denounced him before the whole meeting as a
Fiend-Fisherman.

The opinion thus expressed, proved to be the
opinion of the entire audience—with the one
exception of the village priest. The priest said,
"Gently, my sons. Don't make sure about the
man of the Tower, before Sunday. Wait and
see if he comes to church."

"And if he doesn't come to church?" asked
all the fishermen, in a breath.

"In that case," replied the priest, "I will
excommunicate him—and then, my children, you
may call him what you like."

Sunday came; and no sign of the stranger
darkened ihe church-doors. He was excommunicated,
accordingly. The whole village forthwith
adopted Poulailler's idea; and called the man of
the Tower by the name which Poulailler had
given him—"The Fiend-Fisherman."

These strong proceedings produced not the
slightest apparent effect on the diabolical
personage who had occasioned them. He persisted
in remaining idle when the weather was fine;
in going out to fish when no other boat in the
place dare put out to sea; and in coming back again
to his solitary dwelling-place, with his nets full,
his boat uninjured, and himself alive and hearty.
He made no attempts to buy and sell with
anybody; he kept steadily away from the village;
he lived on fish of his own preternaturally strong
frying; and he never spoke to a living soul—
with the solitary exception of Poulailler
himself. One fine evening, when the young man
was rowing home past the Tower, the Fiend-
Fisherman darted out on to the rock—said,
"Thank you, Poulailler, for giving me a name"
—bowed politely—and darted in again. The
young fisherman felt the words run cold down
the marrow of his back; and whenever he was
at sea again, he gave the Tower a wide berth
from that day forth.

Time went on—and an important event
occurred in Poulailler's life. He was engaged to
be married. On the day, when his betrothal was
publicly made known, his friends clustered
noisily about him on the fishing-jetty of the
village to offer their congratulations. While they
were all in full cry, a strange voice suddenly
made itself heard through the confusion, which
silenced everybody in an instant. The crowd
fell back, and disclosed the Fiend-Fisherman
sauntering up the jetty. It was the first time
he had ever set foot—cloven foot—within the
precincts of the village.

"Gentlemen," said the Fiend-Fisherman,
''where is my friend, Poulailler?" He put the
question with perfect politeness; he looked
remarkably well in his fisherman's costume; he
exhaled, in the mosl appetising manner, a
relishing odour of fried fish; he had a cordial nod
for the men, and a sweet smile for the women
—but, with all these personal advantages, everybody
fell back from him, and nobody answered
his question. The coldness of the popular
reception, however, did not in any way abash him.
He looked about for Poulailler wiih searching
eyes, discovered the place in which he was
standing, and addressed him in the friendliest
manner.

"So you are going to be married?" remarked
the Fiend-Fisherman.

"What's that to you?" said Poulailler. He
was inwardly terrified, but outwardly gruff—not
an uncommon combination of circumstances
with men of his class, in his mental situation.

"My friend," pursued the Fiend-Fisherman,
"I have not forgotten your polite attention in
giving me a name; and I come here to requite
it. You will have a family, Poulailler; and
your first child will be a boy. I propose to
make that boy my Adopted Son."

The marrow of Poulailler's back became
awfully cold—but he grew gruffer than ever, in
spite of his back.

"You won't do anything of the sort," he replied.
"If I have the largest family in France,
no child of mine shall ever go near you."

"I shall adopt your first-born for all that,"
persisted the Fiend-Fisherman. "Poulailler!
I wish you good morning. Ladies and gentlemen!
the same to all of you."

With those words, he withdrew from the jetty;
and the marrow of Poulailler's back recovered
its temperature.

The next morning was stormy; and all the
village expected to see the boat from the Tower
put out, as usual, to sea. Not a sign of it
appeared. Later in the day, the rock on which
the building stood was examined from a
distance. Neither boat nor nets were in their
customary places. At night the red gleam of
the fire was missed for the first time. The
Fiend-Fisherman had gone! He had announced
his intentions on the jetty, and had disappeared.
What did this mean? Nobody knew.

On Poulailler's wedding-day, a portentous
circumstance recalled the memory of the diabolical
stranger, and, as a matter of course, seriously
discomposed the bridegroom's back. At the
moment when the marriage ceremony was
complete, a relishing odour of fried fish stole into
the nostrils of the company, and a voice from
invisible lips said: "Keep up your spirits,
Poulailler; I have not forgotten my promise!"

A year later, Madame Poulailler was confined,
and a repetition of the portentous circumstance
took place. Poulailler was waiting in the kitchen
to hear how matters ended up-stairs. The
nurse came in with a baby. "Which is it?"
asked the happy father; "girl or boy?''
Before the nurse could answer, an odour of
supernaturally fried fish filled the kitchen; and a
voice from invisible lips replied: "A boy,
Poulailler—and I've got him!"

Such were the circumstances under which the
subject of this Memoir was introduced to the
joys and sorrows of mortal existence.

                         II.

HIS BOYHOOD AND EARLY LIFE.

When a boy is born under auspices which
lead his parents to suppose that, while the bodily
part of him is safe at home; the spiritual part is