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The wind began to breathe, warm and animating - the opening breath of May.

Meanwhile the sun ascended in the deep blue sky; its rays, less horizontal, flushed the sky. Its light became warmth. It enveloped the slumbering form.

Gilliatt moved not. If he breathed, it was only that feeble respiration which could scarcely tarnish the surface of a mirror.

The sun continued its ascent, its rays striking less and less obliquely upon the naked man. The gentle breeze, which had been merely tepid, became hot.

The rigid and naked body remained still without movement, but the skin seemed less livid.

The sun, approaching the zenith, shone almost perpendicularly upon the plateau of the Douvres. A flood of light descended from the heavens; the vast reflection from the glassy sea increased its splendor: and the rock itself imbibed the rays and warmed the sleeper.

A sigh raised his breast.

He lived.

The sun continued its gentle offices. The wind, which was already the breath of summer and of noon, approached him like loving lips that breathed upon him softly.

Gilliatt moved.

The peaceful calm upon the sea was perfect. Its murmur was like the droning of the nurse beside the sleeping infant. The rock seemed cradled in the waves.

The sea-birds, who knew that form, fluttered above it; not with their old, wild astonishment, but with a sort of fraternal tenderness. They uttered plaintive cries they seemed to be calling to him. A sea-mew, who no doubt knew him, was tame enough to come near him. It began to caw as if speaking to him. The sleeper seemed not to hear. The bird hopped upon his shoulder, and pecked his lips softly.

Gilliatt opened his eyes.

The birds dispersed, chattering wildly.

Gilliatt arose, stretched himself like a roused lion, ran to the edge of the platform, and looked down into the space between the two Douvres.

The sloop was there, intact; the stoppage had held out; the sea had probably disturbed it but little.

All was saved.

He was no longer weary. His powers had returned. His swoon had ended in a deep sleep.

He descended and baled out the sloop, emptied the hold, raised the leakage above the water-line, dressed himself, ate, drank some water, and was joyful.

The gap in the side of his vessel, examined in broad daylight, proved to require more labor than he had thought. It was a serious fracture. The entire day was too long for its repair.

At daybreak on the morrow, after removing the barrier and reopening the entrance to the defile, dressed in the tattered clothing which had served to stop the leak, having about him Clubin's girdle and the seventy-five thousand francs, standing erect in the sloop, now repaired, by the side of the machinery which he had rescued, with a favorable breeze and a good sea, Gilliatt pushed off from the Douvres.

He put the sloop's head for Guernsey.

At the moment of his departure from the rocks, any one who had been there might have heard him singing in an undertone the air of "Bonny Dundee." Victor Hugo.

The Singer.

In this world, so wide and lonesome,
One dear friend have I,-

One whose loving presence cheers me

Under every sky:

Never care, nor pain, nor sorrow

Comes when she is nigh;

Who so blest as I?

She has neither wealth nor station,

Gems nor precious things;
She has only long, fair tresses,
And most glorious wings;

She can neither strive nor labor:
What of that? she sings,-
Wondrously she sings!

Once, as wearily we wandered
Over moor and plain,

Up the hill and down the valleys,
In the sun and rain,

Said I, softly, “Let some other

Hear this marvelous strain,
Else you sing in vain.

"Sing until the deaf ones listen,-Sing and win a name;

Sing till human hearts, awakened,

Yield you all you claim;

Sing and make the worldlings wonder,

Angel, sing for Fame!

Prithee sing for Fame!"

Then she tried a simple measure,

Faint and quivering;

But her sweet voice failed and tremblea

Till, poor timid thing!

All the wise ones sneered and whispered,

And she would not sing,—

No, she would not sing.

Then I said, "We two are friendless,

Poor and unconsoled;

I am growing sad and hungry,

Weary, faint, and cold;

Since you will not sing for Glory,

Angel, sing for Gold,

Prithee sing for Gold!"

So the throng stood still and listened

With expectant ears;

But the sweet-voiced singer faltered,

Full of doubts and fears,

And the soul-enchanting music

Failed in sobs and tears,

Bitter sobs and tears!

"Fairer than a morning blossom,
Gentler than a dove,

Purer than the sky when Hesper
Bears his brow above,-

Since you crave not Gold nor Glory,

Angel, sing for Love,

Prithee sing for Love!"

Then she sang, O most divinely!
With no pause or fear,-

Sang until the best and proudest

Lent an eager ear:

But the true soul of her music

Only one can hear,—

One alone can hear!

Dannecker.

"I grow old," said he, looking from his work to the bust of the late queen, which stood opposite. "I have carved the effigies of three generations of poets, and as many of princes. Twenty years ago I was at work on the tomb of the Duke of Oldenburg, and now I am at work upon hers who gave me that order. All die away: soon I shall be left alone. Of my early friends none remain but Goethe. I shall die before him, and perhaps he will write my epitaph." He spoke with a smile, not foreseeing that he would be the survivor.

Three years after, I again paid Dannecker a visit, but a change had come over him; his feeble, trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide the chisel; his eyes were dim; his fine benevolent countenance wore a childish, vacant smile, now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory or thought—and yet he seemed so perfectly happy! He walked backwards and forwards, from his Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful, and yet delightful. While I sat looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, the original of the multifarious casts and copies which are dispersed through all Germany, he sat down beside me, and taking my hands

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between his own, which trembled with age and nervous emotion, he began to speak of his friend. "Nous etions amis des l'enfance; aussi j'y ai travaille avec amour, avec douleur- on ne peut pas plus faire." He then went on "When Schiller came to Louisberg, he sent to tell me that he was very ill—that he should not live very long, and that he wished me to execute his bust. It was the first wish of my heart. I went immediately. When I entered the house, I found a lady sitting on the canape-it was Schiller's wife, and I did not know her; but she knew me. She said, 'Ah! you are Dannecker!-Schiller expects you;' then she ran into the next room, where Schiller was lying down on a couch, and in a moment after he came in, exclaiming as he entered, 'Where is he? where is Dannecker!' That was the moment- the expression I caughtyou see it here—the head raised, the countenance full of inspiration, and affection, and bright hope! I told him that to keep up this expression he must have some of his best friends to converse with him while I took the model, for I could not talk and work too. O if I could but remember what glorious things then fell from those lips! Sometimes I stopped in my work-I could not go on I could only listen." And here the old man wept; then suddenly changing his mood, he said "But I must cut off that long hair ; he never wore it so; it is not in the fashion, you know!" I begged him for Heaven's sake not to touch it; he then, with a sad smile, turned up the sleeve of his coat and showed me his wrist, swelled with the continual use of his implements—“You see I cannot!" And I could not help wishing, at the moment, that while his mind was thus enfeebled, no transient return of physical strength might enable him to put his wild threat in execution. What a noble bequest to posterity is the effigy of a great man, when executed in such a spirit as this of Schiller! I assure you I could not look at it without feeling my heart "overflow in silent worship" of moral and intellectual power, till the deification of great men in old times appeared to me rather religion than idolatry. I have been affected in the same manner by the busts of Goethe, Scott, Homer, Milton, Howard, Newton; never by the painted portraits of the same men however perfect in resemblance and admirable in execution.

Mrs. Jameson.

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