The sunny side of the street should always be chosen as a residence, for its superior healthfulness. In some barracks in Russia, it was found that in a wing where no sun penetrated, there occurred three cases of sickness for every single case which occurred on that side of the building exposed to the sun's rays. All other circumstances were equal—such as ventilation, size of apartments, &c., so that no other cause for this disproportion seemed to exist. In the Italian cities, this practical hint is well known. Malaria seldom attacks the set of apartments or houses which are freely open to the sun; while, on the opposite side of the street, the summer and autumn are very unhealthful, and even dangerous.

A DREAM OF DEATH

'Where shall we sail to-day?' Thus said, methought, A Voice—that could be only heard in dreams: And on we glided without mast or oars, A fair strange boat upon a wondrous sea. Sudden the land curved inward, to a bay Broad, calm; with gorgeous sea-flowers waving slow Beneath the surface—like rich thoughts that move In the mysterious deep of human hearts. But towards the rounded shore's embracing arm, The little waves leaped, singing, to their death; And shadowy trees drooped pensive over them, Like long-fringed lashes over sparkling eyes. So still, so fair, so rosy in the dawn Lay that bright bay: yet something seemed to breathe, Or in the air, or trees, or lisping waves, Or from the Voice, ay near as one's own soul— 'There was a wreck last night!' A wreck?—and where The ship, the crew?—All gone. The monument On which is writ no name, no chronicle, Laid itself o'er them with smooth crystal smile. 'Yet was the wreck last night!' And, gazing down, Deep down beneath the surface, we were 'ware Of cold dead faces, with their stony eyes Uplooking to the dawn they could not see. One stirred with stirring sea-weeds: one lay prone, The tinted fishes glancing o'er his breast: One, caught by floating hair, rocked daintily On the reed-cradle woven by kind Death. 'The wreck has been,' then said the deep low Voice, (Than which not Gabriel's did diviner sound, Or sweeter—when the stern, meek angel spake: 'See that thou worship not! Not me, but God!') 'The wreck has been, yet all things are at peace, Earth, sea, and sky. The dead, that while we slept Struggled for life, now sleep and fear no storm: O'er them let us not weep when God's heaven smiles.' So we sailed on above the diamond sands, Bright sea-flowers, and dead faces white and calm, Till the waves rocked us in the open sea, And the great sun arose upon the world.

THE EXECUTIONER IN ALGERIA

Every day, morning and evening, says our widow, 'I see a Moor pass along the street; all his features beam with kindness and serenity. A sword, or rather a long yataghan, is slung in his girdle; all the Arabs salute him with respect, and press forward to kiss his hand. This man is a chaouch or executioner—an office considered so honourable in this country, that the person invested with it is regarded as a special favourite of Heaven, intrusted with the care of facilitating the path of the true believer from this lower world to the seventh heaven of Mohammed.—A Residence in Algeria, by Madame Prus.