“Every visitant, at his departure, leaveth his offering, or as they phrase it, ‘devotion,’ on his altar; but he relieth not on this only for a maintenance, but hath those to bring him in the devotions of those whose piety is not so fervent as to invite them to do the office in person; these are called his ‘proctors,’ who range all the counties in Ireland to beg for him, whom they call the ‘holy man in the stone.’ Corn, geese, turkeys, hens, sheep, money, and whatnot, nothing comes amiss, and nowhere do they fail altogether, but something is had, insomuch, that if his ‘proctors’ deal truthfully, nay, if they return him but a tenth part of what is given for him, he may doubtless fare as well as any priest of them all. The only recreation this poor prisoner is capable of, is, to walk on his terrace, built over the cell where he lies, if he may be said to walk, who cannot in one time stretch forth his legs four times.” Such, my young friends, is the story of an Anchorite. It is well for us that we live in times when such nonsense is not tolerated. An attempt was made, some years ago, by a poor half-witted creature, called the “Shottisham Angel,” to revive this kind of imposture among credulous persons, but timely exposure frustrated the attempt. [Illustration] The Sailor’s Grave. Dark flew the scud along the wave, The booming thunders rolled on high; “All hands aloft, the storm to brave”— At midnight—was the boatswain’s cry. On deck sprung every soul apace, But one—bereft of human joy— Within a hammock’s narrow space Lay stretched a “sad, sick sailor boy.” Once, when the boatswain’s pipe would hail, The first was he of all the crew On deck to spring—to trim the sail— To steer—to reef—to furl—to clew. Now “fever dire” had seized a form Which nature cast in happiest mould; The bell struck midnight through the storm, The last—the death-knell tale is told. “Alas!” he cried—and dropped a tear, “Before my spirit mounts the skies— Are there no friends or messmates near To close, with looks of love, my eyes?” All hands aloft—loud blows the wind, Surrounding billows loudly roar; He gave one sigh, and sank resigned To hope, and think, and love no more. The morning sun in glory rose, The gale was hushed, and still’d the wave; The sea boy found his last repose, And in the ocean’s breast a grave. [Illustration] [Illustration: _Royal Sledges at Windsor_] Sledging. Sledging is a very pretty pastime in cold weather, and in Poland, Russia, Holland, and other northern countries, it is the regular mode of travelling during the long frosts that annually prevail in those regions. A couple of rein-deer yoked to a sledge can travel more than a hundred miles in a day, with a load of half-a-ton.