the gallant act in which his precious life was
lost.

At nine P.M. the surgeon took his place by
Dodd's bedside; and the pair, whom one thing
after another had drawn so close together,
retired to Kenealy's cabin.

Many a merry chat they had had there: and
many a gasconade; being rival hunters: but now
they were together for physical companionship in
sorrow; rather than for conversation. They
smoked their cigars in moody silence; and at
midnight shook hands with a sigh, and parted.
That sigh meant to say that in the morning all
would be over.

They turned in: but, ere either of them was
asleep, suddenly the captain's cabin seemed to
fill with roars and shrieks of wild beasts,
that made the whole ship ring in the silent
night; the savage cries were answered on
deck by shouts of dismay and many pattering
feet making for the companion ladder: but the
nearest persons to the cabin, and the first to
reach it, were Kenealy and Fullalove, who
burst in, the former with a drawn sword, the
latter with a revolver, both in their night-
gowns; and there saw a sight that took their
breath away.

The surgeon was not there: and two black
men, one with a knife, and one with his bare
claws, were fighting, and struggling, and trampling
all over the cabin at once, and the dying
man sitting up in his cot, pale, and glaring at
them.

UNDEVELOPED IMPRESSIONS.

BEYOND the region of positive ideas and
emotions, there lies, in the minds of all
persons who have any sensitiveness of perception,
a strange ghostly tract of unexplored country,
full of shadowy suggestions of thoughts and
feelings, and lit by the faint, spectral light of
what may perchance be the Aurora of some
higher knowledge now on its way to us.
Debased by charlatanism and absurdity as the so-
called "spiritualism" of the present day
undoubtedly is, some service may be done by hinting
to the thoughtless that there may be possible
associations which give an apparently
supernatural colour to the ordinary transactions of life.

Has the reader never experienced the strange
tricks which memory occasionally plays with
him? He is engaged on something which
utterly engrosses his mental powers. Perhaps
it is a very serious subject, such as necessarily
precludes any levity of ideas; perhaps he is
working, and thinking of nothing but his work;
perhaps he is writing, with a concentration of
intellect. Suddenly there bursts into the middle
of his thoughts some recollection of an incident
that happened five-and-twenty or thirty years
ago; a reminiscence of his childhood; a trivial
circumstance, which was forgotten the day after
it happened, and which has never once crossed
his mind since. It may be said that a connecting
link exists between the subject occupying
the mind at the time, and the recollection which
suddenly arises out of the long sealed-up vaults
and catacombs of the past. But, if so, the link
is of such exquisite fineness as to defy detection.
No analogy of the most distant or fantastic
kind can be traced between the two sets of ideas.
The unbidden recollection starts up with a sort
of goblin wilfulness and inappropriateness. It
is wonderful that you should think of the
circumstance at all; still more wonderful that you
should think of it at that particular moment.
Yet there it is; unaccountably obtruding itself
into the midst of thoughts to which it bears no
relationship, or none which can be traced by
mortal wit.

Analogous to this is that freak of the brain
which probably all of us have experienced, when,
after vainly endeavouring for a long while to
recollect some tune, we wake in the middle of the
night with the whole of it, from the first note to
the last, "running in our heads." Persons
have been known to remember facts in their
sleep which they had tried hard to recover when
awake, but had never succeeded in doing.
Coleridge composed a poem in his sleep, and Tartini
a piece of music, which he conceived was far
superior to anything he had written or heard at
other times; so that it would appear that the
state of somnolency has sometimes a stimulating,
as well as a sedative, effect on the mental
powers. But this is not so astonishing and
beyond explanation as the sudden and
gratuitous recollection of events which have long
passed out of view, and which are in
themselves too unimportant to have made any deep
impression at the time of their occurrence. Is it
that every experience in life, even the most
frivolous, leaves an indelible print on the mental
organism, and that, although this print may
seemingly fade out, it is still there, like writing
in invisible ink, and only awaits some exciting
cause to bring it out clearly and legibly? But,
if so, what is the exciting cause, none being
cognisable? What mysterious hand touches the
spring that opens those forgotten doors?

That every impression remains, seems certain,
if we can depend on what is recorded of the
experiences of persons on the threshold of death.
Those who have been recovered from drowning
or hanging say that, previous to the advent of
unconsciousness, they have seen a species of
panorama of their whole previous existence, of
which not the smallest incident, thought, or feeling
has been lost; and it is thence inferred that
all human beings at the moment of dissolution
experience this awful resurrection of the dead past.
Yet that the phenomenon does not invariably
attend the act of drowning, is manifest from the
very interesting and detailed account left us by
Dr. Adam Clarke, in his Autobiography, of his
narrow escape from death in the river Ban, when
a boy. He states that his feeling was simply one of
intense happiness and placidity, combined with
"a general impression of a green colour, such
as of fields or gardens," and that his first and
only pain was when he was taken out of the