man must be unusually conscientious,--it was not possible, of course, to
take the first comer at random; finally, there was an utter lack of
candidates. Life on a tower is uncommonly difficult, and by no means
enticing to people of the South, who love idleness and the freedom of a
vagrant life. That light-house keeper is almost a prisoner. He cannot
leave his rocky island except on Sundays. A boat from Aspinwall brings
him provisions and water once a day, and returns immediately; on the
whole island, one acre in area, there is no inhabitant. The keeper lives
in the light-house; he keeps it in order. During the day he gives
signals by displaying flags of various colors to indicate changes of the
barometer; in the evening he lights the lantern. This would be no great
labor were it not that to reach the lantern at the summit of the tower
he must pass over more than four hundred steep and very high steps;
sometimes he must make this journey repeatedly during the day. In
general, it is the life of a monk, and indeed more than that,--the life
of a hermit. It was not wonderful, therefore, that Mr. Isaac
Falconbridge was in no small anxiety as to where he should find a
permanent successor to the recent keeper; and it is easy to understand
his joy when a successor announced himself most unexpectedly on that
very day. He was a man already old, seventy years or more, but fresh,
erect, with the movements and bearing of a soldier. His hair was
perfectly white, his face as dark as that of a Creole; but, judging from
his blue eyes, he did not belong to a people of the South. His face was
somewhat downcast and sad, but honest. At the first glance he pleased
Falconbridge. It remained only to examine him. Therefore the following
conversation began:

"Where are you from?"

"I am a Pole."