mistaken; he was in that land where sorrow
and care are unknown; having died
suddenly, the previous week, of disease of the
heart.

About five years ago, I had the misfortune
to be shipwrecked on the coast of Sweden, when
three of the passengers and five of the crew
unhappily lost their lives. The body of one
of the passengers only was recovered a few
days afterwards, thirty miles from the spot
where the lamentable accident occurred. It
was brought to the town where the survivors
were, and it was considered necessary by
those in authority that the body should be
seen by some one of us for the purpose of
identifying it previous to interment. The
captain was absent a few miles down the
coast on the affairs of the wreck, the other
two passengers were ill, and the evidence of
the crew not being thought sufficient (they
rarely having been in contact with the
deceased) the sad office fell upon me. I not
only spoke to his identity; but, two days
after, attended his funeral with the captain,
crew, and rest of the passengers, who all
wept over the stranger's grave, regretting his
loss, but thankful that they had been spared
the same sad fate.

Last year, in crossing from Hull to
Cronstadt, there was a gentleman on board who
seemed to be very nervous and agitated at
the idea of the journey before him. Rallying
him upon his apparent want of courage, he
owned that nothing but business of very great
importance should have induced him to undertake
this journey; that, though he had no
general dislike to the sea, he had a special
dread of this voyage; for, five years previously
he had lost a cousin and two friends who
were making the voyage, and that the body
only of his cousin had been found and
buried by strangers in a foreign land. I
at once felt that I was one of those strangers,
and gave my new fellow-passenger such
particulars of the last moments of his relative
as interested, and, at some points of my
narrative, powerfully affected him.

A few days ago, returning from Richmond,
I met a lady and her daughter to
whom, some years since, I had shown a
slight civility in helping them out of their
difficulties at the custom-house at Cologne;
they not understanding one word of any
language besides their own English, which
the officials there were not sufficiently
acquainted with to make them understand
what articles were allowed to pass free. I
not only assisted them out of their embarrassment,
but put them into a fiacre and
recommended them to an hotel, where I knew the
waiters understood English, and where they
would not be much imposed upon. This
trifling kindness they had treasured up, and,
though some three years had passed, they
greeted me as though the circumstance had
happened yesterday. I believe they were very
sorry there were no laws or regulations on
English railways that I might unwittingly
infringe, so that they might have the pleasure
of assisting me out of the difficulty.
However, they insisted upon my spending the
evening with them at their lodgings in town,
and made me promise never to go to Brighton,
where they lived, without paying them a
visit.

One of the strangest coincidences I ever
experienced, I have however yet to tell:

In the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty-
four, while returning to England from Saint
Petersburg, I, and a travelling companion,
found we were compelled to remain the night
in Cologne, as the last train for Ostend
had left some two hours before our arrival.
Disappointed at this (as we were anxious to
be once more in England), we took up our
temporary abode at the hotel we had been
recommended to, in no very agreeable mood.
After supper one of the obliging waiters
brought the visitors' book for us to inscribe
our names in, and I added my name to the
rest for the benefit of future visitors. The
next morning early we visited the Cathedral,
heard service, and returned to the hotel to
leave in its omnibus for the railway station.
Finding we had a few minutes to spare, we
entered the travellers' room. It was very
full. Some reading, some smoking, some
taking an early cup of coffee. We had hardly
been in the room a minute, before a strange
gentleman came up to us, and requested to
know if my name was (say) Beaumont. Taken
by surprise, to hear myself accurately named
by a perfect stranger, I hardly knew how to
answer; for, having left Russia on account of
the war, and not feeling sure whether I had
given vent to any expression that might have
been taken umbrage at, I could only see in
the individual before us, a spy or agent of
the Prussian police; which was, at that time,
occasionally doing Russian work. Perhaps
my manner gave the stranger an idea of what
was passing in my mind, for he quickly added,
"My name is Manlay."

I knew the gentleman at once; although I
had never seen him; it was for his name
that an intimate friend of mine had recently
changed her own. He continued: " I also
am on my way to England, and shall be happy
if I can be of any service to you. I saw your
name, last night, on my arrival in the visitors'
book; and, on asking for you this morning,
was told you had already left, but am glad
to find it was not so."

During our journey we entered into
familiar conversation, as if, indeed, we were
old friends. I had much to hear of things
and people since I had left England; and,
also, very much to relate. I found my new
friend not only an intelligent, but also a
kind, thoughtful man, accustomed to
travelling, and who had the happy knack of
making everything appear in the most agreeable
light. The journey to London was
very swiftly performed, and, on passing