The next verse is nearly true of my state in its entirety: 

     “Religion! what treasure untold
       Resides in that heavenly word! 
     More precious than silver and gold,
       Or all that this earth can afford;

     But the sound of the church-going bell
       These valleys and rocks never heard;
     Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
       Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.”

It is scarcely true to say that the rocks never hear the sound of the church-going bell, for with a westerly breeze the bells can be heard quite plainly, and I have even heard a dog bark at that distance, which shows how distinctly, and to what a great distance sound will travel over water.

If rocks have ears they must occasionally have been ravished by my rendering of Sankey and Moody’s hymns.  If they have a memory they must have learnt several of them by heart; in fact, have been so familiar with them as to desire a change for something secular.  They never applauded me, but when the Heavens spoke with thunder they clapped their granite hands till they cracked again.

The last verse hits me again—­quite a bull’s eye: 

     “But the sea fowl is gone to her nest,
       The beast is laid down in his lair;
     Even here is a season of rest,
       And I to my cabin repair. 
     There’s mercy in every place,
       And mercy, encouraging thought! 
     Gives even affliction a grace,
       And reconciles man to his lot.”

Yes, I nightly had to repair to my cabin, and in the wet season had my cabin to repair; but I made it so cosy, that like the last line, “it reconciled me to my lot.”

Oh, Crusoe! how I would have loved to have shared Juan Fernandez with thee!  What a Friday I would have been, and what enjoyment I should have discovered in everything—­except black man killing!  But even that I should have taken my part in it if it came to the question “kill or be killed.”

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FOOTNOTE: 

1:  It so happened that only a few years since, a young lady, taking a row after church one Sunday evening, lost an oar overboard and drifted out to sea.  In the morning she was picked up (being then quite out of sight of land) by a vessel bound for Canada, and actually taken to Newfoundland, from whence in about a month she arrived home safely, much to the joy of her sorrowing friends, who had given her up as drowned.

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CHAPTER VIII.

A TRIP TO ST. SAMPSON’S HARBOUR—­A HORRID PORCINE MURDER—­A VOYAGE ROUND SARK—­NEARLY CAPSIZED—­TRIP ROUND GUERNSEY—­THE PEPPER-BOX—­CURIOSITY OF TOURISTS.

From time to time I made many improvements in the “Yellow Boy,” and learnt her capabilities, so that in time I took quite long cruises as far as Guernsey, and even to Sark.