the grotto a quantity of moss, and on a sort of ledge carved by nature
on the granite, a loaf of bread, which covered the mouth of an
earthenware jug. Never had my imagination, when it carried me to the
deserts where early Christian anchorites spent their lives, depicted
to my mind a form more grandly religious nor more horribly repentant
than that of this man. You, who have a life-long experience of the
confessional, dear uncle, you may never, perhaps, have seen so awful a
remorse,--remorse sunk in the waves of prayer, the ceaseless
supplication of a mute despair. This fisherman, this mariner, this
hard, coarse Breton, was sublime through some hidden emotion. Had
those eyes wept? That hand, moulded for an unwrought statue, had it
struck? That ragged brow, where savage honor was imprinted, and on
which strength had left vestiges of the gentleness which is an
attribute of all true strength, that forehead furrowed with wrinkles,
was it in harmony with the heart within? Why was this man in the
granite? Why was the granite in the man? Which was the man, which was
the granite? A world of fancies came into our minds. As our guide had
prophesied, we passed in silence, rapidly; when he met us he saw our
emotion of mingled terror and astonishment, but he made no boast of
the truth of his prediction; he merely said,--

"You have seen him."

"Who is that man?"

"They call him the Man of the Vow."

You can imagine the movement with which our two heads turned at once
to our guide. He was a simple-hearted fellow; he understood at once
our mute inquiry, and here follows what he told us; I shall try to