first time whether worse calamities might
not have overtaken me than the hardship of
falling ill.

A TALE OF A POCKET
ARCHIPELAGO.

Opposite Paimpol, on the coast of Brittany
is a little cluster of islands, known by the
ambitious name of the Archipelago of Brehat
It is quite a pocket-archipelago. The whole
number of the inhabitants is not above fifteen
hundred; but (as is natural, it seems, to
insular people), this diminutive nation is
famous for pride and exclusiveness. The
man of Brehat will not admit that he is
a Frenchman, or even a Breton—he is a
man of Brehat. High and low—for there
are such distinctions even there—not only
think themselves superior to all the rest of
the world, but look upon strangers with
dislike and contempt. The women carry this
prejudice so far, that if an unlucky being of
their sex accidentally come over from the
continent to seek employment, every back is
turned upon her, and there is not a single
word of greeting. She is soon compelled to
go and seek a livelihood elsewhere. The men
are more cosmopolitan, for they are all sailors,
almost from infancy. But, however far they
may go in their voyages, they always return
to seek a wife on their native soil; and, when
old age compels them to settle down, they
return to their national bigotry and
exclusiveness.

The Archipelago of Brehat is composed of
one large island, or rather two joined
together by a causeway, constructed by
Vauban, and a number of islets and rocks, now
completely uninhabited, but formerly covered
with buildings of various kinds, fortresses or
monasteries—it is not certain which. When
I first saw Brehat, it was from the rocks
above Paimpol. The great ocean-tide was
coming in, accelerated by a violent wind, and
seemed to threaten to bury the pocket
archipelago in its vast foaming waves. There
was nothing in the reputation of the place,
to induce me to visit it; and I should have
been content with this distant view, had it not
been for the peculiar circumstances which I
am now about to relate.

I had just arrived—wandering through
Bretany without any special object—from
Saint Brieuc, in the coupe of a diligence, or,
rather, in what was called the coupe of what
was called a diligence. It was a sort of
miserable omnibus, with two aristocratic
seats in front, divided off by a ragged leathern
curtain. Peasants and their wives, with
children, dogs, and fowls, occupied the hinder
compartment. I had secured one of the
places in front; the other was occupied by a
good-looking, bright-eyed young man, whose
dress and demeanour at once pointed him out
as an officer in some stout merchant ship.
From his conversation I learned that he
belonged to that part of the world. On the
other hand, he seemed far from inclined to
be communicative about his own affairs; and
when we leaped to the ground, in front of the
Hôtel de Rennes, he gave me a hearty shake
of the hand, a farewell nod, and disappeared,
without any intimation that it was likely we
should meet again.

My walk along the coast took place on the
morrow; and atter having admired a scene
which is always admirable—the coming in of
the Atlantic tide against a rocky shore
protected by outlying islands—I had begun to
think that my presence was no longer
absolutely required in that part of the world,
and that I might as well go back over the
hills to Saint Brieuc. It was in this mood of
mind that I saw coming towards me, walking
with an uncertain step, my travelling companion
of the previous day. I at first thought
that he was doing as I was, namely, admiring
the prospect; but it soon appeared, from his
awkward and confused manner: not only that
he was no student of the picturesque, but
that he was working up his courage to speak
to me on a point which interested him
personally. The salutation was more
cordial on my side than on his. We talked a
little, of course, about the prospect, and
about the weather; and then he said, quite
timidly,

"Have you no intention of visiting our
Archipelago of Brehat ? "

"None in the world, "I was about to reply,
but the word "our" struck me. "You are
then from Brehat? " I inquired, answering
the question by another.

He seemed glad of the opportunity to tell
his story, being evidently in a different
mood from that in which I had previously
seen him. We sat down on a wall belonging
to a ruined cottage, with our faces to the
wind; which sometimes compelled us to
be watchful lest our hats should be blown
away, and brought the taste of salt to our lips.

"Yes," said the young man. " I am from
Brehat; a wild country for strangers, though
worth visiting for a day, but to all those born
upon it as dear as if it were one of the sunny
isles of Greece. You must go and see for
yourself, however, what kind of place it is. I
shall try to tempt you, for I have a selfish
interest to satisfy. It is now exactly a year
since I left it. I went to Nantes, and joined
my ship, bound to Trebisond, in the Black
Sea. We have traded ever since in the
Mediterranean—a fine piece of water. Have
you ever been there?"

I replied that I had; but added, smiling,
that this was a very meagre outline of a
story. He admitted that it was. After
all, he had nothing particular, he said, to tell.
The fact was, " he loved somebody," a very
plain, simple, and common fact, quite
unineresting to a stranger. But, who was this
somebody? Madeleine. A very definite
description! To him, however, the name had