There are different opinions as to how the world is to end. Some say it will eventually fall a prey to that rapacious monster, the sun, which seems to be according to these people a veritable gourmand; requiring an enormous quantity of food to keep him going, and thinking no more of a planet than an ordinary individual does of an oyster. Others seem to think that the present inhabitants are to be frozen out, while others again think that the balance of things is to be upset, and that some day we shall, world and all, be flung into unlimitable space, waking up eventually perhaps the peace and quiet of some far off system. Whatever the method, the result will be the same, so far as the inhabitants are concerned. All people are selfish enough to hope that things will last their time, for no matter how the world is abused, and called all sorts of bad names, but few leave it willingly, and if they could look out upon the many beauties with which they are surrounded; if they could be cured of their blindness, they would see something fresh every day to give them pleasure.

It was equally a matter of doubt as to how this brave old Buccaneer was to make his final exit. Frequently the last stroke of death is not given by that ailment that has been threatening through life. But as to the Buccaneer? Would his neighbours step in, and taking advantage of his weakness, knock the old gentleman on the head, and then divide his riches amongst themselves, and thus save all further trouble to administrators and executors? Would Demos, taking advantage of the position his wanton mother Liberty had placed him in, club the old gentleman, and so give him the finishing stroke? Such a thing has happened before now, in the world's history, and it may happen again. Children petted and spoiled, have ere now risen against their parents, and have cruelly treated them. Was the old Buccaneer, the prosperous trader, to have the last drop of blood sucked out of him, by the foreign parasites and cheap-Jacks, or was he doomed to have the last spark of life trampled out of him by the Ojabberaways? Again, what if this old Buccaneer, who had sailed for so many years under the death's head and cross-bones, were destined to end his days under Petticoat Government? There would be a strange irony in this, and such a thing would go far, no doubt, to rectify the many injustices that the fair sex from the beginning has been subjected to. Revenge is sweet, and no doubt if this were to happen, the last moments of the Buccaneer would not be passed in peace. But of his end who can tell? It would be but waste of time further to surmise, for we must say farewell to our brave old friend. We will leave him in the hands of the great quack doctor and his numerous attendants. What matters it, whether after lingering for a while below, he was taken up to heaven on a snow white cloud, the fringe of which was illumined by the glowing embers of a world he loved so well, and in which he had played a by no means insignificant part? What if he passed away before the final consummation of all things, leaving his spirits behind to walk the earth, and to encourage some weary traveller who, commencing life as a Buccaneer, lives in after years under the protection of the great uncrowned queen Respectability, and takes for his fancy dress the cowl and frock of a monk?

The last moments of the great and powerful are sad to contemplate, and are not lightly to be intruded upon. We see the mighty intellect impaired, and the babbling tongue let loose. We see the strong arm that was once the terror of all those who came within its reach lying listless on the counterpane, with emaciated fingers whose strength is not sufficient to crush a fly. Character, virtue, intellect, all that goes to make a man great, have to retire into the shade of the sick chamber, and wait patiently there, silently watching the ravages that are being made. Then with the last breath of the dying man, Reputation spreads her wings, soiled perhaps, and torn by slander, and pierced by the sharp pointed shafts of ill-nature, and takes refuge in the marble palaces of History, where things are cleansed and purified, or condemned to everlasting obloquy.

We drop the curtain, and wish this celebrated Buccaneer a long good night.

THE END.