THE CHEAPEST UNABRIDGED EDITION EVER PUBLISHED! Copyrighted 1877, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. Vol. IL. DOUBLE NUMBER. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No. 98 Witt1am Street, New Yore. RICE 440 CENTS. No. 14-15. Complete in this Number, Toilers of the Sea, BY VICTOR HUGO, FIRST PART. Boox I. THE HISTORY OF A BAD REPUTATION. I A WORD WRITTEN ON A WHITE PAGE. Curistmas Day in the what remarkable in the Snow fell on that day. In the channel Islan a frosty winter is un- common, and a fall of snow ‘is an event. On. that Christmas morning, the road which skirts. the sea- shore from St. Peter’s Port to the Vale was clothed in white. From midnight till the break of day the snow had been falling. Toward nine o'clock, alittle after the rising of the win! sun, as it was too early yet for the Church of England folks to go to St. Samp- som’s, or for the Wesley- ans to repair to Eldad Chapel, the road was al- most deserted. Through- out that portion of the highway which separ- ates the first from the second tower, only three foot’ passengers could be seen. These were a child, a man, and a wo- man. Walking ata dis- tance from each other, these wayfarers had no visible connection. The child, a boy of about eight years old, had stopped, and was look- ing curiously at the win- try scene. The man walked. behind the wo- man, at a distance of about a hundred paces. Like her he was comin; from the direction o the church of St. Samp- son. The appearance of the man, who was still oung, was something Cowes that of a work- man and a sailor. He wore his She’: Soa clothes — a kind of Guernsey shirt of coarse brown stuff, and trow- sers partly concealed by tarpaulin leggings — a costume which seemed to indicate that, not- withstanding the holy day, he was going to no lace of worship. His eavy shoes of rough leather, with their soles covered with largenails, left upon the snow, as ear 182- was some- sland of Guernsey. She wore a large mantle of black silk, wadded, under which she had coquettishly adjusted a dress of Irish poplin, trimmed alternately with white and pink; but for her red stockings, she might have been taken for a Parisian. She walked, on with a light and free step, so little suggestive of the burden of life that it might easily be seen that she was young. Her move- ments possessed that subtle grace which indicates the most delicate of all transitions—that soft in- termingling, as it were, of two twilights—the passage from the condition of a child to that of | woenbaed, The man seemed to take no heed | of her. Suddenly, near a group of oaks at the corner ! of a field; and at the spot called: the Basses | Maisons, she turned, and the movement seemed | GILLIATT GRASPED HIS KNIFE; HE LOOKED AT THE MONSTER, WHICH SEEMED TO LOOK AT HIM, she was tracing with her finger some letters in the snow. Then she rose again, went on her way at a quicker pace, turned once more, this time smiling, and disappeared to the left of the roadway, by the footpath under the hedges which leads to the Ivy Castle. When she had turned for the second time, the man had recog- nized her as Deruchette, a charming girl of that neighborhood. e man felt no need of quickening his pace; | and some minutes later he found himself near the ‘oup of oaks. Already he had ceased to thin of the vanished Deruchette; and if, at | that moment, a porpoise had appeared above the water, or a robin had caught his eye in the hedges, it is probable that he would have passed on his way. But it happened that his eyes were fixed upon the ground; his gaze fell. mechani- eally upon. the spot where the girl had stop- Two little foot- pirate were there plain- visible; and beside them he read this word, evidently written by her in the snow— QIELIATT It was his own name, He lingered for a while motionless, look- ing at the letters, the little footprints, and the snow; and then walk- ed on, evidently in a thoughtful mood. Il, THE BU DE LA RUE. GILLIATr? lived in the arish of St. Sampson. e was not liked by his neighbors ;. and . there were reasons for: that fact, To begin. with, he lived in a queer kind of ‘* haunted dwelling. In the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, some- times in the country, but often in streets with many inhabitants, you will come upon a housé the entrance to which is completely barricad- ed. Holly shes ob- struct the doorway, hideous boards, with nails, conceal the win- dows below; while the easements of the upper stories are neither closed nor open: for all the window-frames are bar- red, but the glass is bro- ken. If there is a little yard, grass grows be- tween its stones; and the parapet) of its wall is crumbling away. If there is a garden, it is choked with | nettles, brambles, and hemlock, and = strange __ insects abound in it. The chim- neys are cracked, tho roof is falling in; so much as can be seen from without of. the rooms presents a dis- he walked, a print more like that of a prison | to attract the attention of the man. She stop- | mantled appearance. The woodwork is rotten; lock than the foot of a man. the contrary, was evidently dressed for church. The woman, on | ped, seemed to reflect a moment, then stooped, and the man fancied that he could discern that the stone mildewed. The paper of the walls has dropped away and hangs loose, until it presents 2 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. # history of the bygone fashions of paper-hang- ings—the scrawling patterns of the time of the Empire, the crescent-shaped draperies of the Directory, the balustrades and pillars of the days of uis XVI. Tho thick draperies of cobwebs, filled with flies, indicate the quiet reign long enjoyed by innumerable spiders. Sometimes a broken jug may be noticed on a shelf. Such houses are considered to be haunt- éd. Satan is popularly believed to visit them by night. Houses are like the human beings who inhabit them. They become to their for- mer selves what the corpse is to the livin node A superstitious belief among the people is suffi- cient to reduce them to this state of death. Then their aspect is terrible. These ghostly houses are Common in. the’ Channel Islands. _ The rural and maritime populations are easily moved with notions of the active agency of thé powers of eyil. /Among the Channel Isles)and on the neighboring coast of France, the ideas of the people'on this subject-are deeply rooted. In their view, Beelzebub has his ministers in all parts of the earth, It is certain that Belphe- or is the ambassador from the infernal regions in France, Hutgin in Italy, Belial in Turkey. Thamuz imSpaim Martinet in Switzerland, anc Mammon. in Englands Satan is an Emperor just like any other: a sort of Satan Cesar. His establishment is well organized. Dagon is grand almoner, Succor Benoth chief of the Eunuchs; Asmodeus, banker at the gaming-table; ‘Kobal, manager of the theater, and Verdelet grand- master of the ceremonies. Nybbasis the court- fool. Wierus, a savant, a good strygologue, and | a man of much rome in demonology, calls Nybbas the great parodist. ‘he Norman Channel, have many precautions to take at sea, by reason of the illusions with which Satan en- virons them. It has long been an article of popular faith, that Saint. Maclou inhabited the great square rock called Ortach, in the sea be- tween Aurigny and the Casquets; and many old sailors used to declare that they had often seen him there, seated and reading ina book. “Go up to the house, and you will learn.” And Sieur Landoys whipped on his horse, Boox V. THE REVOLVER. I CONVERSATIONS AT THE JEAN AUBERGE. Stzur CLuBIN was a man who bided his time. He was short in stature, and his complexion was ellow. He had the strength of a bull.. His sea ife had not tanned his skin; his flesh had a sallow hue; it was the color of a wax candle, of which his eyes, too, had something of the steady light. His memory was peculiarly retentive. With him, to have seen a man once, was to have him like a note in a note-book. His ust glance took possession of you. ‘The pupil of his eye re- ceived the impression of a face, and kept it like a portrait. e face might grow old, but Sieur Clubin never lost it; it was impossible to cheat that tenacious memory. Sieur Clubin was curt in speech, grave in manner, bold in action. No gestures were ever indulged in by him. An air of candor won everybody to him at first; many people thought him artless. He had a wrinkle in the corner of his eye, ponies expres- sive of simplicity. As we have said,no abler mariner existed; no one like him for reefing a sail, for keeping a vessel’s head to the wind, or the sails well set. Never did reputation for religion and integrity stand higher than his. To have suspected him would have been to bring yourself under suspicion. _He was on terms of intimacy with Monsieur Rebuchet, a money- changer at St. Malo, who lived in the Rue St. Vincent, next door to the armorer’s; and Mon- sieur Rebuchet would say, “I would leave my shop in Clubin’s hands.” Sieur Clubin was a widower; his wife, like himself, had enjoyed a high reputation for pro- bity.. She had died with a fame for incorrupti- ble virtue, If the bailli had whispered gallant things in her ear, she would have impeached him before the king. If asaint had made love to her, she would have told it to the priest. This couple, Sieur and Dame Clubin, had realized in Torteval the ideal of the English epithet “re- spectable.” Dame Clubin’s reputation was as the snowy whiteness of the swan; Sieur Clu- bin’s like that of ermine itself—a spot would have been fatal-to him. He could hardly have picked up a pin without making inquiries for the owner. He would send round the town-crier about a box of matches. One day he went intoa wine-shop at St. Servan, and said to the man who kept it, “‘Three years ago I breakfasted here; ao made a mistake in the bill;” and he re- turned the man thirteen sous. He was the very personification of probity, with a certain com- pression of the lips indicative of watchfulness. He seemed, indeed, always on the watch—for what? For rogues, probably. Every Tuesday he commanded the Durande on her passage from Guernsey to St. Malo. He arrived at St. Malo on Tuesday evening, stayed two days there to discharge and take in a new cargo, and started again for Guernsey on Fri- day morning. here was at that period, at St. Malo, a little tavern near the harbor, which was called the “Jean Auberge.” The construction of the modern quays swept away this house. At this period, the sea came up as far as the St. Vincent and Dinan gates. St. Merian and St. Servan communicated with each other by covered carts and other vehicles, which passed to and fro among vessels lying high and dry, avoiding the buoys, the anchors, and cables, and running the risk now and then of smashing their leathern hoods against the lowered yards, or the end of a jibboom. Be- tween the tides, the coachmen drove their hor- ses over those sands, where, six hours afterward, | the winds would be beating the rolling waves. The four-and-twenty en dogs of St. Malo, who tore to pieces a naval officer in 1770, were accustomed to prow] about this beach. This ex- cess of zeal on their part led to the destruction of the pack. Their nocturnal barkings are no JO Eer aet between the little and the great ‘alard. Sieur Clubin was accustomed to stay at the Jean Auberge. The French office of the Du- ; rande was held there. \ The custom-house officers and coast guards- men_came to take their meals and to drink at ; the Jean Auberge. They had their separate ta- | bles. The custom-house officers of Binic found | it convenient for the service to meet there with | their brother officers of St, Malo. ' Captains of vessels came there also; but they ' ate at another table. : { Sieur Clubin sat.sometimes at one, sometimes - at the other table, but preferred the table of the : custom-house men to that of the sea captains. - He was always welcome at either. ' The tables were well served. There were | strange drinks specially provided for foreign ‘ sailors. A dandy sailor from Bilboa could have been supplied there with a-helada. People drank stout there, as at Greenwich; or brown : gueuse, as at Antwerp. ‘ Masters of vessels who came from long voy- ; ages and privateersmen sometimes appeared at the captain’s table, where they exchanged news. - “ How. are su ? That commission is only for ‘ small lots.—The brown kinds, however, are fe 7 ing off. Three thousand bags of East India, ‘ and five hundred hogsheads of Sagua.—Take any | word, the opposition will end by defeating Vil- lele.—What about indigo? Only seven serons of | Guatemala changed hands.—The “ Nanine Julia” is in the roads; a pretty three-master from Brit- | tany.—the two cities of La Plata are at logger- headsagain, When Monte Video gets fat, Buenos Ayres grows lean.—It has been found necessary to transfer the cargo of the ‘ Regina-Coelis,” which has been condemned at Callao.—Cocoas ge off briskly. —Caraque bags are quoted at one undred and thirty-four, and ‘Trinidads at seventy-three.—It appears that at the review in the Champ de Mars, the people cried, ‘‘ Down with the ministers!”—The raw salt aderos hides are_selling—ox-hides at sixty francs, and cows’ at forty-eight.—Have they passed the Balkan?—What is Diebitsch about?—Aniseed is in demand at San Francisco. Plagniol olive oil is quiet.—Gruyere cheese, in bulk, is thirty-two francs the quintal.—Well, is Leon XII. dead?” etc., ete. All these things were talked about and com- mented on aloud, At the table of the custom- house and coast-guard officers they spoke in a lower key. Matters of police and revenue on the coast and in the ate require, in fact, a little more privacy, and a little less clearness in the con- versation. The sea captains’ table was presided over by an old captain of a large vessel, M. Gertrais- Gaboureau. M. Gertrais-Gaboureau could hard- ly be regarded as a man; he was rather a living barometer. His long life at sea had given him a surprising power of prognosticating the state of the weather. He seemed to issue a decrée for the weather to-morrow. He sounded the winds, and felt the pulse, as it. were, of the tides. He might be imagined requesting the clouds to show their aie is to say, their forked lightnings. He was the physician of the wave, the breeze, and the ociindl. The ocean was his patient. He had traveled round the world like a doctor going his visits, examin- ing every kind of climate in its good and bad condition. He was profoundly versed. in the pore of the seasons. Sometimes he would heard delivering himself in this fashion— “The barometer descended in 1796 to three de- grees below en 34 point.” He was a sailor rom real love of the sea. He hated England as much as he liked the ocean. He had care- fully studied English seamanship, and considered himself to have discovered its weak point. He would explain how the “Sovereign” of 1637 differed from the “ Royal William” of 1670 and from the “‘ Victory” of 1775, He compared their build as to their forecastles and quarter- decks. He looked back with regret to the towers upon the deck, and the pupae soapy tops of the “Great Harry” of 1514—probably regarding them from the point of view of con- venient lodging-places for French cannon-balls. In his eyes, nations only existed for their naval institutions. He indulged in some odd eS of speech on this subject. He considered the term “The Trinity House,” as sufficiently in- dicating England. ‘The Northern Commis- sioners” were in like manner synonymous in his mind with Seotland; the “ B t Board,” with Ireland. He was full of nautical information. .He was, in himself, a marine alphabet and al- manac, a tariff and low-water mark, all com- bined. He knew by heart all the pesthonse dues—particularly those of the English coast— one one ton'for passing before this; one farthing before that. He would tell you that the Small Rock Light which once to burn two hundred gallons of oil, now consumes fif- teen hundred. Once aboard ship, he was at- tacked by a dangerous disease, and was believed to be dying. e@ crew assembled round his hammock, and in the midst of his groans and agony, he addressed the chief carpenter with the words, ‘‘ You had better make a mortise in each side of the main caps, and put in a bit of iron to help pass the top ropes through.” His habit of command had gas to his countenance an expression of authority. It was rare that the subjects of conversation at the captains’ table and at that of the custom- house men were the same, ‘This, however, did happen to be the case in the first days of that month of February, to which the course of this history has now brought us, The three-master “Tamaulipas,” Captain Zuela, arrived from Chili, and bound thither again, was the theme of discussion at both tables, At the captains’ table they were talking of her cargo; and at that of the custom-house ple, of certain circumstances connected with her recent proceedings. F Captain Zuela, of Copiapo, was a Chilian and ly a Columbian. He peieie a part in the war of Independence in a true independent fashion, adhering sometimes to Bolivar, sometimes to Morillo, according as he had found it to his interest. He had enriched himself by se’ all causes. No man in the world could have mn more Bourbonist, more Bonapartist, more absolutist, more liberal, more atheistical, or more devoutly catholic. He belonged to that great and renowned party which may be called the Lucrative fs ‘om time to time he made his oaenen eeguce on commencial voyages: and “4 ite rt spoke e willingly gave Lar L = eae of ane kind—bankiupts or political rie gees, it was all the same to him, provided they could pay. His mode of taking them aboard was simple. The fugitive waited upon a lonel point of the coast, and at the moment of nod wis Po Pe Se ae > 44 = —— THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. ting sail, Zuela would detach a small boat tofetch him. On his last voyage he had assisted in this way an outlaw and fugitive from justice, named Berton; and on this occasion he was suspected of being about to aid in the flight of the men im- plicated in, the affair of the Bidassoa, The For that matter Clubin was not proud. He did not disdain even to know scamps by sight. He went so far sometimes as to cultivate even a closer acquaintance with them; giving his hand in the open street, or saying good-day to them. He talked English with the smugglers, and jab- olice were informed and had their eye upon | bered Spanish with the contrebandistas. On This ieee was. anepoch of flights. and es- capes. . ‘The Restoration in France was a. reac- tionary moyement. Revolutions are fruitful of voluntary exile; and restorations of whole- sale banishments.. During the first seven or eight years which followed the return of the Bourbons, panic was universal—in finance, in industry, in commerce, men felt the ground tremblé beneath them. Bankruptcies were nu- merous in the commercial world; in the politi- cal there was.a general rush to. escape. va- lette had taken fioht Lefebvre Desnouettes had taken. flight, Delon had taken flight. _ Special tribunals were again in fashion—plus Treetail- Jon. , People instinctively shunned the Pont do Saumur, the esplanade de la Reole, the wall of the Observatoire in Paris, the tower of Taurias @ Avignon—dismal landmarks in history where the period of reaction has left its sign-spots, on which the marks of that blood-stained hand aro still visible. In London the Thistlewood affair, with its ramifications in. France: in Paris the Trogoff trial, with its ramifications in Belgium, Switzerland, and Italy, had increased the mo- tives for anxiety and flight, and given an. im- petus to that mysterious rout which left so many gaps in the socialsystem of that day, To find a poe of safety, this was the general care. To implicated was to be ruined. The spirit of the military tribunals had survived their insti- tution. Sentences were matters of fayor. Peo- ee fled to Texas, to the Rocky Mountains, to eru, to Mexico, The. men of the, Loire, trai- tors then, but now regarded as patriots, had founded the Champ d@’Asile. Beranger in one of his songs says: ‘* Barbarians! we are Frenchmen born; Pity us, glorious, yet forlorn.” : Self-banishment was the only resource left. Nothing, perhaps, seems simpler than flight, but that monosyllable has a terrible significance. Every obstacle is in the way of the man who slipsaway. Taking to flight-necessitates dis- guise. Persons of importanco—even illustrious characters—were roduced to these expedients, only fit for malefactors. Their indcpondont habits rendered it difficult for them to escape through the meshes of authority, A rogue who violates the conditions of his ticket-of-leave comports himself before the police as innocently as a saint; but imagine innocence constrained to act a part; virtue disguising its voico; a:glo- rious reputation hidin- under a mask. "Yonder ‘passer-by is a man of well-lmown celebrity; he is in quest of a false rt. The cquivocal proceedings of one abscondiny {vom the reach of the law is no proof that he is not a hero. Ephemeral but charactcristic foatures of the time of which our so-called regular history take: no note, but which the truc painter of the age will bring out into reliof. » Vadcr: cover of these flights and concoalmont= of honest men, genuine rogucs, loss watched ond suspected, managed to geu clear off.. A» scovidrel, \sho found it convenient to disoppoar, would take advantage of tho general pell-mell, tack himsolf on to the political refugees, and, thanks to hi: greater skill in the art, woulc, contrive to ap- yon in that dim twili-ht more ‘honest than his onest neighbors. othing looks moro awk- ward and confused sometimes than honc=ty un- justly condemned. It iz ont of its element, and almost sure to commit itself. It is a curious fact that this voluntary expa- triation, particularly with honest folks, ap- to lead to every strange turn of fortune. modicum of civilization which a scamp brought with him from London or Paris be- came, perhaps, a valuable stock in trade insome primitive country, ingratiated him with the ople, and enabled him tostrike into new paths. hore is nothing impossible in a man’s rs thus from the laws, to ee as a dignitary among the priesthood. ere was something phantasmagorial in these sudden disappear- ances; and more than one such flight has led to events like the marvels of a dream. An esca- pade of this kind, indeed, seemed to end natu- rally in the wild and wonderful; as when some broken bankrupt suddenly decamps to turn up a twenty years later as Grand Vizier to the ogul, or as a king in Tasmania. Rendering assistanco to these fugitives was an established trade, and, looking at the abundance of business of thas kind, was a highly profitable one. It was generally carried on as a supple- mentary branch of certain recognized eon of commerce. A person, for instance, desiring to eve thee ee outed. to the eens: one who desired | Ameri recourse _to sea-captains like Zuela. = Tx CLUBIN OBSERVES SOME ONE, — ZvuELA came sometimes to take refreshment ‘Sigh ve Jean Auberge. Clubin knew him by i a this subject he had at command a number of apologetic phrases. ‘‘Good,” he said, ‘‘can be extracted out of the knowledge of evil. The game-keeper may find advantage in knowing the poacher, The good pilot may sound the depths of a pirate, who is only a sort of hidden rock. I test the quality of a scoundrel as a doc- tor will testa poison,” There was no answer- ing a battery of proverbs like this. Ertan. gave Clubin credit for his shrewdness. People raised him for not indulging in a ridiculous dolicacy. “Who, then, should dare to speak scandal of him on this point? Everything he did \zas ovidently ‘ for the good of the service.” With him, all was straightforward. Nothing could stain his good fame. Crystal might more easily becomo sullied. This general confidence in him was the natural reward of a long life of integrity, the crowning advantage of a settled reputation. Whatever Clubin might do, or ap- ar to do, was sure to be interpreted favorably. Tio had attained almost to a state of impecca- bility, Over and above this, “‘ he is very wary,” peoplo said: and from a situation which in others would have given rise to suspicion, his integrity would extricate itself, with a still greater halo of reputation for ability. This reputation for ability mingled harmoniously with his fame for perfect simplicity of charac- tor. Great simplicity and groat talents in con- junction are not uncommon. The compound constitutes one of the varieties of the virtuous man, and one of the most valuable. Sieur Clu- bin was one of those men who might be found in intimate conversation with a sharper or a thief, without suffering any diminution of re- spect in the minds of their neighbors. The Tamaulipas had completed her loading. She was ay for sea, and was preparing to sail very shortly. One Tuesday evening the Durande arrived at St. Malo while it was still broad daylight. Sieur Clubin, standing upon the bridge of the vessel, and superintendingY the maneuvers necessary for getting her into port, perceived upon the beach, near the Petit-Bey, two men, who were conversing between the rocks, in a solitary spot. He observed them with his sea-glass, and recog- nized one of the men. It was Captain Zuela. He seemed to recognize the other also, : On arriving at the Jean Auberge, Sieur Clu- bin learnt that the Tamaulipas was preparing to sail in about ten days. It has since become Inown that he obtained information on some other points. That night he entered the gunsmith’s shop in pe St. Vincent street, and said to the mas- ar; “Do you know what a revolver is?” “Yes,” replied the gunsmith. ‘Tt is an American weapon.” ‘Tt is a pistol with which a man can carry on @ conversation,” . ay an instrument which comprises in itself both the question and the answer, “ And the rejoinder too.” “ Precisely, Monsieur Clubin, A rotatory clump of barrels.” “ T shall want five or six balls.” The gunmaker twisted tho corner of his lip, and made thet peculiar noise with which, when accompanied by a toss of tho head, Frenchmen express admiration. ; Fe The weapon is a good one, Monsieur Clu- in, “T want a revolver with six barrels.” “T havo not one.” “What! and you a gunmaker!” **T do not keep such articles yet. “You see, it is a new thing. It is only just coming into voguo. French makers, as yet, confine them- selves to the simple pistol.” onsense.” “Tt has not yet become an article of com- merce.” ‘‘ Nonsense, I say.” “T havo excellent pistols.” ‘*T want a revolver.” _ “I agree that it is more useful. Stop, Mon- sieur Clubin!” - “ What?” “T believe I know where there is one at this moment in St. Malo, to be had at a bar- ain, ‘A revolver?” “ce es ”» “cc Yes. ” “ Where is that?” “‘T believe I know; or I can find out.” “When can you give me an answer?” “A bargain; but of good quality.” “ When shall I return?” . “jf I procure you a revolver, remember, it will be a good one,” “When will you give me an answer?” “ After your next voyage.” “Do not mention thas it is for me,” Clubin, said Il. CLUBIN CARRIES AWAY SOMETHING AND BRINGS BACK NOTHING. Sirur CLuBin completed the loading of the Durande, embarked a number of cattle and some passengers, and left St. Malo for Guernsey, as usual, on the Friday morning. On that same Friday, when the vessel had gained the open, which permits the captain to absent himself a moment from the place of com- mand, Clubin entered his cabin, shut himself in, took a traveling bag which he kept there, put into one of its compartments some biscuit, some boxes of preserves, a few pounds of chocolate in sticks, a chronometer, and a sea telescope, and passed through the handles a cord, ready pre- pared to sling it if necessary. Then he descend- ed into the hold, went into the compartment where the cables are kept, and was seen to come up again with one of those knotted ropes heavy with pieces of metal, which are used for ship caulkers at sea and by robbers ashore. Cords of this lind are useful in ers Having arrived at Guernsey, Clubin repaired to Torteval. He took with him the travelling bag and the knotted cord, but did not bring them back again. Let us repeat once for all, the Guernsey which we are describing is that ancient Guernsey which no longer exists, and of which it would be impossible to find a parallel now anywhere SrcPpt in the country. - There it is still flourish- ing, but in the towns it has passed away. The same remarks apply to Jersey. St. Helier’s is as civilized as Dieppe, St. Peter’s Port as L’Ori- ent. Thanks to the progress of civilization, thanks to the admirably enterprising spirit of that brave island people, everything has been changed during the last forty years in the Nor- man Archipelago. Where there was darkness there is now light. With these premises let us proceed. At that period, then, which is already so far removed from us as to become historical, smug- gling was carried on very extensively in the hannel. The smuggling vessels abounded, par- ticularly on the west coast of Guernsey. Peo- ple of that peculiarly clever kind who know, even in the smallest details, what went on half a century ago, will ‘even cite you the names of these suspicious craft, which were almost always Austrians or Guiposeans. It is certain that a week scarcely ever ee without one or two being seen either in Saint’s Bay of at Pleinmont. Their coming and going had almost the charac- ter of a regular service. A cavern in the cliffs at Sark was called then, and is still called, the “Shops” (‘‘ Les Boutiques”), from its being the place where these smugglers made their bar- ‘ains with the purchasers of their merchandise. his sort of traffic had in the Channel a dialect of its own, a vocabulary of contraband techni- calities now forgotten, and which was to the Spanish what the ‘‘ Levantine” is to the Italian. On many parts of the English coast smug- gling had a secret but cordial understand- ing with . legitimate and open commerce. It had access to the house of more than one great financier, by the back-stairs it is true; and its influence extended itself myster- iously through all the commercial world, and the intricate ramifications of manufacturing in- dustry. Merchant on one side, smuggler on the other; such was the key to the sores of many eat fortunes. Seguin affirmed it of Bourgain, ourgain of Seguin. We do not vouch for their accusations; it is possible that they were calumniating each other. However this ma: have been, it is certain that the contraband trade, though hunted down by the law, was flourishing enough in certain financial circles, It had relations with ‘the very best society.” Thus the brigand Mandrin, in other days, found himself occasionally tete-a-tete with the Count of Charolais; for t underhand trade often contrived to. put on a very respectable appear- ance; kept a house of its own, with an irre- proachable exterior. All this necessitated a host of maneuvers and connivances, which required impenetrable se- erecy. A contrabandist was intrusted with a good many things, and knew how to keep them secret. An inviol: dition of his existence. The first quality, in fact, in a smuggler was strict honor in his own circle. No discreetness, no smuggling. Fraud has its secrets, like the priest’s confessional. These secrets were indeed, as a rule, faithfully kept. The contrabandist swore to betray noth- ing, and he kept his word: nobody was more trustworthy than the genuine smuggler. The Judge Alcade of Oyarzun oe a smuggler one day, and put him to torture to compel him to disclose the name of the capitalist who se- cretly supported him. The smuggler refused to tell. “ The capitalist in question was the Jud Alcade himself. Of these two accomplices—the judge and the smuggler—the one had been com- pelled, in order to appear in the eyes of the world to fulfill the law, to put the other to the torture; which the other had patiently borne for the sake of his oath. : The two most famous smugglers who haunted Pleinmont at that period were Blasco and Blas- east feo en Tocayos, This was a sort of panish or Catholic relationship which consist- able confidence was the con- — SP eee | = ed in having the same patron saint in heaven— a thing, it will be admitted, not less worthy of a than having the same father upon earth. When a person was initiated into the furtive ways of the contraband business, nothing was more easy, or, from a certain point of view, more troublesome. It was sufficient to have no fear of dark nights, to repair to Pleinmont, and to consult the oracle located there. IV. PLEINMONT. Piermont, near Torteval, is one of the three corners of the island of Guernsey. At the ex- tremity of the cape there rises a high turfy hill, which looks over the sea. The hight is a lonely place. All the more lan from there being one solitary house there. This house adds a sense of terror to that of solitude. It is popularly believed to be haunted. Haunted or not, its aspect is singular. Built of granite, and rising only one. story high, it stands in the midst of the grassy soli- tude. It is in a perfectly good condition, as far as exterior is concerned; the walls are thick and the roof is sound. Not a stone is wanting in the sides, not a tile upon the roof. A brick- built chimney-stack forms the angle of the roof. The building turns its back to the sea, being on that side merely a blank wall. On examining this wall, however, attentively, the visitor per- ceives a little window bricked up. The two ables have three dormer windows, one front- ing the east, the others fronting the west; but both are bricked up in like manner. | The front, which looks inland, has alone a door and win- dows. This door, too, is walled in, as are also the two windows of the ground floor. On the first floor—and this is the feature which is most striking’as you approach—there are two open windows; but these are even more suspicious than the blind windows. Their open squares look dark even in broad day, for they have no panes of glass, or even window-frames. They open seat upon the dusk within. They strike imagination like hollow eye-sockets in a human Feoe: Inside all is deserted. Through the gaping casements you may mark the ruin within. o panelings, no woodwork; all bare stone. It is like a windowed sepulcher, giving liberty to the specters to look out upon the day- light world. The rains sap the foundation on the seaward side. A few nettles, shaken by the breeze, flourish in the lower part of the walls. Far around the horizon there is no other human habitation. The house is a void; the abode of silence: but if you place your ear against the wall and listen, you may distinguish a confused noise now and then, like the flutter of wings. Over the walled door, upon the stone which forms its architrave, are sculptured these letters, “‘ EuM-PpiLe,” with the date ‘‘ 1780.” The dark shadow of night and the mournful light of the moon, find entrance there. “the sea completely surrounds the house. « Its situation is magnificent; but for that reason its aspect is more sinister. The beauty of the spot becomes a puzzle. Why doesnot a human fam- ily take up its abode here? The place is beauti- ful, the house well-built. Whence this neglect? To these questions, obvious to the reason, suc ceed others, suggested by the reverie which the place inspires. y is this cultivatable garden uncultivated? No master for it; and the bricked- up doorway? What has happened to the place? hy is it shunned by men? What business is done here? Is it only when all the rest of the world are asleep thati some one in this spot is awake? Dark squalls, wild winds, birds of prey. strange creatures, unknown forms, present themselves to the mind, and connect themselves somehow with this deserted house. For what class of wayfarers can this be the hostelry? You imagine to yourself whirlwinds of rain and hail beating in at the open casements, and wandering through the rooms. Tempests have left their vague traces upon the inner walls. The chambers, though walled and covered in, are visited by the hurricanes. Has the house been the scene of some great crime? You may almost oe that this spectral dwelling, given up to solitude and darkness, might be heard call- ing aloud for succor.. Does it remain silent? Do voices indeed issue from it? What. business has it on hand in this lonely place? The mys- tery of the dark hours rests securely here. ‘ts aspect is disquieting at noonday; what must it be at midnight? The dreamer asks himself—for dreams have their coherence—what this house may be between the dusk of evening and the twilight of approaching dawn? Has the vast supernatural world some relation with this de- serted hight, which sometimes compels it to arrest its movements here, and to descend and to become visible? Do the scattered elements of the spirit world whirl around it? Does the im- = able take form and substance here? Inso- uble riddles! A holy awe is in the very stones; that dim twilight has surely relations with the infinite Unknown. When the sun has gone down, the song of the birds will be hushed, the pee behind the hills will gohomeward with is goats; reptiles, taking courage from the THE TOILERS OF THE SEA. gathering darkness, will creep through the fis- sures of rocks; the stars will begin to appear, night will come, but yonder two blank case- ments will. still be staring at the sky. They open to welcome spirits and apparitions; for it is.by the names of apparitions, ghosts, phantom ces vaguely distinct, masks in the lurid light, mysterious movements of minds, and shadows that the popular faith, at once ignorant an profound, translates the somber relations of this dwelling with the world of darkness, The house is ‘‘haunted;” the popular phrase comprises everything. Credulous minds have their explanation; com- mon-sense thinkers have theirs also. ‘‘ Nothing is more simple,” say the latter, ‘‘than the his- tory of the house. Itis an old observatory of the time of the revolutionary wars and the days of smuggling. It was buiit for such objects. The wars being ended, the house was abandoned ; but it was not pulled down, as it might one day again become useful. The door and windows have been walled to prevent people entering, or doing injury to the interior. The walls of the windows, on the three sides which face the sea, have been bricked up against the winds of the south and south-west. That is all.” The ignorant and the credulous, however, are not satisfied. In the first place, the house was not built at the period of the wars of the Revo- lution. _ It bears the date ‘‘ 1780,” which was an- terior to the Revolution. In the next place it was not built for an observatory. It bears the letters, ‘‘ ELM-PBILG,” which are the double monogram of two families, and which indicate, according to usage, that the house was built for the use of a newly-married couple. Then it has certainly been inhabited: why then should it be abandoned? , If the door and. windows were bricked up to prevent people entering the house only, why were two windows left open? Why are there no shutters, no window-frames, no glass?) Why were the walls bricked in on one side if not on the other? The wind is prevented from entering from the south; but why is it al- lowed to enter from the north? The credulous are wrong, no doubt; but it is clear that the common-sense thinkers have not discovered the key to the mystery. The prob- lem remains still unsolved, It is certain that the house is generally believ- ed to have been more useful than inconvenient to the smugglers. The growth of superstitious terror tends to deprive facts of their true proportions, With- out doubt, many of the nocturnal phenomena which have, by little and little, secured to the building the reputation of being haunted, might be explained by obscure and furtive visits, by brief sojourns of sailors near the spot, and sometimes by the precaution, sometimes by the daring, of mea engaged in certain suspicious oc- cupations concealing themselves for their dark purposes, or allowing themselves to be seen in order to inspire dread. At this period, already a remote one, many daring deeds were possible. The police—parti- cularly in small places—was by no meansas effi- cient as in these days. Add to this, that if the house was really, as was said, a resort of the smugglers, their meet- ings there must, up to a certain point, have been safe from interruption precisely because the house was dreaded by the superstitious peo- ple of the country. Its ghostly reputation er vented its being visited for other reasons. Peo- ple do not generally apply to the pa or officers of customs, on the subject, of specters. The superstitious rely on making the sign of the cross; not on magistrates and indictments. There is always a tacit connivance, involuntary it may be, but not the less real, between the ob- jects which inspire fear and their victims. The rror-stricken feel a sort of culpability in hav- ing encountered their terrors; they imagine themselves to have unvailed a secret; and they have an inward fear, unknown even to them- selves, of aggravating their guilt, and exciting the anger of the oe All this makes them discreet. Andover and above this reason, the very instinct of the credulous is silence; dread is akin to dumbness; the terrified speak little; horror always seems to whisper, ‘‘ Hush!” It must be remembered that this was a period when the a ts believed that the Mystery of the Holy Manger is repeated by oxen and asses every year on a fixed day; a period when no one would have dared to enter astable at night for fear of coming upon the animals on their knees. If the local legends and stories of the people ean be credited, the popular superstition went so far as to fasten to the walls of the house at Pleinmont, things of which the traces are still visible—rats without feet, bats without wings, and bodies of other dead animals. Here, too, were seen toads crushed between the of a Bible, bunches of yellow lupins, and other strange offerings, placed there a imprudent by at night, who, having fancied that ey had seen something, hoped by these small sacrifices to obtain on, and to appease the ill-humors of were-wolves and evil spirits. In all times, believers of this kind have flourished ; some even in very high places. Czesar consult- ed Saganius, and Nancivon tiadcimo:selle Lenor- = mand., There are a kind of consciences so ten- der, that they must seek indulgences even from Beelzebub. ‘‘May God do, and Satan not undo,” was one of the prayers of Charles the Fifth. They come to persuade themselves that they may commit sins even against the Evil One; and one of their cherished objects was, to be irreproachable even in the eyes of Satan, We find here an explanation of those adorations sometimes paid to infernal spirits. It is only one more species of fanaticism. Sins against the devil certainly exist in morbid imagina- tions. The fancy that they have violated the laws of the lower regions torments certain eccentric casuists ; they are haunted with seru- ples even about offending the demons. A belief in the efficacy of devotions to the spirits of the Brocken or Armuyr, a notion of haying com- mitted sins against hell, visionary penances for imaginary crimes, avowals of the truth to the spirit of falsehood, self-accusation before the origin of all evil, and confessions in an invert- ed sense—are all realities, or things at least which have existed. _The annals of criminal rocedure against witchcraft and magic prove his in every page. Human folly anepaiae ex- tends even thus far; when terror seizes upon a man he does not stop easily. He dreams of imaginary. faults, imaginary purifications, and clears out his, conscience with the old witches’ broom. Be this as it may, if the house at Pleinmont had its secrets, it kept them to itself; except b: some rare chance, no one went there to see. It was left entirely alone. Few people, indeed, like to run the risk of an encounter with the other world. Owing to the terror which it inspired, and which kept at a distance all who could observe or bear testimony on the subject, it had always been easy to obtain an entrance there at aight by means of a rope ladder, or even by the use of the first ladder coming to hand in one of the neigasing fields. A consignment of goods or provisions left there, might await in perfect safety the time and opportunity for a furtive embarkation. Tradition relates that forty years ago a fugitive—for political offences as some affirm, for commercial as others say—re- mained for some time concealed in the haunted. house at Pleinmont; whence he finally succeeded in embarking in a fishing-boat for England, From England a passage is easily obtained to erica, . Tradition also avers that provisions deposited in this house remain there untouched, Lucifer and the smugglers having an interest in induc- ing. whoever places them there to return. ‘rom the summit of this house, there is a view to the south of the Hanway Rocks, at about a mile from the shore, These rocks are famous. They have been guilty of all the evil deeds of which rocks are capable. They are the most ruthless destroyers of the sea, They lie in a treacherous ambush for vessels in the night. They have contributed to the enlargement of the cemeteries at Torteval and uaine, A lighthouse was erected upon these rocks in 1862. At the present day, the Hanways light the way for the vessels which they once lured to destruction; the destroyer in ambush now bears a lighted torch in his hand; and mariners seek in the horizon, as eee and a guide, the rock which they used to fly as a pitiless en- emy. It gives confidence by night in that vast space where it was so long a terror—like a rob- ber converted into a gendarme, There are three Hanways: the Great Hanway, the little Hanway, and the Mauve. It is upon the Little Hanway that the red light is placed at the present time. This reef of rocks forms part of a group of peaks, some beneath the sea, some rising out of it. It towers above them all; like a fortress, it has advanced works: on the side of the open sea, a chain of thirteen rocks; on the north, two breakers—the Heh Fourquies, the Needles, and asandbank called the Herouee. On the south, three rocks—the Cat Rock, the Percee, and the Herpin Rock; then two banks—the South Bank and the Muet: besides which, there is, on the side opposite Pleinmont, the Tas de Pois d’Aval. To swim across the channel from the Han- ways to Pleinmont is difficult, but not. impossi- ble. We have already said that this was one of the achievements of Clubin. The expert swim- mer who knows this channel can find two rest- ing-places, the Round Rock, and further on, a little out of the course, to the left, the Red Rock. V. THE BIRDS’-NESTERS. Tr was near the period of that any which was passed by Sieur Clubin at Torteval that a curious incident occurred, which was little heard. of at the time, and which did not eee transpire till a long time afterwards. For many things, as we have already observed, remain undivul simply by reason of the terror which they, have caused in those Who have wit- n em. In the night-time between Saturday and Sun- day—we are in the matter of the date, and we believe it to be correct—three boys climbed up the hill at Pleinmont. The boys re- noe 416 turned to the village: they came from the sea- shore. They were what are called, in the cor- rapt French of that part, ‘deniquoiseaux,” or virds’nesters. Wherever there are cliffs: and cloft-rocks overhanging the sea, the young birds’-nesters abound. The reader will remem- ber that Gilliatt interfered in this matter for the sake of the birds as well as for the sake of the children. The ‘‘deniquoiseaux” are a sort of sea-ur- chins, and are not a very timid species. The night was very dark. Dense masses of cloud obscured the zenith. Three o’clock had sounded in the steeple of Torteval, which is round and pointed like a magician’s hat. Why did the boys return so late? Nothing more simple. They had been searching for sea- gulls’ nests in the Tas de Pois d’Aval. ’ The sea- son having been very mild, the pairing of the birds had begun very early. The children watch- ing the fluttering of the male and female about their nests, and excited by the pursuit, had for- gotten the time. The waters had crept up around them; they had no time to regain the little bay in which they had moored their boat, and they were compelled to wait upon one of the peaks of the Tas de Pois for the ebb of the tide. Hence their late return. Mothers wait on such occasions in feverish anxiety for the return of their children, and when they find them safe, give vent to their joy in the shape of anger, and relieve their tears by dealing thém a soun drubbing. The boys accordingly hastened their steps, but in fear and trembling. Their haste was of that sort which is glad of an excuse for stopping, and which is not inconsistent with a reluctance to reach their destination; for they had before them the prospect of warm em- braces, to be followed by an inevitable thrash- ing. One only of the boys had nothing of this to fear. He wasan orphan: a French boy, with- out father or mother, and perfectly content just then with his motherless condition; for nobody taking any interest in him, his back was safe from the dreaded blows. The two others were natives of Guernsey, and belonged to the parish of Torteval. Having climbed the hill, the three birds’-nesters reached the table-land on which was situated the haunted house. 3 They began by being in fear, which is the proper frame of mind of every passer-by; and particularly of every child at that hour and in that place. They had a strong desire to take to their heels as fast as possible, and a strong desire, also, to stay and look. hey did stop. They looked toward the solitary building. It was all dark and terrible. _ ! It stood in the midst of the solitary plain—an obscure block, a hideous but symmetrical ex- crescence; a high square mass with right- angled corners, like an immense altar in the darkness. The first thought of the boys was to run: the second was to draw nearer. They had never seen this house before. There is such a thing as a desire to be frightened arising from curiosity. They had a little French boy with them, which emboldened them to approach. It is well known that the French have no fear. Besides, it is reassuring to have company in danger; to be frightened in the company of two others is encouraging. And then they were a sort of hunters accus- tomed to peril. They were children; they were used to search, to rammage, to spy out hidden things. They were in the habit of peeping into holes; why not into this hole? Hunting is ex- citing. Looking into birds’ nests perhaps gives an itch for looking a little into a nest of ghosts. A rummage in the dark regions. Why not? From prey to prey, ms the proverb, we come to the devil. After the birds, the demons. The boys were on the way to learn the secret of those terrors of which their parents had told them. To be on the track of the hobgoblin tales—nothing could be more attractive. To have long stories to tell like the good house- wives. e notion was tempting. © All this mixture of ideas, in their state of half-confusion, half-instinct, in the minds of the Guernsey birds’-nesters, finally screwed their courage to the point. They approached the house. The little fellow who served them as a scrt cf moral support in the adventure was certainly worthy of their confidence. He was a bold boy —an apprentice to a ship-caulker; one of those children who have already become men. He slept on a little straw in a shed in the ship- caulker’s yard, getting his own living, having red hair, and a loud voice; climbing easily up walls and trees, not incumbered with prejudices in the matter of ek sath in the apples within his reach; a lad who worked in the repair- ing dock for vessels of war—a child of chance, a happy orphan, born in France, no one knew ex- actte where; ready to give a centime to a beg- ar; a mischievous fellow, but a good one at ey one who had talked to Parisians. At this time he was earning a shilling a day by caulking the fishermen’s boats under repair at When he felt inclined he gave himself a holiday, and went birds’-nesting. Such was the little French boy. The solitude of the oe impressed them with a strange feeling of dread. They felt the threatening aspect of the silent house. It w: wild and savage. The naked and deserted pla* teau terminated in a ciate at a short dis- tance from its steep incline, quiet. There was no wind. Not a blade of grass stirred. The birds’-nesters advanced by slow steps, the French boy at their head, and looking toward the house. One of them, afterward relating the story, or as much of it as had remained in his head, added, ‘‘ It did not speak.” They came nearer, holding their breath, as one might approach a savage animal. They had climbed the hill at the side of the house which descended to seaward toward a little isthmus of rocks almost inaccessible. Thus they had.come pretty near to the building; but they saw only the southern side, which was all walled up. callar side, where the terrible windows were. They grew bolder, however; the caulker’s ap- srentice whispered, ‘‘ Let’s veer to larboard. hat’s the handsome side. Let’s have a look at the black windows.” The little band accordingly ‘‘ veered to lar- board,” and came around to the other side of the house. The two windows were lighted up. The boys took to their heels. When ey had got to some distance, the French boy, however, returned. ‘* Hillo!” said he, ‘“ the lights have vanished.” The light at the windows had, indeed, disap- peared. The outline of the building was seen as sharply defined as if stamped out with a punch against the livid sky. Their fear was not abated, but their curiosit had increased. The birds’-nesters approached. Suddenly the light reappeared at both win- dows at the same moment. The two young urchins from Torteval took to their heels and vanished. The daring French by did not advance, but he kept his ground. e remained motionless, confronting the house and watching it. The light disappeared, and appeared once more. Nothing could be more horrible. The reflection made a vague streak of light upon the glass, wet with the night dew. Allof a moment the light cast upon the walls of the house two nee dark profiles, and the shadows of enormous 8. the Pequeries, The house, however, being without ceilings, and having nothing left but its four walls and —_ _ window could not be lighted without e other Perceiving that the caulker’s apprentice kept his ground, the other birds’-nesters returned, step by step, and one after the other, trembling and curious. The caulker’s apprentice whisper- ed to them, “‘ There are ghosts in the house. I have seen the nose of one.” The two Torteval boys got behind their companion, standing tip- toe against his shoulder; and thus sheltered, and taking him for their shield, felt bolder and watched also. The house on its part seemed also to be watch- ing them. There it stood in the midst of that vast darkness and silence, with its two glaring eyes.. These were its upper windows. The light vanished, reappeared, and vanished again, in the fashion of these unearthly illuminations. These sinister intermissions had, probably, some connection with the pee shutting of the infernal regions. The air-hole of a sepulcher has thus been seen to produce effects like those from a dark lantern. Suddenly a dark form, like that of a human ing, ascended to one of the windows, as’if from without, and plunged into the interior of the house. : To enter by the window is the custom with pirits. The light was for a moment more brilliant, then went out, and — no more. The house became dark. e noises resembled voices. This is always the case. When there was eee be seen it is silent. When all became invisible again, noises were heard. There is a silence pecolee to night-time at sea. The repose of kness is deeper on the water than on the land. When there is neither wind nor wave in that wild expanse, over which, in ordinary times, even the flight of eagles makes no sound, the movement of a fly could be heard. This sepulchral quiet gave a dismal relief to the noises which issued from the house. “ Let us look,” said the French boy. And he made a step toward the house. The others were so frightened that they re- solved to follow him. They did not dare even to run away alone. Just as they had passed a heap of fagots, which for some mysterious reason seemed to in- spire them with a little courage in that solitude, a white owl flew toward them from a bush. The owls have a suspicious sort of flight, a sidelong skim which is suggestive of mischief afloat. The bird passed near the boys, ~o The sea below was | They did not dare to approach by the | THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. +> A shudder ran through the group behind <1. French boy. He looked up at the ow] and said; “Too late, my bird; I will look.” And he advanced. The crackling sound made by his thick-nailed boots among the furze bushes, did not prevent his hearing the noise in the house, which rose and fell with the continuousness and the calm accent of a dialogue. A moment afterward the boy added: ‘‘ Besides, it is only fools who believe in spirits.” Insolence in the face of danger rallies the cow- ardly, and inspirits them to go on. The two Torteval lads resumed their march, quickening their steps behind the caulker’s ap- prentice. The haunted house seemed to them to grow larger before their eyes. This optical illusion of fear is founded in reality. ‘The house did indeed grow larger, for they were coming nearer to it. Meanwhile the voices in the house took a tone more and more distinct. The children listened. The ear, too, has its power of exaggerating. It was different to a murmur, more than a whisper- ing, less than an uproar. Now and then one or two words, clearly articulated, could be caught. These words, impossible to be understood, sounded strangely. The boys stopped and listened; then went forward again. “Tt’s the ghosts talking,” said the caulker’s apprentice; ‘ but I don’t believe in ghosts.” he Torteval boys were sorely tempted to shrink behind the heap of —_ but they had already left it far behind; and their friend the caulker continued to advance toward the house. They trembled at remaining with him; but they dared not leave him. Step by step, and perplexed, they followed. The caulker’s apprentice turned toward them and said: ‘‘You know it isn’t true. things.” 5 The house grew taller and taller. The voices became more and more distinct. They drew nearer. And now they could perceive within the house something like a muffled light: It was a faint limmer, like one of those effects produced b rk lanterns, already referred to, and whic are common at the midnight meetings of witches. ‘When they were close to the house they halted. One of the two Torteval boys ventured on an observation: ‘Tt isn’t spirits: it is ladies dressed in white.” ‘What's that hanging from the window?’ asked the other. “*Tt looks like a rope.” “ Tt’s a snake.” “Tt is only ahan; ’s rope,” said the French boy, authoritatively. ‘‘That’s what they use. Only I don’t believe in them.” And in three bounds, rather than steps, he found himself against the wall of the building. The two others, trembling, imitated him, and came pressing against him, one on his right side, the other on his left. The boys applied their ears to the wall. The sounds continued. The following was the conversation of the phantoms: “So that is understood?” ‘* Perfectly.” ‘* As is arranged?” “As is arran; 2, ‘A man will wait here, Blasquito to England.” ‘Paying the expense?” ‘‘ Paying the expense.” “ Blasquito will late the man in his bark.” ‘Without seeking to know what country he belongs to?” “That is no business of ours.” ‘ Without asking his name?” ‘“‘We do not ask for names; we only feel the weight of the purse.” ey . ‘*Good: the man shall wait in this house,” ‘He must have provisions.” ‘He will be furnished with them.” “ How?” f From this bag which I have brought.” “Ve & eon leave this bag here?” “Smugglers are not robbers.” ‘And when do you go?” “To-morrow morning. baat he could come wi e is not pre d.” «That is his affair.” “How many days will he have to wait in this house?” “Two, three, or four days; more or less,” if Is at conipn that Blasquito will come?” Tr ‘“ Here to Pleinmont?” “To Pleinmont.” “When?” “Next week.” “What day?” _“ Friday, fanaye or Sunday.” “May he not fail?” “Heis my Tocayo.” ‘¢ Will he come in any weather?” “Atany time. He has no fear. My name is Blasco, his Blasquito.” “So he cannot fail to come to Guernsey?” There are no such and can accompany It your man was us. oo THE 'TOILERS: OF "THE (SEA. oe ‘¢T come one monthhe the other.” ‘¢T understand.” “Counting from Saturday last, one week from to-day, five days cannot elapse without bringing Blasquito.” fé if there is much sea?” “Bad weather?” . “ Yes. ” “ Blasquito will not: come so quickly, but he will come.” ‘ “Whence will he come?” “From Bilbao.” f ‘“‘Where will he be going?” ‘‘To Portland.” “ce Good. ” “Or to Torbay.” ‘¢ Better still.’ “Your man may rest easy.” “« Blasquito will betray nothing?” *‘Cowards are the only traitors. |_We are men of courage. The sea is the church of winter. Treason is the church of hell.” “No one hears what we say?” “Tt is impossible to be seen or overheard. The ple’s fear of this spot makes it deserted.” eb now it.” ‘““Who is there who would dare to listen here?” “a True. ” ‘Besides, if they listened, none would under- stand. We speak a wild language of our own, which nobody knows hereabouts. As you know it, you are one of us.” “T came only to make these arrangements with you.” “T must now take my leave.” ‘* Be it so.” “Tell me; sup the passenger should wish Blasquito to take him anywhere else than to Portland or Torbay?” “¢ Let him bring some gold coins.” “Will Blasquito consult the stranger’s con- venience?” ‘ **Blasquito wilh do whatever the gold coins command.” “Does it take long to go to Torbay?” ‘That is as it pleases the winds.” “Bight hours?” « Will Blasquito obey th p i lasquil y the passenger “ He will be well potanded,” ‘*Gold.is gold; and the sea is the sea.” “That is true.” “Man with his‘ gold does what he can. Heaven with its winds does what it will.” : “The man who is to accompany Blasquito will be here on Friday.” oo Good.” “ At what hour will Blasquito appear?” 4 “In the night. We arrive by night; and sail by ‘night. e have a wife who is called the sea; and a sister called night.. The wife betrays sometimes; but the sister never.” “All is settled, then. -.Good-night, my men,” “Good-night. A drop of brandy first.” > “Thank you.” as. odve '“*That is better than a syrup.” “T have your word.” “(My name is Point-of-Honor.” a A ieu.” “You area gentleman; I am a caballero.”” © It;was clear that only devils could talk in this way: Tho children did not listen long. | This time they took to flight in earnest; the French i last, running even faster than On the Tuesday following this Saturday, Sieur Clubin returned to St. o, bringing back the ie. “> The Tamaulipas was still at anchor in the roads. Sieur between the whiffs of his pipe, said to the lord of the Jean shores “Well, tee when does the Tamaulipas get under wa. ‘ “ The ae a to-morrow—Thursday,”. re- , Clubin mene at, the coast- guard officers’ table; and, contrary to his habit, went out after his supper. | 'The consequence of his absence was, that he could not attend to the office of the Durande, and thus lost. a little in the matter of freights.'' This fact was remarked = man ne a siainte ith his friend the money-changer. Hoe returned two hours after Noguette had sounded ‘the Curfew bell. The Brazilian bell sounds at ten o’clock.. It was therefore mid- night. “VI Le THE ee f maa Forty ‘years ‘0 possessed an. known by the name of the “ Ruelle Coutanchez. This alley no longer exists, having been removed for the improvement of the town. It was a double row of houses, leaning one to- ward the other, and leaving between them just room enough for a narrow rivulet, which was called the t. By stretching the legs, it was possible to walk on both sides of the little stream, touching with head or elbows, as you went, the houses either on the right or the left. These old relics of i ormandy have and small rounded it. way 1 he had chatted a few mo- alniost.a human interest. Tumbie-down houses and sorcerers always go together. Their lean- ing stories, their Cuaeene! z walls, their bowed nthouses, and their old thick-set irons, seem ike lips, chin, nose and eyebrows. » The garret window is the blind eye. The walls, are'the wrinkled and blotchy cheeks. The OOP houses lay their foreheads together as if they were plotting some malicious deed. All those words of ancient villiany—like eut-throat, ‘‘slit- weazand,” and the like—are closely connected with architecture of this kind. One of these houses in the alley—the largest and the most famous, or notorious—was known by the name of the Jacressade. The Jacressade was a lodging-house for people who do not lodge. In all towns, and particu- larly in seaports, there is always found .be- neath the lowest stratum of society a sort of residuum; vagabonds who are more than a match for justice; rovers after adventures; chemists of thé: swindling order, who are always drop- ping their lives into the melting-pot; people in rags of every shape, and in every style of wear- ing them; withered fruits of roguery; bank- rupt existences; consciences that have filed their schedule;, men who have failed in the house- breaking trade (for the great masters of bur- gl move in a higher sphere); workmen and workwomen in the trade of wickedness; oddities male and female; men in coats out at. elbows; scoundrels reduced to indigence; rogues’: who have missed the wages of roguery; men who have been hit in the social duel; harpies who have no longer any prey; petty larceners; gueux in the double and unhappy meaning of that word. Such are the constituents of that living mass. Human nature is here reduced to some- thing bestial. It is the refuse of the social state, heaped up in an obscure corner, where from, | time to time descends that dreaded broom which. is known by the name of police. In St. Malo, the Jacressade was the name of this corner. — It isnot in dens of this sort that we find the high-class criminals—the robbers, forgers, and. other great products of squnerence and poverty. If murder is represented here, it is generally in. the person of some coarse drunkard; in the mat- ter of robbery, the company rarely rise higher than the mere sharper. The vagrant is there, but not the highwayman. It would not, how- ever, be safe to trust this distinction. This last: stage of vagabondage may have its extremes of! scoundrelism. It was on an_ occasion, when. casting their nets into the Epi-scie—which was. in Paris what the Jacressade was in St. o— that the police captured the notorious Lace- naire. These lurking-places refuse nobody. To fall. in the social scalé has ‘a tendency to bring men, to one level.: Sometimes honesty in tatters found itself there. Virtue and probity have been known before now to be brought to strange passes. We must not always judge by appear- ances, even in the ace or at the galleys. Public respect, as well as universal reprobation, requires testing. Surprising results sometimes spring from this principle. An, angel may be dpcor et in the stews; a pearl in the dunghill. Such sad and dazzling discoveries are not alto- gether unknown. The Jacressade was rather a courtyard than a house; and more of a well than a courtyard. It had no stories looking on the street. Its facade was ay. a high wall, with a low gateway. You raised the latch, pushed the gate, and wera at once in the courtyard. ; : In the midst of this yard might be perceived a round hole, encircled with a margin of stones, even with the ground. The yard was the well large. A broken payement sur~ was square, and built on three sides only, On the side of the street was only the wall; f: you as you entered the gate~ the ‘house, the two wings of which formed the sides to right and left, Anyone entering there after nightfall, at his own risk and peril, would have heard a con- fused murmur of voices; andif there had been moonlight or starlight enough to give shape to the obseure forms before his eyes, this is whati he would have seen: The courtyard: the well, Around the court- yard, in front of the gate, a lean-to or shed, in a sort of horse-shoe form, but. with square cor- ners; a rotten gallery, with a roof of joists su rted by stone pillars at peace distances. In e center, the well; around the well, upon a lit- ter of straw, akind of circular chaplet, formed of the soles of boots and shoes; some trodden down at the heel, some peeve ane toes of the wearers, some the naked heels. The feet of men, women, and children, all asleep. Beyond. these feet, the eye might have dis- tinguished, in the shadow of the shed, bodies, drooping beats ont stretched out lazily, bun- dies of rags of sexes, a promiscuous assem- blage, a strange and revolting mass of life. The accommodation of this sleeping chamber was open to all, at the rate of two sous a week. On a stormy night the rain fell upon the feet, the whirling snow settled on the bodies of those The courtyard wretched sleepers. Who were these people? The unknown. They came there at night and departed in the morn- | ing. Creatures of this kind form part of the so- cial fabric. Some stole in during the darkness, and paid nothing. The greater part had scarce- jy eaten during the day. All kinds of vice and baseness, every sort. of moral infection, every species of distress were there. The same sleep settled down upon all in this bed of filth. The dreams of all these companions in misery went on side by side. A dismal meeting-place, where misery and weakness, half-sobered debauchery, weariness from long yore to and fro, with evil thoughts, in quest of bread, pallor with closed eyelids, remorse, envy, lay mingled and festering in the same miasma, with faces that had the look of death, and disheveled hair mixed with the filth and sweepings of the streets. Such was the putrid heap of life fermenting in this dismal spot. An unlucky turn of the wheel of fortune, a ship arrived on the day before, a discharge from prison, a dark night, or some other chance had brought them here, to find a miserable shelter, Every day brought some new accumulation of misery, Let him enter who would, sleep who could, speak who dared; for it was a place of whispers. The new-comers hastened to bury themselves in the mass, or tried toseek oblivion in sleep, since there was none in the darkness of the place. They snatched what little of themselves they could from the jaws of death. They closed their eyes in that confusion of horrors which every day renewed, They were the embodiment of misery, thrown off from society, as the scum is from the sea. It was not every one who could even get a share of the straw. More than one figure was stretched out naked upon the flags. They lay down worn out with weariness, and awoke para- eed. The well, without lid or parapet, and thirty. feet in depth, gaped open night and day. in fell around it; filth accumulated about, and the gutters of the jae ran down and filtered through its sides. The pail for drawing the water stood by the side. Those who were thirsty drank there; some, disgusted with life, drowned themselves in it—slipped from their slumber in the filthy shed into that profoandan sleep. In the year 1819, the body of a boy, of fourteen years old, was taken up out of this well. To be safe in this house, it was ne to be of the ‘‘right sort.” Theuninitiated were regard- ed with suspicion, Did these miserable wretches, then, know each other? No; yet they scented out the genuine guest of the Jacressade. The mistress of the house was a young and rather pretty woman, wearing a cap trimmed with ribbons. She washed herself now and then with water from the well. She had a wooden leg. At break of day, the courtyard became empty. Its inmates dispersed, An old cock and some other fowls were kept in the courtyard, where they raked among the filth of the place all day long. A long horizon- tal beam, supported by posts, traversed the ports gibbet-shaped erection, not out of keep- ng with the associations of the place. Some- times on the morrow of a rainy day, a silk dress, mudded and wet, would be ‘seen hanging out to dry upon this beam... It belonged to the woman with the wooden leg. Over the shed, and like it, surrounding the yard, was a story, and above this story a loft. A rotten wooden ladder, passing throueh a hole in the roof of the shed, conducted to this story ; and @ this ladder ee would ci, sometimes i ile its ¢ rounds creaked benea aces re: The occasional 1 whether by the week or the night, slept in the courtyard; the regular Snuibbes Hye ey e house, a Ee ‘Windows without a pane of glass, door-frames th no door, fireplaces without stoves; such were the chief features of the interior. You mas from one room to the other, indiffer- ently, by a long square aperture which had been the door, or by a prlangalay hole between the joists of the partitions. The fallen plaster of the ceiling lay about the floor. It was difficult to say how the old house still stood erect. The high -winds indeed shook it, The 1 ascended as they could by. the worn and slippery steps of the ladder. Everything was open to the air. The wintry atmosphere was absorbed in the house, like water into a sponge. The multitude of spiders seemed alone to guarantee the place a fi to. pieces immediately.. there was no sign of ture. Two or three were in the corner, their ticking torn parts, and showing more dust than straw within. Here and there were a water-pot and an earthen pipkin. A close; disagreeable odor haunted the rooms. The windows looked out upon the square yard. The scene was like the SAeaniae of a scav- enger’s cart.. The things, not to speak of the human beings which lay rusting, moldering and putrefying there, were indescribable. —The ragments seemed to fraternize together, Some fell from the walls, others from the living ten- ants of the place, The debris were sown with their tatters. — ares severed : Besides the floating. population which biyou- acked nightly in.the Pina yard, the Jacressade had three permanent lodgers—a charcoal-man, 18 eT HE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. a rag-picker, and a ‘‘gold+thaker.” The char- coal-man and the rag-picker occupied two of the paillasses of the first story ; the “ gold-maker,” a chemist, lodged in the loft, which was called, no one’ knows why, the garret. “Nobody knew where the’ woman ‘slept. The’ gold-maker” was a poet in’ a small way. He inhabited a room in the roof, under the: tiles—a chamber with a narrow window, and a large. stone fire- place forming’a gulf, in which the wind/howled at will. The garret window having ‘no frame, he had nailed across it a piece of iron sheathing, ate of the wreck of a ship. This sheathing eft little room: for the entrance of light’ and much for the entrance of «cold. The char- coal-man' ‘paid rent from time to time in the nr of a sack of charcoal; the rag-picker paid with a bowl of grain for the fowls every week; the “gold-maker” did not: pay at. all.” Mean- while the latter consumed the very house itself for fuel. He had pulled down the little-wood- work which remained; and every now and then he'took from the wall or the roof a lath or some scantling, to heat his crucible. Upon the parti- tion, above the rag-picker’s ‘mattress, might have been seen two columns of figures, marked in chalk by the rag-picker himself from week to week—a column of threes, and a column of fives —according as the bowl of grain had cost ‘him three liards or five centimes. ‘The’ gold-pot of the ‘‘chemist” was an old fragment of a bomb- shell, promoted by him to the dignity of a crucible, in which he mixed his- ingredients. The transmutation of metals absorbed all his thoughts. He was determined before he died to ee himself by breaking the windows of orthodox science with the real philosopher’s stone. His furnace consumed a good’ deal of wood. The hand-rail of the stairs had disap- oe te The house was slowly burning ‘away. he landlady said to him, ‘‘ You will leave us nothing but the shell.” He mollified her by ad- dressing her in verses. Such was the Jacressade. A boy of twelve, or kta sixteen—for he was like a dwarf, with a large wen upon his neck, and always carrying a broom in his hand —was the domestic of the place. . The habitues entered by the gateway of the courtyard; the public entered by the shop. In the high wall, facing the street, and to the right of the entrance to the courtyard, was’a square Opening, serving at once as a door and a window. This was the shop. The square open- ing had a shutter and a frame—the only shutter in all the house which had hinges and bolts, Be- hind this square aperture, which was open to the street, was a little room, a compartment ob- tained by curtailing the sleeping ‘shed in the courtyard. Over the door passers-by read the |’ inscription in charcoal, ‘Curiosities sold here.” |! On three boards, forming the shop front, were [ several China pots’ without’ ears, a Chinese par- asol made of gold-beater’s skin, and ornamented with figures, torn here and there, and impos- sible to open or shut; fragments of iron, and shapeless pieces of old pottery, and dilapidated hats and bonnets; three or four shélls;’ some ckets of old bone and metal buttons, a tobacco- |- box with a portrait’ of Marie-Antoinette, and'a dog’s-eared volume: of Boisbertrand’s' Algebra. Such was the stock of the shop; this assortment completed the ‘‘ curiosities.” "The shop commu- nicated by a back door with the yard in which was the well. It was furnished with a table and a stool, The woman with a wooden leg presided at the counter. eel VIt. NOCTURNAL BUYERS, AND MYSTERIOUS SELLERS. ‘CLUBIN had been absent from the Jean Au- berge all the evening of Tuesday.’ ’ On Wednes- ert ight he was absent again. Bs n the dusk of that evening, two strangers penetrated into the mazes of the rnelle Coutan- chez, They stopped in front of the Jacressade. One of them knocked at the window; the door of the shop opened, and they entered. | The woman with the wooden leg met them with the smile which she reserved for respectable citizens, | ‘There was a candle on the table, 3 The strangers were, in fact, respectable. citi- zens, The one who had knocked ‘said, “ Good- day mistress. TI have come for that affair,” © woman with the wooden leg smiled again, “and went out by the ‘back door leading ‘to the “courtyard, aiid where thé well was. A moment afterward the back door was opened again, and | a man stood in the doorway. He wore a cap and --ablouse. He had bits of old straw in his clothes, and looked as if he had just been aroused from aoe @ advanced and exchanged glances with the ae The in the. blouse looked puz- zled, but cunning; he’ said: . “ You are the smith?’ saa man who tapped. at the window re- Fe Yes: you are the tian from Paris?” ; “Known as Redskin. | Yes.” ** Show me the thing.” The man took from under his blouse a weapon know the house, and whom the mann the blouse had called ‘‘the’ gunsmith,” tried ‘the mechan- ism. He —_, the weapon. to the other, who appeared less at home there, and: kept his back ae, to the en oe ‘he gunsmith continued “ How much?” The man in the blouse replied: ‘“T have. just brought it from America, Some etn bring monkeys, parrots, and other’ ani- mals, as if the French’ people were savages. bk myself I brought this. Itis a useful inven- ‘ion. ‘‘How much?” inquired the gunsmith again; “Tt is a pistol which turns and turns.” ‘How much?” “Bang! the first fire. Bang! the second fire. Bang! the third fire. "What a hailstorm of bul- lets!~ That will:do some execution.” ‘The price?” ‘There are six barrels.” ‘Well, well; what do you want for it?” “Six barrels; that is six Louis.” ‘Will you take five?” 4 ‘Impossible. One Louis a ball: That is the price.” ‘*Come, let us do business together, sonable.” ““T have named a fair price. weapon, Mr. Gunsmith.” ““T have examined it.” ‘The barrel twists and turns like Talleyrand himself: The weapon ought to be mentioned in the ‘ Dictionary of Weathercocks.’ It isa gem.” **T have looked at it.” “The barrels are of Spanish make,” “*T see they are.” : ‘They are twisted. ‘This is how this twisting is done. -They empty into a forge the basket of a collector of old iron. They fill it full of these old ‘scraps, with old nails, and broken horse- shoes swept out of farriers’ shops.” ‘And old sickle-blades.” ““T was going to say so, Mr. Gunsmith. They apply to all this rubbish a good sweating heat, and this makes a magnificent material for gun- barrels.” ff Yes;'but it may have cracks, flaws, or crosses.’ “True; but they remedy the crosses by little twists, and avoid the risk of doublings by beat- ing hard. They bring their mass of iron under the great hammer} give it two more good sweat- ing heats. If the iron has been heated too much, they re-temper it with dull heats, and lighter hammers. And then they take out their stuff and roll it well; and with this iron they manufacture you a weapon like this.” **-You are in-the trade, I suppose?” *T am of all trades.”. ; : “The barrels are pale-colored.” ““That’s the beauty of them, Mr. Gunsmith. The tint is obtained with antimony.” “Tt is settled, then, that we give you five Louis? ; ** Allow me to observe that I had the honor of saying six.” : he gunsmith lowered his voice. © “Hark you, master, Take advantage of the Peers Get rid of this’ thing. weapon of this kind is of no use to a man like you, ‘It Be rea- Examine the will make you remarked.” “Tt is very true,” said the Parisian.) “It is rather conspicuous. It is more’ suited to'a gen- tleman.” ; eB | “ Will you take five Louis?” er OE “No, six; one.for every shot.” “Come, six Napoleons.” ; a “T will have six Louis.” > ore! Pe OU are not a Bonapartist, then. Youprefér a Louis to a Napoleon.” ~ The Parisian nicknamed “‘ Redskin ” smiled. “A Napoleon’ is greater,” said he,’ ‘‘ but. a Louis is worth more. ; ~ “Six Napoleons.” OX ie “ Six’ Louis, ‘It makes a difference’ to me’ of four-and-twenty frances.” “The bargain is off in that case.” * Good; I keep the toy.” “ Keep it.” eee ae ee “Beating me down! fod ts idea! It shall ae be said bg got es like that of ‘a’ won- erful specimen of ingenuity. ; : ' «Goodnight, fen , is ; nit “Ts marks a whole ‘stage in the Pee of making pistols, which’ the Chesapea e Indians call Nortay--Hab.” we ' yABSIOT S “Five Louis, ready money.’ Whi, ‘itis ‘a handful of gold.” Bet Sei, mat? | “<< Nortay-u-Hah,’ that ‘signifies ‘ short gut. A good many people don’t know that.” "7° “will you take five Louis, and just'a bit of silver?” ’ a ee eres “T said six, master.” "" ag cases : ‘The man who kept his back to the gandle, and who had not spoken, Saosin tinie dur- ing the dialogue in and testing the inbtiagian of the pistol.” He approached ‘the amorer’s ear and whispered; , “Ts it a good weapon?” ; : x iE SAR TN rata dre cca “T will give the six Louis.” extremely rare at that period in Europe,’ It was a revolver. =” The weapon was new and bright. The two strangers examined it. The one who seeméd to Five’ minutes afterward, while the Parisian nicknamed ‘“ Redskin” was ‘depositing the’ six Louis which he had just received in a’secret slit under the breast of his blouse, the armorer'and ‘© |sshore. his companiom carrying the: revolver, in’ his ee pocket, stepped out into the straggling reet. ‘ . VIII. A “CANNON” OFF THE) RED BALL AND THE BLACK. On the morrow, which was a Thursday, a tragi¢ cit¢umstance occurred at a short distance from St. Malo, near the peak of the ‘‘ Decolle;” a Pe where the cliff is high and the sea deep. line of rocks in the form of the top of a by a narrow isthmus, stretch out there into the water, ending abruptly with a large peak- shaped breaker. Nothing is commoner in’ the architecture of the sea. In attempting to reach the plateau of the peaked rock from the shore, it was necessary to follow an inclined plane, the a nt:of which was here and there somewhat steep. f wil % It was aoe a plateau of this kind, toward ie aa << = poe ce ee man was nding, enveloped in‘a large military ca) and armed; a ‘fact easy to be perceived from certain straight and angular folds in his mantle. The summit on which this man was resting was a rather extensive platform, dotted’ with large masses of rock, like enormous paving- stones, léaving: between them narrow passages. This platform, on which a kind of thick, short grass grew here and there, came to an end ‘on the sea side in an open e, leading to.a per- pendicular escarpment. e con rising about sixty feet above the level of the sea, seem- ed cut down by the aid of a plumb-line. » Its left angle, however, was broken away, and formed one of those natural stair-cases common’ to granite cliffs worn by the sea, the steps of which the strides of a giant or the leaps of an acrobat. These stages of rock descended het penteaesy to the sea; where they were lost. It was a break-neck place. However, in case of absolute necessity, a man’ might succeed in embarking there, under the very wall of the cliff. A breeze was sweeping the sea. The’ man wrapped in his cape and standin; » with his left hand grasping his right shoulder, closed one eye, and applied the other to a telescope. He seemed absorbed in anxious:serutiny. He had approached the edge of the escarpment, and stood there motionless, his gaze: immovably fixed on the horizon. The tide was high; the waves were beating below against the foot of the cliffs. The object which the stranger was observing was a vessel in the offing, and which was maneu- vering in a strange manner. |The vessél, which had hardly left the port of St. Malo an hour, had stopped behind the Banquetiers. It had not anchor, perhaps because the bottom would only have permitted it to bear to leeward on the edge of the cable, and because the ship would have strained on her anchor under the cutwater. Her captain had contented himself with’ lying- rm rsa The stranger, who was a coast-guardman, as was apparent from»his uniform, watched all the movements of the three-master, and seemed to note them mentally.’ | The vessel was lying-to, a little off the wind, which was indicated by the backing’ of the small topsail, and the:bellying of the maintopsail. She had squared the mizzen, and set the topmaist as close ‘as ‘possible; and in «such a manner as to:work the ‘sails against each _|fother, and to make ‘little way’either on) or: off Her — evidently did not care to a ad his vessel much to the wind, for. he had nonly braced up the small mizzen' topsail. ‘In this way, coming crossway on; he did: not: drift’ at the utmost more than half a league anhour, [twas still broad daylight, particularly’ on the open sea, and on the hights of the cliff. The shores below were becoming dark. « The c rdman, stillengaged in bike Satter, ‘and carefully scanning the offing, had not thoug! £ of observing the rocks at his side and at his feet. He turned his back toward: the difficult sort of causeway which formed the communication tween his resting-place and the: shore. | He did not, teatente ‘remark that something was moy- ing in that direction..; Behind a ‘fragment of rock, eeeckueee steps of ‘that causeway, some- thing i tin - aman ‘had. Receniies. cealed, according all appearances, since the arrival of the coast- .» From timesto _ | timeva head issued from the shadow»behind ‘the rock; looked up and watched the watcher: The ‘head, surmounted by awide- med American ‘hat, was that of the Quaker-looking man, who, ‘ten ~~ before, was ‘alee eens: ‘the’ stones of the Petit-Bey to a uela. i Suddenly, the curiosity of the c an seemed to be still more strongly awakened. He lished the glass of "his telescope quickly with ‘sleeve; and brought it to:bear’ closely upon the three-master., = rvyolte i A little black ‘spot seemed to detach’ itself from her'side. 3 bn ane ai ‘The black spot, looking like a small ‘insect upon the water, was a boat, soit sider Tie boat seemed tobe tiaking- for the shore. It was manned by’several sailors, who pulling vigorously. nd vemgor) She pulled crosswise by little and. little; and appeared tobe approaching the Point du Decolle, 1 lance, and connecting themselves with the’ land | are somewhat inconvenient, requiring sometimes — “were — > PRS AI a J strat ie aap. ner x iasggtrninagns ~ RE aT Nos, 15-16. THE“TOTILERS 'OF’ |THE 'SEA. 49 “The gaze of the coast-ptiardman seemed ‘to have reached its' most intense point.. No move- ment of ‘the boat escaped it,’ He had approach- ed neare? still to the verge of the rock. At that instant a man of’ large stature ap- red on'ofie°of the rocks behind him.’ It was he Quaker. The officer did not see him. ‘The’ man paused an’ instant, his arms at his side, but’ with his fists doubled; and with the eye of a hunter, watching for his prey, he ob- served the back of thé officer. Four steps only separated them. He’ put one foot forward, then stopped,’ took a second step, aud’ stopped again. He made no movément ex- cept the aét of walking; all the rest of his body was motionless as'a statue. His foot fell upon the tufts of grass without noise. He made a third step, and oe again. ‘He’ was almost within reach of ‘the coast-guard;*who ' stood there still motionless with his telescope. The man brought ‘his two closed fists to a Iével with his collar- bone; then struck out his arms sharply, and his two fists, as if thrown from a sling, struck the coast-guardman on’ the two ‘shoulders. The shock was decisive. The coast-guardman had not the time toutter a cry. He fell: head first from the hight of the rock ‘into the sea.’ His boots appeared in the air about the time occu- pied by a flash of lightning. It was like the fall of a stone in the sea, which instantly closed over him. Two or three circles widened out upon the dark water. Nothing remained but the telescope, which had dropped from the hands of the man, and lay upon the turf. ; e Quaker leaned over the edge of the es- carpment a moment, watched the circles vanish- ing on the water, waited a few minutes, and then rose again, singing in a low voice: “The captain of police is dead, Through having lost his life.” He knelt down a second’ time. Nothing reap- ared. . Only at'the spot where the officer had fon ingulfed, he observed on the surface of the water a sortof dark spot, which became diffused with the gentle lapping of the waves. It seemed ramnees that the coast-guardman had fractured is skull inst: some rock under water, and that his blood caused the spot in the foam, The Quaker, ‘while considering the meaning of this spot, began to sing again: “Not very long before he died : The luckless man’ was still alive.” He did not finish his song. ; , He heard an extremely soft voice behind him, which said: ; “Ts that you, Rantaine? Good-day. You have just killed a man!” He tortie’. About fifteen paces behind him, in one of the passages between the rocks btood a little man holding a revolver in his hand. The Quaker answered: : ss * As you'see, Good-day, Sieur Clubin.”’ The little man started, | ; : eon knee mer ue sats ‘aii ou knew me very, well,” re Ran . Meanwhile they could hear & wpand of oars on the sea. . It was the approach of the boat which the officer had observed.) pe ee eine Sieur Clubin said in a Jow tone, as if speaking to 16 IS ele seat cke iat Oe was doné quickly.”\"" «What can I do to’ oblige you?” asked Ran- taine. “FS ‘ ‘ rn “Oh, a trifling matter!’ It is very nearly ten since I saw you, ‘You must have been agin swell. How ate you” i ‘s pli.enoneh,” answered Rantaine, ‘How are you?” cial “a ; Very well,” replied Clubin, ».. “ Sorts Rantaine advanced a step. toward Clubin. A. little click caught: his ear.’ It was Sieur, Clubin who was cocking his revolver, _*Rantaine, there are about fifteen paces be- tween us. It is a nice distance. Remain where ‘ou. are, ; 4 vent well,” said Rantaine, |“ What do you want w. ee Se ee fe “1? Oh, Ihave come 'to havea chat with YOU pon ai So da Rantaine did ‘not offer to 1 ain,’ Giibin contitineas | COMP YS IAEPIM, BlenE ice YOU ted a, coast-guardman just HUW a aiken griivwy dikepemaeas met ca ane lifted the) fap of his ‘hat, and re- ed: pene . a: 2 ij Pe ou have already done me the honor to mention it.” ex ae ee ,. ‘Exactly: but in terms less precise.. I'said'a man; I say now, a coast-; . The man wore the number 619, \He was the father of a FI Jeevan ® we ato five children.” “That is no doubt ase said Rantaine. ‘There was a, momentary pause. , “They are picked | x én—those coast-guard beep lbs, eontinued Clubin ; ‘almost . old ors. :, ” _“T haye remarked,” said Rantaine, “ that peo- ple Penaraly A0 sees a wife and five children.” Sieur Clubin continued; Selo _, Guess how much this revolver cost me? (at is a pretty tool,” said Rantaine, «What do you guess it at?” I should guess it at a good deal.” “Tt Gost’ me ‘one’ hundred and ‘forty-four tence : : “You must have bought that,” said Rantaine; ‘Cat the shop in the ruelle Coutanchez.” |’ Clubin continued: “He did not ery out. The ‘fall stopped his ‘Yoice, no doubt.” : 5 “Sieur Clubin, there’ will be a’ breeze to- night.” © : f “Tam the only one in thé séeret.” : “Do you still stay at the Jean Auberge?” “Yes. “You are not badly served there.” “TJ remember getting’ some’ excellent’ sour- krout there.” , “You must be eo strong, Rantaine. What shoulders you have! ‘T'should be sorry’ to get a tap from you. I, on the other hand, when came into the world, looked so spare and sickly that they despaired of raising me.” : “hey succeeded though; which was lucky.” “Yes; I still stay at the Jean Auberge.” “Do you know, Sieur’ Clubin, how I recog- nized a It was from your having recognized me. said’ to myself, “There is nobody ‘like Sieur Clubin for that:’” “And he advanced a step. - “Stand back where ‘you were, Rantaine.” Rantaine fell back, and said to himself: : “A fellow becomes like a child before one. of those weapons.” } : Sieur Clubin continued: “The position of affairs is this: we have on our right, in the direction of St. Enogat, at about three hundred paces from here, another coast-guardman—his number is 618—who is still alive; and on our left, in the direction ‘of St. Lunairée, a customs station. That makes seven armed ‘men’who could be ‘here, if necessary, in five minutes. The rock would ‘be surrounded; the way hither guarded. Impossible to elude eo, There is a corpse at the foot of this rock. a ; om a Rantaine took a side-way glance at the’ ré- volver. Shy “ a “As you say, Rantaine, it is a pretty tool. Perhaps itis only loaded with powder; but what does that matter? A report would be enough to bring an armed force—and I have six barrels here.” The measured sound of the oars became very distinct. The boat was not far off. ~ The tall man regarded the little- man curi- ously. ' Sieur Clubin spoke in a voice more and more subdued: : S etas : ; : “ Rantaine, the men in the boat ‘whith is coming, knowing what you did ‘here just now, would lend a hand and help to arrest ‘you, You are to pay Captain Zuela ten thotisand francs for your passage. You would havé made'a better bargain, by the way, with the smug- Jers of Pleinmont ; but they’ would: only ave ‘taken you to England; and, ‘besides, you cannot. risk going to, Guernsey, where they have’ the ‘ pleasure ‘of ‘knowing’ ‘you, To re- turn, then, to the position of airs—if PT 'fire; you ‘are arrested.’ Youate'to pay*Ztbla for your passage ten thousand! francs.” You ‘have already paid him five thousand’ in ‘advance. Zuela would keep the fixe thousand and be gone. These’ ate the facts.’ Raritaine; you have man- aged rour, masquerading ‘very well. That hat—that queer coat—and_ those Segre make a, Ponge ta auaiee You forgot the spéctacles; but did right to let your whiskers grow!”" ° - Rantaine smiled ’spasmodically. rT Uniw. O“Clubiti toritintdd 2072 8 O¥e0 tigi BAC f “Rantainé, you'have on a ‘pair of American bréeches, with'a: double fob: In one side ‘you bin our watch. «Take care of it,” 9° 8 “hank you, Sieur Clubin.” 9 Ph “In the other is a Tittlé box thade of wrought iron, which opens and shuts with ‘a spring. - T isan old sailor’s tobacco-box. "Take it out of our pocket, and throw it oyer tome,;”°"". yy, this is robbery.” 0 0) | “You are at liberty to ‘call. the ‘coast‘guard- man. 4 IF TOL ; ~ And Clubin fixed his eye on-Rantaine) 9 ¢ ‘Stay, Mess Clubin,” said’ Rantainé, mai a slight forward movement, and holding out his open hand. ; e The title ‘‘ Mess” was.a delicate flattery. “ Stay where you are, taine.” “Mess Clubin, let us come to terms, I offer you half.” Ake y 2 Clubin crossed his arms, still showing the bar- rels of his revolver. ; ‘‘Rantaine, what do you take me for? I am an honest man.” And he added after a pause. rat . “J nmust have the whole.” ae co Rantaine muttered between his teeth: > - “This fellow’s of.a stern sort.” 7) 0) The eye of Clubin lighted up, his ‘voice be- came clear and sharp as steel. He cried: |” ~ “T see that you are laboring under a mistake, Robbery is your name, not mine. My’ name is Restitution. Hark you, Rantaine.' ‘Ten years ago you left Guernsey one night, taking with you the cash-box of a certain on -con- ining fifty thousand francs which be- : behind you fifty thousand francs ‘were the prop- erty of , another. Those. fifty thousatid canes t the money of your partner, the excellent and” ‘worthy Mess Lethiorry, make at present, at bonspjaia “qniterest) ealbuldted’ for’ ten “yours, eighty ‘thousand’ six hundred’. and’ sixty-six francs: “You Went into a money-changér’s yés- terday.' Tl give you his name—Rebuchet, in St. Vincent ‘street. “You counted out to him seventy-six thousand ’frants' ‘in’ French ‘bank notes; in exchange for which he gave you three notes of the Bank of England for one thousand act sterling of“ each)‘ plis* the ‘éxchange. ow put these bank-notes in’ thé" iron ‘tobacco- box, and the iron tobacco“bOx into your double fob on thé right“hand side, On'the part of Méss Lethierry, I shall be content with that, T start to-morrow for Guérnséy, and intend’ to, hand it to him.’ Rantaineé; the three-mastér lying-to out onder, is thé Tamaulipas. | You have had your uggage put aboard there with the other things belonging to the crew, You! want’ to' leave France: “You ‘have your reasons. “You are go- ing to Arequipa. The boat is coming to “fetch a You aré awaiting it. eee hand: You can ear it. _It' depends 6n mé whether you go'or ox ‘No more words; Fling me the tobacco-, x. , A a? ¥ Rantaine ee his hand in the fob, drew out a little box, and threw-it to Clibin. Tt was the’ ine tobacco-box. It fell and rolled at Clubin’s eét. : : Clubin kntlt, withotit lowering his’ gaze; felt about for the box with his left hand, keeping all the while his eyes and thé six barrels of the re- volver fixed upon Rantaine. Then he cried: ee. “Turn your back, my friend.” oi Rantaine turned his back. . = Sieur Clubin put the revolver under oné arm, and touched the spring of the tobacco-box, ‘The lid flew open, It contained four bank-notes; three of a thou- sand pounds and.one of ten. pounds, He folded up the three bank-notes of a thou- sand pounds gach, roplaped them in the iron i shut the lid dow1, and'put it in his pocket. “Sale Then he picked up a stone ‘and wrapped it in a ten-pound note, and said: “You may turn round again.” Rantaine turned. * ; Sieur Clubin continued: Bs _“* I told you T would be ‘contented with! three eee pounds. Here, I return you ten Ni a ri Atid hé threw to Rantaine the note enfolding the stone. .. *)")" © Rantaine, with a movement of his foot, ‘sent the’ bank-note and the stone’ ito the sea.’ ~ “As you please,” said Clubin: ‘You must be rich. ‘I am/satisfied.” 0 >’ ~The noise of- oars, which had been continual! drawifig ‘nearer during ‘the dialogue, ceased’ They knew by this that the boat had arrived at: the Of the CHT, CBE Or ° ; “Your vehicle waits below. "You can go, Ran- eo? O83 98F MBIDSON ° i ~ Raiitaine advanced toward the steps of stones, and rapidly disappeared.) V0 98) on tic | ’ Clubin moved cautiously toward ‘the edge of the escarpnicnt, and witehed him descending. ~The boat’ had stopped near the last stage of thé rocks, at the very. spot’ where’ the ‘coast gudrdman had fallen"! OOF Sarors Ses son) ~' Sill observing Rantaine |stepping'’ from stone’ to stone, Clibin mut FSV ist 0. WOO-DIHNG EAS 20H wees ae Be ‘thought es one, ae ine thou, ere was only two thre: g ‘Etchie iesowe ‘that therowere thie.” ; vf alOhced ts ‘at his feet the ‘telescope which had ped from the’hands of the coast4guard ~Thé sound 6f'oars was héardagain’ ‘Rantaine had stepped into’ the bor t, ‘and the rowers had ~ pushed out to sea.) |) 0) S977 oon oe: 2, iq ’ When ‘Rantaine was’ safely in the boat; and the cliff was beginning to recede from his'ey 6s, he arose‘again abruptly.” His! features we on with rage; hé' cletithed his fist anc cried: av I if OAL FALE OF “Ha! he is the devil himself; a'villain!” ~ A few seconds Jater, ‘Clubin, from’ 4 Pot the rock, While ‘bringing the-telescopeto upon the boat, hears, itn the following words articulated by a’loud voice, and niingling wile a of the sea: tak shalt teak ‘ie in, you are an st man; but oma hous vdenaea if I'write to Lethierry uaint him oF this ae and. we have m the Boat! a’sailor from Guernsey, who is one of the crew: of the Tamaulipas; his name is Ahier-Tosteyin, and he will return to. 8t, Malo on Zuéla’s next. voyage, to bear’ testimony ‘to the fact of my having returned to you, on Méss Lethierry’s ‘decount, the'sum of three thousand pounds sterling.” ‘ . : It was Rantaine’s voice!) vor cor) oul © Clubin rarely did things by‘halves.: Motion- less as the coast-guardman ‘had been, in the exact same place, his eye étill’at the , he did not lose sight of the boat for* one mo- ment. He saw it growing less amidst the waves; Watched it disappear and | ) and’ ap- proach the vessel, which was lying-to; finally h "the ‘tall figure ‘of Rantaine on ‘the deck ps Tamaulipas 20" loved} fon ney : »- When the boat was raised, and slung again to the davits, the wulipas was in motion’once — more, ‘The “lanid-breeze’ was frechp*and’ she 20 ATHE ‘FIRESIDE “LIBRARY:© all. her sails.;. Clubin’s. glass ;continued ed upon the outline growing more and more indistinct; until half an hour later, when. the Tamaulipas had become only a dark shape upon the horizon, growing smaller and smaller.against the pale twilight in the sky. IX. USEFUL INFORMATION FOR PERSONS WHO. EX- PECT OR FEAR THE, ARRIVAL OF, LETTERS FROM BEYOND. SBA. On that evening, Sieur Clubin returned late, i One of the causes of his delay was, that before Y going to his inn, he had paid a visit to the Dinan gate of the town, a. place where there were sev- eral wine-shops. In one of these wine-shops, where he was not known, he had bought a bot- tle of brandy, which he placed in the pocket of his overcoat, as if he desired to conceal it. Then, as the Durande was to start on the following morning, he had taken a turn abroad to satisfy himself that everything was in order. : ‘When Sieur Clubin returned to the Jean Au- berge, there was no one left in the lower room except. the old sea-captain, M. Gertrais-Gabour- re who was drinking a jug of ale and smoking pe. Me Gevdidis Haniureae saluted Sieur Clubin between a whiff and a draught of ale. - “* How d’ye do, Captain Clubin?”’ “Good evening, Captain Gertrais.” “Well, the Tamaulipas has gone.” * Ah!” said Clubin, ‘‘ I did not observe.” Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau expectorated, and said: ‘* Zuela has decamped.” “When was that’ This evening.” ‘Where is he gone%” “To the devil.” ‘“‘No. doubt; but where is that?” “T> Arceatipe.” ‘*T know nothing of it,” said Clubin. =a added: as am He lighted “his candle, walked toward the door, and returned. “Have you ever been at Arequipa, Captain?” ‘Yes: some years ago.” “ Where do they touch on that voyage?” ‘CA little every where; but the Tamaulipas will touch nowhere.’ M. Gertrais-Gaboureau emptied his pipe upon the corner of a plate and continued: “You know the lugger called the Trojan Horse, and that fine three-master, the Trente- mouzin, which are gone to Cardiff? I was against their sailing on account of the weather, ey have returned in a fine state. The lugger hed was laden with turpentine; she sprung a leak, f and in working the pumps they pumped up with ; the water all her cargo. As to th f master, she has suffered most above the water. Her cutwater, her headrail, the stock of her : Jarboard anchor are broken... Her standing .jib- boom is gone clean by the cap. As for the. jib- Bi shrouds and ‘bobstays, go and see. what they | look like. The mizzenmast is not injured, but setae ' een eee rit has given ways; and it is an e ; Wek thal ocak te POmmaa ek scratched,’ it. is completely stripped... The lar- board-bow of the vessel is stove in a good three feet, square, This is what comes of not taking vice. eee basipiaced the candle mn the table, ane gun. to readjust.a row of pins which he kept. in) the, collar, of his, overcoat... He: con- pt! tinued: Pet a ‘‘Didn’t you say, captain, that the Tamauli- Bi pas would not touch anywhere?” - > ‘Yes; she goes direct to Chili,” “In that case, she can send no news of herself enn a Captain Clubin. In th wi your on, x 8 first place, she can send any letters by vessels she may meet sailing for Europe.” “That is true.” at / “Then there is the ocean letter-box.” Fi ; ss t do you mean by the ocean letter- Pie box?” : eh 2 : “Don’t you know what,,that, is, Captain Clu- os “ce No,” : a “When you pass the straits of Magellan—” + “ Well.” ee “ Snow all round you; always bad weather; ; i i epi gewmensters, and bad seas.” c : e “i “When you have doubled Cape Monmouth—” Bhi S Y i moe what next?” zit 3 7 4 A then Cape Valentine. ‘Why, then you double Isidore!” “And. afterward?” pare ‘¢ You double Point Anne,”. “Good, But what is it. you call the ocean +5 letter-box?” "ack ; ‘““We are coming to that. Mountains on, the c right, mountains fit Men BCGE TINA AEN Spor pone all about. A place. Ah! by Jove, what a howling and what cracks ‘ou get there! The hurricane wants no ae 8 the place for holding on to the sheer- 5 for reefing topsails. That’s where the mainsail, and fly the jibsail; or ou take in in the ek . ‘eo. ‘is very common, ‘There is, for example, near ai a | jibsail and fly. the storm jib,. Gusts upon gusts! | And then, sometimes four, five, or six days | of aredding under bare poles. Often only a rag | of canvas left,. What adance! Squalls enough | to make a three-master skip like a flea, I saw | once.a cabin-boy hanging on to.the jibboom of an English brig, The True Blue, knocked, jib- | boom and all, to ten, thousand nothings. el- lows are swept into the air there like butterflies, I saw the ‘second mate of the ‘Revenue,’ a pretty, schooner, knocked. from under the fore- cross-tree, and killed dead. I have had my sheer-rail smashed, and come .out with all my sails in ribbons. Frigates of fifty guns make water like wicker baskets.. And the damnable coast! Nothing can be imagined more danger- ous. . Rocks a! igged-odged. You come, by- and-by, to Port Famine. There it’s worse and worse. The worst seas I ever saw in my life. The devil’s own latitudes. All of a sudden you spy the words, painted in red, ‘ Post Office.’ ”’. ‘What do you mean, Captain Gertrais?’ “Tmean, Captain Chubin, that immediately: after doubling ‘oint Ann you see, on a rock, a hundred feet high, a great post with a barrel suspended to the top. This barrel is the letter- box. The English sailors. must needs go and write up there ‘‘ Post Office.” What had the to do withit? It is the ocean post-office. It isn’t the property of that worthy gentleman, the King of England.» The: box is common to all. It belongs to every flag. . Post. Office, there’s a crack-jaw word for you. It produces an effect on me as if the devil.had suddenly offered me a cup of tea. I will tell you now how the postal ments are carried out. Every vessel which passes sends to the post a boat. with dispatches. A vessel coming from the Atlantic, for instance, sends there its letters for Europe; and a ship coming from the Pacific, its letters for New Zealand or California. The officer in command of the boat puts his packet into the barrel, and takes away any. packet he fixds there. You take charge of these letters, and the ship which comes after you takes charge of yours. As ships are always going to and fro, the continent. whence you come is that to which I am going. your letters; you carr mine. The barrel is made fast to the post wit! a chain. And it rains, snows: and hails! A pretty sea. The imps of Satan fly about on every side. The Tamaulipas will pass there. The Real has a good lid with a hinge, but no. padlock. You see, a fellow can write to: his triends this way. The letters come safely.” “Tt is very curious,” muttered Clubin Dose Es 0: 7 Captain is-Garbourreau returned to his bottle of ale. : _. “If that vagabond. Zuela should write (con- tinued Clubin aside), the scoundrel puts his scrawl into the barrel at. Magellan, and in four months I have his letter.” “Well, Captain Clubin, do you start to- morrow?” ; Clubin; absorbed in a sort of somnambulism, did. not, notice, the question; and Captain Ger- trais repeated it. _.Clubin woke up. s ‘i “Of course, Captain Gertrais. It is my day. I must start to-morrow morning.” : “Tf it wasmy case, Ishouldn’t Captain Clubin. The hair of the dog’s,coat feelsdamp.,_For two hare past, the sea-birds have been flying wildly round the lanthorn of the light-house. A bad sign. I have a storm-glass, too, which gives me’a warning. The moon is at her second uarter; it is the maximum of humidity, I no- ticed to-day some Benpemnes with their, leaves shut, and a field of clover. with, its stalks all stiff,..The. worms come out, of the ground to- day ; the flies sting; the bees keep close_to their hives; the sparrows chatter together. You can hear the sound of the bells from far off. I heard to-night the Angelus at St. Lunaire. And then the sun set angry. There will be a good fog to-morrow, mark my words. I don’t advise you to put tosea. I dread the fog a good deal more the hurricane, It’s a nasty neigh- bor that.” ‘Book VI. THE DRUNKEN STEERSMAN AND THE SOBER CAPTAIN. : L THE DOUVRES. Ar about five leagues out, in the open sea, to the south of Guernsey, opposite Preinmont Point, and between the Channel Islands and St. alo, shores is a 4 p of rocks, called the vres. e ‘is dangerous. . This term Doves applied to rocks and cliffs, the Cotes Du Nord, a Douvre, on which a light- house is now being constructed, a dangerous ae eee ae ee aa 3 no be confounded : roc! ve refe’ i [ nearest point on the French coast to the Douvres is Cape Brehat. The Douvres are a lit- tle further from the coast of France than from “the nearest of the Channel Islands. The dis- tance from Jersey may bepretty nearly mea- sured by the extreme length of Jersey.. If the | Island of Jersey could be turned round upon Corbiere, as upon a hinge, St, Catherine’s Point would almost.touch the Douvres, at a distance of. more than four leagues. ‘ In ‘these. civilized regions. the. wildest. rocks are scarcely desert places, | Smugglers are met with at, Hagot, custom-house men at Binic, Celts at. Brehat, Oy See eTOne Eye at Cancale, rabbit- shooters at Cesambre.or Casar’s Island, crab- gatherers at Brecqhou,. trawlers at. the Min- quiers, dredgers af Ecrehou;, but. no one.is ever seen upon the Douvres. 5 The sea-birds alone make their homes there, No spot in the ocean.is more dreaded. ‘che Casquets, where it is said the Blanche Nef .was lost; the Bank of Calvados; the Needles in the Isle of Wight; the Ronesse, which makes the coast of Beaulieu so dangerous; the sunken reefs at Preel, which block the entrance to Merquel, and which necessitates. the red-painted beacon in twenty fathoms of water, the treacherous ap. praca to Etables and Plouha; the two i ruids to the southof Guernsey, the Old An- derlo and the Little Anderlo, the Corbiere, the Hanways, the Isle of Ras, associated with ter- ror inthe proverb: “ S jamais tu passes le Ras, Si tu ne meurs, tu trembleras.”” the Mortes-Femmes, the Deroute between Guernsey and Jersey, the Hardent. between the Minquiers and Chousey, the Mauvais,Cheval be- tween Bouley Bay and Barneyille, have not so evil a reputation. It would be preferable to have to encounter all these dangers, one after the other, than the Douvres once. In all that perilous sea of. the Channel, which is the Egean of the West, the. Douvres have no equals in. their terrors, except the Paternoster between Guernsey and Sark. is From the Paternoster, however, it is possible to give a signal—a ship in distress there may obtain succor. .To the North rises Dicard, or D’Icare Point, and to the south Grosnez.. From the Douvres you can see nothing. Its associations are the storm, the cloud, the wild sea, the desolate waste, the uninhabited coast. e blocks of granite are hideous and enormous—eve ere perpendicular wall—the severe inhospitality of the abyss. It isin the open ‘sea; the water about. is very deep. A rock completely isolated like the Douvres attracts.and shelters creatures which shun the haunts of men. It is a sort of vast submarine cave of fossil coral branches—a drowned labyrinth. There, at a depth to which divers would find it difficult to descend, are caverns, haunts and dusky mazes, where mon- strous ‘creatures multiply and destroy. each other. -Huge crabs devour fish and are de- voured in their turn. a. Hideous shapes of living things, not created to — be seen by human eyes, wander in this twilight. Vague forms of antenns, tentacles, fins, open jaws, scales and claws float about there, quiver- ing, growing larger, or decomposing or perish- ishing in the. gloom, while horrible swarms of swimming things prowl about seeking their rey. x To gaze into the ee of the sea is, in the imagination, like beholding the yast unknown, and from its most terrible point of yiew, The submarine gulf is analagous to the realm of night,and dreams. _ There, also is sleep—uncon- sciousness, or, at least, apparent unconscious- ness, of creation.. There, in the awful silence and darkness, the rude first forms of life, pean eee demoniacal, pursue their horrible In- incts. . : Pr ' Forty years ago, two rocks of singular form signaled the Douyres. from, afar to passers on the ocean. They were two vertical points, sharp and curved—their summits almost touch- ing each other. They looked like the two tusks of an elephant ee of the sea; but they were t high as towers, of an elephant huge as a mountain. These two natural towers, rising out of the obscure home of marine mon- sters, only left a narrow ~~ between them, where the waves rushed through. This passage, tortuous and full of angles, resembled a strag- gling street between high walls. , The two 1 rocks are called the Douvres, There was the Great Douvre and the Little Douvre; one was sixty feet high, the other forty. The ebb and flow of the tide had at last worn away part of the base of the towers, and a violent equinoctial gale on. the 26th of October,, 1859, overthrew one of them. The —— one, which still re- mains,.is worn and tottering... at One of the most singular of the Douvres is a rock known as “‘ The ” This still exists, Some fishermen, in the last century, visiting this spot found on the hight of the rock a hu- man body. By its side were a number of empty sea-shells. A sailor, escaped from shipwreck, had found a refuge there; had lived some time upon rock lim ts, and had died. Hence it is named ‘‘ The Man. ee) es The solitudes of the sea are peculiarly dismal, The things which pass there seem to have no relation to the human race; their are unknown. Such is the isolation of the 4 All around, as far as eye can reach, spreads the vast and restless sea, 4 RL Spt RT, AR 5 el NA MRI, NE pera s | | | | | | | Pecos alee hig ~ ak tales ees Fe ata US tee ANA cena iueltlna etn ONE ‘cattle; some bullocks only. ‘weed, naked-footed, in the sea. THE, -LOILERS, -OF ; THE;SEA. Qt ; ‘ Es AN UNEXPECTED FLASK OF BRANDY. On the Friday morning, the day after the de- parture of the Tamaulipas, the Durande started again for Guernsey. She left St. Malo at nine o’clock. The weather was fine; no haze. Old Captain Gertrais Gabou- reau was evidently in his dotage. . Sieur Clubin’s numerous occupations had de- cidedly been unfavorable to the collection of freight for the Durande. He had only taken aboard some packages of Parisian articles for the fancy shops of St. Peter’s Port; three cases for the Guernsey hospital, one containing yellow soap and ne candles, and the other French shoe-leather for soles, and choice Cordovan skins. He brought back from his last cargo a case of crushed sugar and three chests of congou tea, which the French custom-house would not permit to pass. He had embarked very few ; These bullocks were in the hold loosely tethered. There were six passengers aboard; a Guernsey man, two inhabitants of St, Malo, dealers in cattle; a ‘tourist””—a phrase already in vogue at this period—a Parisian citizen, probably tray- eling on commercial affairs, and an American, engaged in distributing Bibles. ithout reckoning ‘Clubin, the crew of the Durande amounted to seven men; a helmsman, a stoker, a ship’s carpenter, and a cook—serving as sailors in case of need—two engineers and a cabin boy. One of the two engineers was also a practical mechanic, This man, a bold and in- telligent Dutch negro, who had originally es- caped from the sugar plantations of Surinam, was named Imbrancam. The negro, Imbran- cam, understood and attended admirabl. to the engine. In the early days of the ‘‘ Devil Boat,” his black face, appearing now and then. at the top of the engine-room stairs, had contributed not a little to sustain its diabolical reputation. The helmsman, a native of Guernsey, but of a family originally from Cotentin, bore the name of Tangrouille. The Tangrouilles were an old noble family. is was strictly true. The Channel Islands are like England, an aristocratic region. Castes exist there'still. The castes have their peculiar ideas, which are, in fact, their protection, These notions of caste are ead similar ; in Hindostan, as in Germany, nobility is won by the sword; lost by soiling the hands with labor, but preserved by idleness. To do nothing, is to live nobly; whoever abstains from work is honored. A trade is fatal. ce, in old times, there was no exception to this rule, except in the case of glass manufacturers. Emptying bottles being then one of the glories of gentle- men, making them was probably, for that reason, not considered dishonorable. In the Channel archipelago, as in Great Britain, he who would remain noble must contrive to be rich. A working man cannot possibly be a gentleman. If he has ever been one, he is so no longer. Yonder sailor, perhaps, descends from the Knights Bannerets, but is nothing but a sailor. i years ago, a real Gorges, who would have had rights over the Seigniory of Gorges, confiscated. by Philip Augustus, gathered sea- Carteret is a wagoner in Sark. There are at Jersey a draper, and at. Guernsey a shoemaker, named Gruchy, who claim to be Grouchys, and cousins of the Marshal at Waterloo, The old registers of am os of iene mae eee of a Seigniory of Tangroville, evidently from Tan- earvilie; on the lower Seine, which is identical with Montmorency. In the fifteenth cen - Johan de Heroudeville, archer and etoffe of the Sire de Tangroville, bore behin “son corset et ses autres harnois.” In May, 1371, at Pon- torson, at the review of Bertrand du esclin, Monsieur de Tangroville rendered his homage as — Bachelor. In the Norman islands, if a noble falls into poverty, he is soon eliminated from the order. A mere change of pronuncia- tion is enough, ‘Tangroville becomes Tan- grouille; and the thing is done, This had been the fate of the helmsman of the Durande. At the Bordage of St. Peter’s Port, there is a dealer in old iron named Ingrouille, who is robably an Ingroville. Under Lewis le Gros re Ingrovilles possessed three parishes in the district of Valognes. he best mule known is a sort of barrel upon our ; “Beauty in beasts is a different thing from beauty in men.” - av Sopa “ And particularly in women.” “That is true.” ; “ As for me, I like a woman to be pretty.” wt am more particular about her being well ressed, 3 “Yes; neat, clean, and well set off.” _ “Looking just new. aid Wh oP “Tam certain of having seen a very high rock just ahead. Itis the Great Hanway.”. . “You have seen nothing but a thicker bank fog.” ; re is the Great Hanway. Tack, in the name of Heaven!” : Clubin gave the helm a turn. : Vi CLUBIN REACHES THE CROWNING-POINT OF GLORY, ‘A ORASH was heard, . The ripping of a vessel’s side upon a sunken reef in open sea is the most dismal sound of which man can dream. The Durande’s course was stopped short. Several passengers were knocked down with the shock and rolled upon the deck, The Guernsey man raised his hands to heaven: “““We are on the Hanways. I predicted it.” A long ery went up from the ship. “We are lost.” ‘ The voice of Clubin, dry and short, was heard above all. x ; “No one is lost! Silence!” The black form of Imbrancam, naked down to the waist, issued from the hatchway of the | had ine-room, at ; negro said with. self-possession: “The water is gaining, captain. The fires will soon be out.” — = moment was eae Se 4 de. If the was like thai @ suicide. disaster had beet willfully souzbt, it could ‘not icate openings made by | have been more terrible. The Durande had rushed upon her fate as if she had attacked the rock itself, ~ Ron had pierced her sides like a wedge. More than six feet square of planking had gone; the stem was broken, the prow mashed, and the gaping hull drank in the sea with a horrible gulping noise. It was an en- trance for wreck and ruin. The rebound was so violent that it had shattered the rudder pen- dants; the rudder’ itself hung unhinged and flapping. The rock had driven in her keel. Round about the vessel nothing was visible ex- cept a thick, compact fog, now become somber. Night was gathering fast. ‘he Durande plunged forward. It was like the efforts of a horse pierced through the en- trails by the horns of a bull. All was over with er. Tangrouille was sobered. Nobody is drunk in the moment of a shipwreck. He came down to the quarter-deck, went up again, and said; “ Captain, the water is gaining rapidly in the hold. “In ten minutes it will be up to the scup- per-holes.” 7 The passengers ran about bewildered, wring- ing their hands, leaning over the bulwarks, looking down in the engine-room, and making every other sort of useless movement in their terror. The tourist had fainted. Clubin made a sign with his hand, and they were silent. “ He questioned Imbrancam: ‘“‘ How long will the engines work yet?” “Rive or six minutes, sir.” Then he interrogated the Guernsey passenger: “T was at the helm. ‘You saw the rock, On which bank of the Hanways are we?” “On the Mauve, Just now, in the opening in the fog, I saw it clearly.” “Tf we’re on the Mauve,” remarked Clubin, ‘‘we have the Great Hanway on the port side, and the Little Hanway on the starboard bow; we are a mile from the shore.” The crew and passengers listened, fixing their eyes anxiously and attentively on the captain. Lightening the ship would be of no avail, and indeed would have been hardly possible. In order to throw the cargo overboard, they would have had to open the ports and increase the chance of water entering. To cast anchor would have been equally useless: they were stuck fast. Besides, with such a bottom for the anchor to drag, the chain would probably have fouled. The eerie not being injured, and being work- able while the fires were not extinguished, that is to say, for a few minutes longer, they could have made an effort, by help of steam and her paddles, to turn her astern off the rocks; but if they had succeeded, they must have settled down immediately, The rock, indeed, in some degree eee the breach and prevented the en- trance of the water. It was at least an obstacle; while the whole once freed, it would have been impossible to stop the leak or to work the pumps. ‘To snatch a poniard from a wound in the heart is instant death to the victim. To free the vessel from the rock would have been simply to founder. ) The cattle, on whom the water was gaining in the hold, were lowing piteously. Clubin issued orders: “Launch the long boat.” Imbrancam and Tangrouille rushed to ex- ecute the order. . The boat was eased from her fastenings, The rest of the crew looked on stu- pefied. “ All hands to assist,” cried Clubin. This time all obeyed. Clubin, self-possessed, continued to issue his | orders in that old sea dialect, which French sail- ors of the present day would scarcely under- “Haul in a ro} Get a cabls if the capstan does not work—Stop heaving—Keep the blocks clear—Lower away there—Bring her down stern and bows—Now, then, all together, lads —Take care she don’t lower stern first—There’s too much strain on there—Hold the laniard of the stock tackle—Stand by there!” The long boat was launched, At that instant the Durande’s paddles stopped, and the smoke ceased—the fires were drowned. The teat ene down the ladder, and ce hurriedly into. the long-boat. Imbran- cam lifted the fainting tourist, carried him into the boat, and then. boarded the vessel again. The crew made a rush after the passengers— the cabin-boy was knocked down, and the others were bahay Sey him. Imbrancam red their passage. ‘* Not a man before the lad,” he said. He kept off the sailors with his two black | arms, picked up the boy, and handed him down to the Guernsey man, who was standing upright in the boat. : The boy saved, Imbrancam made way for the others, and said: “* Pass on!” . Meanwhile Clubin had entered his cabin and made up a parcel containing the ship’s pa- ers and instruments, He took the compass rom the binnacle, handed. the papers and instru- ments to Imbrancam, and the. compass to Tan- grouille, and said to them: ‘Get aboard the boat.” They obeyed. The crew had taken their places before the:n, é “Now,” cried Clubin, ‘push off.” A cry arose from the long-boat. “What about yourself, captain?” “T will remain here.” Shipwrecked people have little time to delib- erate, and not much for indulging in tender feeling. Those who were in the long boat and in comparative safety, however, felt an emotion which was not altogether selfish. All the voices shouted together: “Come with us, captain.” “No: I remain here.” The Guernsey men who had some experience of the sea, replied: » “Listen to me, captain. “You are wrecked on the Hanways. Swimming, you would have only a mile to cross to Pleinmont. In a boat you can only land at Rocquaine, which is two miles. There are breakers, and there is fog. Our boat will not get to Rocquaine in less than two hours. It will be a dark night, The sea is rising—the wind getting fresh. A squall is at hand. We are now ready to return and brin, ou off; but if bad weather comes on, that will e out of our power. ‘You are lost if’ you stay there. Come with us.” The Parisian chimed in: “The long boat is full—too full, it is true, and one, more will certainly be one too many; but wé are thirteen—a bad number for the boat, and it is better to overload her with a man than to take an ominousnumber, Come, captain,” Tangrouille added: “Tt was all my fault—not yours, captain. It isn’t fair for you to be left behind.” “T have decided to remain here,” said Clubin. “The vessel must. inevitably go to pieces in the tempest to-night. I won’t leave her, When the ship is Jost, the captain is already dead. People_shan’t:say I didn’t do my duty to the end, {ee T forgive you.” = Then folding his arms, he cried: poe orders! Let go the rope, and push off. The long boat swayed to and fro, Imbrancam had seized the tiller. All the hands which were not rowing were raised toward the captain— every mouth cried, ‘Cheers for Captain Clubin.” a, “An admirable fellow!” said the American. “Sir,” replied the Guernsey man, ‘‘he is one of the worthiest seamen afloat.” Tangrouille shed tears, “Tf Thad had the courage,” he said, “I would have stayed with him.” Let, long-boat pushed away, and was lost in e fog. Nothing more was visible. The beat of the oars grew fainter, and died away. : Clubin remained alone, VI, THE INTERIOR OF AN ABYSS SUDDENLY RE- VEALED. _ WHEN Clubin found himself upon this rock, in the midst of the fog and the wide waters, far from all sound of human life, left for di alone with the tide rising around him, and night settling down rapidly, he experienced a ae of profound satisfaction. He had succeeded. His dream was. realized, The acceptance which he had drawn upon. destiny at so long a date, had fallen due at last, With him to be abandoned there was, in fact, to be saved. He was on the Hanways, one mile from the shore: he had, about him seventy-five thousand francs. Never was shipwreck more. scientifi- cally accomplished. Nothing had failed... It is true, everyt ang had been foreseen... From his early years Clubin had had an idea, to stake his reputation for honesty at life’s gaming-table; to pass as a man of high honor, and to make that reputation his fulcrum for other things; to bide his time, to watch his opportunity; not to grope about blindly, but to seize boldly; to venture on one great. stroke, only one; and end by sweeping off the stake leaving £ hind him to gape and wonder. What stupid rogues fail in twenty times, he meant to accom- plish at the first Lio. and while ey ter- minated. a career on the gallows, he intended to finish with a fortune. The meeting with Ran- taine had been a new light to him, He had im- mediately laid his plan—to compel Rantaine to disgorge; to frustrate his threatened revelations by disappearing; to make the world believe him dead, the best of all modes of concealment; an i this pupoee to wreck the Durande. The ipwreck was necessary to his designs. he had the satisfaction at ae eae hind him a great renown, the crowning point of his existence. .As he stood meditating on ‘these things amid the wreck, Clubin might have been taken for some demon in a pleasant mood. _ He had lived a lifetime for thesake of this one YE iota ressive of th whole exterior was ssive of the two words, ‘‘ At last.” A devilish tranquillity reign- ed ‘a Fiat Sgr COREE hich s dull eye, epth of whic rall seemed to be impenetrable, became se and terrible. The inward fire of his dar’ spiri reflected there, i sian < is Re aN a s2 : Re et ee \ eal s y ¥ a a ef iM » Se asec antennae —_- ey r ener aise Te la oe og a THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. Man’s inner nature, like that external world about him, has its eclectic phenomena. An idea is like a meteor; at the moment of its coming, the confused meditations which preceded it open a way, and a spark flashes forth. Bearing with- in oneself. a power of evil, feeling an inward rey, brings to some minds a pleasure which is ike a sparkle of light. The triumph of an evil purpose brightens up their visages. The success of certain cunning combinations, the attainment of certain cherished objects, the gratification of certain ferocious instincts, will manifest them- selves in sinister but luminous appearances in their eyes. It is like a threatening dawn, a gleam of joy drawn out of the heart of a storm. These es are generated in the conscience in its states of cloud and darkness. Some such signs were then exhibiting them- selves in the pee of those eyes. They were like nothing else that can be seen shining either above or here below. All Clubin’s pent-up wickedness found. full vent now. He gazed into the vast surrounding darkness and indulged in a low, irrepressible laugh, full of sinister significance. He was rich at last! rieh at last} The unknown. future of his life was at length unfolding; the problem was solved. Clubin had plenty of time before him. _The sea was rising, and consequently sustained the Durande, and even raised her at last a little. The vessel kept firmly in its place among the rocks; there was no danger of her foundering. Besides, he determined to give the long-boat time to ee clear off—to go to the bottom, per- a = lubin hoped it might. : rect upon the deck of the shipwrecked vessel he folded his arms, apparently enjoying that forlorn situation in the dark night. Hypocrisy had weighed upon this man for thirty years. He had been evil itself, yoked with probity for a mate. He detested Virtue with the feeling of one who has been trap into a hateful match. He had always had a wicked premeditation; from the time when he attained manhood he had worn the cold and rigid armor of appearances. Underneath this was the demon of self. He had lived likea ban- dit in the disguise.of an honest citizen. He had been the soft-spoken pirate; the bond-slave of honesty. He had been confined in garments of innocence, as in oppressive mummy cloths; had worn those angel wings which the devils find so wearisome in their fallen state. He had been overloaded with public esteem. It is arduous passing for a shining light. To preserve a per- petual aa amid. these difficulties, to think evil, to speak goodness—here had been in- deed a labor, Sucha life of contradictions had been Clubin’s fate. It had been his lot—not the less onerous because he had chosen it himself— to preserve a good exterior, to be always pre- sentable, to foam in secret, to smile while grind- ing his teeth. Virtue presented itself to his mind as something stifling. He had felt, some- times, as if he could have gnawed those finger- ends which he was compelled to keep before his mouth. To live a life which is a perpetual falsehood is to suffer unknown tortures. To be premeditat- ing indefinitely a diabolical act, to have to as- sume austerity; to brood over secret infamy seasoned with outward good fame; to have con- tinually to put the world off the scent; to pre- sent a perpetual illusion, and never to be one’s self—is a burdensome task. To be constrained to dip the brush in that dark stuff within, to produce with it a portrait of candor; to fawn, to restrain and suppress one’s self, to be ever on the qui vive; watching without ceasing to mask latent crimes with a face of healthy innocence; to transform deformity into beauty; to fashion wickedness into the sha of rfection; to tickle, as it were, with the point of a dagger, to put sugar with poison, to keep a bridle on every gesture and keep a watch over overy tone, not even to have a countenance of one’s own— what can be harder, what can be more tortur- ing. The odiousness of hypocrisy is obscurely felt by the hypocrite himself. Drinking per- y of his own imposture is nauseating. ‘he sweetness of tone which cunning gives to scoundrelism is repugnant to the scoundrel com- pelled to have it ever in the mouth; and there are moments of di when villainy seems on the point of vomiting its secret. To have to swallow that bitter saliva is horrible, Add to this picture his profound _ pride. There are strange moments in the history of such a life, hen hypocrisy worships itself. There is va s an inordinate egotism in roguery. The worm has the same mode of gliding along as the serpent, and the same manner of raising its head. The treacherous villain is the despot curbed and restrained, and only able to attain hisends by resigning himself to play a secondary part. He is summed- P littleness capable of enormities. The perfect hypocrite is a Titan dwarfed. ee Clubin had a genuine faith that he had been ill-used. Why had not he the right to be born rich? It was from no fault of his that it was otherwise. Deprived as he had been of the higher enjoyments of life, why had he been forced to labor—in other words, to cheat, to be- tray, to destroy? .. Why. had he been condemned to this torture of flattering, cringing, fawning; to be always laboring for men’s respect an friendship, and to wear night and day a face which was not his own? To he compelled to dissimulate was in itself to submit to a hardship. Men hate those to whom they have,to lie. But now the disguise was at an end. Clubin had taken his revenge. On whom? On all! On everything! Lethierry had never done him any but good services; so much the greater his spleén. He was revenged upon Lethierry. He was revenged upon all those in whose preenee he had felt constraint. It was his turn be free now. Whoever had thought well of him was his enemy. He had felt himself their ae long enough. ow he had broken through his prison walls. His escape was accomplished. at which would. be regarded as his death, would be, in fact, the beginning of his life. He was about to begin the world again. The true Clubin had stripped off the false. In one hour the spell was broken. He had kicked Rantaine into space; overwhelmed Lethierry in ruin; human justice in night, and opinion in error. . He had cast. off all humanity ; blotted out the whole world. The name of God, that word of three letters, occupied his mind but little. He had passed for a religious man. What was he now? There are secret recesses in hypocrisy; or rather the hypocrite is himself a secret recess. When Clubin found himself quite alone, that cavern in which his soul had so long lain hid- den, was opened. He Suelo a moment of delicious liberty. He reveled for that moment in the open air. He gave vent to himself in one long ae e depth of evil within him revealed itself in his visage. He expanded, as it were, with diabolical. joy.. The features of Rantaine by the side of his at that moment would have shown like the innocent expression of a new-born child. What a deliverance was this plucking off of the old mask. His conscience rejoiced in the sight of its own monstrous nakedness, as it stepped forth to take its hideous bath of wickedness. The long restraint of men’s respect seemed to have given him a peculiar relish for infamy. He Seer a certain lascivious en Oy Mee of wickedness. In those frightful moral abysses so rarely sounded, such natures find atrocious delights—they are the obscenities of rascality. The long-endured snsipithy, of the false reputa- tion for virtue gave him a sort of a) pet for shame, ‘In this state of mind men disdain their fellows so much, that they even long for the coneape which marks the ending of their un- merited homage. They feel a satisfaction in the freedom of degradation, and cast an eye of envy at baseness, sitting at its ease, clothed in igno- my and shame, Eyes that are forced to droop modestly are familiar with these stealthy glances at sin. From Messalina to Marie-Ala- coque the distance is not great. Remember the histories of La Cadiere and the nun of Louviers. Clubin, too, had worn the vail. Effrontry had always been the object of his secret admira- tion. He envied the. painted courtesan, and the face of bronze of the ease ruffian. He felt a pride in surpassing her in artifices, and a disgust for the trick of ing for a saint. He had been the Tantalus of cynicism. And now, upon. this. rock, in the midst of this solitude, he could be frank and open. A bold plunge into wickedness—what a voluptuous sense of relief it brought with it. All the de- lights known to the fallen angels are summed up in this; and Clubin felt them in that mo- ment. The long arrears of dissimulation were id at last. risy is an investment; the evil reimburses it. Clubin gave himself up to the intoxication of the idea, having no longer any eye upon him but that of Heaven. He whispered within himself, ‘‘I am a scoundrel,” and felt profoundly satisfied. Never had human conscience experienced such a full tide of emotions. He was glad to be entirely alone, and yet would not have been sorry tu have had some there. He would have been pleased to have had a wit- ness of his fiendish joy; gratified to have had Eee ee of saying to society, ‘Thou fool.” he solitude, in , assured his triumph; but it made it less. He was not himself to be spectator of his glory. Even to be in the pillory has satisfac- tion, for everybody can see your infany. To compel the crowd to stand and gape is, in fact, an exercise of power. A malefactor stand- ing upon a platform in the market-place, with the collar of iron around his neck, is master_of all the glances which he constrains the multi- tude to turn toward him. There is a pedestal on yonder scaffolding. To be there—the center of universal observation—is not this, too, a tri- umph? To direct the pupil of the public eye, is this not another form of ie aber For those who ee an ideal wickedness, opprobrium is glory. It is a hight from whence they can look down; a superiority at least of some kind; a pre-eminence in which ail eepey them- selves ray: A gallows standing high in the gaze of all the world is not without some anal- | ogy with a throne. To be exposed is, at least, to be seen and studied. ane ; Herein we have eriaeniay the key to the wick- ed reigns of history. Nero araing Rome, Louis Quatorze treacherously seizin, e Palatinate, the Prince Regent killing Napoleon slowly, Nich- olas strangling Poland before the eyes of the civilized world, may have felt somethin akin to Clubin’s joy. Universal execration derives a grandeur even from its vastness. ‘0 be unmasked is a humiliation; but to un- mask one’s self is a triumph, There isan intox- ication in the position, an insolent satisfaction in its contempt for appearances, a flaunting in- solence in the nakedness with which it affronts re Gecenetes of a EB ese ideas in a hypocrite a; r to be incon- sistent, but in reality are noe ADL infamy is logical. Honey is gall. A character like that of Escobar has some affinity with that of the Marquis de Sade.. In proof, we have Leotade. A hypocrite, being a personification of vice complete, includes in himself the two poles of perversity. Priest-like on one side, he resembles the courtesan on the other. The sex of his dia- bolical nature is double, It engenders and trans- forms itself. Would 9 see it in its pleasing shape? Look at it. ould you see it horrible? Turn it round. All this multitude of ideas was floating con- fusedly in Clubin’s mind, He analyzed them little, but he felt them much. A whirlwind of flakes of fire borne up from the pit of hell into the dark night, might fitly os the wild succession of ideas in his soul, Clubin remained thus some time pensive and motionless. He looked down upon is cast-off virtues asa serpent on its old skin. Everybody had had faith in that virtue; even he himself a little. He laughed again. Society would imagine him dead, while he was rich, They would believe him drowned, while he was saved. What a capital trick to have played off on the stupidity. of the world, Rantaine, too, was included in that universal stupidity. Clubin thought of Rantaine with an unmeasured disdain; the disdain of the marten for the tiger. The trick had failed with Ran- taine; it had succeeded with him, Rantaine had slunk away abashed; Clubin Gi ppeans in triumph. He had substituted himself for Ran- taine—stepped between him and his mistress, and carried off her favors. As to the future, he had no well-settled plan. In the iron tobacco-box in his girdle he the three bank-notes. The knowledge of that fact was enough. He would change hisname. There are plenty of countries where thousand francs are equal to six hundred thousand. It would be no bad solution to go to one of those corners of the world, and live there honestly on the money disgorged by that scoundrel - taine. To speculate, to embark in commerce, to increase his capital, to become really a million- aire, that, too, would be no bad termination to his career. For example. The great trade in coffee from Costa Rica was just beginning to be developed. There were heaps of gold tobe made. Hewould see. It was of little co uence. _He had plenty of time to think of it. e hardest part of the enterprise was accomplished. Stripping Ran- taine, and disappearing with the wreck of the Durande, were the grand achievements. All the rest was for him simple. No obstacle hence- forth was likely tostop him. He had nothi more to fear. He could reach the shore wi certainty by swimming. He would land at Pleinmont in the darkness; ascend the cliffs; go straight to the old haunted house; enter it easily by the help of the knotted cord, con- cealed beforehand in a crevice of the rocks; would find in the house his traveling-bag contain- ing provisions and ory cote Bad re he could await his a . He informati A week would not pass without the § smugglers, Blasquito probably, touching at Pleinmont. For a few guineas he would obtain a , not to Torbay—as he had said to Bildesds . confound conjecture, and put him off the scent—but to Bilboa or to Passages. Thence he could get to Vera Cruz or New Orleans. But the moment had come for taking to the water. The long-boat was far enough by this time. An hour's retin was nothing for Clubin. The distance of a mile only separa’ from the land, as he was on the Hanways. cing Spponred ‘a tae fopsban, te formals opening a e fog- , the foi - able Douivres rocks stood before him. VIL as AN UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENT, CuuBIn, haggard, stared straight ahead. It was indeed those terrible and solitary rocks. It was impossible to mistake their missha outlines. "the two twin Douvres reared their forms aloft, hideously revealing the be- tween them, like a snare, a cut-t! in ambush in the ocean. _ : They were quite close to him, The fog, like Qa TS peace ee Sein cst tt, eet ir re en in the air, TOLLERS-OF-THE SEA, 25 an artful accomplice, had hidden them until now. Clubin had mistaken his course in the dense mist. Notwithstanding all his pains, he had experienced the fate of two other great naviga- tors, Gonzalez, who discovered Cape Blanco, and Fernandez, who discovered Cape Verd, The fog had bewildered him. Ithad seemed to him, in the confidence of his seamanship, to favor admirably the execution of his project; but it had its perils. In veering to westward he had lost his reckoning. The Guernsey man, who fancied that he had recognized the Hanways, had decided his fate, and determined him to give the final turn to the tiller. Clubin had never doubted that he had steered the vessel on the Sipewae The Durande, stove in by one of the sunken rocks of the group, was only separated from the two Douvres by afew cable lengths. At two hundred fathoms further was a mas- sive block of granite. Upon the steep sides of this rock were some hollows and small projec- tions, which might help a man to climb. “The square corners of those rude walls at right angles indicated the existence of a plateau on the suramit. It was the hight known by the name of ‘‘ The Man.” “The Man” rock rose even higher still than the Douvres, Its platform commanded a view over their two inaccessible peaks. This plat- form, crumbling at its edges, had every kind of irregularity of shape. No place more desolate or dangerous could be imagined. The hardly perceptible waves of the open sea lapped gently against the square sides of that dark enormous mass; a sort of menting pi for the vast spec- ters of the sea and darkness, Allaround was calm. Scarcely a breath of air orripple. The mind guessed darkly the hid- den life and vastness of the depths beneath that quiet surface. Clubin had often seen the Douvres from afar. He satisfied himself that he was indeed there. He could not doubt it. : A sudden and hideous change of affairs. The Douvres instead of the Hanways. Instead of one mile five leagues of sea! The Douvres to the solitary shipwrecked sailor is the visible and lpable presence of death, the extinction of all one of reaching land. lubin shuddered. He had placed himself voluntarily in the jaws of destruction. No oth- er re was left open to him than ‘The Man” rock, It was probable that a tempest would arise in the night, and that the long-boat, over- loaded as she was, would sink. No news of the shipwreck then would come to land. It would not even be known that Clubin had been left up- on the Douvres. No prospect was now before him but death from cold and hunger, His seventy- five thousand francs would not purchase him a mouthful of bread. All the scaffolding he had built up had brought him only to this snare, He alone was the laborious architect of this crown- ing catastrophe. No resource—no possible es- cape; his triumph transformed into a fatal preci- pice. Instead of deliverance, a prison; instead of the long prosperous future, agony. In the lance of an eye, in the moment which the ghtning occupies in passing, all his construc- tion had fallen into ruins, The ee dreamed of by this demon had changed to its true form of_a sepulcher. : Meanwhile there had sprung up a movement The wind was rising. The fog, shaken, driven in, and rent asunder, moved to- ward the horizon’ in vast shapeless masses. As quickly as it had Cres before, the sea became once more visible. The cattle, more and more invaded by the waters, continued to bellow in the hold. Night was approaching, probably bringing with it a storm. : The Durande, filling slowly with the rising tide, swung from right to left, then from left to right, @ aid began to turn upon the rock as upon a pivot. he moment could be foreseen when a wave must move her from her fixed position, and probably roll her over on her beam-ends. It was not even so dark as at the instant of her striking the rocks, Though the day was more advanced, it was possible to see more clearly. The fog had carried away with it some part of the darkness, The west was with- out a cloud. Twilight brings a pale sky. Its vast reflection glimmered on the sea. The Durande’s bows was lower than her stern. Her stern was, in fact, almost out of the water. Clubin mounted on the taffrail, and fixed his eyes on the horizon. : : . Tt is the nature of hypocrisy to be sanguine. The hypocrite is one who waits his opportunity, H risy is nothing, in fact, but a horrid hope- fulness: the very foundation of its revoltin, falsehood is composed of that virtue transforme: into a vice. : ; p Strange contradiction. There is a certain trustfulness in hypocrisy. The hypocrite con- fides in some power, unrevealed even to him- self, which permits the course of evil. ubin looked far and wide over the ocean. The position was desperate, but that evil spir- it did not yet despair. a He knew that after the fog, vessels that had been lying-to or riding at anchor would resume their course; and he thought that perhaps one would pass within the horizon. ; And, as he had anticipated, a sail appeared. She was coming from the east and steering to the west. As it approached, the cut of the vessel became visible. It had but one mast, and was schooner rigged. Her bowsprit was almost horizontal. It was a cutter. Before a half-hour she must pass not very far from the Douvres. Clubin said within himself, ‘‘I am saved!” In a moment like this, a man thinks at first of nothing but his life. _ The cutter was probably a strange craft. Might it not be one of the smuggling vessels on its way to Pleinmont? It might even be Blas- uito himself. In that case, not only life, but ortune, would be saved; and the accident of the Douvres, by hastening the conclusion, by dispensing with the necessity for concealment in the haunted house, and by bringing the ad- venture to a denouement at sea, would be turn- ed into a happy incident. All his original confidence of success returned fanatically to his somber mind. It is remarkable how easily knaves are per- suaded that they deserve to succeed. There was but one course to take. The Durande, entangled among the rocks necessarily mingled her outline with them, and confounded herself with their irregular shapes. among which she found only one more mass 0 lines. Thus become indistinct and lost, she would not suffice, in the little light which re- mained, to attract the attention of the crew of the vessel which was approaching. But a human form standing up, black against the pale twilight of the sky, upon “‘ The Man Rock,” and making signs of distress, would doubtless be perceived, and the cutter would then send a boat to take the shipwrecked man aboard. “The Man” was only two hundred fathoms off. To reach it by swimming was simple, to climb it easy. There was not a minute to lose. The bows of the Durande being low between tho rocks, it was from the hight of the poop where Clubin stood that he had to jump into the sea. He began by taking a sounding, and dis- covered that there was great depth an under the stern of the wrecked vessel. 6 micro- scopic shells of foraminifera which the adhesive matter on the lead-line brought up were intact, indicating the presence of very hollow caves under the rocks, in which the water was tran- uil, however great the agitation of the sur- ace, E He undressed, leaving his clothing on the deck. He knew that he would be able to get clothing when aboard the cutter. He retained nothing but his leather belt. As soon as he was stripped he placed his hand upon this belt, buckled it more securely, felt for the iron tobacco-box, took a rapid survey in the direction which he would have to follow among the breakers and the waves to gain “The Man Rock;” then precipitating himself head first, ho plunged into the sea. As he dived from a hight, he plunged heavily. He sunk deep in the water, touched the bot- tom, skirted for a moment the submarine rocks, then struck out to regain the surface. ‘ a that moment he felt himself seized by one oot. Boox. VII. THE DANGER OF OPENING A BOOK AT RANDOM. L THE PEARL AT THE FOOT OF A PRECIPICE. A rew moments after his short colloquy with Sieur Landoys, Gilliatt was at St. Sampson, He was troubled, even anxious, What could it be that had happened? There was a murmur in St. Sampson like that of a startled hive. Everybody was at his door. The women were talking loud, There were people who seemed relating some occurrence and who were gesticulating. A group had athered around them. The words could be eard, ‘‘What a misfortune!” Some faces wore a smile Gilliatt interrogated no one. It was not in his nature to ask questions. He was, moreover, too much moved to speak to strangers. He no confidence in rumors. He preferred to go direct to the Bravees. His anxiety was so great that he was not even deterred from entering the house. : The door of the great lower room opening upon the Quay, seca pet ratcin quite mpi ere was &@ Swarm of men and women on | threshold. Everybody was going in, and Gilliatt went with the rest, Entering he found Sieur Landoys standing near the door-posts. : : vou have eard, no doubt, of this event?” oO. a m v A en SNINE ' Pt: “T did not like to call it out to road. It makes me like a bird of ev. ‘What has happened?” “The Durande is lost.” There was a crowd in the great room. The various groups spoke low, like people in a sick chamber. The assemblage, which consisted of neighbors, the first comers, curious to learn the news, huddled together near the door with a sort ot timidity, leaving clear the bottom of the room, where appeared Deruchette sitting and in tears. Mess Lethierry stood beside her. His back was against the wall at the end of the room. His sailor’s cap came down over his eyebrows. A lock. of gray hair hung upon his cheek. He said nothing. His arms were mo- tionless; he seemed scarcely to breathe. He had the look of something lifeless placed against the wall. It was easy to see in his aspect, a man whose life had been crushed within him. The Durande being gone, Lethierry had no longer any ob- ee in his existence. He had had a being on he sea; that being had suddenly foundered. ‘What could he do now? Rise every morning; 0 to sleep every night. Never more to await . the coming of the Durande; to see her get under way, or to steer again into port. What was a remainder of existence without object? To drink, to eat, and then?—He had crowned the labors of his life by a masterpiece; won by his devotion a new step in civilization. The step was lost; the masterpiece destroyed. To live a few vacant years longer! where would be the ood? Henceforth nothing was left for him to o. At his age men do not begin life anew, Besides, he was ruined. ‘Poor old man! Deruchette, sitting near him on a chair and weeping held one of Mess Lethierry’s hands in hers. Her hands were joined; his hand was clenched fast. It was the sign of the shade of difference in their two sorrows. In joined hands there is still some token of hope; in the clenched fist none. Mess Lethierry gave up his arm to her, and let her do with it as she pleased. He was pass- ive. Struck down by a thunderbolt, he had searcely a spark of life left within him. — There is a degree of overwhelmment which abstracts the mind entirely from its fellowship with man. The forms which come and go with- in your room become confused and indistinct. They pass by, even touch you, but never really come near you. You are far away; inaccessible to them, as they to you. The intensities of joy and despair differ in this: in despair, we take cognizance of the world only as something dim and afar off; we are insensible to the things be- fore our eyes; we lose the feeling of our own existence. It is in vain, at such times, that we are flesh and blood; our consciousness of life is none the more real; we are become, even to our- selves, nothing but a dream. Mess Lethierry’s gaze indicated that he had reached this state of absorption. The various vee were whispering together, They exchanged information as fast asthey had gathered it, This was the substance of their news: The Durande had been wrecked the day be- fore in the fog on the Douvres, about an hour before sunset. With the exception of the cap- tain, who refused to leave his vessel, the crew and passengers had all escaped in the long-boat, A squall from the southwest, springing = as the fog had cleared, had almost wrecked them a second time, and had carried them out to sea beyond Guernsey. In the night they had had the good fortune to meet with tho Cashmere, which had taken them aboard and landed them at St. Peter’s Port. The disaster was entirely the fault of the steersman, Tangrouille, who was in prison. Clubin bad behaved nobly. The pilots, who had mustered in great: force, pronounced the words “The Douvres” with a peculiar emphasis. ‘A dreary half-way house, that,” said one. ‘ A compass and a bundle of registers and memorandum-books lay on the table; they were doubtless the compass of the Durande and the ship’s papers, handed by Clubin to Imbrancam aa Tangrouille at the moment of the departure of the long-boat. They were the evidences of the | self-abnegation of that man who busied himself with saving these docu- ments even in the presence of death itself—a little incident full of moral grandeur; an in- stance of sublime self-forgetfulness never to be ae eee é ey were unanimous in their admiration of Clubin; unanimous, also, in believing him to be saved after all. The Shealtiel cutter had ar- rived some hours after the Cashmere. It was this vessel which had brought the last items of intelligence. She had passed four-and-twenty hours in the same waters as the Durande. She had lain-to in the fog, and tacked about during the squall. The captain of the Shealtiel was pre’ént among the company. 7 This captain had just finished his narrative to Lethierry as Gilliatt entered. The narrative was a true one. Toward the morning, the storm having abated, and the wind becom- ing ple, the captain of the Shealtiel had beast the lowing of oxen in the open ‘ou on the omen.” “LE Oa, ar INO ISO Sree Sots — wasicaatcaniamana aaa Readies teed — a 26 THE FIRESIDE~ LIBRARY. sea... This. rural sound in the midst of the waves had naturally startled him.. He steered in that direction, and: perceived. the, Durande among the Douvres. he sea had sufficiently subsided for him to approach. He hailed the wreck; the bellowing of the cattle was the sole reply. The captain of the Shealtiel was confi- dent that there was no one aboard the Durande. The wreck still held together well, and, not- withstandiag the violence of. the squall, Clubin. could have passed the night there. He was not the man to leave go his hold very easily. He was not there, however; and therefore he must have been rescued. It was certain that several sloops and luggers, from Granville and St. Malo, must, after laying-to in the fog on the previous even- ing, have passed pretty near the rocks, _ It was evident that one of these had. taken Clubin aboard. It was to be remembered that the long boat,.of .the Durande was full when it left the unlucky vessel; that it was certain to encounter great risks; that another man aboard would have overloaded her, and perhaps cause her to founder ; and that these circumstances had no doubt weighed with Clubin in coming to his, determi- nation to remain on the wreck. His duty, how- ever, once fulfilled, and a vessel-at hand, Clubin assuredly would not have scrupled to avail him- self ofits aid. A hero is not necessarily an idiot. The idea of a suicide was absurd in connection with aman of Clubin’s irreproachable charac- ter..The culprit, too, was Tangrouille, not Clubin: All this was conclusive. The.captain of the Shealtiel was evidently right, and every- body expected to see Clubin reappear very shortly. There was a project abroad to carry him through the town in triumph, Two.things appeared certain from the narra- tive of the captain: Clubin was saved, the Du- rande lost. As regarded the Durande, there was nothing ‘for it but to accept the fact; the catastrophe was irremediable. The captain of the Shealtiel had witnessed the last moments of the wreck. The sharp rock on which the vessel had bean, as it were, nailed, had held her fast during the night, and resisted the shock of the tempest as if reluctant to part with its prey, but in the morning, at. the moment when the captain of | the Shealtiel had convinced himself that there was noone aboard to be saved, and was about to wear off again, one of those seas which are like the last angry blows of a tempest had struck her.. The wave lifted her violently from her place, and with the swiftness and directness of an arrow from a bow had thrown -her against the two Douvres Rocks. ‘An infernal crash was heard,” said the captain. The vessel, lifted by the wave to a certain hight, had plunged be- tween the two rocks up to her midship frame, She had stuck fast again; but more firmly than on the submarine rocks. She must have re- mained there suspended, and exposed to every wind and sea, The Durande, according to, the statements of the crew of the Shealtiel, was already threo ax broken up. She would evidently have oundered during the night, if the rocks had not kept her up. The captain of the Shealtiel had watche1 her a long time with hisspy-glass. He ave, with naval precision, the details of her isaster. The starboard quarter beaten in, the masts. maimed, the sails blown from the bolt- ropes, the shroud torn away, the cabin 'sky- lights smashed by the falling of one of the booms, the dome of the cuddy-house beaten in, the chocks of the long-boat struck away, the round-house overturned, the hinges of the rud- der broken, the trusses wrenched. away, the quarter-cloths demolished, the bits gone, the eross-beam destroyed, the shear-rails knocked off, the stern-post broken. As to the parts of the cargo made fast before the foremast, all de- stroyed, made a clean sweep of, gone to ten thousand shivers, with top ropes, iron pulleys, and chains. The Durande had broken her back; the sea now must break her up piecemeal. Ina few days there will be nothing of her remaining. It appeared that the engine was scarcely in- jured by all these ravages—a remarkable fact, and one which proved its excellence. The cap- tain of the Shealtiel thought he could affirm that the crank had received no serious injury. The vessel’s masts had given way, but the fun- nel had resisted everything. Only the iron nee of the captain’s gangway were twisted; he paddle-boxes had suffered, the frames were bruised, but the paddles had not a float missing. The machinery was intact. Such was the con- viction of the captain of the Shealtiel. Imbran- cam, the engineer, who. was among the crowd, had the same conviction. The negro, more in- telligent than many of his white companions, was proud of his engines. He lifted up his arms opening the ten fingers of his black hands, an said to Lethierry, as he sat there silent, ‘‘ Mas- ter, the machinery is alive still!” he safety of Clubin seeming certain, and the hull of the Durande being ad, sacrificed, the engines became the topie of conversation among thecrowd, They took an interest in’ it as ina Hie. thing. They felt adelight in prais- ing its qualities. ‘‘That’s what I call a well-built machine,” said a French sailor. _ “Something, like a good one,” cried a Guernsey erman. ‘She must have some good stuff in her,” said the captain of the Shealtiel, ‘‘ to come out of that affair with only a few scratches.” By degrees the machinery of the Durande be- came the absorbing object of their thoughts. Opinions were warm for and against. It had its enemies and its friends. one who possessed a good old sailing cutter, and who hoped to get a share of the business of the Durande, was not sorry to find that the Douvres rock had disposed of the new invention. The whispering became louder. The discussion grew noisy, though the hubbub was evidently a little.restrained; and now and then there was a simultaneous lowering of voices out of respect to Lethierry’s death-like silence. The result of. the colloquy, so obstinately maintained on all sides, was as follows: The engines were the vital part of the vessel. To rescue the Durande was impossible; but the machinery might still be saved. These engines were unique. To construct others similar, the money was wanting; but to find the artificer woula have been still more difficult. It was re- membered that the constructor of the machinery was dead. It had cost forty thousand francs. No one would risk again such a sum upon such a chance: particularly as it was now discovered that steamboats could be lost like other vessels, The accident of the Durande destroyed the pres- tige of all her previous success. Still, it was de- plorable to think that at that very moment this valuable mechanism was still entire and in good condition, and that in five or six days it would probably go to pieces, like the vessel itself.. As long as this existed, it might almost be said that there was no shipwreck. The loss of the engines was alone irreparable. To save the machinery would be almost to re- pair the disaster, Save the machinery! It was easy to talk of it; but who would undertake to do it? Was it possible, even? To scheme and to execute are two different things; as different as to dream and to do, Now if ever adream had appeared wild and impracticable, it was that of saving the engines then imbedded between the Douvres. The idea of sending a ship and a crew to work upon those rocks was absurd. It could not be thought of. It was the season of beavy seas. In the first gale the chains of the anchors would be worn away and snapped upon the submarine peaks, and the vessel must be shattered on the rocks. That would be to send a second ship- wreck to the relief of the first. On the miserable narrow hight where the legend of the place described the shipwrecked sailor as having per- ished with hunger, there was scarcely room for one person. To save the engines, therefore, it would be necessary for a man to go to the Dou- vres, to be alone in that sea, alone in that desert, alone at five leagues from the coast, alone in that region of terrors, alone for entire weeks. alone in the presence of dangers foreseen an unforeseen—without snpplies in the face of hunger and nakedness, without succor in the time of distress, without token of human life around him save the bleached bones of the miserable being who had perished there in his misery, without companionship save that of death. And besides, how was it possible to ex- tricate the machinery? It would require not only a sailor, but;an engineer; and for what trials must he not prepare. The man who would attempt such a task must be more than a hero. He must be a madman; for in certain enterprises, in which superhuman power appears necessary, there is a sort of madness which is more potent than courage. And after all, would it not be a folly to-immolate oneself for a mass of rusted iron? No; it was certain that nobody would undertake to go to the Douvres on ome an errand. The engine must be aban- doned like the rest. The engineer for such a task would assuredly not be forthcoming. eer indeed, should they look for such a man All this, or similar observations, formed the substance of the confused conversations of the crowd, The captain of the Shealtiel, who had been a ilot, summed up the views of all by exclaim- ing aloud: ‘No; itis all over. The man does not exist who could go there and rescue the machinery of the Durande.” “Tf I don’t go,” said Imbrancam, “it is be- cause nobody could do it.” The captain of the Shealtiel shook his left hand in the air with that sudden movement which expresses a conviction that a thing is im- possible. “Tf he existed—” continued the captain. Deruchette turned her head impulsively, and interrupted. **T would marry him,” she said, innocently. There was a pause. Aman made his way out of the crowd, and standing before her, pale and anxious, said: “You would marry him, Miss Deruchette?” It was Gilliatt. j All eyes were turned toward him. Mess Le- thierry had just before stood upright, and gazed about him. “His eyes glittered with a strange light. “He took off his sailor’s cap, and threw it on the ground; then looked solemnly before him, ‘More than |. oy without seeing any of the persons present, said; “Deruchette should be his. I pledge myself to it in God’s name.” TSO Ths MUCH ASTONISHMENT ON THE WESTERN COAST. _ Tux fullmoon rose at ten o’clock on the follow- ing night; but however fine the night, however favorable the wind and sea, no fisherman thought of going out that evening either from Hogue la Perre, or Bourdeaux harbor, or Hou- met Benet, or Platon, or Port Grat, or Vazon Bay, or Perrelle Bay, or Pezeries, or the Tielles or Saints’ Bay, or Little Bo, or any other port or little harbor in Guernsey ; and the reason was very simple. A cock had ee heard to crow at noonday. ‘When the cock is heard to crow at an extra- ordinary hour, fishing is suspended, At dusk on that evening, however, a fisher- man returning to pele met with a remark- ableidventure, On the hight a above Houmet Paradis, beyond the Two Brayes and the Two Grunes, stands to the left the beacon of the Plattes Tougeres, representing a tub reversed; and. to the right, the beacon of St. Sampson, rep- resenting the face of a man. Between these two, the fisherman thought that he peppered for the first time a third beacon. What could be the meaning of this beacon? When had it been erected on that point? What shoal did it indicate? The beacon responded immediately to these interrogations. It moved, it was a mast. The astonishment of the fisherman did not diminish. A beacon would have been re- markable; a mast was still more s0; it could not be a fishing-boat. When everybody. else was returning, some boat was going out. Who could it be? and what was he about? , Ten minutes later the vessel, moving slowly, came within a short distance of the Om tolls fisherman. He did not recognize it. He heard the sound of rowing; there were evidently only two oars. There was probably, then, only one man -aboard. The wind was northerly. The man, therefore, was ae ae: addling along in order to take the wind o' oint Fontenelle. There he would probably take to his sails. He intended then to double the Ancressé and Mount Crevel. What could that mean? The vessel passed, the fisherman returned home. On that same night, at different hours, and at different points, various persons scatter- ed and isolated on the western coast of Guern- sey, observed certain facts. As the Omptolle fisherman was mooring his bark, a carter of seaweed about half-a-mile off, whipping his horses along the lonely road from the Clotures near the Druid stones, and in the neighborhood of the Martello Towers 6 and 7, saw far off at sea, ina re little frequented, be- cause it requires much knowledge of the waters, and in the direction of North Rock and the Jablon- neuse, a sail being hoisted. He paid little atten- tion to the circumstance, not being a seaman, but a carter of seaweed. Half-an-hour had perhaps elapsed since the carter had perceived this vessel, when a. plas- terer oes his work in the town, and posing round Pelee Pool, found himself sudden- Y opposite a vessel sailing boldly among the rocks of the Quenon, the Rouse de Mer, and the Gripe de Rousse. The night was dark, but the sky was light over the sea, an effect common enough; and he could distinguish a great dis- tance in every direction. There was no sail visi- ble except this vessel. ° A little one a gatherer of cray-fish, prepar-_ ing his fish wells on the beach which separates Port Soif from the Port Enfer, was puzzled to make out the movements of a vessel between the Boue Corneille an the Moubrette. ‘The man must have been a good pilot, and in great haste to reach some destination to risk his boat there. Just as eight o’clock was striking at the Catel, the tavern-keeper at Cobo Bay observed with astonishment a sail out beyond the Boue du Jar- din and the Grunettes, and very near the Sus- anne pa she CBG Sams Not far from Co ay, upon the solita: point of the Houmet of Vason Pray two byes were lingering, hesitating before they parted for the night. The young woman addressed the young man with the words, ‘‘T am not going be- cause I don’t care to stay with you: I’ve a great deal to do. Their farewell kiss was interrupted by a good sized sailing boat which passed very near them, making for the direction of the Mes- sellettes. Monsieur le Peyre des Norgiots,an inhabitant of Cotillon Pipet, was engaged about nine o’clock in the evening in examining a hole made by some trespassers in the hedge of his property called La Jennerotte, and his png planted with trees.” Even while asce the amount of the damage, he could not. help observing a fish- ing-boat audaciously making its way round the Crocq Point at that hour of night, On the morrow of a tempest, when there is always some agitation upon the sea, that route was extremely unsafe. It was rash to choose it, at least, unless the steersman knew all the channels by heart. At half-past nine o’clock, at L’Equerrier, a trawler carrying home his net stopped for a _ Rea i | TOILERS OF -THE, SEA. 27 time to.observe between. Colombelle and the Soufleresse something which looked like a boat. The boat was in a dangerous position. Sudden gusts of wind of a very dangerous kind are very common in that spot. The Soufleresse, or Blower, derives its name from the sudden gusts of wind which it seems to direct upon the ves- sels, which by rare chance find their way thither. At the moment when the moon was rising, the tide being high and the sea being quiet, in the little strait of Li-Hou, the solitary keeper of the island of Li-Hou was ponkiderabiy startled. A long black object slowly passed between the moon andhim. This dark form, high and nar- row, resembled a winding-sheet spread out and moving. It glided along the line of the top of the wall formed by the ridges of rock. The keeper of Li-Hou fancied that he had beheld the Black Lady. The White Lady inhabits the Tau de Pez d’- Amont; the Gra base, the Tau de Pez d’Aval; the Red Lad , the Silleuse, to the north of the Marquis Bank; and the Black Lady, the Grand Etacre, to the west of Li-Houmet. At night, when the moon shines, these ladies stalk abroad, and sometimes meet. That dark form might undoubtedly be a sail. The long groups of rocks on which she Sppeatd to be walking, might in fact be concealing the hull of a bar navigating behind them, and al- lowing only her sail to be seen. But the keeper asked himself, what bark would dare, at that hour, te venture herself between Li-Hou and | the Pecheresses, and the Anguillieres and Leree Point? And what object cculd she have? It seemed to him much more probable that it was the Black Lady. As the moon was passing the clock-tower of St. Peter in the wood, the serjeant at Castle Rockquaine, while in the act of raising the drawbridge of the castle, distinguished at the end of the bay beyond the Haute Canee. but nearer than the Sambule, a sailing-vessel which seemed to be steadily dropping down from north to south. 2 On the southern coast of Guernsey behind Pleinmont, in the curve of a bay composed en- tirely of precipices and rocky walls rising peak- shaped from the sea, there is a singular landing- place, to which a French gentleman, a resident of the island since 1855, has given the name of “The Port on the Fourth Floor,” a name now generally adopted. This port, or landing-place, which was then called the Moie, is a rocky pla- teau half formed by nature, half by art, raised about forty feet above the level of the waves and communicating with the water by two large beams laid parallel in the form of ah inclined lane. The fishing-vessels are hoisted up there By chains and pulleys from the sea, and are let down again in the same way along these beams, which are like two rails. For the fishermen there isa ladder. The port was, at the time of our story, much frequented by the smugglers. Being difficult of access, it was well suited to their purposes. Toward eleven o’clock, some smugglers—per- hays the same upon whose aid Clubin had count- ed—stood with their bales of goods on the sum- mit of this platform of the Moie. A smuggler is necessarily a man on the look-out; it is part of his business to watch. They were astonished to perceive a sail suddenly make its pppentenye be- yond the dusky outline of Cape Pleinmont. It was moonlight. The smugglers observed the sail narrowly, suspecting that it might be some coast-guard cutter about to lie in ambush behind the Great Hanway. But the sail left the Han- ways behind, passed to the north-west of the Bouse Blondel, and was lost in the pale mists of the horizon out at sea. “Where the devil can that boat be sailing?” ‘asked the smuggler. That same evening, a little after sunset, some one had been heard noon at the door of the old house of the Bu de la Rue. It was a boy wearing brown clothes and yellow stockings a fact that indicated that he was a little parish clerk. An old fisherwoman prowling about the shore with a lantern in her hand, had called to the boy, and this dialogue ensued between the fisherwoman and the little clerk, before the en- trance to the Bu de la Rue:— “ What d’ye want, lad?” “The man of this place.” ‘‘He’s not there.” “Where is he?” “T don’t know.” ‘© Will he be there to-morrow?” “T don’t know.” “Ts he gre away?” “T don’t know. “Dye come, good woman, from the new rec- tor of the parish, the Reverend Ebenezer Cau- dray, who desires to pay him a visit.” “T don’t know where he is.” “The rector sent me to ask if the man who lives at the Bu de la Rue would be at home to- morrow morning.” “T don’t know.” Ii. A QUOTATION FROM THE BIBLE. DurinG the twenty-four hours which follow- ed, Mess Lethicrr slept not, eat nothing, drank nothing. He kissed Deruchetite on the forehead, asked after Clubin, of whom there was yet no news, signed a declaration certifying that he had no intention of preferring a charge against any. one, and set Tangrouille at liberty. ll the morning of the next day he remained half ee himself on the table of the office of the Durande, neither standing nor sitting: answering kindly when any one spoke to him. Curiosity being satisfied, the Bravees had be- come a solitude. There is a good deal of curi- osity generally mingled with the haste of con- dolences. The door had closed again, and left the old man again alone with Deruchette. The strange light that had shone in Lethierry’s eyes was extinguished. The. mournful look which filled them after the first news of the disaster had returned. Deruchette, anxious for his sake, had, on the advice of Grace and Douce, laid silently beside him a pair of stockings, which he had been knit- ting, sailor fashion, when the bad news had ar- rived, He smiled bitterly, and said: “They must think me foolish.” After a quarter of an hour’s silence, he added: “These things are well when you are happy.” Deruchette carried away the stockings, and took advantage of the opportunity to remove also the compass and the ship’s papers which Lethierry had been brooding over too Jong. In the afternoon, a little before tea*time, the door opened, and two strangers entered, attired in black. One was old, the other young. The young one has, perhaps, already been ob- served in the course of this story. The two men had each a grave air; but their gravity appeared different. The old man pos- sessed what might be called state gravity; the gravity of the young man was in his nature. abit engenders the one; thought the other. They were, as their costume indicated, two clergymen, each belonging to the Established Church. : The first fact in the appearance of the younger man which might have rst struck the observer was, that his gravity, though conspicuous in the expression of his features, and evidently springing from the mind, was not indicated by his person. Gravity is not inconsistent with passion, which it exalts by purifying it; but the idea of gravity could with difficulty be associ- ated with an exterior remarkable above all for ola pn beauty. Being in holy orders, he must ave been at least four-and-twenty, but he seem- ed scarcely more than eighteen. He possessed those gifts at once in harmony with, and in op- position to, each other. A soul which seemed created for exalted passion, and a body created for love. He was fair, rosy-fresh, slim, and elegant in his severe attire, and he had the cheeks of a young girl, and delicate hands. His movements were natural and lively, though sub- dued. Everything about him was pleasing, elegant, almost voluptuous. The beauty of hisex- pression served to correct this excess of personal attraction. His open smile, which showed his teeth, regular and white as those of a child, had something in it pensive, even though devotional. He had the gracefulness of a page, mingled with the dignity of a bishop. His fair hair, so fair and golden as to be al- most effeminate, clustered over his white fore- head, which was high and well-formed. A slight double line between the eyebrows awak- | ened associations with studious thought. ~ Those who saw him felt themselves in the presence of one of those natures, benevolent, in- nocent and pure, whose progress is in inverse sense with that of vulgar minds; natures whom illusion renders wise, and whom experience makes enthusiasts. His older companion was no other than Doc- tor Jaquemin Herode. Doctor Jaquemin Her- ode belonged to the High Church; a party whose system is. a sort. of popery without a pope. The Church of ing and was at that epoch laboring with the tendencies which have since become strengthened and condensed in the form of Puseyism. Doctor Jaquemin He- rode belonged to that shade of Anglicanism which is ost a variety of the Church of Rome, He was haughty, precise, stiff, and commanding. His inner sight scarcely pene- trated outwardly. He possessed the letter in the place of the spirit. His manner was arro- gant; his presence imposing. He had less the appearance of a ‘Reverend’ than of a Mon- signore. His frock-coat was cut somewhat in the fashion of a cassock. His true center would have been Rome. He wasa born Prelate of the Antechamber, He seemed to have been created expressly to fill a part in the Papal Court, to walk behind the Pontificial litter, with all the Court of Rome in abitto paonazzo, The acci- | dent of his English birth and his theological education, directed more toward the Old than the New ‘Testament, had deprived him of that destiny. All his see were comprised in his preferment as Rector of St. Peter’s Port, Dean of the Island of Guernsey, and Surrogate of the Bishop of Winchester. | Thesé were, un- doubtedly not without their glories. These ‘glories did not prevent M. Jaquemin Herode ing on the whole, a worthy man. As a theologian he was esteemed by those who were able to judge of such matters; he was al- most an authority in the Court of Arches—that Sorbonne of England. He had the true air of erudition; a learned contraction of the eyes; bristling nostrils; teeth which showed themselves at all times; a thin upper lip and a thick lower one. He was the possessor of several learned degrees, a valuable prabend, titled friends, the confidence of the ishop, and a Bible, which he carried always in a ee ess Lethierry was so completely absorbed that the entrance of the two priests produced no effect upon him, save a slight moyement of the eyebrows. M. Jaquemin Herode advanced, bowed, al- luded in a few sober and dignified words to his recent promotion, and mentioned that he came according to custom to introduce among the in- habitants, and to Mess Lethierry in particular, his successor in the parish, the new Rector of St. Sampson, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, hencforth the pastor of Mess Lethierry. Deruchette rose. . The young clergyman, who was the Rey. E enezer, saluted her. Mess Lethierry regarded Monsieur Ebenezer © Caudray, and muttered ‘A bad sailor,’ Grace placed chairs. The two visitors seated themselves near the table. Doctor Herode commenced a discourse. It had reached his ears that a serious misfortune had befallen his host. The Durande*had been lost. He came as Lethierry’s pastor to offer condolence and advice. This shipwreck was unfortunate, and yet not without compensation; Let us examine our own hearts. Are we not pore up with prosperity? The waters of fe- icity are dangerous. Troubles must be submit- ted to cheerfully. The ways of Providence are mysterious, Mess Lethierry was ruined, ee But riches were a danger. You may ave false friends: poverty will disperse them, and leave youalone. The Durande was reported to have brought a revenue of one thousand pounds sterling per anuum. It was more than enough for the wise. Let us fly from tempta- tions; put not our faith in gold; bow the head to losses and neglect. Isolation is full of good fruits. It was in solitude that Ajah discovered the warm springs while leading the asses’ of his father Zibeon. t us not rebel against the in- scrutable decrees of Providence. ‘The holy man Job, after his misery, had ee faith in riches. Who can say that the loss of the Durande ma not have its advantages even of a temporal kind, He, for instance, Doctor Jaquemin Herode had invested some money in an excellent enterprise, now in progress at Sheffield. _If Mess Lethierry, with the wealth which might still remain to him, should choose to embark in the same affair, he might transfer his anal to that town, Tt was an extensive manufactory of arms for the supply of the Czar, now engaged in repressing insurrection in Poland. There was a good pros- pect of obtaining three hundred per cent. profit. The word Czar Sh toawaken Lethierry, He interrupted Dr. Herode. “T want nothing to do with the Czar.” The Reverend Jacquemin Herode replied: “Mess Lethierry, princes are recognized by- God. It is written. ‘Render unto Coxsar the things which are Ceesar’s.’ The Czar is Cesar.” Lethierry partly relapsed into his dream and muttered: ‘“Ceesar? who is Caesar? I don’t know.” The Rev. Jaquemin Herode continued his ex- hortations. He did not press the question of Sheffield. ; To contemn a Cesar was republicanism. He could understand a man being a republican. In that case he could turn his thoughts toward a republic. Mess Lethierry might repair his for- tune in the United States, even better than in England. If he desired to invest what remained to him at great profit, he had only to take shares in the great company for prt a! the re- sources of Texas, which employed more than twenty thousand negroes, : “T ‘want nothing todo with slavery,” said Lethierry. “Slavery,” replied the Rev. Herode, “is an institution recognized by Scripture. It is writ- ten, ‘If a man smite his slave, he shall not be punished, for he is his money.’ ” Grace and Douce at the door of the room Tis- tened in a sort of ecstasy to the words of the Reverend Doctor. The Doctor continued. He was, all things considered, as we have said, a worthy man; and whatever his differences, personal or connected with caste, with Mess Lethierry, he had come very sincerely to offer him thai spiritual and even temporal aid which he, Doctor Jacquemin Herode bo bettie , If Mess Lethierry’s fortune had been dimin- ished to that point that he was unable to take a beneficial part in any speculation, Russian or American, why should he not obtain some goy- ernment appointment suited to him? There were many very respectable places open to him, ‘and the reverend gentleman was ready to re- commend him. The office of Deputy-Vicomte was just vacant. Mess Lethierry was popular and respected, and the Reverend Jacquemin Herode, Dean of Guernsey and Surrovate of the 28 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. Bishop, would make an effort to obtain for Mess Lethierry this post. ‘The Deputy-Vicomte is an important officer. He is present as the repre- sentative of His Majesty at the holding of the Sessions, at the debates of the Cohue, and at executions of justice. Lethierry fixed his eyes upon Doctor Herode. ‘*T don’t like hanging,” he said. — . Doctor Herode, who, up to this point, had eee a his words with the same intonation. ad now a fit of severity; his tone became slightly changed. “Mess Lethierry, the pain of death is of di- vine ordination. ‘God has placed the sword in the hands of governors. _ It is written, ‘aneye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’” The Reverend Ebenezer imperceptibl his chair nearer to the Reyerend Doc said, so as to be heard only by him: ‘What this man says is dictated to him.” “By whom? By what?’ demanded the Rey- erend Jaquemin Herode, in the same tone. The young man replied in a whisper, ‘‘ By his conscience.” The Reverend Jaquemin Herode felt in his pocket, drew out a thick little bound volume with clasps, and said aloud; ‘* Conscience is here.” The book was a Biblo, Then Doctor Herode’s tone became softer. “His wish was to render a service to Mess Lethierry, whom he respected much. As his pastor, it was his right and duty to offer coun- sel. Mess Lethierry, however was free.” Mess Lethierry, plunged once more in his overwhelming absorption, no longer listened. Deruchette, seated near him, and thoughtful, also did not raise her eyes, and by her silent presence somewhat increased the embarrass- ment of a conversation not very animated. A witness who says nothing is a species of indefin- able weight. Doctor Herode however, did not appear to feel it. ethierry no eae replying, Doctor Herode expatiated freely. Counsel is from man; inspira- tion is from God. In the counsels of the priests there is inspiration. It is good to accept, dan- gerous to refuse them. Sochoh was seized by eleven devils for disdaining the exhortations of Daniel. Tiburianus was struck with a leprosy for having driven from his house the Apostle Andrew. Barjesus, a magician though he was ‘was punished with blindness for having mocke at the words of St. Paul. Elxai and his sisters, Martha and Martena, are in eternal torments for despising the warnings of Valentianus, who ae to them clearly that their Jesus Christ, hirty-eight leagues in hight, was a demon. Aholibamah, who is also called Judith, obeyed the Councils, Reuben and Peniel listened to the counsels from on high, as their names indeed indicate. Reuben signifies son of the vision; and Peniel, the face of God.” Mess Lethierry struck the table with his fist. **Parbleu!” he cried; ‘‘ it was my fault.” “What do you mean?” asked M. Jaquemin Herode. ““T say that it is my fault.” “Your fault? Why?” “Because I allowed the Durande to return on Fridays.” M. Jaquemin Herode whispered in Caudray’s drew r and ear: “This man is superstitious.” He resumed, raising his voice, and in a didac- tic tone: “Mess Lethierry, it is puerile to believe in Fridays. “You ought not to put faith in fables. Friday is a day just like ony, other. It is very often a propitious day. elendez founded. the city of Saint Augustin on a Friday; it was on a Friday that_Henry the Seventh gave his com- mission to John Cabot; the Pilgrims of the “Mayflower” landed at Province Town on a Friday. Washington was born on Friday, the 22d of February, 1732; Christopher Columbus discovered America on Friday, the 12th of Oc- tober, 1492.” ; Having delivered himself of these remarks, he rose. gees whom he brought with him, rose Grace and Douce, perceiving that the two clergymen were about to take their leave, opened the folding-doors. Mess Lethierry saw nothing; heard nothing. M. Jaquemin Herode said, apart to M. Caudray: “He does not even salute us. This is not sorrow; it is vacancy. He must have lost his reason.” ; : : He took his little Bible, however, from the table, and held it between his hands out- ‘stretched, as one holds a bird in fear that it may fly away. This attitdue awakened among the persons present a certain amount of atten- tion. Grace and Douce leaned forward eagerly. His voice assumed all the solemnity of which it was estes “Mess Lethierry,” he began, “let us not ey without reading a page of the Holy Book, It is from books that wise men derive consolation in the troubles of life. The profane have their oracles; but believers have their ready resource in the Bible. The first book which comes to hand, opencd by chance, may afford counsel; but the Bible, opened at an 6, yields a re- velation. It is, above all, a peber te the afflicted. ‘Yes, Holy Ser is an unfailing balm for their wounds, _ In the presence of affliction, it is good to consult its sacred pages—to open even without choosing the place, and to read with” faith the passage which we find. What man does not choose is chosen by God. . He knoweth best what suiteth us. His finger pointeth in- visibly to that which we read. hatever be the page, it will infallibly enlighten. Let. us seek, then, no other light; but hold fast to His. It is the word from on high. In the text which is evoked with confidence and reverence, often do we find a mysterious significance in our pres- ent troubles. Let us hearken, then, and obey. Mess Lethierry, you are in affliction, but I hold here the book of consolation, You are sick at heart, but I have here the book of spiritual health.” The Reverend Jaquemin Herode touched the spring of the clasp, and let his finger slip be- tween the leaves, Then he placed his hand a moment upon the open volume, collected his thoughts, and, raising his eyes impressively, began to read in a loud voice, The passage which he had lighted on was as follows: “And Isaac went out to mediate in the field at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes and saw and behold the camels were coming. “And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when she saw Isaac she lighted off the camel. ‘For she had said unto the servant, What man is this that walketh in the field to meet us? “And Isaac brought her into his mother Sarah’s tent, and took Rebekah, and she be- came his wife, and he loved her; and Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death,” ete and Deruchette glanced at each other. SECOND PART, Boox I. MALICIOUS GILLIATT, I THE PLACE WHICH IS EASY TO REACH, BUT DIFFICULT TO LEAVE AGAIN. THE bark which had been observed at so many points on the coast of Guernsey on the previous evening was, as the reader has guessed the old Dutch barge or sloop. Gilliatt ha chosen the channel along the coast among the rocks. It was the most dangerous way, but it was the most direct. To take the shortest route was his only thought. Shipwrecks will not wait; the sea is a pressing creditor; an hour’s delay may be irreparable. His anxiety was to ‘o quickly to the rescue of the machinery in anger. One of his objects in leaving Guernsey was to avoid arousing attention, He set out like one escaping from justice, and seemed anxious to hide from human eyes. He shunned the eastern coast, as if he did not care to pass in sight of St. Sampson and St. Peter’s Port, and glided silently along the opposite coast, which is com- peretisyly uninhabited. Among the breakers t was necessary to ply the oars; but Gilliatt managed them on scientific principles; tae the water quietly, and dropping it with exac regularity, he was able to move in the darkness with as little noise and as rapidly as possible. So stealthy were his movements that he might have seemed to be bent upon some evil errand, In truth, though embarking desperately in an enterprise which might well be called impossi- ble, and risking his life with nearly every chance against him, he feared nothing but the ossibility of some rival in the work which he had set before him. : As the day began to break, those unknown eyes which look down upon the world from boundless space might have beheld, at one of the most dangerous and. solitary spots at sea, two objects, the distance between which was adually decreasing as the one was approach- ng the other. One, which was almost imper- ceptible in the wide movement of the waters, was a sailing boat. In this wasa man. It was the sloop. The other, black, motionless, colos- sal, rosé above the waves, a singular form. Two tall pillars issuing from the sea bore aloft a sort of cross-beam which was like a bridge between them. This bridge, so singular in shape that it was impossible to imagine what it was from a distance, touched each of the two pillars. It resembled a vast portal. Of what use could such an erection be in that open plain, the sea, which stretched around it far and wide? It might have been imagined to be a Titanic Cromlech, planted there in mid-ocean by an imperious whim, and built up by hands accus- tomed to proportion their labors to the great deep. Its wild outline stood well-defined against the clear sky, P The morning light was growing stronger in the east; the whiteness in the horizon deepened the shadow on the sea. In the opposite sky the moon was sinking, | The two perpendicalar forms were the Douvres. architrave between two pillars, was the wreck of the Durande. The rock, thus holding fast and exhibiting its prey, was terrible to behold. Inanimate things ook sometimes. as if endowed with a dark and hostile spirit toward man. There was a menace in the attitude of the rocks. They seemed to be biding their time. Nothing could be more suggestive of haughti- ness and arrogance than their whole appear- ance: the conquered vessel; the triumphant abyss. The two rocks, still streaming with the tempest of the day before, were like two wrest- lers sweating from a recent struggle. The wind had sunk; the sea rippled gently ; here and there the presence of breakers might be detected in the graceiul streaks of foam upon the surface of the waters. A sound came from the sea like the murmuring of bees. All around was level except the Douvres, rising straight, like two black columns, Up to a certain hight they were completely bearded with seaweed; above this their steep haunches glittered at points like polished armor, ‘They seemed ready to commence the strife again. The beholder felt that they were rooted deep in mountains whose summits were beneath the sea. Their aspect was full of a sort of tragic power. Ordinarily the sea conceals her crimes. She delights in privacy. Her unfathomable deeps keep silence. She wraps herself in a mystery which rarely consents to give up its secrets. ‘We know her savage nature, but who can tell the extent of her dark deeds? She is at once open and secret; she hides away carefully, and cares not to divulge her actions; wrecks a ves- sel, and, covering it with the waves, ingulfs it deep as if conscious of her guilt. Among her crimes is hypocrisy. She slays and steals, con- ceals her booty, puts on an air of unconscious- ness, and smiles. Here, however, was nothing of the kind. The Douvres, lifting above the level of the waters the shattered hull of the Durande, had an air of triumph. The imagination might have pictured them as two monstrous arms, reaching upward from the gulf, and exhibiting to the tempest the lifeless body of the ship. Their aspect was like that of an assassin boasting of his evil deed. The solemnity of the hour contributed some- thing to the impression of the scene. There is a mysterious grandeur in the dawn, as of the bor- der-land between the region of consciousness and the world of our dreams. There is some- thing spectral in that confused transition time. The immense form of the two Douvres, like a capital letter H, the Durande forming its cross- stroke, appeared against the horizon in all their twilight majesty. Gilliatt was attired in his seaman’s clothing: a Guernsey shirt, woolen stockings, thick shoes, a homespun jacket, trowsers of thick stuff, with pockets, and a cap upon his head of red worsted, of a kind then much in use among sailors, and. known in the last century as a galerienne. a recognized the rocks, and steered toward them. The situation of the Durande was exactly the contrary of that of a vessel fone to the bottom; it was a vessel suspended in the air, No problem more strange was ever presented to a salvor. It was broad daylight when Gilliatt arrived in the waters about the rock. As we have said, there was but little sea. The slight agitation of the water was due al- most entirely to its confinement among the rocks, Every passage, small or large, is subject to this chopping movement. The inside of a channel is always more or less white with foam. Gilliatt did not approach the Douvres without caution. ; He cast the sounding-lead several times. He had a cargo to disembark, ‘ Accustomed to long absences, he had at home a number of necessaries always ready, He had brought a sack of biscuit, another of rye-meal, a basket of salt fish and smoked beef, a large can of fresh water; a Norwegian chest painted with flowers, ce several coarse woolen shirts, his tarpaulin and his waterproof overalls, and a sheepskin which he was accustomed to throw at night over his clothes. Onleaving the Bu de la Rue he had put all these things hastil into the barge, with the addition of a fatee Toad. Tn his hurry he had brought no other tools but his huge forge-hammer, his chopper and hatchet, and a knotted rope. Furnished with a grap- pling-iron and with a ladder of that sort, the steepest rocks became accessible, and a good sailor will find it possible to scale the rudest es- carpment. In theisland of Sark the visitor ma see what the fishermen of the Havre Gosselin can accomplish with a knotted cord. His nets and lines and all his fishing apparatus were in the barge. He had placed them there mechanically and by habit; for he intended, if his enterprise continued, to sojourn for some time in an archipelago of rocks and breakers, where fishing nets and tackle are of little use. At the moment when Gilliatt was skirting the eat rock the sea was retiring; a circumstance ‘avorable to his PET Doe. The departing tide laid bare, at the foot of the smaller Douvre, one or two table-rocks, horizontal, or only slightly in- clined, and bearing a. fanciful résem| @ to ‘Douvre, but im TOILERS OF THE SEA, 29 boards supported by crows. These table-rocks, sometimes narrow, sometimes broad, standin; at bast pe distances along the side of the grea rpendicular column, were continued in the ah of a thin cornice up to a spot just beneath the Durande, the hull of which stood swellin; out between the two rocks. The wreck was held fast there as in a vice. The series of platforms was convenient for approaching and surveying the position. It was convenient also for disembarking the con- tents of the barge provisionally; but it was necessary to hasten, for it was only above wa- ter for a few hours. With the rising tide the table-rocks would be again beneath the foam. It was before these table-rocks, some level, some slanting, that Gilliatt pushed in and brought the barge to a stand. thick mass of wet and slippery sea-wrack covered them, ren- dered more slippery here and there by their inclined surfaces. Gilliatt pulled off his shoes and sprung naked- footed onto the slimy weeds, and made fast the barge toa point of rock. Then he advanced as far as he could along the ee cornice, reached the rock immediately meath the wreck, looked up, and examined it. The Durande had been caught suspended, and as it were fitted in between the two rocks, at about twenty feet above the water. It must have been a heavy sea which had cast her there. Such effects from furious seas have nothing surprising for those who are familiar with the ocean. To cite one example only: On the 25th January, 1840, in the Gulf of Stora, a tempest struck with its expiring force a brig, and casting it almost intact completely over the broken wreck of the corvette ‘La Marne,” fixed it immovable, bowsprit first, in a gap between the cliffs. he Douvres, however, held only a part of the Durande. x The vessel snatched from the waves had been, as it were, uprooted from the waters by the hurricane. A whirlwind had wrenched it against the counteracting force of the rolling waves, and the vessel thus caught in contrary directions by the two claws of the tempest had snapped like a lath. The after-part, with the engine and the pee lifted out of the foam and driven by all the fury of the cyclone into the defile of the Douvres, had plunged in up to her midship beam, and remained there. he blow had been well directed. To drive it in this fashion between the two rocks, the storm had struck it as with an enormous hammer. The forecastle carried away and rolled down by the sea, had gone to fragments among the breakers. The hold, broken in, had scattered out the bodies of the drowned cattle upon the sea, A large portion of the forward side and bul- warks still hung to the riders by the larboard addle-box, and by some shattered braces strike off with the blow of a hatchet. Here and there, among beams, planks, rags of canvas, pieces of chains, and other remains of wreck were seen lying about among the rugged fragments of shattered rock, : illiatt surveyed the Durande attentively. . The keel formed a roofing over his head. A serene sky stretched far and wide over the waters, scarcely wrinkled with a passing breath. The sun rose gloriously in the midst of the vast azure clouds. From time to time a drop of water was de- tached from the wreck and fell into the sea. Il. A CATALOGUE OF DISASTERS. Tar Douvres differed in shape as well as in hight. Upon the Little Douvre, which was curved and pointed, long veins of reddish-colored rock, of a comparatively soft kind, could be seen branching out and dividing the interior of the granite. At the edges of these red dykes were fractures, fa- vorable to climbing. One of these fractures, situated a little above the wreck, had been so laboriously worn and scooped out by the splash- ing of the waves, that it had become a sort of niche, in which it would be quite possible to place a statue. The granite of the Little Douvre was rounded at the sui face, and, to the feel at least, soft like touchstone; but this feeling de- tracted nothing from its durability, The Little Douvre terminated in a point like'a horn. The Great Douvre, polished, smooth, glossy, perpen- dicular, and looking as if cut éut by the build- er’s square, was in One piece, and seemed made of black ivory. Not a hole, not a break in its smooth surface. The escarpment looked inhos- pitable. A convict could not have used it for escape, nor a bird fora lace foritsnest. On its summit there was a horizontal surface as upon “'The Man Rock;” but the summit of the Great Douvre was inaccessible. ; Tt was possible to scale the Little Douvre, but not to remain on the summit; it would have been possible to A phe suniay of the Great ible to scale 10. Gilliatt, having rapidly surveyed the situa- tion of affairs, Fetiined to the barge, landed its contents upon the largest of the horizontal cor- nice rocks, made of the whole compact mass asort of bale, which he rolled up in ulin, fitted a sling rope to it with a hoisting block, pushed the package into the corner of the rocks where the waves could not reach it, and then clutching the little Douvre with his hands, and holding on with his naked feet, he clambered from projection to projection, and from niche to niche, until he found himself level with the wrecked vessel high up in the air. Having reached the hight of the paddles, he sprung upon the poop. The interior of the wreck presented a mourn- ful aspect. Traces of a great struggle were everywhere visible. There were plainly to be seen the fright- ful ravages of the sea and wind. The action of the tempest resembles the violence of a band of pirates. criminal outrage than a wrecked ship violated and stripped by those terrible accomplices, the storm-cloud, the thunder, the rain, the squall, the waves, and the breakers. Standing upon* the dismantled deck, it was natural to dream of the presence of something like a furious stamping of the spirits of the storm. Everywhere around were the marks of their rage. The strange contortions of certain es of the iron-work bore testimony to the rrific force of the winds. The between-decks were like the cell of a lunatic in which every- thing has been broken, No wild beast can compare with the sea for mangling its prey. The waves are full of tal- ons. The north wind bites, the billows devour, the waves are like hungry jaws. The ocean strikes like a lion with its heavy paw, seizing and dismembering at the same moment. The ruin conspicuous in the Durande present- ed the peculiarity of being detailed and minute. It was a sort of horrible stripping and plucking. Much of* it seemed done with design. The be- holder was tempted to exclaim, ‘‘ What wanton mischief!” The ripping of the planking was edged here and there artistically. This pecu- liarity is common with the caaies of the cy- clone. To chip and tear away is the caprice of the great devastator. Its ways are like those of the professional torturer. The disasters which it causes wear a look of ingenious punishments. One might oo it actuated by the worst pas- sions of man. It refines in cruelty like a sav- age. While it is exterminating it dissects bone by bone. It torments its victim, avenges itself, and takes delight in its work. It even appears to descend to petty acts of malice. Cyclones are rare in our latitudes, and are, for that reason, the more dangerous, being nerally unexpected. A rock in the path of a Seay. wind may become the pivot of a storm. It is probable that the squall had thus rotated upon the point of the Douvres, and had sudden- 1 Husted 3 into a waterspout on meeting the shock of the rocks, a fact which es the casting of the vessel so high among them. When the cyclone blows, a vessel is of no more weight in the wind than a stone in a sling. The damage received by the Durande was like the wound of a man cut in twain. Itwasa divided trunk from which issued a mass of de- bris like the entrails of a oe Various kinds of snags hung floating and trembling, chains swung chattering; the fibers and neryes of the vessel were there naked and exposed. What was not smashed was disjointed. Fragments of the sheeting resembled curry- combs bristling with nails; everything bore the appearance of ruin; a handspike had become nothing but a piece of iron; a sounding-lead, nothing but a lump of metal; a dead-eye had be- come a mere piece of wood; a halliard, an end of rope; a strand of cord, a tangled skein; a bolt- rope, a thread in the hem of a sail. All around was the lamentable work of demolition. Noth- ing remained that was not unhooked, unnailed, cracked, wasted, warped, pierced with holes, de- stroyed; nothing hung poesthes in the dreadful mass, but all was torn, dislocated, broken. There was that air of drift which characterizes the scene of all nem the melees of men, which are called battles, to the melees of the elements, to which we give the name of chaos, Every- thing was sinking and dropping away; a ae mass of planks, paneling, ironwork, cables, an beams had been arrested just at the great frac- ture of the hull, whence the least additional shock must have precipitated them into the sea. What remained of her powerful frame, once so tri- umphant, was cracked here and there, showing through large apertures the dismal pow within. The foam from below spat its flakes contempt- ee ek upon this broken and forlorn outcast of the sea. Til. SOUND; BUT NOT SAFE. 4 Gru1aTT did not expect to find only a portion of the ship existing. Nothing in the description, in other respects so precise, of the captain of the Shealtiel had led him to anticipate this division of the vessel in the center. Tt was Peat the ‘“ diabolical crash” heard by the captain of the Shealticl marked the moment when this destruction had taken place under the blows of a tremendous sea, The ae had, doubtless worn ship just before this last heavy squall; an what he had taken for a great sea was probably a waterspout. Later, when he drew nearer to Nothing is more like the victim of a | observe the wreck, he had only been able to see the stern of the vessel—the remainder, that is to say, the large opening where the forepart had given way, having been concealed from him among the masses of rock. With that exception, the information given by the captain of the Shealtiel was strictly cor- rect.. The hull was useless, but the engine re- mained intact. Such chances are common in the history of shipwreck. The logic of disaster at sea is be- yond the grasp of human science, The masts having snapped short, had fallen over the side; the chimney was not even bent. The great iron plating which supported the machinery had Rept it together, and in one piece. e planks of the paddle-boxes were dis- jointed, like the leaves of wooden sunblinds; ut parva their apertures the paddles them- selves could be seen in good condition. A few of their floats only were missing. Besides the machinery, the great stern cap- stan had resisted the destruction, Its chain was there, and, thanks to its firm fixture in a frame of joists, might still be of service, unless the strain of the voyal should break away the plank- ing. The flooring of the deck bent at almost every point, and was tottering throughout. On the other hand, the trunk of the hull, fixed between the Douvres, held together, as we have already said, and it appeared strong. There was something like derision in this pre- servation of the machinery; something which added to the irony of the cide ortune. 6 som- ber malice of the unseen powers of mischief displays itself sometimes in such bitter mocker- ies. The machinery was saved, but its preser- vation did not make it any the less lost. The ocean seemed to have kept it only to demolish it at leisure, It was like the playing of the cat with her prey. Its fate was to suffer there and to be dismem- bered day by day. It was to be the plaything of the savage amusements of the sea. It was slowly to dwindle, and, as it were, to melt away. For what could be done? That this vast block of mechanism and gear, at once massive and delicate, condemned to fixity by its weight, de- livered up in that solitude to the destructive elements, exposed in the gripe of the rock to the action of the wind and wave, could, under the frown of that implacable spot, escape from slow destruction, seemed a madness even to imagine. The Durande was the captive of the Douvres. How could she be extricated from that posi- tion? How could she be delivered from her bond- age? *Tho escape of a man is difficult; but what a problem was this—the escape of a vast and cumbrous machine, IV. A PRELIMINARY SURVEY. GILLIATT was pressed on all sides by demands upon his labors. The most pressing, however, was to find a safe mooring for the barge; then a shelter for himself. a The Durande having settled down more on the larboard than on the starboard side, the right paddle-box was higher than the left. illiatt ascended the paddle-box on the right. From that position, although the gut of rocks stretching in abrupt les behind the Douvres had several elbows, he was able to study the ground-plan of the group. This ts e reliminary step of his is survey was the p operations. ; The Douvres, as we have Ta eats described / them, were like two high-gable ends, forming the narrow entrance to a straggling alley of small cliffs with perpendicular faces. It is not rare to find in primitive submarine formations these singular kind of passages, which seem cut out with a hatchet. This defile was extremely tortuous, and was never without water even in the low tides. A current, much agitated, traversed it at all times from end to end. The sharpness of its turnings was favorable or unfavora! accord- ing to the nature of the ee wind; some- times it broke the swell and caused it to fall; sometimes it exasperated it.. This latter effect was the most frequent. An obstacle arouses the anger of fhe sea, and pushes it to excesses. The foam is the exaggeration of the waves. The two chains of rocks, leaving between them this kind of street in the sea, formed stages at a lower level than the Douvres, gradu- ally decreasing, until they sunk together at a certain distance beneath the waves. The stormy winds in these narrow and tor- tuous passages between the rocks are subjected to a similar compression, and acquire the same malignant character. The tempest frets in its sudden imprisonment. _ Its bulk is still immense, but sharpened and contracted; and it strikes with the massiveness of a huge club and the keenness of an arrow. It pierces even while it strikes down. It is a hurricane con , like the draft through the crevice of a door. There was another such gullet of less hight than the gullet of the Douvres, but narrower still, and which formed the eastern entrance of the defile. It was evident that the double pro- longation of the ridge of rocks continued the . oe THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY kind of street, under the water as far as the “The Man” rock, which stood like a square citadel at the extremity of the group. At low water, indeed, which was the time at which Gilliatt was observing them, the two rows of sunken rocks showed their tips, some high and dry, and all visible and preserving their Bes) without interruption. ‘““The Man” formed the boundary, and but- tressed on the eastern side the entire mass of the group, which was protected on the opposite side y the two Douvres. The whole, from a bird’s-eye view, appeared like a winding chaplet of rocks, having the Douvres at one extremity and “ The Man” at the other. The Douvres, taken together, were merely two gigantic shafts of granite protruding verti- cally and almost touching each other, and form- ing the crest of one of the mountainous ranges lying béneath the ocean. Those immense ridges are not only found rising out of the unfathom- able deep. The surf and the squall had broken them up and divided them like the teeth of a saw. Only the tip of the ridge was visible; this was the group of rocks. The remainder, which the waves concealed, must have been enor- mous. The passage in which the storm had a the Durande was the way between hese two colossal shafts. This passage, zigzag in form as the forked lightning, was of about the same width in all parts. The ocean had so fashioned it. Its eternal commotion produces sometimes those peculiar regularities. There is a sort of geom- be! in the action of the sea. om one extremity to the other of the defile, the two parallel granite walls confronted each other at a distance which the midship frame of the Durande measured exactly. Between the two Douvres, the widening of the Little Douvre, curved and turned back as it was, had formed a space for the paddles. In any other part they must have been shattered to fragments. The high double facade of rock within the passage was hideous to the sight. When, in the exploration of the desert of water which we call the ocean, we come upon the unknown world of the sea, all is uncouth and_shapeless. So much as Gilliatt could see of the defile from the hight of the wreck, was appalling. In the rocky gorges of the ocean we may often trace a strange permanent impersonation of ship- wreck. The defile of the Douvres was one of these gorges, and its effect was exciting to the imagination. The oxydes of the rock showed on the escarpment here and there in red places, like marks of clotted blood; it resembled the splashes on. the walls.of an abattoir. Associa- tions of the charnel-house haunted the_ place. The rough marine stones, diversely tinted—here by the decomposition of metallic amalgams mingling with the rock, there by the mold of dampness, manifested in places by eres scales, hideous nm blotches, and ruddy splashes, awakened ideas of murder and extermination. It was like the unwashed walls of a chamber which had been the scene of an assassination; or it. might have been imagined that men had been crushed to death. there, leaving traces of their fate. The peaked rocks produced an in- describable impression of accumulated agonies. Certain spots appeared to be still dripping with the carnage; here the wall was. wet, and it looked impossible to touch it without leaving the fingers bloody. ,. The blight of massacre seemed everywhere. At the base of the double parallel ment, scattered along the water’s edge, or just below the waves, or in the worn hollows of the rocks, were monstrous rounded masses of shingle, some scarlet, others black or purple, which bore a strange resemblance to in- ternal organs of the body; they might have been taken for human lungs, or heart, or liver, scattered and putrefying in that dismal place. Giants might have been disemboweled there. From top to bottom of the ea ran long red lines, which might have m compared to oozings from a funeral bier. Such aspects are frequent in sea caverns, Vv. 4 WORD UPON THE SECRET CO-OPERATIONS OF THE ELEMENTS. THOSE who, by the disastrous chances of sea- voyages, happen:to be condemned to a temporary habitation upon a rock in mid-ocean, find that’ the form of their inhospitable see is by no means a matter of indifference. ere is the yramidal-shaped rock, a single peak rising Pom the water; there is the circle rock some? what resembling a round of great stones; and there is the corridor-rock. The latter is most alarming of It is not only the ceaseless agony of the waves between its walls, or the tu- mult of the imprisoned sea; there are also cer- tain obscure meteorological . characteristics, which appear to appertain to this parallelism of two marine rocks. The two straight sides seem a veritable electric battery. ; The first result of the peculiar position of these corridor-rocks is an action upon the air and the water. The corridor-rock acts upon the waves and the wind mechanically by its form; galvan- _ ically, by the different magnetic action rendered possible by its vertical hight, its masses in juxta- position and contrary to each other. This form of rock attracts to itself all the for- ces scattered in the winds, and exercises over the tempest a singular power of concentration. Hence there is in the neighborhood of these |, breakers a certain accentuation of storms. It must be borne in mind that the wind is com- posite. The wind is believed to be simple; but it is by no means simple. Its power is not merely dynamic, it is chemical also; but this is not all, it ‘is magnetic. Its effects are often inexplica- ble. The wind is as much electrical as aerial. Certain winds coincide with the aurores boreales. The wind blowing from the bank of the Aiguill- es rolls the waves one hundred feet high; a fact observed with astonishment by Dumont-d’ Ur- ville. The corvette, he says, ‘knew not what to obey.” In the south seas the waters will sometimes be- come inflated like an outbreak of immense tu- mors; and at such times the. ocean becomes so terrible, that the savages fly to escape the sight of it. The blasts in the north seas are different. They are mingled with sharp points of ice; and their gusts unfit to breathe, will blow the sledg- es of the Esquimaux backward on the snow. Other winds burn. The simoon of Africa is the typhoon of China arid the samiel of India. Si- moon, typhoon, and samiel, are believed to be the names of demons. They descend from the hights of the mountains. A storm vitrified the volcano of Toluca. This hot wind, a whirlwind of inky color, rushing upon red clouds, is alluded to in the Vedas: “‘ Behold the black god, who comes to steal the red cows.” In all these facts we trace the presence of the electric mystery. The wind indeed is full of it; so are the waves. The sea, too, is composite in its nature. Under its waves of water which we see, it has its waves of force which are invisible. Its constituents are innumerable, Of all the elements the ocean is the most indivisible and the most profound. Endeavor to conceive this chaos so enormous that it dwarfs all other things to one level. It is the universal recipient, reservoir of germs of life, and mold of; transformations. It amasses and then disperses, it accumulates and then sows, it devours and then creates. It receives all the waste and refuse waters of the earth, and con- verts them into treasure. It is solid in the ice- berg, liquid in the wave, fluid in the estuary. Regarded as matter, it is a mass; regarded as a force, it is an abstraction. It equalizes and unites all phenomena. It may be called the in- finite in combination. By force and disturbance, it arrives at transparency. It dissolves all dif- ferences, and absorbs them into its own unity. Its elements are so numerous that it becomes identity. _One of its drops is complete, and re- presents the whole. From the abundance of its tempests, it attains equilibrium. Plato beheld the mazy dances of the spheres. Strange fact, though not the less real the ocean, in the vast ter- restrial journey round the sun becomes, with its flux and reflux, the balance of the globe. In a phenomenon of the sea, all other phe- nomena are resumed. The sea is blown out of a waterspout as from a syphon; the storm ob- serves the principle of the pump; the lightnin, issues from the sea as from the air. Aboar ships dull shocks are sometimes felt, and an odor of sulphur issues from the receptacles of chain cables. _The ocean boils. ‘‘ The devil has put the sea in his caldron,” said De Ruyter. In certain tempests, which characterizes the equi- noxes and the return to equilibrium of the pro- lific power of nature, vessels breasting the foam seem to give out a kind of fire, phosphoric lights chase each other along the rigging, so close sometimes to the sailors at their work that the latter stretch forth their hands and try to catch, as they fly, these birds of flame. After the great earthquake at Lisbon, a blast of hot air, as from a furnace, drove before it toward the city a wave sixty feet high. The oscillation of the ocean is closely related to the convulsions of the earth. These immeasurable forces produce sometimes extraordinary inundations. At the end of the year 1864, one of the Maldive Islands, at a hun- dred leagues from the Malabar coast, actually foundered in the sea. It sunk to the bottom like a shipwrecked vessel. The fishermen who sail- ed from it in the morning, found nothing when they returned at night; scarcely could they dis- tinguish their villages under the sea. On this oceasion boats were the spectators of the wrecks of houses. In Europe, where nature seems restrained by the presence of civilization, such events are rare and are thought impossible. Nevertheless, Jer- sey and Guernsey originally formed part 0 Gaul, and at the moment while we are waiting these lines, an equinoctial gale has demolishe a great portion of the cliff of the Firth of Forth in Scotland. Nowhere do these terrific forces appear more formidably conjoined than in the surprising strait known as the Lyse-Fiord. The se-Fiord is the most. terrible of all the Gut ks of the ocean. Their terrors are there complete. It is in the northern sea, near the inhospitable Gulf of Stavanger, and in the 59th degree of lati- tude. The water is black and heavy, and sub- ject to intermitting storms. In this sea, and in line of cliffs, the midst of this solitude, rises a great somber street—a street for no human footsteps. .None ever pass through there; no ship ever ventures in. It isa corridor ten leagues in length, be- tween two rocky walls of three thousand feet in hight. Such is the eee which presents an entrance to the sea, The defile has its elbows and angles like all these streets of the sea— never straight, having been formed. by the ir- regular action of the water. In the Lyse-Fiord, the sea is always tranquil; the sky above ‘is serene; the place terrible. ‘Where is the wind? Not on high. ‘Where is the thunder? Not in the heavens. The wind is under the sea; the light- nings within the rock. Now and then there is a convulsion of the water. At certain moments, when there is perhaps not a cloud in the sky, nearly half way up the perpendicular rock, at a thousand or fifteen hundred feet above the water, and rather on the southern than on the northern side, the rock suddenly thunders, light- nings dart forth, and then retire like those toys which lengthen out and spring back again in the hands of children. ‘ They contract and enlarge; strike the opposite cliff, re-enter the rock, issue forth again, recommence their play, multiply their heads and tips of flame, grow bristling with points, strike wherever they can, recom- mence again, and then are extinguished with a sinister abruptness. Flocks of birds fly wide in terror. Nothing is more mysterious than that artillery issuing out of the invisible. One cliff attacks the other, raining lightning blows from side toside. Their war concerns not man. It signals the ancient enmity of two rocks in the impassable gulf. n the Lyse-Fiord, the wind whirls like the water in an estuary; the rock performs the function of the clouds; and the thunder breaks forth like volcanic fire. The strange defile is a voltaic pile; the plates of which are the double VI. A STABLE FOR THE HORSE. | GILLIATT was sufficiently familiar with ma- rine rocks to grapple in earnest with the Dou- vres. Before all, as we have just said, it was necessary to find a safe shelter for the barge. The double row of reefs, which stretched in a sinuous form behind the Douvres, connected it- self here and there with other rocks, and sug- gested the existence of blind passages and hol- lows opening out into the straggling way, and joining ene to the principal defile like branches to a trunk. The lower part of these rocks was covered with kelp, the upper part with lichens. The uniform level of the seaweed marked the line of the water at the hight of the tide, and the limit of the sea in calm weather. The points which the water had not touched presented those silver and golden hues communicated to marine gran- ite by the white and yellow lichen. A crust of conoidical shells covered the rock at certain points, the dry rot of the granite, At other points in the retreating angles, where fine sand had accumulated, ribbed on its surfaee rather by the wind than by the waves, appeared _ tufts of blue thistles. In the indentations, sheltered from the winds, could be traced the little Rear made by the sea-urchin. This shelly mass_ of. prickles, which moves about a living ball, by rolling on its spines, and the armor of which is composed of ten thousand pieces, artistically adjusted and welded together—the sea-urchin, which is popu- larly called, for some unknown reason, “ Aris- totle’s lantern,” wears away the granite with his five teeth, and lodges himself in the hole. It is in such holes that the samphire gatherers find them. They cut them in halves and eat them raw, like an oyster. Some steep their bread in the soft flesh. Hence its other name, “‘Sea-egg.” The tips of the further reefs, left out of the water by the receding tide, extended close under the escarpment of ‘‘ The Man” toa sort of creek, inclosed nearly on all sides by rocky walls. Here was evidently a possible harborage. It had the form of a horseshoe, and opened only on one side to the east wind, which is the least violent of all winds in that sea labyrinth.’ The water was shut in there, and almost. motionless. The shelter seemed comparatively safe. Gilliatt, moreover, had not much choice. If he wished to take advantage of the low water, if was important to make haste. The weather continued to be fine and calm. aoe insolent sea was for a while in a gentle mood. Gilliatt descended, put on his shoes again, un- moored the cable, re-embarked, and. pushed out into the water. He used the oars, coasting the side of the rock. ; _ Having reached ‘‘The Man” rock, he exam- ined the entrance to the little creek. fixed, wavy line in the motionless sea, a sort of wrinkle, imperceptible to any eye but that of a sailor, marked the channel. Gilliatt studied for a moment its ingen almost indistinct under the water; then he held off a little in order to veer at ease, and steer well into the channel; and suddenly with a stroke of the oars he entered the little bay. He sounded. The anchorage appeared to be excellent, Phe I a atig = sir TOILERS OF THE SEA. | A The sloop would be protected there against almost any of the contingencies of the season. The most formidable reefs have quiet nooks of this sort. The ports which are thus found among the breakers are like the hospitality of the fierce Bedouin—friendly and sure. Gilliatt placed the sloop as near as he could to “The Man,” but still far enough to escape graz- ing. the rock; and he cast his two anchors. hat done, he crossed his arms, and reflected on. his position. The sloop was sheltered. Here was one prob- lem solved. But another remained. ere could he now shelter himself? He had the choice of two places: the sloop itself, with its corner of cabin, which was scarcely habitable, and the summit of ‘The Man” rock, which was not difficult to scale. From one or other of these refuges it was pos- sible at low water, by jumping from rock to rock, to gain the passage betwen the Douvres where the Durande was fixed, almost without wetting the feet. But low water lasts but a short while, and all the rest of the time he would be cut off either from his shelter or from the wreck by more than two hundred fathoms. Swimming among breakers 1s difficult at all times; if there is the least commotion in the sea it is impossible, He was driven to give up the idea of shelter in the sloop or on “‘'The Man.” No resting-place was possible among the neigh- boring rocks. The summits of the lower ones disappeared twice a day beneath the rising tide. The summits of the higher ones were con- stantly swept by the flakes of foam, and prom- ised nothing but an inhospitable drenching, No choice remained but the wreck itself. Was it possible to seek refuge there? Gilliatt hoped it might be, Vil. A CHAMBER FOR THE VOYAGER. Hatr-an-Hour afterwards, Gilliat having re- turned to the wreck, climbed to the deck, went below, and descended into the hold, completing the summary survey of his first visit. : 5 By the help of the capstan he had raised to the deck of the Durande the package which he had made of the lading of the sloop. The cap- stan had worked well. Bars for turning it were not Mitinttant J Gilliat had only to take his choice among the heap of wreck. He found among the fragments a chisel, dropped, no doubt, from the carpenter’s box, its which he added to his little stock of tools. Besides this—for in poverty of appliances so complete everything counts for a little—he had his jack-knife in his pocket. Gilliatt worked the whole day long on the wreck, clearing away, propping, arranging. At nightfall he observed the following facts. The entire wreck shook in the wind. The carcass trembled at every step he took. There was nothing stable or strong except the portion of the hull jammed between the rocks which contained the engine. There the beams were powerfully supported by the granite walls. Fixing his home in the Durande would be im- rudent. It would increase the weight; but far ‘om adding to her burden, it was important to lighten it. To burden the wreck in any way was indeed the very contrary of what he wanted. — : The mass of ruin required, in fact, the most careful management. It was like a sick man at the approach of dissolution... The wind would do sunicient to help it to its end. It was, moreover, unfortunate enough to be compelled to work there. The amount of dis- turbance which the wreck would have to with- stand would necessarily distress it, perhaps be- yond its strength, Besides, if any accident should happen in the night while Gilliatt was sleoping, he must neces- sarily perish with the vessel. No assistance was le; all would be over. In order to help the shattered vessel, it was absolutely necessary to remain outside it. How to be outside it and yet near it, this was the problem. The difficulty became more complicated as he considered it. Where could he find shelter under such con- itions? Gilliatt reflected. There remained nothing but the two Douvres. They seemed hopeless enough. From below, it was possible to distinguish upon the upper plateau of the Great Douvre a sort of protuberance. Hi; i Fock with flattened summits, like the Great Douvre and ‘‘The Man,” are a sort of de- capitated They abound among the mountains and in the ocean. Certain rocks, particularly those which are met with in the open sea, bear marks like half-felled trees. They have the a) ce of haying received blows from a have et. They have been subjected, in fact, to the blows of the gale, that indefatigable pioneer of the sea. There are other still moro profound causes of vulsions. Hence tho innumerable bruises upon these primeval masses of granite. marine con Some of these sea giants have their heads struck o Sometimes these heads, from some inexplica- ble cause, do not fall, but remain shattered on the summit of the mutilated trunk. This sin- gularity is by no means rare. The Devil’s Rock at Guernsey, and the Table, in the Valley of Anweiler, illustrate some of the most surprising features of this strange geological enigma. Some such phenomena had probably fashioned the summit of the Great Douvre. If the protuberance which could be observed on the plateau were not a natural irregularity in the stone, it must necessarily be some re- maining fragment of the shattered summit. Perhaps the fragment might contain some ex- cavation—some hole into which a man could creep for cover, Gilliatt asked for no more. But how could he reach the plateau? How could he scale that aa str ie wall, hard and polished as a pebble, half covered with the growth of glutinous conferve, and having the slippery look. of a soapy surface? eridge of the plateau_ was at least thirty feet above the deck of the Durande. Gilliatt took out of his box of tools the knotted cord, hooked it to his belt by the grapnel, and set to work to scale the Little Douvre. The ascent became more difficult as he climbed. He had forgotten to take off his shoes, a fact’ which increased the difficulty. With great labor and straining, however, he reached the point. Safe- ly arrived there, he raived himself and stood erect. There was scarcely room for his two feet. To make it his lodging would be difficult. A Stylite might have contented himself there; Gilliatt, more luxurious in his requirements, wanted something more commodious, The Little Douvre, leaning toward the great one, looked from a distance as if it was salutin it, and the space between the Douvres, whic was some score of feet below, was only eight or ten at the highest points. : From the spot to which he had climbed, Gil- liatt saw more distinctly the rocky excrescence which partly covered the plateau of the Great Douvre. : This sens rose three fathoms at least above his head, A precipice separated him from it. The curved escarpment of the Little Douvre sloped away out of sight beneath him. He detached the knotted rope from his belt, took a rapid glance at the dimensions of the rock, and slung the grapnel up to the plateau. The grapnel scratched the rock, and slipped. The knotted rope with the hooks at its end fell down beneath his feet, swinging against the side of the Little Douvre. He renewed the attempt; slung the rope fur- ther, aiming at the granite protuberance, in which he could perceive crevices and scratches. The cast was, this time, so neat and skillful, that the hooks caught. He pulled from below. A portion of the rock broke away, and the knotted rote warn its heavy iron came down once more, striking the escarp- ment beneath his feet. He slung the grapnel a third time. It did not fall. He put a strain upg the SoPRR it resisted. The grapnel was firmly anchored. The hooks had caught in some fracture of the plateau which he coud not see. It was necessary to’trust his life to that un- known support. He did not hesitate. The matter was urgent. He was compelled to take the shortest route. Moreover, to descend again to the deck of the Durande, in order to devise some other step, was impossble. A slip was probable, and a fall al- most certain. It was easier to climb than to descend. eed Gilliatt’s movements were decisive as are those of allgood sailors. He never wasted force. He always proportioned his efforts to the work in hand, MHence the prodigies of strength which he executed with ordinary muscles. His biceps were no more powerful than those of ordi- nary men. He added, in fact, to strength which is physical, energy which belongs to the moral faculties, The feat to be accomplished was appalling. It was to cross the space between the Douvres, hanging only by this slender line. Oftentimes in the path of duty and devoted- nesss, the figure of death rises before men to present these terrible questions: Wilt thou do this? asks the shadow. § Gilliatt tested the cord again; the grappling- iron held firm. o Wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief, he grasped the knotted cord with his righs hand, which he covered with his left; then stretching out one foot, and striking out sharply with the other against the rock, in order that the impe- tous poet prevent the rope aati, he Prete itated himself from the hight of the Little uvre on to the escarpment of the great one. e shock was severe. There was a rebound. ee Weal clenched fists struck the rocks in their turn; the handkerchief had loosened, and they were scratched; they had indeed narrowly es- caped being crushed. Gilliatt remained hanging there a moment izzy. He was sufficiently master of himself not to let go his hold of the cord. A few moments passed in jerks and oscilla- tions before he could catch the cord with his feet; but he succeeded at last, Recovering himself, and holding the cord at last between his naked feet as with two hands, he gazed into the depths below. He had no anxiety about the length of the cord, which had many a time served him for great hights. The cord, in fact, trailed upon the deck of the Durande. Assured of yas able to descend again, he be- gan to climb hand over hand, and still clinging. with his feet. ' In a few moments he had gained the summit. Never before had any creature without wings found a footing there. ‘The plateau was covered in parts with the dung of birds. It was an ir- regular trapezium, a mass struck off from the colossal granitic pram of the Great’ Douvre. This block was hollowed in the center like a ba- sin—a work of the rain. Gilliatt, in fact, had guessed correctly. At the southern angle of the block, he found a mass of superimposed rocks, probably frag- ments of the fallen summit. These rocks, look- ing like a heap of giant PAE Oe, would have left room for a wild beast, if one could have found its way there, to secrete himself be- tween them. They supported themselves con- fusedly one against the other, leaving inter- stices like a heap of ruins. They formed neither grottoes nor caves, but the pile was full of holes like a ones. One of these holes was large enough to admit a man. The recess had a flooring of moss and a few tufts of grass. Gilliatt could fit himself in it as in a kind of sheath. The recess at its entrance was about two feet high. It contracted toward the bottom. Stone coffins sometimes have this form. The mass of rocks behind lying toward the south-west, the recess was sheltered from the" Pais but was open to the cold north wind. Gilliatt was satisfied with the place. The two chief problems were solved; the sloop had a harbor, and he had found a shelter.” The chief merit of his cave was its accessibili- ty from the wreck. ; The ing of the knotted cord having fallen between two blocks, had become firmly hooked, but Gilliatt rendered it more difficult to give way by rolling a huge stone upon it. He was now free to operate at leisure upon the Durande. Henceforth he was at home, The great Douvre was his dwelling; the Du- rande. was his workshop. Nothing was more simple for him than going to and fro, ascending and descending. He cropped. down easily by the knotted cord a a ee good the ente © 's work was a one enter- prise hea’ Bogan well; he was satisfied, and be- gan to feel ees. , He untied his et of provisions, opened his knife, cut a slice of smoked beef, took a bite out of his brown loaf, drank a draught from his can of fresh water, and supped admirably, To do well and eat well are two satisfactions. A full stomach resembles an easy conscience, This supper was ended, and there was still be- fore him a little more daylight. He took ad- vantage of it to begin the lightening of the wreck—an urgent necessity. He had passed part of the day in peeeans be the fragments. He put on one side, in the strong compartment which contained the ma- chine, all that might become of use to him, such as wood, iron. gordage, and canvas. What was useless he cast into the sea. The cargo of the sloop hoisted onto the deck by the id br compact as he had made it, was an incumbrance, Gilliatt surveyed the species of niche, at a hight within his reach, in the side of the Little Douvre. These natural closets, not shut in, it is true, are often seen in the rocks, It struck him that it was possible to trust some stores to this depot, and he according- ly placed in the back of the recess his two boxes containing his tools and his ona and his two bags holding the rye-meal and the biscuit. In the front—a little too near the edge popes but he had no other place—he rested hi ob of provisions. : e had taken care to remove from the box of clothing his sheepskin, his loose coat with a hood, and his waterproof overalls. To lessen the hold of the wind upon the knot- ted cord, he made the lower extremity fast to one of the riders of the Durande. The Durande being much driven in, this rider was bent a good dene and it held the end of the cord as firmly as a tight hand. There was still the aif culty of the upper end of the cord. To control the lower part was well, but at the summit of the ent. at the spot where the knotted cord met the ridge of the plateau, there was reason to fear that it would fretted and worn away by the sharp angle of the rock. | illiatt searched in the heap of rubbish in re- serve, and took from it some rags of sailcloth, d ee Loe Snide lai ” 32 THE FIRESIDE- LIBRARY. and from a_bunch of old cables he pulled. out some strands of rope-yarn with which he filled his pockets. A sailor would have guessed that he intended to bind with these pieces of sailcloth and ends of yarn, the part of the knotted rope upon the edge of the rock so as to preserve it from all friction —an operation which is called “keckling.” Having provided himself with these things, he drew on his overalls over his legs, put on his waterproof coat over his jacket, drew its hood over his red cap, hung the sheepskin round _his neck by the two legs, and clothed in this com- ai panoply, he grasped the cord, now firmly ed to the side of the Great Douvre, and mounted to the assault of that somber citadel in the sea. In spite of his scratched hands, Gilliatt easily en the summit. : he last pale tints of sunset were fading in the sky. It was night upon the sea below. A little light still lingered upon the hight of the ‘Douyre. Gilliatt took advantage of this remains of day- light to bind the knotted rope. He wound it round again and again at the part which passed over the edge of the rock, with a bandage of séve- ral thicknesses of canvas strongly tied at every turn. The whole resembled in some degree the pee, which actresses.place upon their knees, prepare them for the agonies and supplica- tions of the fifth act. . This binding completely accomplished, Gilliatt rose from his stooping position. For some moments, while he had been busied in his task, he had had a confused sense of a sin- gular fluttering in the air. It resembled, in the silence of the evening, the noise which an immense bat might make with the beating of its wings. Gilliatt raised his eyes. A great black circle was revolving over his head in the pale twilight sky. Such circles are seen in pictures round the heads of saints. These, however, are golden on a dark ground, while the circle around Gilliatt was dark upon a pale ground. The effect was strange. Itspr round the Great Douvre like the aureole of night. The circle drew nearer, then retired; grew narrower, and then spread wide again. It was an immense flight of gulls, seamews. and cormorants; a vast multitude of affrighted sea birds, The Great Douyre was probably their lodg- ing, and they were coming to rest for the night. Gilliatt had taken a chamber in their home. It was evident that their unexpected fellow-lodger disturbed him. A man there was an object they had never beheld before. Their wild flutter continued for some time. They seemed to be waiting for the stranger to leave the place. Gilliatt followed them dreamily with his eyes. The flying multitude seemed at last to give up their design. The circle suddenly took a spiral form, and the cloud of sea-birds came down upon ‘‘The Man” rock at the extremity of the grou: where they seemed to be conferring and eliberatin, g. Gilliatt, after settling down in his alcove of Bore and covering a stone for. a pillow for his ead, could hear the birds for a long time chat- tering one after the other, or croaking, as if in Then they were silent, and_all were sleeping —the birds upon their rock, Gilliatt upon his, Vill. IMPORTUNAIQUE VOLUCRES, GILLIATT slept well; but he was cold, and this awoke him from time to time. He had natural- ly placed his feet at the bottom, and head at the entrance to his cave. He had not taken the precaution to remove from his couch a number of angular stones, which did not by any means conduce to sleep. Now and then he half opened his eyes. At intervals he heard loud noises. It was the rising tide entering the caverns of the rocks with a sound like the report of a cannon. All the circumstances of his position con- phe to produce the effect of a vision. Hallu- ations seemed to surround him. The vague- ness of = increased this effect; and Gilliat felt himse! pinged into some region of unreali- ties. He asked himself if all were not a dream ? Then he dropped to sleep a in a veritable m, found de la Rue, at the Bravees, at St. Sampson. He heard Deruchette singing; he was among reali- ties. While she slept he seemed to wake and pres wae he awoke again he appeared to be eeping. In truth, from this time forward he lived ina dream, ” Toward the middle of the night a confused murmur filled the air. Gilliatt had a vague consciousness of it even in his sleep. It was per- pai de breeze arising. ce, when awakened by a cold shiver, he opened his eyes a little wider than before. ouds were moving in the zenith; the moon was in; and this time, imself at the Bu | flying throng, the sky, with one large star fol- lowing closely in her footsteps. Gilliatt’s mind was full of the incidents of his dreams: The wild outlines of things in the dark- ness were exaggerated by this confusion with the impressions of his eens hours. At daybreak he was half frozen; but he slept soundly, The sudden daylight aroused him from a slum- ber which might have been dangerous. The al- cove faced the rising sun, Gilliatt yawned, stretched himself, and sprung out of his sleeping-place. His sleep had been so deep, that he could not at first recall the circumstances of the night be- | fore. By degrees the feeling of reality returned, and he began to think of breakfast. The weather was calm; the sky cool and se- rene. Tho clouds were gone; the night wind had cleared the horizon, and the sun rose bright- ly. Another fine day was commencing. il- latt felt joyful. He threw off his overcoat and his leggings; rolled them up in the sheepskin with the wool inside, fastened the roll with a length of rope- yarn, and pushed it into the cavern for a shel- ter in case of rain. This done, he made his bed—an operation which consisted in removing the stones which annoyed him in the night. His bed made, he slid down the cord onto the deck of the Durande and approached the niche where he had placed his basket of provisions. As it was very near the edge, the wind in the night had swept it down, and rolled it into the sea, It was evident that it would not be easy to recover it. There was a spirit of mischief and malice in a wind which had sought out his bas- ket in that position. It was the commencement of hostilities, Gil- liatt understood the token, To those who live inastate of rude familiarity with the sea, it becomes natural to regard the wind as an individuality, and the rocks as sen- tient beings. Nothing remained but the biscuit and the rye- meal, except the shell-fish, on which the ship- wrecked sailor had supported a lingering exist- ence upon ‘‘ The Man” rock. It was useless to think of subsisting by net or line fishing. Fish are naturally averse to the neighborhood of rocks. The drag and bow net fishers would waste their labor among the breakers, the points of which would be destruc- tive only to their nets, Gilliatt breakfasted on a few limpets which he plucked with difficulty from the rocks. He narrowly escaped breaking his knife in the at- tempt. While he was making his spare meal, he was sensible of a strange disturbance on the sea. He looked around. It was a swarm of gulls and seamews which had just alighted upon some low rocks, and were beating their wings, tumbling over each other, screaming, and shrieking. All were anal noisily upon the same point. This horde with beaks and talons were evidently pil- laging something. GTR HOW GoGe g maahy Doha) bi he itd olled down upon a in © win ide backst had bast open’ ‘The binda. had gathered round immediately. They were car- rying off in their beaks all sorts of fragments of provisions. Gilliatt recognized from the dis- tance his smoked beef and salted fish. It was their turn now to be aggressive. The birds had. taken to reprisals. Gilliatt had robbed them of their lodging, they deprived him of his supper, aoe THE ROCK, AND HOW GILLIATT USED IT. A WEEK passed, _ Although it was in the rainy season no rain fell, a fact for which Gilliatt felt thankful. But the work he had entered upon surpassed, in ap- pearance at least, the power of human hand or skill. Success pepe so improbable that the attempt seemed like madness. It is not until a task is fairly grappled with that its difficulties and ibe become fully mani- fest. There is nothing like making acommence- ment for making evident how difficult it will be to come to the end. Every beginning is a struggle against resistance. The first step is an exorable undeceiver. A difficulty which we come to touch pricks like a thorn. Gilliatt found himself immediately in the pre- sence of obstacles. In order to raise the engine of the Durande from the wreck in which it was three-fourths buried, with eae chance of success—in order to accomplish a salvage in such a place and insuch aseason, it seemed almost necessary to be a legion of men. Gilliatt was alone; a complete apparatus of carpenters’ and engineers’ tools and implements were wanted. Gilliatt had a saw, a hatchet, a chisel, and a hammer. He wanted both a good workshop and a good shed; Gilliatt had not aroof to cover him. visions, too, were necessary, but he had not even bread. Any one who could have seen Gilliatt work- ing on the rock during all that first week might have been puzzled to determine the nature of his operations. He seemed to be no longer thinking either of the Durande or the two Douvres. He was busy only among the breakers: he seemed absor' in saving the smaller ae of the ship- wreck. He took ppb hasten of every high tide to strip the reefs of everything which the ship- wreck had distributed among them, He went from rock to rock, picking up whatever the sea had scattered—tatters of sail-cloth, pieces of iron, splinters of panels, shattered planking, pee yards—here a beam, there a chain, there a pulley. At the same time he carefully surveyed all the recesses of the rocks. To his great disap- pointment none were habitable. He had suffer- ed from the cold in the night, where he lodged between the stones on the summit of the rock, | and he would gladly have found some better re- | fuge. ‘wo of those recesses were somewhat exten- sive. Although the natural pavement of rock was almost everywhe oblique and uneven it was possible to stand upright, and even to walk within them. The wind and the rain wandered there at will, but the highest tides did not reach them, They were near the Little Douvre, and were approachable at any time. Gilliatt de- cided that one should serve bim as a store-house, the other as a forge. With all the sail, rope-bands, and all the reef- earrings he could collect, he made packages of the ate of wreck, tying up the wood and iron in bundles, and the canvas in parcels. He lashed all these together carefully. As the rising tide approached these packages, he began to drag them across the reefs to his storehouse. In a hollow of the rocks he had found a top rope, by means of which he had been able to haul even the larger pieces of timber. In the same manner he dragged from the sea the nu- merous portions of chains which he found scat- tered among the breakers. Gilliatt worked at these tasks with astonishing activity and tenacity. He accomplished what- ever he attempted—nothing could withstand his ant-like perseverance. At the end of the week he had gathered into lee granite warehouse of marine stores, and anged into order, all this miscellaneous and shapeless mass of salvage. There was a corner for the tacks of sails and a corner for sheets. Bowlines were not mixed with halliards; par- rels were arranged according to their number of holes. The coverings of rope-yarn, unwound from the broken anchorings, were tied in bunches; the dead-eyes without pulleys were separated from the tackle-blocks. Belaying- pins, bullseyes, preventer-shrouds, down-hauls, snatch-blocks, pendents, kevels, trusses, stoppers. sailbooms, if they were not completely damagi by the storm, occupied different compartments. All the cross-beams, timber-work, uprights, stanchions, mast-heads, binding-strakes, port- lids, and clamps, were heaped up apart. Where- ever it was possible he had fixed the fragments of planks, from the vessel’s bottom, one in the other. There was no confusion between reef- re and nippers of the cable, nor of crow’s- eet with towlines; nor of pulleys of the small with pulleys of the large ropes; nor of fragments from the waist with Sens from thestern, A lace had been reserved for a portion of the cat- arpings of the Durande, which had supported the shrouds of the top-mast and the futtock- shrouds. Every portion had its place. The entire wreck was there classed and ticketed. It was a sort of chaos in a store-house, A stay-sail, fixed by huge stones, served, though torn and damaged, to protect what the rain might have injured. Shattered as were the bows of the wreck, he had succeeded in saving the two cat-heads with their three mers He had found the bowsprit, too, and had had much trouble in unrolling its gammoning; it was very hard and tight, having been, accord- ing to custom, made the help of the wind- lass, and in dry weather. Gilliatt, however, persevered until he had detached it, this thick er ee to be very useful to him. ‘ e had been equally successful in discovering the little anchor which had become fast in the hollow of a reef, where the receding tide had left it uncovered. In what had been Tangrouille’s cabin he had found a piece of chalk, which he preserved care- e reflected that he might have some marks to make. A fire-bucket and several pails in pretty good Snaition completed his stock of working ma- r All that remained of the store of coal of the Durande he carried into the warehouse. Ina week this salvage of debris was finished; the rock was swept clean, and the Durande was was lightened. Nothing remained now to bur- den the hull oe, the machiney. The portion of the fore-side bulwarks which — hung to it did not distress the hull. The mass hung without dragging, being partly sustained by a ledge of rock. It was, however, large and broad, and heavy to drag, and would have en- Rare Me one ioe panos This bul- warking looked some ike a t-builder’ stocks. * Gilliatt left it where it was. mar iii isaac, tyes tenets sah it , ee ~/TOILERS -OF -THE; SHA: 83 He had. been profoundly thoughtful during all this labor. the had pone in vain for the figurehead—the ‘‘doll,” as the Guernsey folks called it—of the Durande. It was one of the things which the waves had carried away for- ever. Gilliatt would have given his hands to find it—if he had not had such peculiar need of them at that time. At the entrance of the storehouse and outside were two heaps of refuse—a heap of iron good for forging, and a heap of wood good for burn- “Gilliatt was always at work at early dawn. Except his time of sleep, he did not take a mo- ment of repose, The wild sea-birds, flying hither and thither, watched him at his work. x. THE FORGE. THE warehouse completed, Gilliatt construct-- ed his forge. : The other recess which he had chosen had within it a apecien of e like a gallery in a mine of pretty epth. He had at first an idea of making this his lodging; but the draught was so continuous and so persevering in this that he had been compelled to give itup. This current of air, incessantly re- newed, first gave him the notion of the forge. Since it. could not be his chamber, he was deter- mined that this cabin should be his smithy. To bend obstacles to our purposes is a great step toward triumph. The wind was Gilliatt’s en- emy. He had set about making it his ser- t. vant. The proverb applied to certain kinds of men —‘fit for everything, goad for nothing ”—may also be applied to the hollows of rocks. They give no advantages gratuitously. On one side we, find a hollow fashioned conveniently in the shape of a bath; but it allows the water to run away through a fissure. _ Here is a rocky cham- ber, but without a roof; here a bed of moss, but oozy with wet; here an arm-chair, but one of hard stone. cigs) 19g The forge which Gilliatt intended was song hy, sketched.out by nature; but nothing could be more troublesome than to reduce this rough sketch to manageable shape, to transform this cavern. into a Se poratory: and smith’s shop. With three or. four large rocks, shaped like a funnel, and ending in a narrow fissure, chance had constructed there a species of vast ill-shapen blower, of very different power to those huge old. forge-bellows of fourteen feet long, which poured out at every breath ninety-eight thou- sand inches of air. This was quite a different sort of construction. The proportions of the hurricane cannot be definitely measured. This excess of force was an embarrassment. The incessant draught was difficult to regulate. The cavern two. inconveniences: the wind traversed it from end to end; so did the water. This was not the water of the sea, but a con- tinual little rig stream, more like a spring than a torrent. The foam, cast incessantly by the surf upon the rocks and sometimes more than a hundred feet in the air, had filled with sea-water a natural cave situated among the high rocks overlooking the excavation. The overflowings of this reser- voir caused, a little behind the escarpment, a fall. of water of about an inch in breadth, and descending four or five fathoms. An occasional contribution from the rains also helped to fill the reservoir. From time to time a passing cloud dropped a shower into the rocky basin, always overflowing. The water was brackish, and unfit to sea! ut clear. This rill of water fell in graceful drops from the extremities of the long marine grasses, as from the ends of a of hai if. was struck with the idea of making this water serve to regulate the draught in the cave. By the means of a funnel made of planks rough- ly and hastily put together to form two or three i one of Which was fitted with a valve, and of a large tub arranged as a lower reservoir, without checks or counterweight, and com- leted solely Ls air-tight stuffing above and air- eae below, Gilliatt, who, as we have already id, was handy at the forge and at the me- chanic’s bench, succeeded in constructing, in- stead of the forge-bellows, which he did not , an apparatus less perfect than what is er now- ys by the name of a “cagniar- delle,” but less rude t what the people of the ees anciently called a “‘ trompe.’ , He had some rye-meal, and he manufactured with it some paste. He had also some white rope, which he picked out into tow. With this paste and tow, and some bits of wood, he ape all the crevices of the rock, leaving only a little air- made of a powder-flask which he had found al the Durande, and which had served for loading the signal oe bape! der-flask was directed horizontally to a large stone, which Gilliatt made the hearth of the forge. A stopper made of a piece of tow served 0 a nt 5 i end Ba up P : upon the hearth, struck his steel against the -bare rock, caught a spark upon a handful of loose. tow, and having ignited it, soon lighted his forge fire. He tried the blower: it worked well. Gilliatt felt the pride of a Cyclops; he was the master of air, water, and fire. aster of the air; for he had given a kind of lungs to the wind, and changed the rude draught into a use- ful blower. Master of water, for he had con- verted the little cascade into a “ es Master of fire, for out of this moist rock he had struck a flame. The cave being almost everywhere open to- the sky, the smoke issued freely, blackening the curved escarpment. The rocks which seemed destined forever to receive only the white foam, became now familiar with the blackening smoke. Gilliatt selected for an anvil a large smooth round’ stone, of about the required shape and dimensions. It formed a base for the blows of his hammer; but one that might fly and was very dangerous. One of the extremities of this block, rounded and ending in a point, might, for want of anything better, serve instead of a conoid bicorn; but the other kind of bicorn of the pyramidal form was wanting. It was the ancient stone anvil of Troglodytes. The sur- face, polished by the waves, had almost the firmness of steel. He regretted. not having brought his anvil. As he did not know that the Durande had been broken in two by the tem- pest, he had hoped to find the carpenter’s chest and all his tools generally kept in the fore hold. But it was precisely the forepart of the vessel which had been carried away. These two excavations which he had found in the rock were contiguous. The warehouse and the forge communicated with each other. Every eyes when his work was ended, he supped on a little biscuit, moistened in water, a sea-urchin or a crab, or a few chataignes de mer, the only food to be found among those rocks; and shivering like his knotted cord, mounted again to sleep in his cell upon the Great Douvre. _ The very materialism of his ea occupation increased the kind of abstraction in which. he lived. To be steeped too deeply in realities isin itself a cause of visionary m . His bodily la- bor, with its infinite variety of details, detracted nothing from the sensation of stupor which arose from the strangeness of his position and his work. . Ordi bodily fatigue is a. thread which binds man to the earth; but the very Proullarity. of the enterprise he was enga, in ept him in asort of ideal twilight region. ‘There were times when he seemed to be striking blows with his hammer in the clouds, At other mo- ments his tools appeared to him like arms. He had a singular feeling, as if he was repressing or providing against some latent danger of attack. . Untwisting ropes, unraveling of yarn in a sail, or propping ue couple of beams, appeared to him at such times like fashioning engines of war. The thousand minute ins which he took about his salyage opera- ions produced at last in his mind the effect of precautions against aggressions little concealed, and easy to anticipate. He did not know the words which express the ideas, but he perceived them. His instincts became less and those of the worker; his habits more and more those of the savage man, His business there was to subdue and direct the powers of nature. He had an indistinct pee of it. A strange enlargement of his ideas! ea him, a8 ty sie ae oes rea oe the vast prospect of endless r waste lost. Nothing is more disturbing to the mind than the contemplation of the on of forces at work in the unfathomable and illimitable space of the ocean. The mind tends naturally to seek the object of these forces, The unceas- ing movement in space, the L nideant fae Sed the clouds that seem ever hurrying somewhere, the vast menos prodigality of effort, all this is a problem. Whither does this perpetual move- ment tend? What do these winds construct? What do these giant blows build met These howlings, shocks and sobhees of the storm, what do they end in? and what is the business of this tumult? The ebb and flow of these ques- tionings is eternal, as the flux and reflux of the sea itself, Gilliatt could answer for himself; his work he knew, but the agitation which sur- rounded him far and wide at all times perplexed him confusedly with its eternal questio Unknown to himself, mechanically, by the mere pressure of external things, and without an other effect than a strange, unconscious bewild- erment, Gilliatt, in his dreamy mood, blended his own toil somehow with the prasigious wast- ed labor of the sea-waves. How, indeed, in that position, could he escape the influence of that mystery of the dread, laborious ocean? how do other than meditate, sofar as meditation was possible, upon the vacillation of the waves, the perseverance of the foam, the Pyne wearing down of rocks, the furious beatings of the four winds? How terrible that pert Rectte tet that ocean bed, those Danai- des-like clouds, all that travail and weariness for no end! For noend?, Not so! But for what? Oh Thou Infinite unknown, Thou only knowest! XI. DISCOVERY. A ROCK near the coast is sometimes visited by men; a rock in mid. never, What object could any one have there? No supplies can be drawn thence; no fruit-trees are there, peak urage, no beasts, no Springs of water fi for man’s use. It stands aloft, a rock with its steep sides and summits above’ water, and its. sh points below. Nothing is to be found there bu inevitable shipwreck. This kind of rocks, which in the old sea dia- lect’ were called Isoles, are, as we have said, strange places, The sea is alone there; she works her own will. No token of terrestrial life disturbs her, Man is a terror to the sea; she is at his approach, and hides from him her deeds. But she is bolder among the lone sea rocks. The everlasting pea of the wae is not ane there. etait lal at ee tocks, repairs its damage, ens its pe makes them rugged or renews. them, She pierces the granite, wears down the soft stone, and denudes the hard; she rummages, dismem- bers, bores, perforates, and grooves; she fills the rock with cells, and makes it sponge-like, hol-- lows out the inside, or sculptures it without, In that secret mountain which is hers, she makes to herself caves, sanctuaries, palaces. She has hersplendid and monstrous vegetation, composed. of floating plants which bite, and of monsters which e root; and she hides away all this terrible magnificence in the twilight of her deeps. Among the isolated br no eye watches over her; no spy embarrasses her movements. It is there that she develops at liberty her mysterious side, which is i - ble to man. Here she keeps all strange secre- tions of life. Here that the unknown wonders of the sea are assembled, Promgntories, forelands, capes, headlands, breakers, and shoals are veritable constructions. The geological changes of the earth are tri compared with the vast operations of the ocean. These breakers, these habitations in the sea, these pyramids, and spouts of the foam are the prac- ticers of a mysterious art which the author of this book has somewhere called ‘‘the Art of Na- ture.” Their style is known by its vastness. The effects of chance seem here design. Its works are multiform. They abound in the mazy entanglement of the rock-coral groves, the sublimity of the cathedral, the extravagance of the pay , the amplitnde of the mountain, the delicacy of the jeweler’s work, the horror of the. sepulcher. ey are filled with cells like the wasps’ nest, with dens like menageries, with subterranean passages like the haunts of moles, with dungeons like Bastilles, with ambuscades likea camp. They have their doors, but they are barricaded; their columns, but they are shattered; their towers, but they are tottering; their bridges, but they are broken, Their com- artments are unaccommodating; these are fit- Fed for the birds only, those only for fish. They are impassable. Their architectural style is va- riable and inconsistent; it regards or disre; at will the laws of equilibrium, breaks off, stops short, begins in the form of an archivolt, and ends in an architrave, block on block. Encela- dus is the mason. A wondrous science of dy- namics exhibits here its problems ready solved. Fearful overhanging blocks threaten, but fall not; the human mind cannot guess what power supports their bewildering masses. Blind en- tran gaps, Spe ponders suspensions multi- ly and vary i ly. The laws which re fa this Babel baffle human induction. 8 great unknown architect plans nothing, but suc- ceeds in all. Rocks massed together in confu- sion form a monstrous monument, defy reason, yet maintain equilibrium. Here is somethin; more than strength: it is eternity. But order wanting. The wild tumult of the waves seems to have passed into the wilderness of stone. It is like a tempest petrified and fixed for ever. Nothing is more impressive than that wild archi- tecture; ears standing, yet always to fall; in which eve hing sppeass ee support, and yet to withdraw it. A struggle between opposing lines has resulted in the con- struction of an edifice, filled with traces of the aor of those old antagonists, the ocean and e storm, This architecture has its terrible masterpieces, of which the Douvres rock was one. : The sea had fashioned and perfected it with a sinister solicitude. The snarling waters licked it into shape. It was hideous, treacherous, dark, full of hollows, It had a complete heeees of submarine cav- erns rami ving and los: ie creel in unfath- omed depths. Some of the orifices of this laby- rinth of passages were left exposed by the low — A man might enter there, but at his risk an é Gihiatt determined to explore all these toes, for the purpose of his salvage labor. There was not one which was not ive. Every- where about the caverns that strange as- pvt a an ahattot ae ‘ ie ates of slau Tr, appeared ay ie ra- tion nt the ocean. Noone who has not seen in excavations of this kind, upon the walls of ever- lasting granite, these hideous natural frescoes, can form a notion of their singularity, : 84 | THE FIRESIDE ‘LIBRARY. These pitiless cavertis, too, were false and sly. Woe betide him who would loiter there. The rising tide filled them o their roofs, Rock limpets and @dible masses abounded among them. " They were obstructed by quantities of shin- gle, heaped together in their recesses. Some of their huge smooth stones weighed more than a ton. They were of every proportion, and of every hue; but the greater part were blood-col- ored. Some, covered with a hairy and glutin- ous seaweed, seemed like large green moles bor- ing a way into the rock. : everal, of the caverns terminated abruptly in the form of a demi-cupola.. Others, main arte- ries of a mysterious circulation, lengthened out in the rock in dark and tortuous fissures. They were the alleys of the submarine city; but they adually contracted from, their entrances, and at length left no way for a man to pass. Peer- ingin by the help of a lighted torch, he could see nothing but dark hollows dripping with moisture. ; One day, Gilliatt, exploring, ventured into one.of these fissures, e state of the tide fa- yored the attempt. It was a beautiful day of calm and sunshine. There was no fear of any accident from the sea to increase the danger. Two necessities, as we have said, compelled him to undertake these explorations. 6 had to. gather fragments of wreck and other things to aid him in his labor, and to search for crabs and crayfish for his food, Shell-fish had un to fail him on the rocks. he fissure was narrow, and the passage diffi- cult. Gilliatt- could see daylight beyond. He made an effort, contorted himself as much as he could, and penetrated into the cave as far as he was able. He had reached, without suspecting it, the interior of the roc ar the point of which Clubin had steered the Durande. | Though abrupt and almost inaccessible without, it was hollowed within. It was full of ‘gal- leries, pits, and chambers, like the tomb of an Egyptian king. This network of caverns was one of the most. complicated of all that labyrinth, a labor of the water, the undermin- ing of the restless sea. The branches of the 'sub- terranean maze een communicated with the sea without by more than one issue, some fou at the level of the waves, the others pro- 0 und and inyisible. It was near here, but Gil- | tt knew it not, that Clubin had dived into the sea, _ In this crocodile cave—where crocodiles, it is true, were not among the dangers—Gilliatt wound about, clambered, struck his head oeca- sionally, bent low and rose again, lost his foot- ing and_ regained it many times, advancing la- boriously. By degrees the gallery, widened; a pier of daylight appeared, and he found mself suddenly at the entrance to a cavern of a singular kind. XT. THE INTERIOR OF AN EDIFICE UNDER THE SEA, THE gleam of daylight was fortunate. ,, One step further and Gilliat must have fallen into a pool, perhaps without bottom. . The waters of these cavern Pook are so Cold and paralyzing as to prove fatal to the strongest swimmers. re is, Moreover, no means of remounting or banging onto any part of their steep walls. He stopped short, The crevice from which he had just issued ended in a narrow and slip- pery projection, a species of corbel in the peaked ¥ e leaned against the side and surveyed it, - He was in a large cave. Over his head was a roofing not unlike the inside of a vast skull, which might have been imagined to have been recently dissected. The dripping ribs of the stri indentations of the roof seemed to imi- tate. branching fibers and jagged sutures of the bony cranium. A stony ceiling and a wa- tery floor. The rippled waters between the four walls of the cave were like wavy paving tiles. The grotto was shut in on all sides. Not a win- dow, not even an air-hole visible. No breach in the wall, no crack in the roof. The light came from below and through the water, a strange, somber light. _ Gilliatt, the pupils of whose eyes had con- tracted sae his explorations of the dusky corridor, could distinguish everything about in limmer. He was , from having often visited them, with the caves of Piedmons in Jersey, the Creux-Maille at Guernsey, the» Boutiques at Sark; but none of these marvelous caverns could compare with the subterranean and sub- marine chamber into which he had made his way. + Under the water at his feet he could’see a sort ofdrownedarch. Thisarch, a natural ogive, fash- ioned by the waves, was glittering between its two dark and profound paneer ta, It was by this z d porch that daylight entered into the ‘cavern from the open sea, A. strange Ment shooting upward from a gulf. an} ” area ie Pea aegiee ie a _was . or ‘the rocks. Its direct rays, divided into long, broad shafts, appeared in strong relief against ; the darkness ‘below, and becoming brighter or more dull from one rock to another, looked as if seen here and there through plates of glass. There was light in that cave it is true; but it was the light that was unearthly. . The behold- er might ive dreamed that he had descended: into some other planet. The glimmer was an enigma, like the ‘glaucous light from the eye- pupil of a Sphinx. The whole cave represented he interior of a death’s-head of enormous pro- portions, and a strange splendor. The vault was the hollow of the brain, the arch the mouth; the sockets of the eyes were wanting. The cay- ern, alternately swallowing and rendering up the flux and reflux through its mouth wide opened to the full noonday without, seemed to drink in the light and vomit forth bitterness; a type of some beings intelligent and eyil. The light, in traversing this inlet through the vitre- ous medium of the sea-water, became green, like a ray of peters from Aldebaran, The water, filled with the moist light, appeared like’a liquid emerald. A tint of aqua-marina of marvelous delicacy spread a soft hue through- out the cavern. The roof, with its cerebral lobes, and its rarnpant ramifications, like the fibers of nerves, gave out a tender reflection of chrysoprase. The ripples reflected on the roof were aun in order and dissolving again inces- santly, and enlarging and contracting their ahaa scales in a mysterious and mazy ance. They gave the beholder an impression of something weird and spectral: he wondered what prey secured, or what expectation about to be realized, moved with a joyous thrill this magnificent network of living fire. From the projections of the vault, and the angles of the rock, hung lengths of delicate fibrous plants, bathing their roots probably through the gran- ite in some upper pool of water, and distilling from their silky ends one after the other, a drop of water like a pearl. These drops fell in the water now and then with a gentle plash. The effect of the scene was singular. Nothing more beautiful could be imagined; nothing more mournful could anywhere be found. It was a wondrous palace, in which death sat smiling and content. XU. WHAT WAS SEEN THERE; AND WHAT PER- CEIVED DIMLY. A piace of shade, which yet was dazzling to the eyes—such was this surprising cavern, The beating of the sea made itself felt through- out the cavern. The oscillation without raised and depressed the level of the waters within, with the regularity of respiration, A mysteri- ous spirit seemed to fill this great organism, as Tiere ites Wat a tidied eecaie Ney a ee wa a magic enc Gilliatt distinguished at various: depths’ sub- merged recesses, and surfaces of during, rocks ever of a deeper and a deeper green. Certain dark hollows, too, were there, probably too deep for soundings. On each side of the submarine porch, rude el- liptical arches, filled with shallows, indicated the position of small lateral caves, low alcoves of the central cavern, accessible, perhaps, at certain tides. These openings had. roofs in the form of inclined planes, and at angles more or less acute. Little sandy beaches of a few feet wide, laid bare by the action of the water, stretched inward, and were lost in these recess- es. Here and there sea-weeds of more than a fathom in length undulated beneath the water like the waving of long tresses in the wind; an there were glim of a forest of sea-plants. Above and below the surface of the water, the wall of the cavern from top to bottom—from the vault down to the depth at which it became invisible—was tapestried with that prodigious efflorescence of the sea, rarely perceived by hu- man eyes, which the old ish navigators called praderias del mar. luxuriant moss. having all the tints of the olive, enlarged and concealed the protuberances of granite. From all the jutting points swung the thin fluted strips of varech, which sailors use as their baro- meters. The light breath which stirred in the cavern waved to and fro their glossy bands. Under these vegetations there showed them- selves from time to time some of the rarest bi- joux of the casket of the ocean; ivory shells, strombi, purple-fish, univalves, struthiolaires, turriculated cerites. The bell-shaped limpet shells, like tiny huts, were everywhere adhering to the rocks, distributed in settlements, in the alleys between which prowled oscabrions, those beetles of the sea. A. few large pebbles found their way into the cavern; shell-fish took refuge there, ® CI a are the grandees of the sea, who, in their lacework and embroide avoid the rude contact of the Rebbly crowd. The glittering heap of their shells, in certain spots under the wave, gave out singular irradia- tions, amidst which the eye caught glim of confused azure and gold, and mother-of-pearl, of every tint of the water. _ ; Upon the side of the cavern, a little above the water-line, a magnificent and singular pe at- taching itself, like a fringe, to the border of sca- weed, continued and_ completed it. This plant, thick, fibrous, inextricably intertwined, and al- religiously walled in, so that most black, exhibited to the eye large confused and dusky festoons, everywhere dotted with in- numerable little flowers of the color of lapis-la- zuli. In the water they seemed to glow like small blue flames. Out of the water they were flowers; beneath it they. were sapphires. ‘The water rising and inundating the basement of the otto clothed with these plants, seemed to cover 6 rock with gems. : At cat wae of the wave these flowers increased in splendor, and’ at every stibsidence grew dull again. So it is with the destiny of man; aspiration is life, the outbreathing of the spirit is death. One of the marvels of the cavern was the rock itself. Forming here a wall, there an’arch, and here again a pillar or pilaster, if was in places rough and bare, and sometimes close beside. was wrought with the most delicate natural carving. Strange evidences of mind mingled with the massive stolidity of the granite. It was the wondrous art-work of the ocean: ° Hére a sort of panel, cut square, and covered with round embossments in various positions, simu- lated a vague bas-relief. Before this sculpture; with its obscure designs, a man might have dreamed of Prometheus roughly sketching for Michael Angelo. It seemed as if that great enius with a few blows of his mallet could have finished the indistinct labors of the giant. In other places the rock was damasked like a Sara- cen buckler, or engraved like a Florentine vase. There were portions which appeared like Corin- thian brass, then like arabesques, as on the door of a mosque; then like Runic stones with ob- secure and mystic prints of claws. Plants with twisted creepers and tendrils, crossing and re- crossing upon the groundwork of golden lichens, covered it with filigree. The grotto resembled in some wise a Moorish palace. ' It was a union of barbarism and of goldsmith’s work, with the imposing and rugged architecture of the ‘ele- ments. m The magnificent stains and molderings of the sea covered, as with velvet, the angles of gran- ite. The escarpments were festooned with large- flowered bindweed, sustaining itself with grace- ful ease, and eee tein the walls as in- telligent design. Wall-pellitories showed their strange clusters in tasteful arrangement. The wondrous light which came from beneath tho water, at once a submarine twilight and ‘an Elysian radiance, softened down and blended all harsh lineaments. Every wave was a prism. The outlines of things under these’ rainbow- tinted undulations produced the chromatic ef- fects of optical glasses made too convex. ‘Solar spectra shot through the waters. Fragments of rainbows seemed floating in that transparent dawn. Elsewhere—in other corners—there was discernible a kind of moonlight in the water. Every kind of splendor seemed to mingle there, forming a strange sort of twilight. Nothing could be more perplexing or enigmatical than the sumptuous beauties of this cavern. Enchant- ment reigned over all. The fantastic vegeta- tion, the rude masonry of the place seemed to harmonize. : Was it daylight, which entered by this case- ment beneath the sea? Was it indeed water which trembled in this dusky pool? “Were not these arched roofs and porches fashioned out of sunset clouds to imitate a cavern to men’s eyes? What stone was that beneath the feet?’ Was not this solid shaft about to melt and pass into thin air? What was that ek serene, of glit- tering shells, half seen beneath the wave?) How far away were life, and the green earth, and human faces? ‘What strange - enchantment haunted that mystic twilight? What blind emotion, mingling its sympathies wlth thé wn- easy restlessness of plants beneath the wave?“ At the extremity of the cavern, which was oblong, rose a Cyclopean archivolte, singularly exact inform. It was a species of cave within a cave, of tabernacle within a sanctuary.’ Here, behind a sheet of bright verdure, interposed like the vail of a temple, arose a stone out of the waves, having square sides, and ring some resemblance to an altar. The water surrounded it in all parts. It seemed as if a goddess had just descended from it. One might have dream- ed there that some celestial form beneath that crypt or upon that altar dwelt forever ive innaked beauty, but grew invisible at the ap- proach of mortals. It was hard to conceive that majestic chamber without a vision within. The day-dream of the intruder might evoke again the marvelous apparition. A flood of chaste light falling upon white shoulders scarcely seen; a forehead bathed with the light of dawn; an Olympian visage oval-shaped; a bust full’ of mysterious grace; arms modestly drooping; tresses unloosened in the aurora; a body deli- cately modeled of pure whiteness, half. v in a sacred cloud, with the glance of a virgin; a Venus rising from the sea, or Eve issuing from eae such was the dream which filled the in The beauty of the recess seemed e for this celestial presence. It was for the'sake of this deity, this fairy of the pearl caverns, this-‘queen — of the Zephyrs, this Grace born of the waves, it was for her—as the mind, at‘ Jeast, imagined— that this subterranean dwelling had ‘been thus @ might ever ; : ; : + : : % ' trouble the reverent shadows and the majestic silence round about that divine spirit. — Gilliatt, who was a kind of seer amid the se- erets of nature, stood there musing and sensible of confused emotions. i ans2¢ , Suddenly, at a few feet below him, in the de- lightful transparence of that water like liquid jewels, he became, sensible of the approach of something of mystic shape, A species of long ragged band was moving amidst the oscilla- tion of the waves. . It did not float, but darted about of its own will, It had an object; was advancing somewhere rapidly, The object had something of the form of a jester’s bauble with points, which hung flabby and undulating. it seemed covered with a dust incapable of being washed away by the water. It was more than horrible; it was foul. The beholder felt that it was something monstrous.. It was a living thing; unless, indeed, it was an, illusion, It seemed to be seeking the darker portion of the cavern, where it at last vanished. The heavy shadows grew darker as its sinister form glided into them, and disappeared. Boox IT. \THE LABOR. I. THE RESOURCES OF ONE WHO HAS NOTHING, Tue caverd did not easily part with its ex- lorers.. The entry had been difficult; going ack was more difficult still. Gilliatt, however. succeeded in extricating himself; but he did not return there. He had found nothing of what he was in quest of, and he had not the time to indulge curiosity. He put the forge in operation at once. Tools were wanting; he set. to work and made thom. For fuel he had the wreck; for motive force the water; for his bellows the wind; for his anvil a stone; for art his instinct; for power his will. He entered, with ardor. upon his somber bors. The weather seemed to smile upon his work, It continued to be dry and free from equinoctial gales. The month of March had, come, but it was tranquil. The days grew longer. The blue of the sky,'the gentleness of all the movements of the scene, the serenity of the noontide, seem- ed to exclude the idea of mischief. The waves danced merrily in the sunlight. A Judas kiss is the first step to treachery; of such caresses the ocean is prodigal. Her smile, like that of woman’s sometimes, cannot be trusted. There was little wind. The hydraulic bel- lows worked all the better for that reason. Much wind would have embarrassed rather than aided it., Gilliatt had a saw; he manu- factured for himself a file. With the saw he attacked the wood; with the file the metal. Then he. availed himself of the two iron hands of the smith—the pegs and the pliers, The pincers gripe, the pliers handle; the one is like the closed hand, the other like the fingers. By degrees he made for himself a numberof auxiliaries, and constructed his armor. With a piece of hoop-wood he made a screen for his forge-fire. f e of his ee labors was the sorting and repair of leys. He mended both the blocks and the sheaves of tackle. He cut down the irregularities of all broken joists, and reshaped the extemities. He had, as we have said, for the necessities of his carpentry, a quantity of pieces of wood, stored away, and arranged ac- cording to the forms, the ensions, and tho nature of their grain; the oak on one side, the pine on the other; the short pieces like riders, separated from the straight pieces like binding strakes. This formed his reserve of supports and levers, of which he might stand in great need at any moment. ae Any one who intends to. construct hoisting- tackle ought to provide himself with beams and small cables. But that is not sufficient. He must have cordage. Gilliatt restored the cables, large and small. He frayed out the tat- tered sails and succeeded in converting them into an excellent yarn, of which he made twine. With this he joined the ropes. The joins, how- ever, were liable to rot. It was necessary, there- fore, to hasten to make use of these cables. He had only been able to make white tow, for he was without tar. eee ropes mended, he proceeded to repair the chains. _ Thanks to the lateral,point of the stone anvil, which served the part of the conoid bicorn, he was able to forge rings rude in shape but strong, With these he fastened together the several len; of chains, and made long pieces, ‘o work at a forge without assistance is some- thing more than troublesome. _ He succeeded. nevertheless, It is true that he had only to forge and shape articles of comparatively small size, which he was able to handle with the pliers in one hand, while he hammered with the other, He cut into lengths the iron bars of the ca) tain’s bridge on which Clubin used to pass ti -and fro from paddle-box to paddle-box giving his orders; forge¢ at one extremity of eac eee a point, and at the other a flat head. this means he manufactured large nails of about a “TOILERS OF ‘THE! SEAT 85 foot in length. These nails, much used in pon- bie making, are useful in fixing anything in rocks, What was his objacf; in all these labors? We s see, f He was several times compelled to renew the blade of his hatchet and the teeth of his saw. For renotching the saw he had manufactured a three-sided file. Occasionally he made use of the capstan of the Durande. The hook of the chain broke: he made another. By the aid of his pliers and pincers, and b using his chisel as a screwdriver, he set to wor to remove the two paddle-wheels of the vessel; an object which he accomplished. . This was rendered practicable by reason of a peculiarit; in their construction, .The paddle-boxes whic covered them served him to stow them away. With the planks of these paddle-boxes he made two cases in which he deposited the two pad- dles, piece by piece, each part being carefully numbered. His lump of chalk became precious for this purpose. e kept the two cases upon the strongest part of the wreck. When these preliminaries were completed, he found himself face to face with the great diffi- oe The problem of the engine of the Du- rande was now clearly before him. Taking the paddle-wheels to pieces had proved practicable. It was very different with the mney 3 A In the first place, he was almost entirely ig- norant of the details of the mechanism. ork- ing thus blindly he might do some irreparable damage. Then, even in attempting to dismem- ber it, if he had ventured on that course, far other tools would be necessary than such as he could fabricate with a cavern for a forge, a wind-draught for bellows, and a stone for an anvil. In attempting, therefore, to take to pieces the machinery, there was the risk of de- stroying it. , The attempt seemed at first sight wholly im- practicable. The apparent impossibility of the project rose before him like a stone wall, blocking further progress. hat was to be done? ID PREPARATIONS, GILLIATT. had a notion. Since the time of the carpenter-mason of Sal- bris, who, in the sixteenth century, in the dark ages of science—long before Amontons. had dis- covered the first law of electricity, or Lahire the second, or Coulomb the third—without other helper than, a child, his son, with ill-fash- ioned tools, in the chamber of the great clock of La Charite-sur-Loire, resolved at one stroke five or six problems in statics and dynamics inex- tricably intervolved like the wheels in a block of carts and wagons—since the time of that grand and marvelous achievement of the poor workman, who found means, without breaking asingle piece of wire, without throwing one of the teeth of the wheels out of gear, to lower in one piece wre marvelous simplification, from the second story of the clock-tower to the first, that massive monitor of the hours, made all of iron and brass, ‘large as the room in which the man watches at night from the tower,” with its motion, its cylinders, its barrels, its drum, its hooks, and _ its weights, the barrel of its ring steel-yard, its horizontal pendulum, the holdfasts of its escapement, its reels of large and small chains, its stone weights, one of which weighed five hundred pounds, its bells, its peals, its jacks that strike the hours—since the days, I say, of the man who accomplished this miracle, and of whom posterity knows not even the name— nothing that could be compared with the project which Gilliatt was meditating had ever been attempted; : The ponderousness, the delicacy, the involve- ment of the difficulties were not less in the ma- chinery of the Durande than in the clock of La Charite-sur-Loire. : The untaught mechanic had his helpmate—his son; Gilliatt was alone, A crowd gathered together from Meung-sur- Loire, from Nevers, and even from Orleans, able at time of need to assist the mason of Sal- bris, and to encourage him with their friendly voices. Gilliatt had around him no voices but those of the wind; no crowd but the assem- blage of waves. There is nothing more remarkable than the timidity of ignorance, unless it be its temerity. When ignorance becomes Baring she has some- times a sort of compass within herself—the in- tuition of the truth, clearer oftentimes in a sim- ple mind than in a learned brain, . Ignorance invites to an attempt. It is a state of wonderment, which, with its concomitant curi- osity, forms a power, Knowledge often enough isconcerts and makes over-cautious. Gama, had he known what lay before him, would have recoiled before the Cape of Storms. If Colum- bus had been a great geographer, he might have failed to discover America. The second successful climber of Mont Blanc Bae ee savant, Saussure; the first the goatherd, mat. - These instances I admit. are eee ee which detract nothing from science, which remains the rule, “The ignorant man may discover; it is’ the learned who invent. fot The sloop was still at anchor in the creek of “The Man” rock, where the sea left it in peace, Gilliatt, as will be remembered, had arranged everything for maintaining constant communi- cation with it. He visited the sloop and mea- sured her beam carefully in severe rts, but particularly her midship frame. Then he re- turned to the Durande and measured the diamo- ter of the floor of the engine-room, . This diame- ter, of course, without the paddles, was two feet less than the broadest part of the deck of ‘his bark. The machinery, therefore, might be put aboard the sloop. 7 But how could it be got there? IIT. GILLIATI’S MASTERPIECE COMES TO THE RESCUE OF LETHIERRY, Any fisherman who had been mad enough to loiter in that season in the neighborhood of Gil- liatt’s labors about this time would have béen repaid for his hardihood, by a singular sight be- tween the two Douvres, Before his eyes would have appeared four stout beams, at equal distances, stretching from one Douvre to the other, and apparently forced into the rock, which is the firmest of all holds. On the Little Douvre, their extremities were laid and buttressed upon the projections of rock. On the Great Douvre, they had been driven in by blows of a hammer, by the powerful hand of a workman standing upright en the beam it- self. These supports were a little longer than the distance between the rocks. ‘Hence th firmness of their hold; and hence, also, their slanting position. They touched the Great Douvre at an acute, and the Little Douvre at an obtuse angle. Their inclination was only slight; but it was peat which was a defect, But for this defect, they might have been supposed to be prepared to receive the planking of a deck. To these four beams were attached four sets of hoisting apparatus, each having its pendant and tackle-fall, with the bold peculiarity of hav- ing the tackle-blocks with two sheaves at one extremity of the beam, and the simple pulleys at the opposite end. This distance, which was too great not to be perilous, was necessitated by the operations to be effected. The blocks Were firm, and the pulleys strong. To this tackle- ear cables were attached, which from a ‘dis- ce looked like threads; while beneath this apparatus of tackle and carpentry, in the air, the massive hull of the Durande seemed suspended by threads. She was not yet suspended, however. Under the cross beams, eight perpendicular holes had been made in the deck, four on the port, and four on the starboard side of the engine; eight other holes had been made beneath ‘them through the keel, The cables, descending ver- tically from the four tackle-blocks, through the deck, passed out at the keel, and under the ma- chinery, re-entered the ship by the holes on the other side, and passing again upward through the deck, returned, and were wound round the beams. Here a sort of jigger-tackle held them in a bunch bound fast to a single cable, capable of being directed by one arm. 'The single cable passed over a hook, and through a deadeye, which completed the apparatus, and kept it” in check. This combination compelled the four tacklings to work together, and acting as a complete restraint upon the Suspending wers, became a sort of dynamical rudder in the hand of the pilot of the operation, maintaining the movements in equilibrium, The ingenious ad- justment of this system of tackling had some of the simplifying qualities of the Weston pulley of these times, with a mixture of the antique polyspaston of Vitruvius. Gilliatt had discovered this, although he knew nothing of the dead Vi- truvius or of the still unborn Weston.” Tho length of the cablés varied, according to the un- equal declivity of the cross-beams. The ropes were dangerous, for the untarred hemp was liable to give way. Chains would have been better in this'respect, but chains would not have passed well through the tackle-blocks, The apenas was full of defects; but as the work of one man it was surprising. For the rest, it will be understood that many details aro omitted which would render the construction perhaps intelligible to practical mechanics, but ee to rive e top of the funnel between the two beams in the middle. Peers t Gilliatt, without suspecting it, had recon- structed, three centuries later, the m i of the Salbris carpenter—a mechanism rude and incorrect, and hazardous for him who would dare to use it. : not prevent a mechanism from working well or ill. It may limp, but it moves. The obelisk in the square of St. Peter’s at Rome is erected in a way which offends against all the princi- ples of statics. The of the Czar Peter carriage was so constructed that it Pen about to overturn at every step; but it traveled onward rd Here let us remark, that the rudest defects do _ > Sgt PRO Sat it de a ete “i eee ages —— —— a 36 THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY. for all that... What deformities. are there in the machinery of Marly! Everything that is heto- rodox in hydraulics. Yet it did not supply Louis XIV. the less with water. Come what might, Gilliatt had faith. He had even anticipated success so confidently as to fix in the bulwarks of the sloop, on the day when he measured its proportions, two pairs of corres- ponding iron rings on each side, exactly at the same distances as the four rings on board the Durande, to which were attached the four chains of the funnel. He had in his mind a very complete and settled plan. All the chances being against him, he had evidently determined that all the precautions at least should be on his side. He did some things which seemed useless; a sign of attentive premeditation. Tis manner of proceeding would, as we have said, have puzzled an observer, even though fa- miliar with mechanical operations. : A witness of his labor who had seen him, for example, with enormous efforts, and at the risk of breaking his neck, driving with blows of his hammer eight or ten + nails which he had forged into the base of the two Douvres at the entrance of the defile between them, would have had some difficulty in understanding the object of these nails, and would probably have won- dered what could be.the use of all that trouble. If he had then seen him measuring the pe tion of the fore bulwark which had remained, as we have described it, hanging on by the wreck, then attaching a strong cable to the PE edge of that portion, cutting away with strokes of. his hatchet the dislocated fastenings which held it, then dragging it out of the defile, pushing the lower part by the aid of the receding tide, while he dragged the upper part; finally, by great labor, fastening with the cable this heavy mass of planks and piles wider than the entrance of the defile itself, with the nails driven into the base of the Little Douvre, the observer would perhaps have found it still more difficult to com- poepend, and might have wondered why Gilliatt, he wanted for the purpose of his operations to disencumber the between the two'rocks of this mass, had not allowed it to fall into the sea, where the tide would have carried it away. Gilliatt had probably his reasons. In fixing the nails in the basement of tho rocks, he had taken advantage of all the cracks in the granite, enlarged them where needful, and driven in first of all wedges of wood, in which he fixed the nails. He made a rough commencement of similar preparations in the two rocks which rose at the other extremity of the narrow passage on the eastern side. He fur- nished with plugs of wood all the crevices, as if he desired to keep these also ready to hold nails or clamps; but this appeared to be a simple pre- caution, for he did not use them further. He was compelled to economize, and. ony, to use his materials as he had need, and at the moment when the necessity for them came. This was another addition to his numerous difficulties. As fast as one labor was accomplished another became necessary. Gilliatt, passed withot hesi- tation from task to task, and resolutely accom- plished his giant strides. “Iv. SUB RE. THE aspect of the man who accomplished all these labors became terrible. Gilliatt in his multifarious tasks expended all strength at once, and regained it with diffi- culty. Privations on the one hand, lassitudes on the other, had much reduced him. His hair and beard had grown long. He had but one shirt which was not_in rags. He went about naked- footed, the wind having carried away one of his shoes and the sea the other. Fractures of the rude and dangerous stone anvil which he used had left small wounds upon his hands and arms, the marks of labor. These wounds, or rather scratches, were superficial; but the keen air and the salt sea irritated them continually. He was generally hungry, thirsty, and cold. His store of fresh water was gone; his rye- meal was used or eaten. He had nothing left but a little biscuit. < This he broke with his teeth, having no water in which to steep it. ’ By little and little, and day by day, his pow- ers decreased. abe’ The terrible rocks were consuming his exist- ence. How to obtain food was a problem: how to get drink was a problem; how to find rest was a problem. . e ate when he was fortunate enough to find a crayfish or a crab; he drank when he chanced to see a sea-bird di upon a point of rock; for on SERPeng ie to the pace he generally found there a hollow with a little fresh water. He drank from it after the bird; sometimes with the bird; for the gulls and sea-mews had be- come accustomed to him, and no longer flew away at his approach. Even in his greatest need of food he did not attempt to molest them. He had, as will be remembered, a superstition about birds. The birds on their part—now that his hair was rough and wild and his beard long—had no fear of him, The change in his face gave them confidence;.,.he had lost. re- | The double Douvres—that dragon made of semblance to men, and taken the form of the | granite, and lying in ambush in mid-ocean—had . : | sheltered him. It had allowed him to enter, and The birds and Gilliatt, in fact, had become | to do his will; but its hospitality resembled the wild beast. good friends. Companion in’poverty, they helped each other. As long as he hed had pe meal, cakes he made. In his d showed him in their turn the places where he might find the little pools of water. e ate the shell-fish raw. Shell-fish help in a certain degree to quench the thirst. The crabs he cooked, Having no kettle, he roasted them between two stones made red-hot in his fire, after the manner of the savages of the Feroe islands. Meanwhile signs of the equinoctial season had begun to appear. There came rain—an angry rain, No showers or steady torrents, but fine, sharp, icy, penetrating points which pierced to his skin throngh his clothing, and to his bones through his skin. It was a rain which yielded little water for drinking, but which drenched him none the less. Chary of assistance, prodigal of misery—such was the character of these rains. During one week Gilliatt suffered from them all day and all night. At night, in his rocky recess, nothing but the overpowering fatigue of his daily work ena- bled him to get sleep. The great sea-gnats stung him, and awakened covered with blisters. He had a kind of low fever, which sustained him; this fever is a succor which deo By instinct. he chewed the mosses, or sucked the leaves of wild cochlearia, scanty tufts of which grew in the dry crevices of the rocks. Of his suffering, however, he took little heed. He had no time to spare from his work:to the consider- ation of his own privations. The rescue of the machinery of the Durande was progressing well. That sufficed for him. Every now and then, for the necessities of his work, he jumped into the water, swam to some point, and gained a footing again. He simply plunged into the sea and left it, as a man passes from one room in his dwelling to another. His clothing was never dry. It was saturated with rain-water, which had no time to evapor- ate, and with sea-water, which never dries. He lived perpetually wet. Living in wet clothing is a habit which may be acquired. The poor groups of Irish people— old men, mothers, girls almost naked, and in- fants—who pass. the. winter_in the open air, under the snow and rain, huddled together, sometimes at the corners of houses in the streets of London, live and die in this condition. To be soaked with wet, and yet to be thirsty; Gilliatt grew familiar with this strange torture. There were times when he was glad to suck the sleeve of his loose coat, The fire which he made scarcely warmed him, A fire in open air yields little comfort. It burns on one side, and freezes on the other. Gilliatt often shivered even while sweating over his forge. Everywhere about him rose resistance amidst a terrible silence. He felt himself the enemy of an unseen combination. There is a dismal non ossumus in nature. The inertia of matter is ike a sullen threat. A mysterious persecution environed him. He suffered from heats and shiverings. The fire ate into his flesh; the water froze him; feverish thirst torment him; the wind tore his clothing; hunger undermined the organs of the Body. The o pression of all these things was constantly exhausting him. Ob- stacles silent, immense, seemed to converge from all points, with the blind omen ts, of fate, yet full of a savage unanimity. He felt them pressing inexorably upon him. No means were there of escaping from them. His sufferings produced the impression of some liv- ing persecutor. He had a constant sense of something working against him, of a hostile form ever present, ever laboring to circumvent and subdue him, He could have fled from the struggle; but since he remained, he had no choice but to war with this impenetrable hostil- ity. He asked himself what it was. It took hold of him, grasped him tightly, overpowered him, deprived him of breath. The invisible per- secutor’ was destroying him by slow degrees. Every day the oppression became greater, as if a mysterious screw had received another turn. s situation in this dreadful spot resembled a duel, in which a suspicion of some treachery haunts the mind of one of the combatants. Now it seemed a coalition of obscure forces which surrounded him. He felt that there was somewhat a determination to be rid of his pres- ence. It is thus that the glacier chases the loitering ice-block. Almost without seeming to touch him this latent coalition had reduced him to rags; left him bleeding, distressed, and as it were hors de combat, even before the battle. He labore indeed, not the less—without pause or rest; bu as the work advanced, the workman himself lost ground. It might have been fancied that Nature, dreading his bold spirit, adopted the pan of slowly undermining his Y power. illiatt kept his ground, and left the rest to the future. e sea had begun by consuming him; what would come next? | he had crumbled for them some little bits of the , fathomable eeper distress they | of negatives welcome of devouring jaws. The desert, the boundless surface, the’ un- e around him and above, so full man’s will; the mute, inexorable determination of phenomena following their ap- inted course; the grand general law of things implacable and passive; and the ebbs and flows; the rocks themselves, dark Pleiades whose points were each a star amid vortices, a center of an | irradiation of currents; the strange, indefinable conspiracy to stifle with indifference the temer- ity of a living being; the wintrs: winds, the clouds, and the beleaguering waves enveloped him, closed round him slowly, and in a measure shut him in, and separated him from companion- ship, like a dungeon built up by degrees round a living man. Allagainst him; nothing for him; he felt himself isolated, abandoned, enfeebled, sapped, forgotten. His storehouse empty, his tools broken or defective; he was tormented with hunger: and thirst by day, with cold ‘b night. His sufferings had left him with woun and tatters, rags covering sores, torn hands, bleeding feet, wasted limbs, pallid cheeks, and ree bright with a strange light; but this was the steady flame of his determination. All his efforts seemed to tend to the impossible. His succeess was trifling and slow. e@ was en led to expend much labor for ‘very little results. This it was that gave to his struggle its noble and pathetic character. us That it should have required so many prepar- ations, so much toil, so many cautious experi- ments, such nights of hardship, and such days of danger, merely to set up four beams over a shipwrecked vessel, to divide and’ isolate the portion that could be saved, and to adjust to that wreck within a wreck four tackle-blocks with their cables was only the result of his sol- itary labor. ¢ That solitary position Gilliatt had more than accepted; he had deliberately chosen it. Dread- ing a competitor, because a competitor might have proved a rival, he had sought for no as- sistance. The overwhelming enterprise, the risk, the danger, the toil multiplied by itself, the pos- sible destruction of the salvor in his work, fam- ine, fever, nakedness, distress—he had chosen all these for himself! Such was his selfishness. He was like a man placed in some terrible cham- ber, which is being slowly exhausted of air. His vitality was leaving him by little and little. He scarcely perceived it. Exhaustion of the bodily strength does not necessarily exhaust the will. Faith is only a secondary power; the will is the first. 6 mountains, which faith is proverbially said to move, are nothing beside that which the will can accomplish. All that Gilliatt lost in vigor, he gained in tenacity. The destruction of the physical man under the oppressive influence of that wild surrounding sea, and rock, and sky, seemed only to reinvigorate his moral nature. Gilliatt felt no fatigue; or, rather, would not yield to any, The refusal of the mind to recog- nize the failings of the body is in itself an im- mense power. He saw nothing, except the steps in the pro- gress of his labors. His object—now seeming so near attainment —wrapped him in perpetual illusions, He endured all this suffering without any other thought than is comprised in the word “Forward.” His work flew to his head; the strength of the will is intoxicating. Its intoxi- cation is called heroism, He had become a kind of Job, having the ocean for the scene of his sufferings. But he was a Job wrestling with difficulty, a Job com- bating and making head against afflictions; a Job conquering ; a combination of Job and Prometheus, if such name are not too great to be applied ‘to a poor sailur and fisher of crabs and crayfish. Vv. SUB UMBRA, Sometimes in the night-time Gilliatt woke and peered into the darkness. He felt a strange emotion, His eyes were opened upon the black night; the situation was dismal; full of disquietude. There is such a thing as the pressure of dark- ness. A strange roof of shadow is a deep obscurity, which no diver can explore; a light mingled with that obscurity, of a strange, subdued, and somber kind; floating atoms of rays, like a dust of seeds or of ashes; millions of , but no illumining; a vast sprinkling of fire, of which no man knows the secret; diffusion of shining points, like a drift of rks arrested in their course; the disorder of the whirlwind, with the fixedness of death; a mysterious and abyssmal depth; an enigma, at once showing and conceal- ing its face; the Infinite in its of darkness —these are the synon: of night. Its weight lies heavily on the soul of man, This anon of all mysteries—the et, of the Cosmos and the mystery of Fate—op- presses human reason. The pressure of darkness acts in inverse pro- ti ese ana cp mene 4 ; i. q 1 TOILERS ‘OF THE: SEA portion upon different’kinds,of natures. Inthe presence of night man feels his.own incomplete- ness. - He perceives the dark void and is sensible of infirmity. It is like the vacancy of blindness, Face, to face with night, man bends, kneels, pronmates himself, crouches on the earth, crawls ward.a cave, or seeks for wings. Almost always) he shrinks from that vague presence .of the Infinite Unknown. | He asks himself what. it is; he: trembles and. bows the head. Sometimes he desires to go to it. To go whither? He can, only answer, ‘‘ Yonder.” But what is that? and what is there? This curiosity is evidently forbidden to the spirit of man; for all around him the roads which bridge that. gulf are broken up or gone... No arch exists for him to span the Infinite. But there is attraction in forbidden knowledge, as in the edge of the abyss. Where the footstep can- not tread, the eye may reach; where the eye can netrate no further, the mind may soar. There is no man, however. feeble or insufficient his resources, who does not essay. According to his nature he questions or recoils before that mystery. ‘With some,,it has the effect of re- pressing; with others it enlarges the soul. The spectacle is somber, indefinite. Is the pigak calm/and cloudless? It is then a depth of shadow. Isitstormy? It is then a sea of cloud. Its limitless deeps reveal them- selves to us, and yet baffle our gaze; close them- selves against research, but,open to conjecture. Its innumerable dots of lights only make deeper the obscurity beyond. Jewels, scintillations, stars; existences revealed in the unknown uni- verses; dread. defiances to man’s approach; land- marks of the/infinite creation; boundaries there, where there are no bounds; sea-marks impos- sible, and yet real, numbering the fathoms of those infinite dee One microscopic glittering point; then another; then another; impercep- tible, yet’ enormous, |, Yonder light is a focus; that focus is a star; that star is a sun; that sun is a universe; that universe is nothing. For all numbers are as zero in the, presence. of. the Infinite These worlds, which yet are nothing, exist. Through this fact we feel the difference which separates the being nothing, from the not to be. All these vague imaginings, increased and in- tensified by solitude, weighed upon Gilliatt. He understood them little, but he felt them. His was a powerful intellect:clouded; a great spirit wild and untaught. VIL GILLIATT PLACES THE SLOOP IN READINESS. Tus rescue of the machinery of the wreck as meditated by Gilliatt.was,.as we have already said, like the escape of) a criminal from a prison —necessitating all the patience and. industry recorded: of such achievements; industry car- ried to the. point of a miracle, patience only to be amt ’ with a long agony. A certain risoner named Thomas, at the Mont Saint Michael, found means of secreting the srnetar of a wall in his paillasse. Another at Tulle, in. 1820, cut-away a-lot of lead from the. terrace where the prisoners walked for exercise.) With what kind of knife? ..No one would guess. And melted this lead;-with, what fire? None have ever discovered; but:it.is known that he, cast it in a mold made of, the crumb of bread... With this lead and this mold he made a key, and with this key, succeeded,in openis alock. of which had never seen anything but the keyhole. Some of this marvelous ingenuity Gilliat pos- sessed... |He had once climbed and: descended from the. cliff at Boisrose. He was the Baron Spnok of the wreck; and the Latude of her ma- ROKK) todd Yo : ' The sea, like a jailer, kept watch over him, For the rest, mischievous and inclement. as the rain had been, he had contrived to derive some’ benefit;from.it. He in part replen- ished his stock of fresh water; but, his thirst was eee and he emptied his can as fast as he it. One day—it was on the last day of ot or ~~ first. of May—all was at length r for The engine-room was as it were. inclosed be- tween the eight cables hanging from the tackle- blocks, four on one side, four on the other, The sixteen holes upon the deck and under. the keel, through which the cables passed, had been hoop- ed round by sawing. The x ing had | sawed, the timber cut with the hatchet, the iron- work with a file, the sheathing with a chisel. The part of the keel immediately under the machinery was cut squarewise, and ready to descend with it while still SUPRPEOpE * - this ightful. swinging mass ¢ y by one ae which was itself only kept in position by afiled notch. At this stage, in such a labor and so near its. completion, haste is prudence. The water was low; the moment favorable. Gilliatt had succeeded in removing the axle of the paddles, the extremities of which might have proved an obstacle and checked the de- scent. He had contrived to make this heavy por- tion fast in a. vertical position within the en- gine-room itself. Tt was time to bring his work to an end. The workman, as we havo said, was not weary, for | ; his will was. strong; but his tools were, The | forge was by degrees’ becoming impracticable. | The. blower had oe to work y. The lit- | tle hydraulic fall being of.,sea-water, saline de- posits had inerusted the joints of the apparatus, and prevented its free action. Gilliatt visited the creek of ‘The Man” rock, examined the sone, and assured himself that all was in, good. condition; particularly the four rings fixed to starboard and) to larboard; then he weighed anchor, and worked the heavy barge- shaped ‘craft with the oars till he brought it alongside the two Douvres.. The defile between was also. depth enough. On the day of his) arri- val he had satisfied himself that it was possible to push the sloop under the Durande, he feat, however was difficult; it required the minute precision of a watchmaker. The operation was all. the more delicate from the fact that, for his objects, he was compelled to force it in by the stern, rudder first, It was ne- cessary that the mast and the rigging of the sloop should project beyond the wreck in the direction of the sea, These, embarrassments rendered all Gilliatt’s cperakons awkward. It was not like entering the creek of ‘“‘ The Man,” where it was a mere affair of the tiller. It was necessary here to push, drag, row, and take soundings all to- ether. Gilliatt consumed but a qu of an our in these maneuvers; but he was successful. In fifteen or twenty minutes the sloop was ad- justed under the wreck. It was almost wedged in there. By means of his two anchors he moored. the boat by head and stern. The strongest of the two was placed so as to be effi- eient against the strongest wind that blows, which was that from the southwest. Then by the aid of the lever and the capstan, he lowered into the sloop the two cases containing the pieces of the paddle-wheel, the slings of which were all ready, ‘The two cases served as ballast. Relieved of these incumbrances, he fastened to the hook of the chain of the capstan the slin of the regulating tackle-gear, intending to chee the pulleys. Owing to the peculiar objects of this labor, the defects of the old sloop me. useful qual- ities. It had no deck; her burden, therefore, would have greater depth, and could rest upon the hold. Her mast was very forward—too far forward, indeed, for general purposes; her con- tents, therefore, would have more room, and, the mast standing thus beyond the mass.of the wreck, there would be nothing to hinder its dis- embarkation. It was a mere shell, or case, for receiving it; but nothing is more stable than this on the sea. of While. engaged in these operations, Gilliatt suddenly perceived that the sea was rising. He looked round to see from, what quarter the wind was coming. Vil. SUDDEN DANGER. Tre breeze was scarcely perceptible; but what there was came from the west—a disagreeable habit of the winds during the equinoxes. The rising sea varies much in its effects, upon the Douvres rocks, depending upon the quarter of the wind,; i According to the gale which drives them. be- fore it, the waves enter the rocky corridor either from the east or from the west. Enter- ing from the east, the sea is comparatively entle; coming from the west, it is always ‘urious., The reason of this is that. the wind from the east blowing from the land has not -had. time to gather force, while the. westerly winds, coming from the Atlantic, blow un- checked from a vast ocean. Even a very slight breeze, if it comes from the west, is serious. . It rolls the huge billows from the illimitable space and dashes the waves against the narrow defile in greater bulk than can find entrance there. sea which rolls into.a gulf is always ter- multitude is a sort of fluid body. quantity which can enter is less than the quan- tity. endeavoring to force a way, there is a fatal crush among the crowd, a fierce convul- sion on the water. As long as the west wind blows, however ee the breeze, the Douvres are twice a day subjected to that rude, assault. The sea rises, the tide breasts up, the narrow gullet gives little entrance, the waves, driven against it violently, rebound and roar, a tremendous, surf eee the two sides of the gorge. Thus the Douvres, during the slightest wind from the west, present the sin, ir spec- tacle of a sea comparatively calm without, while within the rocks a storm is raging. _ This tumult of waters, altogether confined and cir- cumscribed, has nothing of the character of a tempest. It is a mere | the waves; but a terrible one. As regards the winds from the north and south, they strike the rocks crosswise, and cause little surf in the passage. The entrance by the east—a fact which must be borne in mind—was close to ae sow ” rock, The dangerous. a Joa west was at the oj ite extremity, exactly between the two act It was at this western entrance that Gilliatt the rocks was wide enough to admit it...There | rible, - It,is the same with’a crowd of people: a. hen the | 1 ocal outbreak among | | found himself with the wrecked Durande, and | the sloop made fast beneath it, | A catastrophe seemed inevitable. There was | not much wind, but it was sufficient for the im- | pending mischief. Before many hours the swell which. was rising | would be rushing with full force into the gorge _ of the Douvres. The first waves were already | breaking. This swell and eddy of the entire | Atlantic would have behind it the immense sea. | There would be no, squall, no violence, but a | simple overwhelming wave, which, commenc- | ing on the coasts. of America, rolls toward the shores of Europe with an impetus gathered over, two thousand leagues, is wave, a ge | gantic ocean barrier, meeting the gap of t rocks, must be caught between the two Douvres, standing like watch-towers at the entrance, or like pil of the defile. Thus swelled by the tide, augmented by resistance, driven. by the shoals, and urged on by the wind, it would strike the rock with violence, and, with all the contortions from the obstacles it’ had encoun- tered and all the frenzy of a sea confined in limits, would rush between the:rocky walls, where it would reach the sloop and the Durande, and, in all Teer ewe them, A shield against this danger was. wanting. es, t th reaching e lem was revent the sea it st ane bound: to obstruct it from striking, while allo it to rise; to bar the passage without refusing it admission; to prevent. the compression of the water in the gorge, which was the whole danger; to turn an eruption into a simple flood; to extract, as it were, from the waves all their violence, and constrain the furies to be gentle; it was, in fact, to substitute an obstacle which will appease for an obstacle which irritates. Gilliatt, with all that dexterity which he Neem sessed, and which is so much more efficient mere foree, sprung upon the rocks like a cha- mois among the mountains or a monkey in the forest; using for his. tottering and dizzy strides the smallest projecting stone; leaping into the water, and issuing from. it again; swimming among the shoals and clambering the rocks, witha rope between his teeth and a mallet in his hand. Thus he detached the cable which kept s ded and also fast to the basement of the Little Douvre the end of the forward side of the. Durande; fashioned out of some ends of hawsers a sort of hinges, holding this bulwark to the huge nails fixed in the granite; swung this apparatus of plenks upon them like the pas of a great dock, and turned their sides, as © would turn a rudder, outward to the wav which pushed the extremities upon the Grea Douvre, while, the rope lanes detained the other extremities upon the Little Douvre; next he contrived, by means of the huge nails placed beforehand. for the pur to fix the same kind of fastenings upon the Great Douvre as on the little one; made completely fast the vast mass of woodwork against the two pillars of the forge :sinag. a ohaiy across this barrier like a c Be SN) and in less than an hour this © t the sea was com- plete, and the gullet of the rocks closed as by a eects tus, & hea: f werful ap) a Vy mass. 0! beams os planks, pte laid flat would have made a raft, and upright formed a wall, had b the aid of the water been handled. by Gillia with the adroitness of a juggler. It might al- most have been said that obstruction was complete before the rising sea had the time to perceive it. ; It was one of those occasions on which Jean Bart would. have employed. the famous expres- sion which he applied to the sea every time he marrentye shipwreck, “We have cheat- ed the ii an,” for itis well known that when that famous admiral meant to speak con- temptuously of the ocean he called it ‘‘the En- glishman.” The entrance to the defile being thus pro- tected, Gilliatt thought of the soo. He anchors to oosened sufficient cable for the two ; allow her to rise with the tide;,an tion similar to. what_.the called necessity had have perceived it by the two pulleys of the to) cut in the form of siatch blocks and fixed behind the sloop, through which passed the two ropes, the ends of which were slung through the rings of the anchors, Meanwhile the tide was rising fast; the half none. had arrived, at a moment ‘eben the geeck of the waves, even in com i modera: weather, may become ae Exactly what Gilliatt expected came to pass, The waves rolled violently against the barrier, struck it, broke heavily and beneath. Outside race” ey el Toe of arin, Br quietly. e ie a cule caudine. The sea was conquered. Vill. MOVEMENT RATHER THAN PROGRESS. THE moment so long dreaded had come, The problem now was to place the machinery in th ‘kK, ela ary pitta PR ‘ait 4 ; -= teens. v Gilliatt ‘remained thoughtful for some 'mo- ments, holding thé élbow of his left’ arm’ in his right hand, and applying his left hand to his forehead. Then he climbed upon the wreck, one part of which, containing the engine, was to be parted from it, while the other remained. © ' He severed the four slings which fixed the four chains from the funnel on the larboard and sides. The'slings being only of cord, his knife‘served him well enough for this pur- pose. The four chains set free, hung down along the sides of thé funnel. ; From'the wreck he’ climbed ‘up to the’ appa- ratus which he had constructed, stamped with his ‘feet upon ‘the beams, inspected the tackle- blocks, looked to the pulleys, handled the cables, examined the eking-pieces, assured’ himself that the untarred hemp was not ‘saturated through, found that' nothing was’ wanting ‘and nothing iving way; then springing from’ the hight of he suspending props on the deck, he took up his position near the capstan, in the part of the Du- rande which he intended to leave jammed in be- tween the'two Douvres. This was to be his post during his‘ labors. Earnest, but troubled with no impulses but what were useful in his work, He took a final glance ‘at the’ hoisting-tacklé, then seized ’a file and began ‘to saw with ‘it through the chain which held’ the whole suspended. The rasping of the file was audible amidst the roaring of the sea, The chain from the capstan, attached to the regulating gear, was within his reach, quite near his hand. , Suddenly there was a crash. The link which he ‘was ‘ filing snapped when only half? cut through; the whole apparatus swing violently. He had only ‘just time sufficient'to seize the re- gulating gear. The severed chain beat against the rock; the eight cables strained; the huge mass, sawed and cut through, detached itself from the wreck; the belly of the hull opened, and the iron floor- es of the engine-room was ‘visible below the If he had _ not seized the’ regulating tackle at that instant it would have fallen, But his pow- erful hand was there, and it descended steadily. When the brother of Jean Bart, Peter Bart, that powerful and sagacious toper, that poor Dunkirk fisherman, who'used to talk familiarly with’ the’ Grand Admiral of France, went to the rescue. of the galley Langeron, in distress in the Bay of Ambletéuse, endeavoring to save’ the heavy floating mass in the midst of the breakers of’ that furious bay, he rolled up the’ mainsail, tied ‘it with sea-reeds, and tru to the’ ties to break away of themselves, and give 'the sail to the wind at thé right moment; ‘Just’ so’ Gilliatt trusted 'to the breaking of the’ chain; and the same eccentric feat of daring was crowned with the same success. ' The tackle, taken in’ hand ‘by Gilliatt, held out and worked well. © Its fiinction, as will be re- ‘membered, was to moderate the powers of the apparatus, thus reducéd from ‘many ‘to ‘one, by ‘bringing thern into ‘united action. ‘The gear had some similarity to a bridle of ‘a bowline except that instead 6f ‘trimmi sail it servi to balance a complicated mechanism. sei ‘Erect, and with his hand’ upon the capstan, Gilliatt, so to speak, ‘was enabled to feel the pulse of the apparatus. It was here’ that his inventive genius mani- Tested itselt, 98" Soe galert t 939 A remarkable coincidence of forces was the t. = While the machinery of the Durande, detach- ed in a mass, was lowering ‘to the sloop, ‘the sloop’ rose slowly to receive it. The wreck and salvage Rie Porgy” Bonar other ‘in opposite ways, saved half the labor of the operation. e tide swelling quietly between the’ two Douvres raised the sloop and brought it’nearer ‘to the Durande. ‘The sea was ‘more than’ con- quered; it was tamed and broken in. It be- came, in fact, part and parcelof the organiza- tion of power: ne ee Os A The rising waters lifted the vessel without any sort of ‘shock, gently, and almost'with ‘precau- |- tion, as one ‘would Haridle porcelain. Gilliatt ‘combined’ and proportioned ‘the two labors, that, of the water and that of the appara- tus; and standing stéadfast ‘at the a Tike some terrible! statue obeyed by all the move- ments around it at the same moment, regulated the slowness of the descent by ‘the slow rise of the sea. ‘There was no’ pan given’ by ‘the waters; no |- slip among the e. ‘It was a strange’ col- laboration® of all the’ natural: forces -subdued. On one side; pte tuaelbn tower ini the huge bulk, on tiie other the sea raising the Than ‘The at- traction of heavenly “bodies which causes the ‘tide, and the attractive force of the earth, which men. weight, seemed to conspire together to aid his plans. oBhere was no hesitation, no stop- _ page in their service; under the dominance of _ mind these passive forces became active auxilia- ries. From minute to minute ‘the work ad- _vanced ; the interval between the wreck and the sloop diminished insensibly. The approagh con- _ tinued in silence, and as in a sort of terror of the man who stood there. The elements received his orders and fulfilled them. Nearly: at the moment when the tide ceased to raise it, the cable ceased to slide. Suddenly, but without commotion, the ‘pulleys stopped. The yast machine had taken its place in the bark, as if placed there by a powerful hand. It stood straight, upright,’ motionless, firm:’ ‘The | iron floor of the engine-room rested with ‘its four corners evenly upon the hold. The work was accomplished. Gilliatt contemplated it; lost in thought. He was not the spoiled child of ‘success.’ He bent under the weight of his great joy. He felt his limbs, as it'were, sinking; and contemplating his triumph, he, who had never been shaken by danger, began to tremble: He gazed upon the sloop ‘under the wreck, and at the machinery’ in the sloop.” He seemed’ to feel’ it hard to believe it true. It might have been supposed that he had? never looked for- ward to that which he had accomplished. A miracle had been wrought by his hands, and he contemplated it in bewilderment. His reverie lasted but a short time. Starting like one awaking from a deep eat , he seized his saw, cut the eight cables, separate now from the sloop, thanks to the rising of the ‘tide, by only about ‘ten feet; sprung aboard took a bunch of cord; made four slings, passed them through the rings prepared beforehand, and fixed on both sides aboard ‘the sloop the four chains of the funnel which only an hour be- fore had been still fastened to their places aboard the Durande. The funnel being secured, he disengaged the upper part of the machinery. A square portion of planking of the Durande was adhering to it; he struck off the nails and relieved the sloop of ‘this incumbrance of planks and beams; which fell over onto the rocks—a great assistance in lightening it. For the rest, the sloop, as had been foreseen, behaved well under the burden of the machinery. It ‘had sunk in ‘the water, but only to a good water-line) Although massive, the engine of the Durande was less hea than the pile of stones and the cannon which ‘he had once brought back from Herm in the sloop. All then was ended; he had only to depart. Ix: A SLIP BETWEEN CUP AND LIP. ALE was not ended. To reeren the gorge thus closed by the por- tion of the Durande’s bulwarks, and at once to pee out with the sloop beyond the rocks, noth- g could appear more clear and simple. On the ocean every minute is urgent. There was little wind; scarcelya wrinkle on the open sea. The afternoon was beautiful, and promised a fine night. The sea, indeed, was calm, but the ebb had begun. The moment was favorable for starting. There would be the ebb-tide for leav- ing the Douvres; and-the flood would carry him into Guernsey... It»vould be. possible to at St. Sampson’s at daybreak. But'an: unexpected obstacle presented “itself. There was a flaw in hisarrangements which had baffled all his foresight, ) ©The machinery was freed; but the chimney was not. Lin The tide, by raising the sloop te the wreck suspended in the air, had diministied the dangers of the descent, and abridged the labor. But this diminution of the interval had left’ the top of the funnel entangled in the’ kind of gaping frame formed by the open hull of the Durande. oe funnel was held fast there as between four walls. 3 : The services rendered by the sea had been ac- companied by that unfortunate drawback. It ‘seemed’ as if'the waves,’ constrained to obey, had avenged themselves by: a malicious trick, ° >This’ true that what the flood-tide had done the ebbwould undo. The funnel, which was rather more than three fathoms in hight, was buried more than eight feet in thé - wreck. ‘The water-level would fall about twelve feet. "Thus the funnel descending -with the falling ‘tide:would have four ‘feet’ of ‘room to'spare, and would clear itself easily. But how much time’ would elapse ‘before that ‘release would be completed?. Six hours, « In ‘six hours it would be near’ midnight. -What*means would there be of’ attempting to start’ atsuchian hour?) What channel could he ‘find among all those breakers, so full of dangers even by day? How was he to risk his vessel in the depth of black night. in that inextricable laby: rinth, that ambuscade of ‘shoals? } There’ was no help for it.. He must ‘wait for the ‘Morrow. 'Thesé@ six hours lost, entailed a loss of ‘twelve hours at least: ‘ : ; ~’ ‘He could not even advance the labor by open- ‘ing the mouth of pe = br ater was necessary again: 6next tide, .07°"> He was ecnpelled we rest. Foldinghis’ arms was almost the only thing which he'had not'yet done sincehis arrival on the rocks,“ This forced inaction irritated, almost vexed ‘him with’ himself, as if it had been ‘his fault. He thought ‘what would Deruchette say of me if she saw me thus doing nothing?” __ And yet this interval for regaining his strength was not unnecessary. : ; ca pee THE’ FIRESIDE ‘LIBRARY. “wave. The sloop was now at his command; He de- termined to pass the night in it. : He mounted once ‘more to fetch his sheepskin upon the Great’ Douvre; descended again,’ sup- ped off. a few limpets and chataignes de mer, drank, pet very thi } afew draughts of water from his can, which was near empty, enveloped himself in the skin, the wool of which felt comforting, lay down like a watch-dog be- side the engine, drew his'red cap over his eyes and slept. on His sleep was profound. It was such sleep as men enjoy who have completed a great labor. x. SEA-WARNINGS, In the middle of the night he awoke suddenly and with a jerk like the recoil ofa spring. He opened his eyes ; The Douvres, rising high over his head, were lighted up as bythe white glow of ing em- bers. Over all the dark escarpment of the rock there was a light like the reflection of a fire; ~ Where could this fire come from? : It was from the water. The aspect of the sea was extraordi Cot The water seemed afire. As far as the eye could reach, among the reefs and beyond them, the sea ran with flame. ‘The flame was not red; it had nothing in: common with the grand living fires of volcanic craters or of great furnaces. There was no sparking: _ho glare, no purple edges, no noise. ng trails of a pale tint simu- lated upon the water the folds of a winding- sheet. A trembling glow was spread over the waves. It was the specter of a great fire, rather than the fire itself. It was in some degree like the glow of unearthly flames ae the inside of a sepulcher. A burning darkness, The night itself, dim, vast, and wide-diffused, was the fuel of that cold flame. It was a stran illumination issuing out of blindness. ie shadows even formed pare of that phantom-fire. The sailors of the channel are familiar with those indescribable phosphorescencés, full of warning for the navigator. » They are nowhere more surprising than in the “Great V,” ‘near Isigny: By this light, surrounding objects lose their reality. A spectral glimmer renders them, as it were, transparent. Rocks become no more than outlines. Cables of anchors look like iron bars heated to a white heat. The nets of the fishermen beneath the water seem’ webs of firé. The half the oar above the waves is dark as ebony, the rest in the'sea like silver. The dro from the blades uplifted from the water fall in starry showers upon the séa. Every boat leaves a furrow behind it like a comet’s tail. The 'sail- ors, wet and luminous, seem like men in flames. If you plunge a hand’into the water, you with- draw it clothed in flame.’ The flame is’ dead, and is not felt. Your arm becomes firebrand. ‘You see the forms of things’ in the’ sea ‘roll be- neath the waves as in liquid fire,’ The foam twinkles. The fish are tongues of ‘fire, or frag- aoe of the forked lightning, moving ‘in the epths. f : e reflection of this brightness ‘had passed over the closed eyelids of Gilliatt ‘in the sloop. It ‘was this that had'awakened him.) ° * iT His awakening was opportune. - Padions The ebb tide had run out, and the waters were ‘beginning to rise again. The furinel, which had become disengaged during his sleep, was about a enter again into the yawning hollow above Tt was rising slowly," ovis etitt to osr0k A rise of another foot would have entanbled it in the wreck again. - A’rise of ‘one foot is cay valent to half-an-hour’s tide.’ If he intended, therefore, to take advantage of that teniporey deliverance once more within his reach, he had just half-an-hour before him! <9" 9) 0" He leaped to his feet. AIO DAH FS? O00 Urgent as’ the’ situation was, ‘he’ fora few moments meditative, contemplating the phosphorescence of the waves; 9) 807 '" Gilliatt_ knew the sea in all its phases. \ Not- ‘withstanding ‘all her tricks, and often as he had suffered from her terrors, he had. long been her companion. The mysterious entity whith we call the ocean had nothing in its secret thoughts -which he could not divine. Observation, medi- tation, and solitude, had given him ‘quick per- ception of coming changes, of wind, ‘of cloud, or og noite ganovdt Gilliatt hastened to the top ropes and Pe ed out some cable; then béing no longer held fast by the anchors, ‘he seized’ the’ boat-hook of the oop, and pushed ‘her toward the entrance to the gorgé some fathoms from the Durande, and quite néar to the breakwater. ' Here, as the Guernsey sailors say, it had du‘rang.” ‘Th less than ten minutes the sloop was withdrawn from ‘beneath the carcass of the wreck. There was no further danger of the funnel being caught in a trap.’ The tide might rise now. And yet Gilliatt’s cone was not'that of one about to take his departure. 8 He stood considering the light upon the sea once more; but his Sa were not of start- ing. He'was' thinking of how to’ fix the sloop again, and how to fix it more firmly than ever, though near to the exit from the defile, Up to this time he had only used the two an- ln a wits i en tliat as terete Sat oo ~ ‘TOILERS -OF ‘THE’ SBA! 89 chors of thé sloop, and had not yet ees the little anchor of’ the Durande, ‘which he had found, as will be remembered, See the ‘break- ers. ‘This anchor had been deposited by him in readiness for any emergency, in a corner of a sloop, With a quantity of hawsers, and blocks of top-ropés, andhis cable, all’ furnished before- hand with large knots, ‘which prevented its dragging. He now let go this third anchor, tak- ing care to fasten the cable to a rope, one end of which was slung through the anchor ring, while thé other was attached to the windlass of the sldop. In this manner he made a kind of trian- gular; triple anchorage, much stronger than the Hioorings with two anchors. All this indicated keen aan and a redoubling of précautions. ‘A sailor would have seen in this operation some- thing similar to an anchorage in, bad weather ‘when there is fear of ‘a current which migh carry the vessel under thé wind. ' « . “The phosphorescence which he had been ob- serving, and upon which his ¢ye was now fixed once more, was threatening, but more sérvicea- $le at the same time.” But for it/he would have been held fast locked in sleep, and deceived by the night.’ The strange appearance upon the sea had awakened him, and made things about him visible. ” The light which it shed among the rocks was, indéed; ominous; but disquieting as it ap- eared to’ be to Gilliatt, it had served to show ‘im the dangers of his position, and had render- ed possible his operations in extricating the sloop.” Hencéforth, whenever he should be able to’set’ sail, the vessel, with its freight and ma- chinery, would be free, ©’ And yet the idea of sane, was further than ever from his mind. The sloop being fixed in its new position, he went in quest of the strongest chain which he had in’ his store-cav- ern, and attaching it to the nails driven into the tivo Douvres, he fortified from within with this éhain the rampart of planks and beams, already rotécted from without by the cross chain. Far im opening the entrance to the defile, he made the barrier more complete. R t : The phosphorescence lighted him still, but it ‘was diminishing. ‘The day, however, was be- sinning to break. ; Suddenly he' paused to listen. XI. MURMURS IN THE AIR. A FEEBLE, indistinct sound ‘seemed to reach his ear from somewhere in the far distance. At certain hour's the great deeps give forth a murmuring noise. 7 ‘He listened a'second time. The distant noise vecommenced.’ Gilliatt shook his head like one who recognizes at last something familiar to him. ; ‘A few minutes later he was at the other ex- tremity ofthe alléy between the rocks, at the entrance facing east, which had remained open until then, and by heavy blows of his hammer was driving large nidils into the'sides of the gul- Jet near “* The Man” rock, as he had done at the gullet of the Douvres. < ~ The ¢revices of these rocks were prepared and well furnished with timber, almost all of which : was heart of oak. The rock on'this side being much’ broken up, theré were abundant cracks, and: he was able to'fix even more nails there ‘than in'thé base of the two Douvres. Suddenly, and as if some great breath had ‘passed ‘over it, the luminous appearance on the ‘waters vanished: . The twilight becoming paler very moment, ‘assumed its functions. “The nails being driven, Gilliatt dragged beams aiid: cords, and then’ éhains to’ the spot; and ewithout: talcin, his éyes off his work, or permit- ‘ting his mind to be diverted for a moment, he began to ‘construct across the gorge of “The Man” with beams fixed horizontally, and made fast by cables, one of those open barriers which science has now adopted under the name of breakwaters. : . ; ~£Phosé- who have witnessed, for example, at La Rocquaine in Guernsey, or at Bourg-d’ Han in France, the effect epee by a few fixed in the rock, will understand the power of these simplé ‘préparations. This sort of break water is a eombination of what is called ‘in France epi with what is known in England as *@ dam.”'The breakwater is the chevaux-de- ri f fortifications against tempests. Man hundy: struggle against the sea by taking ad- vantage of this principle of dividing its forces,’ ' Meanwhile, the sun had ee and was shin- ing brightly. “The sky was clear, the sea calm. Gilliatt’ pressed on his work. He, too, was ‘calm; but there was anxiety in his haste.’ He ed with long strides from rock to rock, ‘and “returned: ng wildly sometimes a rider, sometimes a binding strake. "The utility of atl this préparation of timbers now became mani- “fest.” Tt was evident that he was about to con- front a danger which he had foreseen: or A strong iron bar served him ‘as a lever for ‘moving the beams, . Peete ‘The work was executed so fast that it was rather a rapid growth than a construction. He who has never seen a military pontooner at his work can scarcely form an idea of this tape. ~The ea8tern gullet was still narrower than the western. There wére but five or six feet of in- a terval between the rocks. The smiallnéss of this opening was an assistance, The space to be for- tified and closed up being very little, the appa- ratus would be stronger, and might be more simple. Horizontal beams, therefore, sufficed, the upright ones being useless. The first cross-pieces of the breakwater bein, fixed, Gilliatt mounted upon them and listen once more. The murmurs had become significant. ° He continued his construction, He al Sounn it with the two catheads of the Durande, bound to the frame of beams by cords passed through the three pulley-sheaves. He made the whole fast by chains. : The construction was little more than a ¢olos- sal hurdle, having beams for rods and chains in the place of wattiles. ri i seemed woven together, quite as much as uilt. He multiplied the fastenings, and added nails where they were necessary. Having obtained a great quantity of bar iron from the wreck, he had been able to make a large number of these heavy nails. While still at work, he broke some biscuit with his teeth. He was thirsty but he could not drink, having no more fresh water. He had ae the can at his meal of the evening -be- ore. 4 He added afterward four or five more pieces of timber; then climbed again upon the barrier and listened. The noises from the horizon had ceased; all was still. The sea was smooth and quiet; deserving all those complimentary phrases which worthy citi- zens bestow upon it when satisfied with a trip. * A mirror,” “a pond,” “ like oil,” and so forth, The deep blue of the sky responded to the deep green tint of the ocean. The sapphire and the emerald hues vied with each other: Each were eo Nota cloud on high, nota line of foam low. In the midst of all this splendor, the April-sun rose magnificently. It was impossi- ble to imagine a lovelier day. On the verge of the horizon a flight of birds of passage formed a long dark line against the sky. They were flying fast as if alarmed. Gilliatt set to work again to raise the break- water. He raised it as high as he could; as high, in- deed, as the curving of the rocks would permit. Toward noon the sun: appeared to him to give more than its usual warmth. Noon is the criti- cal time of the day. Standing upon the power- ful frame he had built up, he paused again to survey the wide expanse. — ‘ The sea was more than tranquil. It wasa dull dead calm. ‘No sail was visible. The sky was everywhere clear; but from blue it had be- come’ white. The whiteness was ‘singular. To. the west, and upon the horizon, was a little spot ofa sickly hue. The spot remained in the same place, but by degrees reakers the waves shuddered; but ve: Saar had done well to build his r. ‘ A tempest was approaching: : : The elements ad detsrnined to give battle. Boox III. THE STRUGGLE, Ly oe EXTREMES (MEET. J Norntne is more threatening than ‘a late ently. realewa- te uinox. 1184 : yi oTMhe appearance of the sea presents a strange rip apron! resulting from what may be called © arrival of the ocean winds: as lo In all seasons, but particularly at the epoch of the Syzygies, at the’ moment ‘when least ex- pected, the sea sometimes’ becomes singularly tranquil. ‘That vast perpetual movement ceases ; a sort of drowsiness and languor overspreads'it ; and it seems weary and about to rest. Every rag of bunting, from the titiy streamer of the fishing-boat tothe: great flagof ‘ships of war, droops against the mast. The admiral’s flag, the al and Imperial ensigns sleep alike. * = enly all these streamers begin to flutter gently. 3. 40 If there happen to be clouds, the moment’ has then come for marking the formation of the cirri; if the sun is setting, for observing ‘the: red tints of the horizon; or if it be night and ee is a moon, for looking attentively for the alo. Tt is then that the captain or commander of a squadron, if he happen to possess one of those storm indicators, the inventor of which is un- known, notes his instrument carefully, and takes his precautions against the south wind, if the clouds have an appearatice like dissolved sugar; or against.the north, if they exfoliate in crystallizations like brakes of brambles, or like fir woods. Then, too, the poor Irish or Breton fisherman, after having consulted some’ myste- rious gnomon engraved by the Romans or by demons upon one of those straight enigmatical stones, which are called in Brittany Menhir, and a Treland Cruach, hauls his boat up on the ore. . Meanwhile, the serenity of sky and ocean w larger. Near the | contintiés.’ "The day dawns radiaht,andAurora smiles. It’ was this which ‘filled ‘the old poets and seers with religious horror; formen dared to suspect’ the falsity of the sun, Solem quis dicere falsum audeat? ! ‘The Somber vision’ of nature’s secret’ laws ‘is interdicted to man by the fatal opacity of sur- rounding things. The most terrible and. per: fidious of her aspects‘ is that which masks the convulsions of the deep, | 1 fi Some hours, and even' days sometimes, pass thus. Pilots raise’ their ‘teléscopes here ‘and there. ‘ The faces ‘of ‘old‘seamen have ‘always an expression ‘of sevérity’ left upon them by the vexation ‘of perpettially looki out for changes. j pe: i { Suddenly a great-confused ‘murmur is heard. A sort of mysterious dialogue’ takes place inthe air. Nothing unusual is seen, The wide expanse is tranquil. Yet the noises increase. The’ dialogue be- comes more audible, 4 There is something beyond ‘the horizon. Something terrible. It is the wind. "a The wind; or rather that populace of Titans which we call the gale.''The unseen multitude: India knew them as‘the Maroubs,' Judea as the Keroubim, Greece as the Aquilones, . They are the invisible winged creatures of the Infin- ite. Their blasts sweep over the earthi: 9 > IT. THE OCEAN WINDS, THEY come from the immeasurable’ deep, Their wide wings need the breath of: the ocean gulf, the spaciousness of desert solitudes. The Atlantic, the Pacific—those vast. blue ‘plains— are their delight. | They hasten thither in flocks. Commander ‘Page’ witnessed, far: out at sea, seven waterspouts at once. ey wander there. wild and terrible! |The ever-endi ng yet eternal flux and reflux is their work. extent of their power, the limits of their will, none know. They are the Sphinxes of the abyss: Gama was their Gidipus, In that dark, ever- moving expanse, they appear with faces of cloud. He who perceives their pale lineaments in that wide dispersion, the horizon’ of the’sea, feels eee ve resence = eee wer. | It t be imagin ab the proxim- iy of heltan Tnteliieeniue a eted them, and that they revolted: against it. The mind of man is invincible; but the elements bafile him,’ He can do pes pe the power which is every- where, and which none can bind. The gentle breath becomes a gale; smites with the force of a war-club, and then becomes ‘gentle again: The winds attack with a terrible crash, ‘anddefend themselves by fading into nothingness: He who would encounter them must use artifice. Their varying tactics, their swift redoubled blows, confuse. They fly as often ‘as''they attack. They aré tenacious and impalpable.» Who can circunivent: them?. The: prow of the Argo, cut from:an oak.of Dodona’s a that mysterious pilot ‘of the -bark; spoke to them, and they in- sulted that pilot godess. ‘Cok ‘beholding their approach at La Pinta, mounted! upon the poop, and addressed them with the first verses of St. John’s Gospel. Surcouf: defied them: “ Here come the ig,” he used to a Napier greeted: them with cannon-balls. ' “T y assume ‘| the dictatorship of chaos, sh ttoids A apy Chaos is theirs, in which’ to wreak ‘their mys- terious vengeance: the den of the windsis more monstrous aaneeaitions of aan one — corpses lie eep recesses, where 1 how]- ing gusts'sweep without pity over ‘that obseuro and ghastly mass! The winds are heard where- soever they go, but they give ear tonone: ‘Their -acts resemble ‘crimes, «(None know ‘on’ whom they cast.their hoary surf; with what ferocity ~ ‘they hover over shipwrecks, looking:at:timeés as if they flung their impious: foam-flakes inthe face of heaven. They are the tyrants of! un- known regions. ‘‘Luoghispaventosi;” murmur- ed the Venetian mariners...) ! ostw dogad The trembling fields of space are subjectedto tlieirfierce assaults: Things eakable 'come to pass‘in those deserted» re . Some horse- man rides in the gloom; the air isfull of a for- est sound; nothing is visible} but the tramp of cavalcades ‘is heard.’ The noonday is overcast with sudden night; aitornado: passes.» Orit is mi t;qwhich suddenly becomes brightas day ;:the:polar lights are inthe heavens, . Wihirl- winds ‘pass in opposite waiys,and: in ‘x sort of hideous ‘dance, a' stamping ‘of the storms upon the waters. — A cloud: overburdened opens and falls to the earth. Other clouds; filled with \red light, flash and:roar; then frown again’ominous- ly. Emptied: of their lig! a as spent: . Pent-up rains dissolvein mists. "Yonder sea.a) afiery furnace in which the rains are falling: flames seem toissue from the ee . The white gleam of ee oe ower is reflected to marvelous distances. : theniselves into un- different masses couth’ ° sha - Monstrous’ whirlpools “make strange hollows inthe sky-: ‘The vapors révolve. the waves spin, the giddy Naiads roll; sea a ee ; noises as cties of despair'yre in © air. ast ret LEP SERIO IS Great sheaves of shadow and darkness are gathered up, trembling in the far depths of the \ 40 THE) FIRESIDE LIBRARY. sky... Now and then there is a. convulsion,.- 'The rumor tumult as, the wave becomes sur, The horizon, a confused mass of strata, oscillating ceaselessly, murmurs in a continual undertone. Strange and sudden outbursts. break through) the monotony. Cold airs rush forth, succeeded by warm blasts. The. trepidation of the, sea .betokens anxious expectation, agony, terror ound. Suddenly a -hurricane comes down, like a wild beast, to drink of the. ocean; a monstrous draught! The sea rises to the in- visible mouth; a. mound of water is formed; the swell increases; and the waterspout appears: the Prester\of the ancients, stalactite above, stalag- mite below, a,.whirling double-inverted cone, a point in equilibrium upon another, the, em- brace‘of two, mountains—a mountain.of foam ascending, a mountain of vapor descending— terrible coition of the cloud and the wave. Like the column in Holy Writ, the waterspout is dark by day and luminous by night. In, its presence the thunder itself is silent and seems cowed, The vast commotion of those solitudes has its gamut, a terrible: erescendo. There are the gust, the aqnell, the. storm, the gale, the tem- pest, the whirlwind, the waterspout—the seven chords of the lyre of the winds, the seven notes of the firmament. The heavens are a clear oem the sea a vast round; but a breath paeeee ey have vanished, and all.is fury an wild confusion. Such are these inhospitable realms. : The winds rush, fly, swoop down, dwindle away, commence, again; hover above, whistle, roar, and smile; they are frenzied, wanton, un- bridied, or sinking at ease upon the raging waves. Their paras have a ony of their own. They make all the heavens sono- rous. They blow in the cloud as in a trumpet; they sing through the infinite space with the mingled tones of clarions, horns, bugles, and trumpets—a sort of Promethean fanfare. Such was the music of ancient Pan. Their har- monies are terrible,. They have a colossal joy in the darkness. They drive and disperse great ships. Night and day, in all seasons, from the tropics to the pole, there is no truce; sounding their fata) trumpet through the tangled thickets of the clouds and waves; they sue the grim chase of vessels in distress. They have their packs of bloodhounds, and take their pleasure, setting them to bark among the rocks and bil- lows. They huddle the clouds together, and drive them diverse, They mold and knead the supple waters with a million hands. water is supple because it is incompres- sible. It slips away without effort. Borne down on one side it escapes on the other. It is thus that waters become waves, and that the billows are a token of their liberty. Ii. THE NOISES EXPLAINED. | THE descent of winds upon the world takes at the equinoxes. At period the balance of tropic and pole librates, and the vast atmospheric tides pour their flood’ upon one hemisphere and their ebb upon another. The signs of Libra and Aquarius have reference to these phenomena. itis the time of tem pests, The sea awaits their sates Kecwings silence. | Sometimes the sky looks sickly. Its face is wan. A thick dark vail obscures it: |The ma- riners observe with uheasiness the angry aspect of the clouds. Ort But it is its air of calm contentment which they dread. the most. A ae sky in the equi- noxes is the tempest in Fh isguise. It was under skies like these. that ‘‘The Tower of Weeping Women,” in Amsterdam, was filled with wives and’ mothers scanning the far hori- zon. r ky ; Lcckeanet- ome aotearoa omnepnntoemtine ey are é -" their fury for eae sure destruction. Beware of the gale that has been long delayed. It was Suge wae said that ‘‘The sea pays well old When the delay is unusually , the sea be- tokens her impatience only by a deeper calm, but the etic intensity manifests itself by what might be called a fiery humor. in. the sea. Fire issues from the waves; electric air; phos- Phoric water. |The sailors feel. a strange lassi- This time is particularly perilous for iron vessels; their hulls are then liable to. pro- duce variations of the compass, leading them to destruction. The transatlantic steam-vessel lowa perished from this cause. ; To those who are) familiar with the sea, its aspect at these moments is singular. It may be imagined to be both desiring and. fearing the a of the cyclone. Certain unio gh strongly urged a , are attend 7 ae strange conjunc! of terror and de- . The lioness in her tenderest moods flies from the lion. ‘Thus. the sea, in the fire of her passion, trembles at the near approach of her union with the tempest. The nuptials. are pre- pared. Like the marriages of the ancient em- Roe yor are célebrated with immolations. Sete is heralded with disasters. Meanwhile, from yonder deeps, from the great open sea, from the unapproachable. latitudes, from the lurid horizon of the watery waste, from the utmost. bounds. of the free ocean, the winds pour down. Listen; for this is the famous equinox. : The. storm prepares mischief., In the old mythology these entities were recognized, in- distinctly moving, in thé grand scene of nature. Eolus plotted with Boreas. The alliance of ele- ment with element is necessary; they divide their task. One has to give impetus to the wave, the cloud, the stream: night is an auxil- iary, and must be employed. _ ‘There are com- s to be falsified, beacons to be extinguished, anterns of lighthouses to be masked, stars to be hidden. The sea must lend her aid, . Kvery storm is preceded by a murmur. Behind the horizon line thero is a premonitory whispering among the hurricanes. This is the noise which is heard afar off in the darkness amidst the terrible silence of the sea. It was this significant whispering which Gil- liatt. had noted. . The hosnbencacenee on. the water had been the first warning: this murmur the second. 3 If the demon Legion exists, he is assuredly no other than the wind. ; The wind is complex, but the air is one. Hence it follows that all storms are mixed— a principle which results from the unity of the air. The entire abyss of heaven takes part in a tempest; the entire ocean also. The totality of its forces is marshaled for the strife. A wave is the ocean gulf; a gust is a gulf of the atmos- phere... A.contest with a storm is a contest with all the powers of sea and sky. It was Messier, that great authority among naval men, the pensive astronomer of the little lodge at Cluny, who said ‘‘The wind comes from everywhere and is everywhere.” He had. no faith in the idea of winds imprisoned even in island seas. With him there were no Mediterranean winds; he declared that he re- cognized them. as he wandered about the earth, He affirmed that on a certain day, ata certain hour, the Fohn of the Lake of Constance, the ancient Favonius of Lucretius, had traversed the horizon of Paris; on another day, the Bora of the Adriatic; on another day, the whirling Notus, which is supposed to be con- fmed in the round of the Cyclades. He indi- cated their currents. He did not believe it im- ible that the ‘‘ Autan,” which. circulates be- ween Corsica and the Balearic Isles, could escape from its bounds. He did not admit the theory of the winds imprisoned like bears in their dens. It was he, too, who said that ‘Cevery rain comes from the tropics, and ever flash of lightning from the pole.” The win in. fact, becomes. saturated with electricity ai the intersection of the colures which marks the extremity of the axis, and with water at the equator; bringing moisture from the equatorial line and the electric fluid from the poles, The wind is ubiquitous. It-is certainly not meant by this that the winds neyer move in zones. Nothing is better estab- lished than the existence of those continuous air currents; and aerial navigation by means of the wind-boats, to which the passion for Greek terminology, has given the name of ‘acro- scaphes,” may one day succeed in utilizing the chief of these streams of wind. The regular course of air streams is an incontestable fact. There are both rivers of wind and rivulets of wind, although their branches are exactly the reverse of water currents: for in the air it is the rivulets which flow out of the rivers, and the smaller rivers which flow out of the t streams instead of falling into them. Hence instead of concentration we have peg pagel The united action of the winds and the unity of the atmosphere result from this dispersion. The displacement of one molecule produces the displacement of another. The vast body of air becomes subject to one agitation. To these pro- found causes of coalition we must add the irregular surface of the earth, whose mountains furrow the atmosphere, contorting and divert- ing the winds from. their course, and determin- ing the directions of counter-currents in infinite radiations. “ The phenomenon of the wind is the oscillation of two oceans one against the other; the ocean of air, superimposed upon the ocean of water, rests upon. these currents, and is convulsed with this vast agitation. , The indivisible cannot, produce separate ac- tion. The islands of the Channel feel the in- fluence of the Cape of Good Hope. Navigation everywhere contends with the same monster; the sea is one hydra. .The waves cover it as with a coat of scales, The ocean is Ceto.. Upon that unity reposes an infinite variety. IV. TURBA TURMA, : AccorpiNnG. to the compass there are thirty- two winds, that is to say, thirty-two points. But. these, directions may be subdivided in- definitely, Classed by its directions, the wind is incalculable; ee by its kinds, it is infinite. Homer himself would. have shrunk from the task of enumerating them. The polar current encounters the tropical cur- rent. Heat and cold are thus combined; the equilibrium is disturbed by a shock, the wave of wind, issues forth and is, distended; scattered ; and broken up in every direction in. fierce | Streams. The dispersion of the gusts shakes the | Streaming locks of the wind upon the four cor- | ners of the horizon. ; : All the winds which, blow are there. The | wind of the Gulf Stream, which; disgorges the | great fogs of Newfoundland; ihe Wik of Peru, | in the region of silent. heavens, where no. man | ever heard the thunder roar;. the wind of Noy: | Scotia, where flies the great-auk (Alca impenni. with his furrowed beak; the iron whirlwinds of the Chinese seas; the wind. of. Mozambique, which destroys the canoes and junks; the elec- tric wind, which the people of Japan denounce by the beating ofa gong; the African wind, which blows between Table Mountain and the Devil’s Peak, where it gains. its. liberty; the currents of the equator, which pass over the trade winds, describing a parabola, the summit of which is always to the west: the Plutonian wind, which issues from craters, the terrible breath of flames; the singular wind peculiar to the volcano Awa, which occasions a perpetual olive tint. in the north; the Java monsoon, against which the. people construct those casements known as.,hurricane houses; ; the branching north wind, called by the English ‘Bush winds,” the curved:squalls of the Straits of Malacca, observed by Horsburgh! the power- ful southwest wind, called Pampero in Chili and Rebojo at. Buenos Ayres, which carries the great condor out to sea, and saves him from the it where the Indian, concealed under a bullock- ide newly stripped, watches for him, lying on his back and bending his great bow with his feet; the chemical wind, which, according to Lemery, produces thunderbolts from the clouds; the Harmattan of the Caffres; the Polar snow- driver, which harnesses itself to the everlasti icebergs; the wind of the Gulf of Bengal, whic sweeps over a continent to pillage the Saat town of wooden booths at. Nijni-Novogorod, in which is held the great fair of Asia; the wind of the Cordilleras, agitator of great wayes and forests; the wind of the Australian Archipelago, where the bee-hunters take the wild hives hid- den under the forks of the branches of the iant eae the Sirocco, the Mistral, the urricane, the dry winds, the inundating and diluvian winds, the torrid winds, which scatter dust from the plains of Brazil upon the streets of Genoa, which both obey and revolt sgainst the diurnal rotation, and of which Herrara said, ‘“* Malo viento torna contra el sol;” those winds which hunt in couples, conspiring mischief, the one undoing the work of the other; and those old winds which assailed Columbus on the coast of Veragua, and which during forty days, from the 21st of October to the 28th of November, 1520, delayed and nearly frustrated Magellan’s approach to the Pacific; and those which dis- masted the Armada and confounded Phillip II, Others, too, there are, of the names of which there isno end. The winds, for instance, which carry showers of frogs and locusts, and drive before them clouds of living things across the ocean; those which blow in what are called ‘‘ wind-leaps,” and whose function is to destroy ships at sea; these which at a single blast throw the cargo out of trim, and compel the vessel to continue her course half bi ide over; the winds which construct the circum-cumuli; winds which mass together the circum-strati; the dark heavy. winds swelled with rains; the winds of the hailstorms; the fever winds, whose approach sets the salt springs and sulphur eee of Calabria boiling; those which give a glittering appearance to the fur of ican panthers prowling among the bushes of Cape ‘erro; those which come shaking from the cee like the tongue of a pigoncren ,the terri forked lightning; and those which pe whirl- winds of black snow. Such is the legion of winds. The Douvres rock heard. their t tramp at the moment when Gilliatt was constructing his breakwater. As we have said, the wind means the comb: tion of all the winds of the earth. Bry GILLIATI’S. ALTERNATIVES. ba mysterious forces had chosen. their time well, I Chance, if chance exists, is sometimes far-see- ing. : hile the neop had been anchored in the little one ¥ h id be ed he wreck, Gil chinery hai nm prisoned in the E liatt’s position had fee impregnable. The sloop was in safety; the. machine é . The Douvres, which held the hull of the Durande Eeas ae ie song sacioaer Fan eted i inst unex 5 an engine ©) ve been uninjured. He roy ean the sloop by which escape. tnt to wait at ee Pee seo i anchorage where 8 : allow it to be fixed in the defile of the Douvres; to watch until the sloop, too, was, as it were, entangled in the rocks, to permit him to com- lete the sal , the moving, and the final em- rkation of the machinery; to do no to that wonderful construction by which one ” rock, and as long as the ma-_ 1 a ; | . i 7 . sanctity maineniaceneilliai data in wn Cet iN ess than RR ii TOILERS OF THE ISEAIT AA. man was enabled to put the whole aboard his bark; to acquiesce, in fact, in the success of his | exploits so far; this was but the trap which the elements had laid for him. Now for the first time he began to perceive in all its sinister char- acteristics the trick which the sea had been meditating so long. The machinery, the sloop, and their master were all now within the gorge of the rocks. They formed but a single point. One blow, and the sloop might be dashed to pieces on the rock, the machinery destroyed, and Gilliatt drowned. The situation could not have been more critical. The popiny which men have imagined con- cealing herself in the cloud, seemed to mock him with a dilemma. “Go or aha a To go would have been madness; to remain was terrible. VI. THE COMBAT. _ GILLIATT ascended to the summit of the Great Douvre. . From hence he could see around the horizon. The western cloud was appalling. A wall of cloud spread across it, barring the wide expanse from side to side, and ascending slowly from the horizon toward the zenith. is wall, straight lined, vertical, without a crevice in its hight, without arent in its structure, seemed built b the square and measured by the plumb-line. It was cloud in the likeness of granite. Its esearp- ment, completely Ein at the southern extremity, curved a little toward the north, like a bent sheet of iron, presenting the ae slippery, face of an inclined plane. The dar wall enlarged and grew; but its entablature never ceased for a moment to be parallel with the horizon line, which was almost undistin- guishable in the gathering darkness. Silently, and altogether, the airy battlements ascended. No undulation, no wrinkle, no projection changed its shape or moved its place. The aspect of this immobility in movement was im- pressive. The sun, pale in the midst of a strange sickly transparence, lighted up this outline of the Apocalypse. Already the cloudy bank had blotted out one-half the space of the sky: shelv- ing like the fearful talus of the abyss. It was the uprising of a dark mountain between earth and heaven. It was night falling suddenly upon midday. There was a heat in the air as from an oven door, coming from that mysterious mass on mass. The sky, which from blue had become white, was now Me tee | from white to a slaty ay. The sea beneath was leaden-hued and fall There was no breath, no wave, no noise. Far as eye could reach, the desert ocean. No sail was visible on any side. The birds had dis- appeared. Some monstrous treason seemed abroad. The wall of cloud grew visibly larger. This moving mountain of vapors, which was a See the Douvres, was one of those ouds which might be called the clouds of bat- tle, Sinister appearances; some strange, furtive ora seemed cast upon the beholder through t obscure mass up-piled. The approach was terrible. Gilliatt observed it closely, and muttered to himself, “‘Iam thirsty enough, but you will give me plenty to drink.” He stood there motionless a few moments, his eye fixed upon the cloud-bank, as if mentally taking a sounding of the tempest. His roan was in the pocket of his jacket; he took it out and placed it on his head. Then he fetched from the cave, which had so long served him for a sleeping-place, a few things which he had kept there in reserve; he put on his overalls, and attired himself in his water- proof overcoat, like a knight who puts on his armor at the moment of battle. e had no shoes; but his naked feet had become hardened the rocks. ; Omnis preparation for the storm being complete he looked down upon his breakwater, grasped the knotted cord hurriedly, descended from the teau of the Douvre, stepped onto the rocks ow, and hastened to his store cavern. A few moments later he was at work. The vast silent cloud might have heard the strokes of his ham- mer. ith the nails, ropes and beams which still remained, he constructed for the eastern et a second frame, which he succeeded in ing at ten or twelve feet from the other. The silence was still See The blades of grass between the cracks of the rocks were not j The sun disappeared suddenly. Gilliatt looked up. The rising cloud had just reached it. It was like the blotting out of day, succeeded by a mingled pale reflection. The immense wall of cloud had changed its ap ce. It no longer retained its unity. tt curved on reaching the zenith, whence it ie horizontally over the rest of the heavens. had now its various s . The tempest form- ation was visible, like the strata in the side of a trench. It was possible to distinguish the layers of the rain from the beds of hail, There wasno lightning, but a horrible, diffused glare; for the | idea of horror may be attached to light. The | vague breathing of the storm was audible; the silence was broken by an obscure palpitation. Galliatt, silent also, watched the giant blocks of vapor grouping themselves overhead form- ing the shapeless mass of clouds. Upon the horizon brooded and lengthened out a band of mist of ashen hue; in tho zenith, another band of lead color. Pale, ragged fragments of cloud hung from the great mass above upon the mist below. The pile of cloud which formed the back-ground was wan, dull, gloomy. y ‘this is all useless now, TOILERS OF THE SEA. took no heed of whither they were going, or of what they did. They hurried on mechanically, cely remembering the existence of anything feblin that they were united forever, but seanealy able to connect two ideas in their minds. In eestasy like theirs it is as impos- sible to think as it is to swim ina torrent. In the midst of their trouble and darkness they had been plunged in a whirlpool of delight; they bore a paradise within themselves. They did not speak, but conversed with each other by the mysterious sympathy of their souls. Deruchette pressed Caudray’s arm to her side. The footsteps of Gilliatt behind them re- minded them now and then that he was there. They were deeply moved, but could find no words. The excess of emotion results in stupor. Theirs was delightful, but overwhelming. ey were man and wife; every other idea was post- poned to that, What Gilliatt had done was well; that was all that they could grasp. They experienced toward their guide a deep but vague gratitude in their hearts. Deruchetite felf that there was some mystery to be ex- plained, but not now. Meanwhile they accept- ed their unexpected happiness. hey felt themselves controlled by the abruptness and decision of this man who conferred on them so much happiness with a kind of authority. To question him, to talk with him seemed impos- sible. Too many impressions rushed into their minds: at once for that,. Their absorption was complete. Events succeed each other sometimes with the rapidity of hailstones. Their effect is overpowering; they deaden the senses. Fall- ing upon existences habitually calm, they ren- der incidents rapidly unintelligible even to those whom they chiefly concern; we become searcely conscious of our own adventures; we are overwhelmed without guessing the cause, or crowned with happiness without compre- hending it. For some hours Deruchette had been subjected. to or ay kind of emotion: at first, surprise and delight at meeting Caudray in the garden; then horror at the monster whom her uncle had presented as her husband; then anguish when the angel of her dreams spread his wings and seemed about to depart; and now her joy, a joy such as she had never known be- fore, founded on an inexplicable enigma; the monster of last night himself restoring her lover; es arising out of her torture; this Gilliatt, the evil destiny of last night become to- day her savior! She could explain nothing to her own mind. It was evident that all the morning Gilliatt had had no other occupation than that of preparing the way for their mar- riage: he had done all: he bad answered for Mess Lethierry, seen the Dean, obtained the li- cense, signed the necessary declaration; and thus the marriage had been. rendered ssible. But Deruchette understood it not. If she had, she could not have comprehended the reasons, They did nothing but close their eyes to the world, and—grateful in their hearts—yield them- selves up to the guidance of this good demon. There was no time for explanations, and expres- sions of gratitude seemed too insignificant. They were silent in their trance of love, — The little power of thought which they retain- ed was scarcely more thai sufficient to guide them on their way—to enable them to distin- & uish the sea from the land, and the Cashmere rom every other vessel. Ina tow} minutes they were at the little creek, Caudray entered the boat first. At the mo- ment when Deruchette was about to follow, she felt her sleeve held gently. -It was Gilliatt, who had placed his finger upon a fold of her dress. “ Madam,” he said, ‘ you are going on a jour- ney unexpectedly. It struck me that you would have need of dresses and clothes. ou will find a trunk aboard the Cashmere, contain- ing a lady’s clothing. It came to me from m mother. It was intended for my wife if t should marry. Permit me to ask your accept- ance of it.” : Deruchette, partially aroused from her dream, turned toward him, Gilliatt continued, in a voice which was scarcely audible; . “TJ do not wish to detain you, madam, but I feel that I ought to give you some explanation. On the day of your eae were sitting in the lower room; you uttered certain words; it is easy to understand that +a have forgotten them, e are not ee ed to remember every word we speak. Mess Lethierry was in great sorrow. It was certainly a noble vessel, and one that did good service. The misfortune was recent; there was a great commotion, Those are things which ono naturally forgets. it was only a vessel wrecked among tho rocks; one cannot be always thinking of an accident, But what I wished to tell you was, that as it was said that no one would go, I went, The = R é tien :° ae Poe . You can ‘ow for me & mo - U uw madam that if I went there, it was not with the thought of displeasing you. This is a thing, besides, of old date. 1 know that you are in haste, If there was time, if we could about this, you might perhaps remember, But The history of it goes back to a day when. there was snow upon ‘the ground. And then on one occasion thet ! pass- ed you, I thought that you looked kindly on me. This is how it was. With regard to last night, I had not time to go tomy home. I came from my labor; I was all torn and ragged ; I startled you, and you fainted. Iwas to blame; ople do not come like that to strangers Poument I ask your forgiveness. This is nearly all I had to say. You are about to sail. You will have fine weather; the wind is in the east. Farewell. You will not blame me for troubling you with these things. This is the last minute.” “T am thinking of the trunk you spoke of,” replied Deruchette. ‘‘ Why do yeu not keep it for your wife, when you marry?” wt is most likely, madam,” replied Gilliatt, ‘that I shall never marry.” “That would be a pity,” said Deruchette; ‘you are so good.” aot Deruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned her smile, Then he assisted her to step into the boat. In less than _a quarter of an hour afterward Caudray and Deruchette were on board the Cashmere in the roads. Vv. THE GREAT TOMB. GrLiaTtT walked along the water-side, passed rapidly through St. Peter’s Port, and then armed. toward St. Sampson by the sea- shore, In his anxiety to meet no one whom he knew, he avoided the highways now filled with foot-passengers by his great achievement. For a long time, as the reader knows, he had had a peculiar manner of traversing the coun- try in all ts without being observed. He knew the by-paths, and favored solitary and winding routes; he had the shy habits of a wild beast who knows that he is disliked, and keeps at a distance. When quite a child, he had been uick to feel how little welcome meh showed in their faces at his approach, and he had gradu- ally contracted that habit of being alone which had since become an instinct. He passed through the Esplanade, then by the Salerie. Now and then he turned and looked behind him at the Cashmere in the roads, which was beginning to set her sails. There was little wind: Gilliatt went fasterthan the Cashmere. He walked with downcast eyes among the lower rocks at the water’s edge. The tide was begin- ning to rise. Suddenly he stopped, and, turning his back, contemplated for some minutes a group of oaks beyond the rocks which concealed the road to Vale. They were the oaks at the spot called the Basses Maisons. It was there that Deruchette once wrote with her finger the name of Gilliatt in the snow. Many a day had passed since that snow had melted away. Then he pursued his way. The day was beautiful; more beautiful than any that had yet been seen that year. It was one of those god days when ae suddenly pours forth all its beauty, and when nature seems to have no thought but to rejoice and be happy. Amidst themany murmurs from forest and village, from the sea and the air, a sound of cooing could be distinguished. The first butter- flies of the year were resting on the early roses. Everything in nature seemed new—the grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, the rays 0 light. The sun shone as if it had never shone before, The pebbles seemed bathed in coolness. Birds but lately fledged oe out their deep notes from the trees, or fluttered am the boughs in their attempts to use their new-found wings. There was a chattering altogether of ldfinches, pewits, tomtits, woodpeckers, bull- nches, and es. Tho blossoms of lilacs, May lilies, daphnes, and melilots mingled their various hues fo the thickets. A beautiful kind of water-weed, peculiar to Guernsey, covered the pools with an emerald green; where the kin; ers and the water-wagtails, which make such graceful little nests, came down to bathe their wings. eee every ot in the branches appeared the deep bluesky. A few lazy clouds followed each other in the azure depths. The ear seemed to catch the sound of kisses sent from invisible lips. Every old wall had its tufts of wallflowers, The plum trees and laburnums were in blossom; their white and yellow masses. gleamed through the inter- lacing boughs. The spring showered all her gold and silver on the woods. The new shoots and leaves were green and fresh. Calls of wel- come were in the air; the approaching summer opened her hospitable doors for birds coming from afar. It was the time of the arrival of the swallows. The clusters of furze-bushes bordered the steep sides of hollow roads in anticipation of the clusters of the hawthorn. The pretty and the beautiful reigned side by side; the mag- nificent and the precetal the great and the tle, had each their place. No note in the great concert of nature was lost. Green aueeooee beauties took their place in the vast universal p in which all seemed distinguishable as in limpid water. Everywhere a divine fullness, a m terious sense Of expansion, the unseen effort of the sap in movément. Glittering glittered more than ever; loving natures became more tender. There was a hymn in the flowers, and a radiance in the sounds of the air. The wide-diffused harmony of nature ‘sea-water at some distance, and h yet off forth on every side. All things which felt the dawn of life invited others to put forth shoots. A movement coming from below, and also from above, stirred vaguely all hearts susceptible to the scattered and subterranean influence of ger- mination. The flower shadowed forth the fruit; young maidens dreamed of love. It was na- ture’s universal bridal. It was fine, bright, and warm; through the hedges in the meadows children were seen laughing and _ playing at their games. The {fruit-trees filled the orchards with their heaps of white and pink blossom. In the fields were primroses, cowslips, milfoil, daffodils, daisies, speed- well, jacinths, and violets. Blue borage and yellow irises swarmed with those beautiful little pink stars which flower always in groups, and are hence called ‘‘ companions.” Creatures with oman scales glided between the stones. The lowering houseleek covered the thatched roofs with purple patches. Women were plaitin hives in the open air; and the bees were ahve mingling their humming with the murmurs from the sea, i When Gilliatt arrived at St. Sampson, the water had not ve risen at the further end of the harbor, and he was able to cross it dry-foot- ed unperceived behind the hulls of vessels fixed for repair. A number of flat stones were placed. there at distances to make a causeway. He was not observed. The crowd was at the other end of the port, near the narrow entrance, by the Bravees. There his name was in every mouth. They were, in fact, speaking about him so much that none paid attention to him. He: passed, sheltered in some dogree by the very commotion that he had mek He saw from afar the sloop in the place where he had. moored it, with the funnel standing be- tween its four chains; observed a movement of carpenters at their work, and confused outlines of figures — to and fro; and he could dis- tinguish the loud and cheery voice of Mess Lethierry giving orders. He threaded the narrow alleys behind tho Bravees. There was no one there beside him. All curiosity was concentrated on the front of = —- : a ee the sonenee ae nee the low wall of the en, bu al an- gle where the wild mallow grew. He saw onco more the stone where he used to pass: his time; saw once more the wooden garden seat where Deruchette was accustomed to sit, and glanced again at the pathway of the alley where he had seen the em of two shadows which had vanished. He soon went on his way, climbed. the hill of Vale Castle, descended again, and directed his steps toward the Bu de la Rue. he Houmet-Paradis was a solitude. His house was in the same state in which he had left it in the morning, after dressing him- self to go to St. Peter’s Port. _A window was open, through which his bag- pipe nent have been seen hanging to a nail upon the w ; Upon the table was the little Bible given to him in token of titude by the stranger whom he now knew as Caudray. The key was in the door. He ap ‘ed ; mare = wpe W the turned aS os co in the ock, put the in his et, an . He walked not in the airecuian of town, —_ pomene the pen / e versed garden diagonally, ing the shortest way without regard to the beds, but taking care not to tread’ pan the lants which he placed there, because he had d that < were favorites with Deruchette. He crossed the parapet wall, and let himself down upon the rocks, ; straight on, he began to follow the long ridge of rocks which connected the Bu de Ja Rue with the great natural obelisk of granite rising erect from the sea, which was known as tho Beast’s Horn. This was the place of the Gild- Holm-’Ur seat. He strode on from block to block like a. giant among mountains. To make long strides upon wee ber gr sec is like walking upon the ridgo of a roof, A fisherwoman with dredge-nets, who had been walking naked-footed ~ne the pools of just regain- ed the shore, called to him, “Take care; the tide is .” But he held on his way, Having cotonas at the great rock of the point, the Horn, which rises like a pinnacle from the sea, he stopped. It was the extremity of the promontory. He looked around. Out at sea a few sailing boats at anchor were fishing. Now and then rivulets of silver glit- | tered among them in the sun: it was the water a Saueaess ihe eee: e set her sail, and was Suartene, Herm and Jethou. r Gilliatt rounded the rock, and came under the Gild-Holm-Ur seat, at the foot of that kind of abrupt stairs where, less than three months be- fore, he had assisted Caudray to come down. He ascended The greater number of the steps were already under water. Two or three only were still dry, by which he climbed. The steps led up to the Gild-Holm~-’Ur seat. He \ tak- - the THE? FIRESIDE LIBRARY. reached the niche, contemplated it fora moment, pressed his hand upon his eyes, and let it glide gently’ from one eyelid to the other—a gesture which he seemed to obliterate the memor, of the past—then sat down in the hollow, wit the perpendicular wall behind him, and the ocean at his feet. The Cashmere at that. moment was. passin; the great round half-submerged tower, defende: by one sergeant and a cannon, which marks the half way in the road between Herm and St. Peter’s Port. A few flowers stirred among the crevices in the rock about Gilliatt’s head. The sea was blue as far as eye could reach. The wind came from the east; there was a little surf in the direction of the island of Sark, of which only the western side is visible from Guernsey. In the distance apnea the coast of France like a mist, with the long yellow strips of sand about Carteret. Now and then a white butterfly fluttered by. ‘The butterflies frequently fly out to sea. The breeze was very slight. The blue ex- panse, both above and below, was tranquil. Not a ripple agitated those species of serpents, of an azure more or less dark, which indicate on the surface of the sea the lines of sunken rocks. The Cashmere, little moved by the wind, had set her topsail and studdingsails to catch the breeze. ll her canvas was spread, but the wind being a side one, her studdingsails only compelled her to hug the Guernsey coast more closely. She had passed the beacon of St. Sampson, and was off the hill of Vale Castle. The moment was ap ee she would double the point of the Bu de la Rue. Gilliatt watched her approach. The air and sea were still. The tide rose not by waves, but by an imperceptible swell. The level of the water crept upward without a pal- pitation. The subdued murmur from the open sea was soft as the breathing of a child. In the direction of the harbor of St. Sampson faint echoes could be heard of carpenters’ ham- mers. The carpenters were probably the workmen constructing the tackle, gear and ap- eee for removing the ane from the sloop, he sounds, however, scarcely reached Gilliatt by reason of the mass of granite at his back. The Cashmere approached with the slowness of a phantom. Gilliatt watched. it still. Suddenly a touch and asensation of cold caused him to look down. The sea had reached his feet. He lowered his eyes, then raised them again. The Cashmere was quite near. r The rock in which the rains had hollowed out |. the Gild-Holm~’Ur seat was so completely verti- cal, and there was so much water at its base, that in calm weather vessels were able to pass without danger within a few cables’ lengths. The Cashmere was abreast: of the lt rose straight upward as if it had grown out of the water; or like the lengthening out of a sha- dow.’ The rigging showed black against. the heavens and in the magnificent expanse of the sea. The long sails, passing for a moment over the sun, became lighted up with a singular glory and transparence. The water murmured in- ae but no other noise marked the ma- jestic gl of that outline. The deck'was as visible as if he had stood upon it. r [ The steersman was at the helm} a cabin-boy was climbing the shrouds; a féw passengers leaning on the bulwarks were contemplating the ‘beauty of the scene. - The captain was qmoxing ut nothing of all this was seen by iatt. r i Gill There was a spot on the deck on which the broad sunlight f It was on this corner that his eyes were fixed. In this sunlight were Deru- chette and Caudray. They were sri Saget er side by side, like two birds, warming themselves in the noonday sun, upon one of’ those covered seats with a little awning which well-ordered packet-boats pres for passengers, and upon which was the inscription, when, it happened to bevan English vessel, ‘‘For ladies only.” Deruchette’s head was leaning upon Caudray’s shoulder; his arm was aro her waist; they, held each other’s hands with their fingers inter- woven. - A celestial light was discernible. in those two faces formed by innocence. — Their chaste embrace was expressive of their earthly union and their sper of soul. The seat was a sort of alcove, ost a nest; it'was at thé same time a glory round them; love passing into a cloud. : The silence was like the calm of heaven. - Caudray’s we was fixed in contemplation. Deruchette’s lips moved; and, amidst that per- fect silence; as the wind carried the vessel near shore, and it glided within a few fathoms of the Gild-Holm~Ur seat. Gilliatt: heard the tender |. and musical voice of Deruchette exclaiming: < “Took yonder. man upon the roc. t The vessel : bobearo-s re romontory of the Bu de la Rue behind, the ere glided on upon the waters. In less than a quarter of an hour, hermasts and sails formed only a white obeliay faamely de- creasing against the horizon. @: felt that water had reached his knees. barr He contemplated the vessel speeding on her way. > bED ao the tender aureola of |.* ; P: tie ) | Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, It seems as if there were a The breeze’ freshened; out at sea. He could see the Cashmere run out her, lower studding- sails and her staysails, to take advantage of the rising wind. She was already clear of the wa- ters of Guernsey. Gilliatt followed the vessel with his eyes. The waves had reached his waist. The tide was rising; time was passing away. | - The sea-mews and cormorants flew about him restlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his dan- ger. It seemed as if some of his old companions ~ the Douvres rocks flying there had recognized im. An hour had passed. The wind from the sea was scarcely felt in the roads; but the form of the Cashmere was ra- appearance, was sailing fast. It was already nearly off the Casquets. There was no foam around the Gild-Holm-Ur; no wave beat against its granitesides. ‘The wa- ter rose peacefully. It was nearly level with Gilliatt’s shoulders. Another hour had passed. The Cashmere was beyond the waters of Au- rigny. The Ortach rock concealed it for a mo- ment; it passed behind it, and came forth again as from aneclipse. The sloop was veering to the ‘| north upon the open sea. It was now only a point glittering in the sun. The birds were hovering about Gilliatt, utter- ing short cries. Only his head was now visible. The tide was nearly at the full. Evening was approaching. Behind him, in the roads, a few fishing-boats were making for the harbor. Gilliatt’s eyes continued fixed upon the ves- sel. in the horizon. Their expression resembled nothing earthly. A strange luster shone in their calm and tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished hopes, the calm but sorrowful acceptance of an end far different fromhisdreams. By degrees the dusk of heaven began to darken in them, though gazing still upon the point in space. At the same moment the wide waters round the Gild-Holm-’Ur and the vast gathering twilight closed upon them. The Cashmere, now scarcely pete, had become a mere spot in the thin haze, Gradually, the spot, which was but a shape, ‘grew paler. * , -. Then it dwindled and finally disappeared. At the moment when the vessel vanished on the line of the horizon, the head of Gilliatt dis- appeared. Nothing was visible now but the sea. THE END. The Poetry of Sleep. Ir is interesting to observe what a potent ef-, fect the theme ‘‘ Sleep” has in quicken'ng the pulses of poetic inspiration. The moment a t begins to write upon this drowsy matter e waxes eloquent. Edward Young, a very un- equal writer on general subjects, is uniformly sublime when he treats of sleep. No sooner does he touch on this ambrosial topic than he “reaches at a bound something like Shakspearean -splendor of imagination. is thoughts acquire new brilliancy, and his language grows pris- matic. How fine in fancy and how exquisite in expression are these lines— “Night, sable goddess, from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty now stretches forth | Her leaden scepter 0’er a slumbering world.”’ Shakspeare himself is never more magnificent than in speaking on this question. Some of his “grandest sr relate to it. What can be more touching than the lamentation of Macbeth that, in having committted a dread crime, he had forfeited forevermore his right to sleep: “ Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep ’—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath; Chief nourisher in life’s feast.” In striking contrast with this mournful medi- tation upon his own) lot is the murderer’s allu- sion to the. k ‘ can, inthe grave;. ‘‘ After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.”; Not less tender is King Henry’s -famous adjuration to sleep.; Never. surely was pathetic: ; ’ Eioee ‘Sleep, gentle slee; That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my sepses in forgetfulness? - Oh, thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile Tn loathsome 5; and leavest the kingly. couch, ‘aie Rea A v thou upon the ly mas' » Seal w the bhip-bo: *s eyes, and rock his brains In er of the. rude imperious surge; Who take the rafian billows by the top 10 e the ru illows by the lle Curling their monstrous heads, and eanibint: them With oe in the slippery cloud, | hi the hurly, death itself awakes? — fr ‘b thou, oh partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet Bea hor tp. an hour so rude; : And in the calmest most stillest night Deny it to a king?” The marvelous similitude of life itself toa | vision and of death to sleep is a thought which appears to have a peculiar fascination pidly growing less. The sloop, according to all |, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, |’ enjoyed, by his victim, Dun-. “reproach couched in language more poignantly |: _|.11—The False Widow. By Mrs. Jennie ‘12-13—Lost For Love. .-B for all poets, but more particularly for Shak- speare, whom it always prompts to utterances of more than ordinary sublimity. With this sub- limity is mingled a touch of simple pathos which strikes home to every heart—as for example, in the saying ‘‘ Tired we sleep, and life’s poor pla is o’er!” and in that saddest, most tragic of a reflections, ‘‘We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,” Coleridge rises to a strain of antique eloquence in discoursing about sleep, and of all the stanzas in ‘‘The Ancient Mariner” probably the most melodious is this: “ Oh; sleep it is a mane thing, Pe slsbr Gu ine og en the praise ven, She sent bi blessed sleep fane heaven That slid into my soul.” . What quaint significance there is in that old preterite ‘‘slid,” and how happily does the word express the soft and noiseless access of slumber! Among contemporaneous bards, Longfellow ex- cels in allusions to sleep, There are few sages prettier or more pathetic than the follow- ing: “Oh, holy sleep, from thee I learn to bear What men have borne before, Thou layest thy finger on the lips of woe And they complain no more!’ Against this placid, comfortable meditation may be set Young’s passionate complaint that sleep, “Like the world her ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles: the wretched she forsakes, Swift on her downy pinions flies from woe And lights on lids unsullied by a tear.” It is to be feared that the experience of the grief-stricken is in favor of this view of the case and that Sleep and Sorrow are but rarely found in the same bed. Anyhow, there’ is a’ placid charm in Longfellow’s theory, and but that al- legory is dead and realism has well-nigh killed the poetic and imaginative in art, verse might serve for the text of a picture. In classic literature, rich as it is in tender sentiments re- specting death and its counterfeit—sleep—I do not remember to have found anything more beautiful than this saying of a Greek poet: “Wrapped in heavenly slumber. Oh say not the good can die!” A great volume might be filled with the sayings of bards—ancient and. modern ‘—about sleep; but of all words ever penned on the subject the most sublime are assuredly those of King David: ‘‘He giveth His beloved ‘sleep” ‘—a thought of such ‘ineffable beauty and eé quence, so rich in celestial significance and con- solatory assurance, that there is’ no’ going” be- yond it. The Fireside Library Series NOW READY. -1—Was She His Wife? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowellio i005 ..t....10 cents. 2—Fleeing From Love. 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