Year: 1859

~ Ou must excuse me 1t l am little
slow at first, for yon throng has fairly
dazzled and dumfounded me. I am
quite new to sights of this sort, thank
God; nor have l ever seen 50 great a
crowd before. I live upon the south
east coast, where the folks are not so
many as in these parts, and my own
employment is peculiarly solitary one.
| am lighthouse man. I sometimes
pass whole weeks without seeing any
other face than that Of my mate, with
out hearing any other voice save his,
and that Of the sea-gul, and of the
baffied wave which beats forever against
our rock.


Even my holiday time is spent among
people who pass almost as lonely lives
az do. My friends dwell at coast
guard station, far away from any town,
and indeed from me, only they can
see every night our lantern burning
steady out to sea, which my mother
and sister says is q great comfort to
them when father is from home. It is
lonesome, you see, for them to know
that there IS no human being save
themselves within miles of them, the
next post being long distance beyond
the kead-land, whittier often on the
darkest nights, my father has to 60,
feeling for the white chalk heaps that
are laid down to mark the road betwixt
the stations, the direction Of which in
old times, they say, the smugglers used
to alter, so that the poor revenue men
were guided over the precipiae, into
the arms Of death below. Twelve
years ago. a vessel was cast ashore,
and went to pieces one wintry night at
the clitf-foot, beneath our guard house,
and all the crew, save one, were thrown
by the scornful sea upon the shore,
dead men; save one" The sailor
gave an involuntary look towards the
thing that hung upon the high goal
wall there, motionless, with its ghastly
cowl drawn over it, aud that man
was an Italian foreigner. My people
took him in, and acted towards him as
Christian people should DO, and be was
grateful, and stayed with us, making
himself as useful as he could, for weeks,
for months.


When he had been our guest for near
a year, the man who was then my mate
il the lighthouse, died and mainly
through my fathers recommendation,
the Italian was appointed to be my
companion in his place. I was pleased
that the poor fellow was thus provided
for; but yet | had rather he had been
given any other post than that; not
from any assignable cause, or of course
this could not have been prevented;
but from vague, uncomfortable feel
ing that hal always had in connection
with him, such as | should not have
dreamed Of mentioning to his prejudice.
l did not mention it, | am perfectly
certain, even to my mother.


When [ found myself in the narrow
lighthouse, alone with this man upon
the waste of waters, this antipathy in
creased. | could not meet him on the
winding stairs without a shudder; |
loathed his company in that little sit
tlng-room upon the lower story, which
when my old mate was with me had
seemed as comfortable parlor as need
be; and when [ was at work in the
lantern l was forever thinking what he
is doing below there, and whereabouts
shall | find him when / descend? I do
not think | was afraid of him, them
Time was, when had not quailsd from
death-struggle with far more pow
erful man than he, and had come off
victor; but still did not fancy taking
my rest in the snug little bed-chamber
as Of old, knowing that this man was
wake, and watching, watching all the
night long


Still, beyond being reserved and tao
turn, and having this something repel-
liant about him which I cannot explain,
there was nothing evil to be said against
the poor Italian foreigner, and I was
ashamed Of myself whenever reason
ed about the matter, for feeling as I
did.


On the night of this day, twelve
years ago, the sixteenth of August
eighteen hundred and forty-one, my
father was off duty at home, and while
he lay IN his bed, combating with a
certain idea, which shadowed his mind
like a nightmare, my mother shook him
in pitious terror.


Husband" cried she. Husband, I
have had fearsome dream, and it
seems SO like to truth that am misera-


BILE. Wake, wake [ do believe our


George is being murdered by the Ital-
ian manr'


Great Heavens = cried my father


why was awoke just now by that


very dream, and cannot shake it off my


mind, do what I will But it must be


only fancy; consider how full the poor
fellow has always shown himself to be