skillfully carried into execution. The building, in its present shape and proportions, offers but little similarity to the bole of an oak, and its chief strength comes, like that of the tree, from its tenacity rather than its form. The trunk of an oak is low and thick, and the heavy mass of branches and foliage which arise therefrom nearly covers and protects it from the assaults of the wind. It is not there that the ultimate strain comes, but upon the gigantic size and spread of the roots, which are so firmly anchored in the soil that only the most violent storms can uptear them. And the same is the fact in regard to Eddystone Beacon, which is so intricately interwoven, as it were, with the rock on which it stands that it really forms a part thereof. Additional strength is also given by the slope of the tower, which is so planned that the gathering billows, rushing up the gradual incline of the reef, may, so far as is possible, spend their force for naught, like one beating the air. As has been shown in the Plymouth and Cherbourg breakwaters, the waves themselves finally arrange the stones in the form that offers the least hindrance to their progress. Doubtless Smeaton knew the fact and did his best to dispose the foundations of his edifice for, as I have said before, the main pressure is exerted upon these-in a way to allow the water to push, as it were, against nothing. In this respect his invention resembles the reed, rather than the oak, which the old fable tells us saved itself by bowing before the storm; for the ascent up which the breakers are impelled, offers an easy slide to their progress, and when they reach the upper portion of the rounded structure, their diminished impetus can no longer overthrow the obstacle. This is not the way that the gale attacks an oak, or tests its resistance, but it is at least an approach to the form under which a reed rides out the gale in safety. But whatever may have been the theory from which this great work sprung, its complete success has placed it high among the trophies of our age and race. Its builder conquered the world for himself through a more than Alexandrian victory. It was grand in its conception, wonderful in its development, and magnificent in its final perfection. It now stands, like an ocean epic, a mighty fact, noble in its simple truth and complete in its adaptation to its designed uses. It is one of the brightnesses of England, "sent from heaven to earth to reveal a wonder," and offer manifold testimony of the divine inspiration of genius, aided by persistent strength, and tenfold more puissant through its nervous pluck. Tipped with Promethean fire, it remains the type of its maker, battling with the billows, like a clearfaced king confronting the hosts of a numerous and mighty enemy. Grafted to the solid crust of the earth itself, it shall long remain, stable as his fame and as encouraging to humanity. As I wrote these words I could see from my window its clear and ruddy fire, as of an unflickering star that never sets. It was an omen of good, shedding its mild light over the fading joys of the past, and dispersing with its unclouded rays the shadows cast athwart the future. "Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same, Year after year, through all the silent night, CHAPTER XXXI. DIVERS FACETIE. Not many weeks since, while taking a cup of tea on the Champs Elysées, I was somewhat startled by the advent of one of my fellow-countrymen. He was a young fellow, of perhaps seventeen years, and carried under his arm a "Harpers' Guide-Book." Suddenly and without any intimation of what he designed to do, he appeared in the doorway and exclaimed in the language that he had inherited from the Forefathers, with as loud a voice as if he were "interpellating" the triumphal arch: "How much do you ask for a dinner here?" This little proceeding would probably have been regarded as novel in any country, even in the home of unmitigated freedom of thought and action, but to me, reflecting on the great variety of the style of repast demanded, from the humble bouillon au lait up to the elaborate and costly compositions of M. Gouffé; that my young friend, as far as concerned any hopeful result, might as well have addressed his remarks in the speech of the ancient Greeks; and, moreover, that the establishment on whose threshold he stood was only a café, where no dinners were ever served, it seemed that my countryman displayed an independence of ordinary social conventionalities that really approached the sublime. I think that youth will be heard from again. His method of securing a meal was certainly peculiar, and yet it showed a kind of lofty confidence that despised all common obstacles, and was designed to go straight to the mark like the ball from a Parrott gun. It might have appeared presumption in most men, but was quite worthy of a citizen of a young and victorious republic. It brought to my mind a similar incident that came to my knowledge a long time ago. A party of Americans were stopping at a French hotel. Among them was a young lady in whose system Nature had implanted a weakness for baked apples. This estimable fruit, prepared in that way, is unknown in Paris. In the crude state, it is admired; enshrined in a tart, it is adored; but they never develop its graces, like the flowers on a china vase, by mortifying the lusts of its rather unrefined flesh in an oven. Mademoiselle had, nevertheless, made up her mind to satisfy her cravings, and the first day of her appearance at breakfast asked for some baked apples. She did not get them, for the simple reason that none of the people in the hotel knew what she meant. The second day, on taking her seat, she said simply and curtly, "I should like some baked apples." The next day, "I want some baked apples." On the fourth, she came like an inevitable doom and froze the muscles |