energy of each to that point where Death places his mark.

We have now to record one of those striking, though perhaps not rare events, which attest the singular influence of dreams on the destiny of man. It happened that a young herdsman in a neighbouring island had lost his heifers; he dreamed one night that the missing animals had crossed a certain shallow place at low water to the Saints' Rock. On awaking he mentioned the dream to his father and brother. All started for the "Saints," in a boat. Arriving there they beheld with surprise the smoke of a fire, and were amazed by the sight of some famine-stricken men crawling towards them. The herdsmen could only speak Dutch, and were therefore unable to understand the Venetians; but the signs of misery and death were not to be mistaken. Having no provisions in their boat, they determined to return to their island for succour, taking with them two of the strangers. The priest of the place, a Dominican monk, assembled the islanders, and, on Candlemas-day, six boats, headed by the priest, arrived at the "Saints," and received the surviving crew of Quirino's lost vessel.

They also took up the unburied dead, and committed them, with funeral solemnities, to the earth. Eleven alone remained to enjoy the hospitality of their benefactors, who had been. sent as by a voice from Heaven to their aid. The island to which Quirino was removed is that named Rost in modern maps. It lies at the southern extremity of the Luffoden group, about seventy miles from the Norwegian coast. The simple manners and ready hospitality of these remote islanders attest the moral influence which in such early times must have penetrated into these almost inaccessible and sea-girt rocks. Each family eagerly pressed their aid upon the half dead mariners, and regarded its acceptance as an honour. In this friendly place, Quirino and his men were entertained till May 14th, when they departed for Drontheim, having been at Rost three months and twenty days. Arrived at Drontheim, the rescued mariners attended a thanksgiving service in the church of St. Olave, and spread far and wide the details of their marvellous deliverance. Leaving Drontheim on June 9th, they travelled to the Danish port of Ladèse, whence three of the crew departed for Venice; and shortly after, the

remainder, eight in number, embarked for England September 14th, and reached Ely in eight days. Quirino proceeded with his party towards London, by way of Cambridge, where he rested for a few days. Whilst here he was observed to be a constant worshipper at the daily services so numerous in the University Town, and during one of these his demeanour attracted the attention of a Benedictine monk, who accosted the Venetian and received a brief account of his adventures. The monk finding Quirino's funds exhausted, gave him, in "the name of God," sixteen crowns, and promised to visit him at Venice, in the course of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, which the Benedictine was then contemplating. We know not whether Quirino and the monk ever again met; but the aid afforded to the former was most opportune, and enabled him to proceed at once towards the capital. In a short time the Italians reached London, where most of them remained two months, supported by the hospitality of merchants acquainted with Quirino. After this period some departed on religious pilgrimages, hoping thus to deepen their feelings of gratitude to God for their great escape. Quirino judged it best to journey directly for Venice, where, upon his arrival, the tale of his perils was the marvel of the Rialto. Many a friend received him as one risen from the dead, so strong was the belief that he and all his crew had perished.

Thus ended this mercantile adventure of Quirino, presenting at the beginning an enthusiastic, confident man, aiming at the accomplishment of his plan, and exhibiting at the close the same man chastened and disappointed, but still unbroken in spirit, and preserving, amidst the wreck of his hopes, a noble patience.

III.

THE SAILOR IN THE BURNING SHIP ;

OR,

ADVENTURES OF THE CAPTAIN AND CREW OF THE NEW HORN, A DUTCH SHIP DESTROYED BY FIRE IN THE INDIAN OCEAN IN 1619.

BURNING ship in the midst of a lonely sea presents to the imagination one of the most fearful scenes in which man can be placed. The dan

gers of shipwreck when a vessel is suddenly dashed on the roaring breakers, or buried by an avalanche wave, may be as great; but it can scarcely give those terrible impressions which the sailor must feel as inch by inch the fiery circle closes upon him. That moment when the crew give up all hopes of saving their burning vessel, when through every outlet the whirling flames rush with the screaming noise so peculiar to a conflagration, when above the black cloud spreads, and below the inextinguishable furnace crackling to charcoal the stout timbers, presents death to the mind in a terrible form, then "shrink the timid and stand still the brave.

The destruction of the New Horn, a Dutch ship, by fire, in the South Sea, presents one instance of this fearful nature. This vessel sailed from the coast of Holland in the latter end of December, 1618, with a crew of two hundred and six men, under the command of Captain Bontekoe; her destination was Batavia, the capital of the Dutch East Indian possessions. Nothing of great interest happened till near the completion of their voyage. The straits of Sunda, between

Sumatra and Java, were in sight of the rejoicing crew, when an event occurred which overthrew every hope of a successful termination to the voyage. The cry of "Fire" was heard from below; the captain ran to the spot, and found a torrent of flame rushing from the bung-hole of a brandy cask, and the panic-stricken steward endeavouring to quench the fire by pouring water into the vessel. In a short time their efforts seemed to have succeeded, the flame disappeared, and the captain had time to ascertain the cause of the accident. The steward had dropped a spark from a candle into the bung-hole of the cask from which he was drawing brandy for the crew. Had the matter ended here, the New Horn might never have filled a place in naval chronicles; her voyage would most probably have ended happily, and her hull at length quietly rotted in some Dutch dock-yard. But the small spark dropped by the careless steward had not yet done its work. The captain was forgetting the accident, and his irritation passing away, when once more the alarm of fire ran along the decks; the fatal cask had again blazed, and, exploding, communicated the flames to every substance around. A heap of coals under the burning brandy had taken fire, and threw out an intense heat upon the combustible materials in the ship's hold. Two most dangerous elements were now at hand; a large stowage of brandy, consisting of four piles of casks, was lodged immediately above the burning coal, whilst a vast quantity of powder was in the magazine. The safest course was to throw the powder overboard with all speed, as whilst it remained none of the crew could work with the coolness so requisite in their condition: the constant dread of explosion paralyzed effort. A clearheaded and decided man might now have saved both ship and crew by instantly getting rid of the powder. The captain had not the power to do this, and appealed to the supercargo, who refused on the plea that. if the powder were destroyed the ship would be helpless should an enemy appear. real and present evil was partly heightened in order to provide against a mere contingency. Quickly the fury of the fire proved more than a match for the efforts of man; the hold became a furnace, the flames rushed up the rigging and whirled in eddies round the tall masts of the solitary ship. To remove the powder was now desired by the supercargo

Thus a

himself, but the right moment had been allowed to pass; no man could approach the magazine through the fiery circle. The sea was now called in, to subdue the flame, and tons of water poured upon the raging furnace. But still the fires and the smoke ascended, making the drifting ship appear like a burning pyramid. Part of the crew now began to look for the means of escape. Quite regardless of the fate of the great body of their companions, these recreants scized one of the boats, into which they all got, and rowed to a distance from the burning ship. The captain was thus abandoned by the most able part of his crew, and enraged at their base desertion, set all sail, and endeavoured to run the cowards down; but the sails were quickly burned to tinder. The men escaped, and the captain was compelled to depend on the fidelity of his remaining crew. The ship's side was now cut through, and floods of water poured into the hold. But calamity rose upon calamity; a quantity of oil took fire and added to the danger, whilst every effort to suppress the flames seemed to augment their fury.

To com

plete the awful state of the crew, the sides of the magazine were now on fire, and the removal of the powder was impossible. The crowds on board gazed like men stupified as they saw the fire eat its way step by step into the powder stores. Each was now expecting to hear the roaring of the explosion which must end his earthly career. Desperation nerved some to a daring work, and sixty barrels of powder were at last got overboard, leaving three hundred in the magazine. Further efforts were useless, and the crew were compelled passively to await their certain fate. When L'Orient blew up amid the tumult of battle, no such terrible suspense could be felt; all were engaged, and every thought occupied by the fierce struggle of Aboukir. Here no activity was possible, all eyes were centred on that spot where blazed the magazine; all thought of the volcano about to open there this was the agony of their trial. In the midst of this awful expectation the fire reached the dreaded spot, and the ship blew up with one hundred and nineteen persons.

The captain, Bontekoe, afterwards wrote an account of this wreck, and gives a vivid description of his sensations upon recovering from the stunning effects of the explosion. He found himself in the water surrounded by fragments of