262 W Hi. LING AND FISHING 



smooth waters of the outer roads, the steady 

 breeze scarce filling our sail, I took out my "now 

 never failing Paul and Virginia, and with the 

 lofty peak called Peter Botta heaving its giant 

 head into the air before me, read over again the 

 story of that fatal shipwreck, the scene of which, 

 the bay of Tombs, (Tombo Bay), as it is still 

 called, now lay before me. The engraving on the 

 page opposite this is an accurate representation 

 of it. Here, when in the dark, stormy night Vir- 

 ginia's vessel missed the entrance to Port Louis, 

 her captain sought safe anchorage, but was thrown 

 upon the breakers. It was to me a realization of 

 romance. Every shoal in the bay, as we sailed 

 past it, every palm tree on the shore, every peak, 

 towering in the blue distance, all were part and 

 parcel of the story, the most charming of all tales 

 of true love. 



As we approached the landing, the white mar- 

 ble monument erected in memory of the lorers, 

 and over their supposed graves, was seen through 

 the green thicket of bananas and palms. Soon I 

 trod a ground sacred to all true lovers, and with 

 book in hand, wandered about the beach endeav- 

 oring to fix upon the spot whence Paul leaped into 

 the flood to the rescue uf his Virginia. 



I found that although my little Malabar boy 

 knew but little about the localities, the natives 

 who had charge of the farm had all the particu- 

 lars at their fingers' ends. They were delighted 

 at the lively interest I took in the story, ard 



