Those dreadful days are happily past and gone. Few lives are lost on Anticosti now. Four fine lighthouses send their cheering rays across the anxious mariner’s path, signal-guns and steam-whistles sound friendly notes of warning when the frequent fogs dim the lights, and half-a-dozen telegraph-stations at different points are ready to speed at once the news of disaster to the mainland by means of the submarine cable. Where wrecks are plentiful, and the controlling hand of the law is absent, wreckers are sure to be plentiful also. Anticosti has been no exception to this rule. The island has had its share of those who did not hesitate to pursue this nefarious business. From the earliest times the place has held out attractions to the fisherman and the hunter. The cod, halibut, herring, and other fish that it pays to catch, abound along the coast; huge lobsters play hide-and-seek among the sea-weeds, and very good salmon and trout may be caught in some of the streams, while round-headed, mild-eyed seals spend the greater part of the year sporting in the waves or basking on the shore. Then away inland there are, or used to be, bears, otters, martens, and foxes, to be had for the shooting or trapping. Coming first to fish and hunt, the fishermen and hunters in many cases stayed to play the part of wreckers. There was a good deal more money to be made out of the flotsam and jetsam that the storms sent their way than out of fish or fur, and they made the most of their opportunities. One thing, however, must be said in their behalf. They have never been accused of luring vessels to destruction by false lights, or of confirming their title to the goods cast up by the sea by acting upon the principle that dead men are not competent witnesses in court, and by despatching any of the shipwrecked who might have survived the disaster. On the contrary, more than one unfortunate crew have owed the preservation of their lives to these very wreckers. The most renowned of them all—a man of whom it might in truth be said that there was not a St. Lawrence pilot or a Canadian sailor who knew him not by reputation, or a parish between Quebec and Gaspé where marvellous tales were not told about him around the evening fire—was Louis Olivier Gamache. In these stories he figured as the beau-ideal of a pirate, half ogre, half sea-wolf, who enjoyed the friendship and special protection of a familiar demon. The learned and loquacious Abbé Ferland, in his dainty little volume of "Opuscules," which I hold in my hand, tells us about this wonderful Gamache, that, according to popular rumour, he had been seen to stand upright upon the thwarts of his sloop, and command the demon to bring him a capful of wind. Instantly his sails were filled, though the sea around him was in a glassy calm, and away he went, while all about him were vessels powerless to move.