to sea, it was pleasing to a pensive mind to look over the ship's side and watch the bright sparkling of the water. My work being finished, I wrapped myself in a blanket, and took a station in the bows of the vessel, to look on the fiery fishes that played beneath the prow and at times to cast my eyes into the distant darkness and mark out the shores of our own country on the map of imagination. I observed another individual was close by me, who had his body wrapped as mine was, and, for aught I knew, his mind. From what I heard one or two of the sailors say, I found that he had stood on the same spot for some hours before I came. In ordinary cases I would have spoken to him, but I was then too thoughtful, too full of personal and family matters to seek any one's conversation.

"I say, old fellow, what do you see a-head? A man-of-war or a jackass, eh?" said a sailor, who thought to have a joke with the man of long standing.

"Ah! he's a lookin' for the statue at Charingcross," returned a soldier, who thought he would make a friend of the sailor by making a fool of his comrade.

"I des-say you would all like to see the statue at Charing-cross," said the sailor, "I knows I would."

Why don't you answer to your name, Wolfe? Corporal Wolfe, I say, why don't you come below when you are called?" vociferated a sergeant, who wanted the silent man for some purpose. Hearing which the silent man turned round, and moved towards the sergeant, I following, for the name of Wolfe and the appearance of the man excited my

curiosity. His business was soon done, and he turned towards me and revealed, somewhat to my surprise and much to my gratification, the person of the philosopher.

"How strange that we should meet here!" said he.

"It is strange," said I, "but not very wonderful, where so many strange things are occurring; how is it you? are here and how have you got yourself styled Corporal Wolfe?"

I was made a corporal on the 13th," he replied, "made by Sir John Moore himself, at least, by his order. I was on piquet when he came round; oh! man, that was an awful day for him! I was vexed; for of all the woe-worn objects he was most outworn! Poor fellow! If you only knew, Swanston, what I've been thinking on

"But tell me why you were made a corporal," I interrupted.

"That was but a trifling business," he replied; "I was on piquet on the outpost, and some of the French came down and fired on us. Several of the sentries fired and retired to their piquets. I did not happen to think it time to run in, but just continued to stand on my post. Sir John saw me, he was at the piquet at the time, and he gave orders that I was to be made a corporal.'

" And how do you happen to be here?" I further asked.

"I was one of those," he continued, " that helped to make his grave and bury him; and as the regiment was embarking at that time, we were too late for getting on board the same ship, or else some mistake was made in putting us into the wrong boat; at

any rate we have got on board this vessel while our regiment is on board some other."

"You'll be better here," said I. This is not so crowded as your own ship. I know quite well what one it is; that is what made me so anxious to know why you were here. Now, what is it you were thinking on-you mentioned something.'

"Could you get me a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper?" he inquired.

Not easily to-night, but I shall to-morrow. What were you thinking on? "

"I was trying to make some verses,” he replied, "and I would like to ask your opinion on them, but should like them written down first; could you not get me the paper and a pencil now, for I'm in the mood, and I would like to keep in it."

"Then you are a poet as well as a philosopher," said I," what is the subject of the verses? '

"I'm no philosopher," he replied, "that 's only a name—an ill-natured one, more than anything else, that I have got in the regiment. But to confess to you, I think sometimes that I can spin a verse or two not so far amiss."

"Well, let me hear it," said I, "let me hear how it begins."

"But you mustn't be too. critical until you hear it all," he prefaced, " for it 's not very well arranged yet."

"No fear," said I, you are able for anything, Wolfe."

But, when I said so, little did I expect that my ear was to be honoured by the first sound of those noble stanzas, that are now known to all the world where the English language is spoken; that are as immortal as the fame of their subject; those

stanzas that made Lord Byron-aye, Byron, say that he wished he had been the author of them.

"I'm not satisfied altogether about the third line of the first stanza," said Wolfe, still hesitating to let the creation of his mind strike on, as he thought perhaps, the cold and dull ear of an unpoetical listener. "I would like to write them down first," he continued.

"Let us go to my berth, then," I replied, “I have something there in the keeping of Peg Runciman that will make us comfortable: I know a poet's brain is not averse to spiritual influences— come along."

So we went along; had a light trimmed; took a glass of rum; and at last he began to unfold.

The subject," said he, "is the Death of Sir John Moore; but, since I've been spinning the verses, I find it would be better to call them The Burial of Sir John Moore. However, I'll let you hear the first and the second in the meantime, but don't you think you could get a pencil?"

"Let me hear the beginning," said I, a great deal depends on a good first line."

"Not a drum was heard-that 's the beginning," he said.

"Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
As his corpse to the grave we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the place where our hero was buried.

"The next verse I think would do better were it the last one of the whole, because it would make a

goodish ending; but I'll let you hear it-it's the only second one I have at present:

"Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone,
But we left him-alone with his glory!

Gory and glory are not altogether admissible words for a rhyme; but I've tried all the words that I can think of to rhyme with glory, and I cannot find another that answers the sense.'

"The poetry of that stanza is too good," said I, to allow of criticism on a word; but, perhaps, if I might dare to name a word to you, I would say sorrow; don't you think you could alter the line so as sorrow would come in, if you are not pleased with gory?"

"I have sorrow in use already," he said; "it does not rhyme with glory, if you pronounce it right; besides, it rhymes in another stanza, and I think that stanza is complete: I'll let you hear it.

"

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow."

"Excellent!" said I.

"But hear the next one," he said; "it's a continuation of that sentence.

"We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow

How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his

head,

And we far away on the billow!"