nothing of its force.

A nautical devil tempting him by the worldly suggestion of fitting out
his desultory, miraculous trough with mast, sail, and rudder for swifter
progression (the idea of haste has sprung from the pride of Satan), the
simple old saint lent his ear to the subtle arguments of the progressive
enemy of mankind.

The venerable St. Mael fell away from grace by not perceiving at once
that a gift of heaven cannot be improved by the contrivances of human
ingenuity. His punishment was adequate. A terrific tempest snatched the
rigged ship of stone in its whirlwinds, and, to be brief, the dazed St.
Mael was stranded violently on the Island of Penguins.

The saint wandered away from the shore. It was a flat, round island
whence rose in the centre a conical mountain capped with clouds. The
rain was falling incessantly--a gentle, soft rain which caused the simple
saint to exclaim in great delight: "This is the island of tears, the
island of contrition!"

Meantime the inhabitants had flocked in their tens of thousands to an
amphitheatre of rocks; they were penguins; but the holy man, rendered
deaf and purblind by his years, mistook excusably the multitude of silly,
erect, and self-important birds for a human crowd. At once he began to
preach to them the doctrine of salvation. Having finished his discourse
he lost no time in administering to his interesting congregation the
sacrament of baptism.

If you are at all a theologian you will see that it was no mean adventure
to happen to a well-meaning and zealous saint. Pray reflect on the