d mystic hymn-chant of the waves, ... if you have ever watched wonderingly, the far sails of the fishing vessels turn rosy in the blush

and your heart full of the bitterness of the struggle for life, does not there visit you at long intervals in the dingy office or the cr

al yet ever new, is rolling up to heaven. The glad waves leap up to embrace you; the free winds shout welcome in your ears; white sails are shining in the west; white sea-birds are flying over the gleaming swells. And from the infinite expanse of eternal sky and everlasting sea, there comes to you, with the heavenly ocean-breeze, a thrilling

he inhabitants of Waterford. On summer mornings when a light wind ripples the water, or on calm dewy nights when the stars rule supreme in a vault of purple ether, or on stormy days when the waves come rolling in, drive

ter the lapse of years-of a day spent by the sea listening to the murmur of the waves, or sometimes even of only a ray of sunlight falling through a network of leaves on a pathway, or the scent of flowers under a g

never so bewitchingly as when he described the sea, or set d

han a memory! Whether suggested by the first white vision of the surf over the bamboo hedge-or by those old green tide-lines in the desolation of the black beach-or by some tone of the speaking sea, or by something indefinable in the touch of the wind,-or

he remembered that on different coasts, in different parts of the world, the sound of surf had always revived the feeling. Certainly

mmels of journalistic work on the Commercial, while cooped up in the streets of New Orleans, he recalls the delight of the sea in connection with the Levantine sail

where it was published. Dr. Gould quotes it in his book, "C

t. Chita, at the Viosca Chénière, conquering her terror of the sea, and learning to swim, watching the quivering pinkness of waters curled by the breath of the morning under the deepening of the dawn-like a far-fluttering and scattering of rose leaves; Chita learning the secrets of th

ering in dumb revolt; no being sent early to bed for the comfort of his elders; no cruel necessity of straining eyes for lo

. The boy would sit listening with unabated interest for hours to stories of shipwreck or legendary adventures, which every Irish fisherman can spin intermi

ld recount these yarns with many additions and embellishments inspired by his vivid imagination. Often too

certainly during the course of his life, as well as in his ch

books, or from wanderings over hill and dale, separated him from the outside world. While other children were building castles of sand on the beach, he was building castles with towers reachin

new, eternally mystical and divine-the delicious shock that follows upon youth's first vision of beauty supreme. The strange perception, or, as Hearn calls it, recognition, of that sudden power moving upon the mystery of thought and existence, was n

ed in the sketch called "Idolatry." It is one of the half-dozen re

e memorable day, however, exploring in the library, he found several great folio books, containing figures of gods and of demigods, athletes and heroes, nereids and all the charming monsters, half man, half animal, of Greek mythology. Figure after figure dazzled and bewitched him, but filled him with fear. Something invisi

ch he was placed had been offended by the nakedness of the gods, parts of many figures had been erased with a penknife, and, in some cases, drawers had been put on the gods-large, baggy bathing drawers, woven with cross strokes of a quill pen, so designed as to conceal all curve

new thoughts, new imaginings, dim longings for he knew not what, were quickening and thrilling. He looked for beauty and found it in attitudes and motions, in the poise of plants and trees, in long white clouds, in the faint blue

orth the "Eternal Haunter" abode with him; never might he even kiss the hem of her garment, but hers the shining presence that, how