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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 scarce

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 gov-ly animate piece of humanity which I ernment 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

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

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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.

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BEFORE the wine-shop which o'erlooks the beach
Sits Jean Goëllo, 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,

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For Black, I mean-who seized my jacket tight,
And dragged me out of darkness back to light.
The ship was gone-the captain's gig afloat;
By one brave tug he brought me near the boat.
I seized the gunwale, sprang on board, and drew
My friend in after me. Of all our crew,
The dog and I alone survived the gale:
Afloat with neither rudder, oars, nor sail!

Boy though I was, my heart was brave and stout,
Yet when the storm had blown its fury out,
I saw-with who can tell what wild emotion!-
That if we met no vessel in mid-ocean,
There was no help for us-all hope was gone:
We were afloat-boy, dog-afloat alone!
We had been saved from drowning but to die
Of thirst and hunger-my poor Black and I.
No biscuit in the well-swept locker lay;
No keg of water had been stowed away,
Like those on the Medusa's raft. I thought....
Bah! that's enough. A story is best short.
For five long nights, and longer dreadful days,
We floated onward in a tropic haze.
Fierce hunger gnawed us with its cruel fangs,
And mental anguish with its keener pangs.
Each morn I hoped; each night, when hope was
gone,

My poor dog licked me with his tender tongue.
Under the blazing sun and star-lit night

I watched in vain. No sail appeared in sight.
Round us the blue spread wider, bluer, higher.
The fifth day my parched throat was all on fire,
When something suddenly my notice caught-
Black, crouching, shivering, underneath a thwart.
He looked-his dreadful look no tongue can tell-
And his kind eyes glared like coals of hell!
"Here, Black! old fellow! here!" I cried in vain.
He looked me in the face and crouched again.
How piteously
I rose; he snarled, drew back.
His eyes entreated help! He snapped at me!"

"What can this mean?" I cried, yet shook with fear,
With that great shudder felt when Death is near.
Black seized the gunwale with his teeth. I saw
Thick slimy foam drip from his awful jaw;
Then I knew all! Five days of tropic heat,
Without one drop of drink, one scrap of meat,
Had made him rabid. He whose courage had
Preserved my life, my messmate, friend, was mad!
You understand? Can you see him and me,
The open boat tossed on a brassy sea,
A child and a wild beast on board alone,
While overhead streams down the tropic sun?
And the boy crouching, trembling for his life?
I searched my pockets and I drew my knife-
For every one instinctively, you know,
Defends his life. 'Twas time that I did so,
For at that moment, with a furious bound,
The dog flew at me. I sprang half around.
He missed me in blind haste. With all my might
I seized his neck, and grasped, and held him tight.
I felt him writhe and try to bite, as he
Struggled beneath the pressure of my knee.
His red eyes rolled; sighs heaved his shining coat.
I plunged my knife three times in his poor throat.
And so I killed my friend. I had but one!
What matters how, after that deed was done,
They picked me up half dead, drenched in his gore,
And took me back to France?

Need I say more?

I have killed men-ay, many-in my day,
Without remorse-for sailors must obey.
One of a squad, once in Barbadoes, I
Shot my own comrade when condemned to die.
I never dream of him, for that was war.
I hacked the hands of English boarders. Ten
Under old Magon, too, at Trafalgar,
My axe lopped off. I dream not of those men.
At Plymouth, in a prison-hulk, I slew

Two English jailers, stabbed them through and
through-

I did-confound them! But yet even now
The death of Black, although so long ago,
Upsets me. I'll not sleep to-night. It brings....
Here, boy! Another glass! We'll talk of other things.

LUCA DELLA ROBBIA AND HIS SCHOOL.

THE

Or

a jewel among tawdry ornaments and ghastly daubs; or on some lonely mountain a magnificent group of celestial faces will light up a gloomy convent chapel, and he will know that a new spring of pleasure has been opened to him, and rejoice over it as great spoil.

HE works of Luca della Robbia are not | has never felt its loveliness before. among those which compel instan- he may stroll into a country church, and taneous admiration even from uninstruct- a Robbian medallion will shine forth as ed eyes. On the contrary, they are usually regarded at first with indifference, if not with disappointment, by the ordinary traveller, however he may veil his feelings under the phrases which his guidebook and his artistic friends prescribe. Nay, he may even live among these works for years without ever having a real sense of their beauty, so overpowering are the mightier triumphs of art by which he is surrounded. But on some day when he is not thinking of them at all, as he passes on his way a cherub face will flash out upon him, and he will wonder that he

Happily the age which produced this work was capable of appreciating it. Hardly any important building was erected in Tuscany, from the time when Luca della Robbia perfected his invention till its secret died out with his followers, that did not boast among its chief ornaments

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MADONNA AND CHILD, IN FAÇADE OF ST. MICHAEL'S, FLORENCE.-TERRA COTTA.-[LUCA DELLA ROBBIA.]

some specimen of Robbian art. Nor was the rage for terra-cotta decoration confined to Tuscany, or even to Italy, but it soon extended all over Europe.

Luca della Robbia was born in Florence in 1400, at the beginning of that wonderful period of fruitfulness in arts and letters which we call the Renaissance. Both time and place were full of inspiration and artistic impulse. Arnolfo's great cathedral was awaiting its dome; Giotto's campanile was nearing the completion of its perfect beauty; the stately walls of Santa Croce were being reared to receive the mighty dead of Florence-on all sides were the signs not only of material prosperity, but of an enlightened use of that prosperity. Churches, hospitals, and palaces were springing up everywhere, and the gold which had flowed so

freely into Florentine coffers was being as freely spent. All classes of citizens felt an equal pride in the beautifying of their common home. "The country," la patria, did not then mean to the multitude what it now does; only the aspirations of poets or the ambition of tyrants associated it with the whole of Italy; to the noble it was the petty state which he helped to defend and aggrandize; and to the burgher it did not practically signify much beyond the walls of his own city. Within these narrow limits pride and affection were concentrated, and wealth was lavished.

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