way towards the

goal;

But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my

soul.

Plainly, as though transparent lids, I saw the fleeting

shore,

And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore;

Plainly-but with no prophet sense-I heard the sullen

sound,

The torrent's voice and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round.

O agony! O life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge,

Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge,

From crag to crag-in speechless pain-from midnight deep

to deep;

I did not die--but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to

find:

At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my

mind;

And through my brain there thrilled a cry-a cry as shrill as birds'

Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words :

"It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and night-gown, I declares! He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the

stairs !"

12*

THE STEAM SERVICE

"Life is but a kittle cast."-BURNS.

THE time is not yet come-but come it will—when the masts of our Royal Navy shall be unshipped, and huge unsightly chimneys be erected in their place. The trident will be taken out of the hand of Neptune, and replaced by the effigy of a red-hot poker; the Union Jack will look like a smoke-jack; and Lambtons, Russels, and Adairs will be made Admirals of the Black; the forecastle will be called the Newcastle, and the cock-pit will be termed the coal-pit; a man-of-war's tender will be nothing but a Shields' collier; first-lieutenants will have to attend lectures on the steam-engine, and mid-shipmen must take lessons as climbing-boys in the art of sweeping flues. In short, the good old tune of "Rule Britannia" will give way to "Polly put the Kettle on;" while the Victory, the Majestic, and the Thunderer of Great Britain will "paddle in the burn," like the Harlequin, the Dart, and the Magnet of Margate.

It will be well for our song-writers to bear a wary eye to the Fleet, if they would prosper as Marine Poets. Some sea Gurney may get a seat at the Admiralty Board, and then farewell, a long farewell, to the old ocean imagery: marine metaphor will require a new figure-head. Flowing

sheets, snowy wings, and the old comparison of a ship to a bird, will become obsolete and out of date! Poetical topsails will be taken aback, and all such things as reefs and double-reefs will be shaken out of song. For my own part, I cannot be sufficiently thankful that I have not sought a Helicon of salt water; or canvassed the Nine Muses as a writer for their Marine Library; or made Pegasus a seahorse, when sea-horses as well as land-horses are equally likely to be superseded by steam. After such a consummation, when the sea service, like the tea service, will depend chiefly on boiling water, it is very doubtful whether the Fleet will be worthy of any thing but plain prose. I have tried to adapt some of our popular blue ballads to the boiler, and Dibdin certainly does not steam quite so well as a potatoe. However, if his Sea Songs are to be in immortal use, they will have to be revised and corrected in future editions thus:

I steamed from the Downs in the Nancy,

My jib how she smoked through the breeze.
She's a vessel as tight to my fancy

As ever boiled through the salt seas.

When up the flue the sailor goes

And ventures on the pot,
The landsman, he no better knows,

But thinks hard is his lot.

Bold Jack with smiles each danger meets,

Weighs anchor, lights the log;
Trims up the fire, picks out the slates,
And drinks his can of grog.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs do you see,

'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;

But a Boulton and Watt and good Wall's-end give me ; And it ain't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest our chimney smack smooth shall down smite,

And shiver each bundle of wood;

Clear the wreck, stir the fire, and stow every thing tight, And boiling a gallop we'll scud.

I have cooked Stevens's, or rather Incledon's Storm in the same way; but the pathos does not seem any the tenderer for stewing.

Hark, the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By shovel, tongs, and poker, stand;
Down the scuttle quick be hauling,
Down your bellows, hand, boys, hand.
Now it freshens-blow like blazes

;

Now unto the coal-hole go;
Stir, boys, stir, don't mind black faces,
Up your ashes nimbly throw.

Ply your bellows, raise the wind, boys,
See the valve is clear, of course;
Let the paddles spin, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft a proper draft get,

Oil the engines, see all clear;

Hands up, each a sack of coal get,
Man the boiler, cheer, lads, cheer.

Now the dreadful thunder 's roaring,
Peal on peal contending clash;