ning drift-wood, especially, we turn against the enemy his
own ammunition. For on these fragments three elements have already done
their work. Water racked and strained the hapless ships, air hunted
them, and they were thrown at last upon earth, the sternest of all. Now
fire takes the shattered remnants, and makes them a means of comfort
and defence.

It has been pointed out by botanists, as one of Nature's most graceful
retributions, that, in the building of the ship, the apparent balance
of vegetable forces is reversed, and the herb becomes master of the
tree, when the delicate, blue-eyed flax, taking the stately pine under
its protection, stretches over it in cordage, or spreads in sails. But
more graceful still is this further contest between the great natural
elements, when this most fantastic and vanishing thing, this delicate
and dancing flame, subdues all these huge vassals to its will, and,
after earth and air and water have done their utmost, comes in to
complete the task, and to be crowned as monarch. "The sea drinks the
air," said Anacreon, "and the sun the sea." My fire is the child of the
sun.

I come back from every evening stroll to this gleaming blaze; it is a
domestic lamp, and shines for me everywhere. To my imagination it burns
as a central flame among these dark houses, and lights up the whole of
this little fishing hamlet, humble suburb of the fashionable
watering-place. I fancy that others too perceive the light, and that
certain huge visitors are attracted, even when the storm keeps
neighbors and friends at home. For the slightest presage of foul
weather is sure to bring to yonder anchorage a dozen silent vessels,
that glide up the harbor for refuge, and are heard but once, when the
chain-cable rattles as it runs out, and the iron hand of the anchor
grasps the rock. It always seems to me that these unwieldy creatures
are gathered, not about the neighboring lighthouse only, but around our
ingle-side. Welcome, ye great winged strangers, whose very names are
unknown! This hearth is comprehensive in its hospitalities; it will
accept from you either its fuel or its guests; your mariners may warm
themselves beside it, or your scattered timbers may warm me. Strange
instincts might be supposed to thrill and shudder in the ribs of ships
that sail toward the beacon of a drift-wood fire. Morituri salutant. A
single shock, and all that magnificent fabric may become mere fuel to
prolong the flame.

Here,