heaving and rippled surface of the dark blue
main; I looked up to the tranquil firmament, and the reflection was
bitter. Pealing along with the voice of the ocean, the wild and lofty
strains from the singular figure aloft, like a gentle brook commingling
its waters with a vast and rapid river--failed not during this time to
keep up my excitement. The sea was now fast covering the shingles; one
chance was yet before me, which the instant I reflected on, I hesitated
not to put into execution. It could at worst be only exchanging one
death for another, and death would have been a boon indeed, rather than
the longer endurance of that deeply agonizing state of suspense. I can
fancy my faithful dog, by his actions, had anticipated this resolution:
his joyful bark as I sprung forward into the waves, still rings in my
ear. He was a dog of prodigious size and strength: holding by his shaggy
neck with one hand, I assisted myself in swimming along by him with the
other, intending after clearing the mouth of the cove, to make for the
opening in the rocks to landward. I felt invigorated with new life,
though the chances against me were still precarious, on account of the
distance, as we went through the plashing waves with the broad expanse
of ocean again before me. The sea was now tolerably calm along shore,
for the tide was far advanced, and I had hardly swam twenty yards from
the mouth of the cove when a Landwithiel fishing-boat came in sight
almost within hail. An involuntary prayer came to my lips; I sung out
with all the energy which the hope of life could produce; she was
alongside in a trice, and in a few minutes I was sailing for Landwithiel
Pier, merrily, at the rate of eight knots an hour. I found on detailing
my adventure, which greatly surprised the fine fellows who picked me up,
that the cove was called Dawlish's Hole; and that the apparition of the
white lady on the rocks was one of flesh and blood, not an airy vision.

"Poor Ellen Dawlish," said Sam Clovelly, my informant, "once the pride
of the parish--poor thing! her day has long since gone by; she is always
worse when the moon's full; but it's a long yarn, sir, and you'll learn
all about her and the wild skipper, as we used to call him, (that's her
husband) far better up at the "Ship-Aground" yonder, than I can tell
you."

The only consequence that resulted from the adventure thus
providentially terminated, was a wet jacket; but a brisk fire, a glass
of grog, and