may start in a fine morning, and yet in a few hours find a storm that would destroy you. There is not a better sailor in Connemara than Paugheen."

Under the guidance of the money-lender I started for Paugheen's cabin, to make a bargain with him for my passage to Arranmore. It was a wretched hovel at the extremity of the village, the thatch tied down with straw ropes to prevent the wind from blowing it away, the single window stuffed with old garments, and the door so rotten that it could not be closed. The moneylender knocked and yelled with the air of a man who summons his inferiors, but met with no response. We were about to return, when a girl of some eighteen years came from a neighboring pathway bearing a pail of water on her head. She was so

stately in her movements, so full of queenly dignity, that I thought of the sacred poet's image of the column of ivory. Her beautiful face preserved a superb self-possession when she saw us, which, whether it came from stupidity or unconcern, was

not the less attractive. Her hands and feet were small and finely formed, and her ankles and wrists were as delicate and firm in their contour as a piece of antique sculpture. "Is that you, Elleen?" cried the moneylender, abruptly; "and do you leave the house deserted entirely, for anybody to run away with what is in it ?"

"God save you, ma'am!" she said to me, respectfully; and turning to the lender, replied, with a fine irony, "It's not you that will run away with what's in that house; and as to other people hereabouts-the Lord have pity on them! they are too honest to touch more than is their own."

"Where is your uncle?" asked my conductor.

"He has been fishing since last night, and has not returned. If you will wait a minute, I will tell you whether he is in sight;" and taking the bucket from her

A FRUGAL BREAKFAST.

A rugged path led us to the strand, where, on our arrival, Paugheen had already anchored his boat, and was packing in his basket the few dozen whiting which comprised the product of his twenty-four hours' labor. Yet he was so well pleased on not coming in quite empty-handed that he was as jubilant as a man of his age could be on an empty stomach. The hooker, as the larger fishing-boats are called, was lying alongside of a little pier, rudely constructed by the fishermen of the neighborhood, in the charge of a girl. She was coiling the ropes, stowing away the sail, and throwing the nets out upon the rocks to dry, with an efficiency that won my admiration quite as much as the amiability which lighted up her face, like a halo illuminating the head of a saint. The old fisherman, who was left alone in the world with his daughter and his niece Elleen, whom we had just left, depend

ent upon him, had placed the care of his household in the hands of the latter, and had taught his daughter the skill he pos

"When would it be best to leave?" I asked.

"To-night," he replied, "with the tide; for though there is not much wind, there is no prospect of a storm."

Thereupon the captain and crew agreed to come for me at the hour of sailing. It was near midnight when I took leave of my hostess, and Paugheen carried my luggage, while his daughter ran before me with a lantern to the boat. The night was dark and warm, and the road was muddy, but because these experiences were novel, I did not feel their discomforts. I sat in the stern of the hooker, the hard planks being somewhat softened by my wrappings, the boat rising and falling on

THE MONEY-LENDER.

This child

sessed as fisherman and sailor. was so intelligent and gentle in her manners, notwithstanding her rude calling, that my heart warmed toward her with an inexpressible sympathy. Her hands. were hard from working with tarry ropes, and her face reddened by the breath of the fierce Atlantic, yet her voice was rich and musical, and her luxuriant hair seemed a badge of her womanhood. When I proposed to Paugheen to hire his boat to go to the Isles of Arran the next day, he informed me that he could not go then, because, as he would be compelled to take advantage of the tide, it would bring him so late to his destination that he might be embarrassed in entering the island in the darkness through the rocks and shoals.

ELLEEN.

the swelling of the sea, as if courtesying to the land to which we were about to bid adieu, while the captain disposed of the ropes and prepared to hoist the sail. Sud

denly a familiar voice came from the gloom, saying, "Are ye there, ma'am?"

"Is that you, Flanigan?" I returned. "It is meself, indeed," he said, with a chuckle. "I brought over to-day a grand gentleman from Dublin, who is the government inspector of the fisheries, and hearing that you were just going, I come to say godspeed. Take my word, it's a fine island you are going to, for I have been there meself, and in it I drank the most beautiful draught of bottled porter I ever tasted in me life."

At this moment the boat shot out from the land, like the spray driven back into the sea. It was so dark that the sea and sky appeared only a leaden mass against the black shore we were quitting; the novelty of the thing, the

fresh sea breeze, and the bounding motion of the boat, gave me for a while a sense of great exhilaration, but as the full sweep of the Atlantic became more and more evident, my enthusiasm changed to the most heart-felt disgust. I had tossed on the billows of many seas in larger craft, and had felt certain pride, as everybody does who is never seasick, in feeling myself master of the steed I rode; but on this occasion my pride was, as it were, shipwrecked, and I felt that I was wretchedly, miserably seasick.

When morning came

I revived, and saw a flat gray line on the horizon, toward which we had been tacking half the night. By the fuller light of the day I saw a treeless island stretched before me, on one side of which the yellow sand melted into the bay, and on the other the dark cliffs frowned defiance on the great Atlantic. As I watched the waves break against the cliffs many miles off, and spend themselves in tall columns of white foam that seemed like the ghost of the ocean's wrath, and were flung back upon her waves again, I reproached myself for having undergone so many hardships to see what promised to be so forlorn and desolate a place.

VOL. LX.-No. 359.-44

There is a sheltered quay at Kilronan, the chief village of the largest of the Arran Isles. Through my half-closed eyes I saw that a black-whiskered coast-guard was somewhat surprised at landing the scarcely animate piece of humanity which I represented. With much kindness my luggage was placed ashore, and we were both conveyed rather than conducted to a whitewashed habitation, designated, in black letters over a green door, as the "Atlantic Hotel."

Whether it was because I was seasick, or that the place was really filthy, I know not, but when I entered my

THE CAPTAIN AND CREW.

room the atmosphere seemed thick with the odor of salt fish and tar. Disgust gave me courage to sally out for a walk while my rooms were being prepared. On my return the shades of evening gave relief to the glowing fire prepared for me, the bare floor was covered with a felt carpet, and there was an appearance of cleanliness and comfort which I had not anticipated. I listened with a certain satisfaction to the wild waves which broke into spray a few feet from my window, thinking, for all their howlings they could not make me the wretch they bore upon their bosom the preceding night.

BEFORE the wine-shop which o'erlooks the beach
Sits Jean Goëlló, rough of mien and speech;
Our coast-guard now, whose arm was shot away
In the great fight in Navarino Bay;
Puffing his pipe, he slowly sips his grog,
And spins sea-yarns to many an old sea-dog
Sitting around him.

Yes, lads-hear him say-
'Tis sixty years ago this very day
Since I first went to sea; on board, you know,
Of La Belle Honorine-lost long ago-
An old three-masted tub, rotten almost,
Just fit to burn, bound for the Guinea coast.

We set all sail. The breeze was fair and stiff.

My boyhood had been passed 'neath yonder cliff,
Where an old man-my uncle, so he said-
Kept me at prawning for my daily bread.
At night he came home drunk. Such kicks and
blows!

Ah me! what children suffer no man knows!
But once at sea 'twas ten times worse, I found.
I learned to take, to bear, and make no sound.
First place, our ship was in the negro trade,
And once off land, no vain attempts were made
At secrecy. Our captain after that
(Round as an egg) was liberal of the cat.
The rope's-end, cuffs, kicks, blows, all fell on me;
I was ship's boy-'twas natural, you see-

And as I went about the decks my arm

Was always raised to fend my face from harm.
No man had pity. Blows and stripes always,
For sailors knew no better in those days
Than to thrash boys, till those who lived at last
As able seamen shipped before the mast.
I ceased to cry. Tears brought me no relief.
I think I might have perished of mute grief,
Had not God sent a friend-a friend-to me.
Sailors believe in God-one must at sea.
On board that ship a God of mercy then
Had placed a dog among those cruel men.
Like me, he shunned their brutal kicks and blows.
We soon grew friends, fast friends, true friends,
God knows.

He was Newfoundland. Black, they called him there.

His eyes were golden brown, and black his hair
He was my shadow from that blessèd night
When we made friends; and by the star's half-light,
When all the forecastle was fast asleep,
And our men "caulked their watch," I used to creep
With Black among some boxes stowed on deck,
And with my arms clasped tightly round his neck,
I used to cry and cry, and press my head
Close to the heart grieved by the tears I shed.
Night after night I mourned our piteous case,
While Black's large tongue licked my poor tear-
stained face.

Poor Black! I think of him so often still!

At first we had fair winds our sails to fill,
But one hot night, when all was calm and mute,
Our skipper-a good sailor, though a brute-
Gave a long look over the vessel's side,
Then to the steersman whispered, half aside,
"See that ox-eye out yonder? It looks queer."
The man replied, "The storm will soon be here."
"Hullo! All hands on deck! We'll be prepared.
Stow royals! Reef the courses! Pass the word!"
Vain! The squall broke ere we could shorten sail;
We lowered the topsails, but the raging gale
Spun our old ship about. The captain roared
His orders-lost in the great noise on board.
The devil was in that squall! But all men could
To save their ship we did. Do what we would,
The gale grew worse and worse. She sprang a
leak;

Her hold filled fast. We found we had to seek
Some way to save our lives. "Lower a boat!"
The captain shouted. Before one would float
Our ship broached to. The strain had broke her
back.

Like a whole broadside boomed the awful crack.
She settled fast.

Landsmen can have no notion

Of how it feels to sink beneath the ocean.
As the blue billows closed above our deck,
And with slow motion swallowed down the wreck,
I saw my past life, by some flash, outspread,
Saw the old port, its ships, its old pier-head,