got into the boat with me?" asked Mr. Rhino, in great trepidation.

"I don't know," answered the ferryman, with great indifference.

"Who was he?"

"It's only him," answered the waterman.

Only who?" asked Mr. Rhino, with his hair almost standing on end.

"That's just what nobody knows; but every now and then he comes down of an evening, and takes a seat in the boat: but when he comes to about the middle of the stream, the moment you take your eyes off him he's gone, and without paying his fare, sir. I don't think he is an honest man."

In the morning Mr. Rhino, instead of continuing his tour, packed up his portman. teau and returned to London.

Mr. Rhino having given up all intention of writing his work upon the Isle of Wight, after having first seriously considered the matter, I determined to make a bold attempt to accomplish it myself. On my arrival Portsmouth, I inquired whether there was

any vessel that traded direct to Bembridge or St. Helen's, (not being a steamer, for I hate steam,) having firmly made up my mind to encounter the most formidable part first. I was informed that there was a large wherry that went every day direct to Bembridge. In this I deposited myself, and a small leather portmanteau.

Among a few ordinary passengers, there was a singular-looking old rusty gentleman, with a walking-stick, having a particularly large horn knob to it. He looked like an antiquary-he was an antiquary. In less than ten minutes' time we were the greatest possible friends. When the Ryde steamer paddled past us, we both looked at it, and we both shook our heads-our minds evidently ran in the same ruts.

When we got close to Bembridge, I observed my new acquaintance looking intently at the booms or beacons that mark the deep water channel into the harbour. He counted them out loud. "One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three. Is not that boom

called the 'Old Anthony boom?" asked he, of a sailor.

Having been answered in the affirmative, he asked again-" Do you not generally keep a greater distance from that than from the other booms?"

"O yes, we always gives it a wider berth," was the reply.

My curiosity rose to the highest pitch.

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Why? why do you keep further off from that particular one?" I asked, impatiently.

"Because it is the way to steer into the harbour," was the unsatisfactory answer.

The old gentleman gave a hem, and looked as if he knew all about it; so I asked whether there was any story relating to that boom.

"Yes, there is," said he, " and rather an odd one, which I shall tell you, if you please, after we are safely landed."

The next object that attracted my attention was a tower that stood by the beach.

"What is that building that looks like a church-steeple?" asked I.

"It was a church-steeple," answered the old gentleman; "and there is a story about that too."

"What is it?" said I.

"I shall have great pleasure in telling you," answered he, with the same cautious proviso, "after we are safely landed; but it's a silly tale, and perhaps after all it is not true."

When we landed we agreed to take a chop together at the hotel, and establish ourselves there for the evening. After dinner, when the old gentleman had provided himself with a glass of hot brandy and water, I reminded him of his promise to tell me about the Old Anthony boom, which he did in the following words.

THE STORY OF OLD ANTHONY.

In the village of Bembridge there once lived a fisherman, who went by the name of "Old Anthony;" what his surname was is not at present remembered, but it is sufficient

to know that he went by that name to distinguish him from other Anthonys that were younger than himself. During the summer he used to be employed in fishing, and in the winter months he obtained his livelihood by smuggling brandy from the coast of France.

The day after his departure upon one of his smuggling expeditions, it blew a heavy gale of wind, and his wife became alarmed for his safety. Her alarm increased when day after day passed without any tidings of him. In vain she looked out to sea every morning, to try to distinguish his tan sail with a white patch in it, but was as constantly disappointed. All the sails in the offing were either all tan or all white.

However, it so happened, that about the end of a fortnight she was walking along the beach by the entrance of the harbour: it was late in the evening, the sun had long set, but the moon was shining brightly. To her great delight she saw her dear Anthony's boat distinguished by the tan sail with the white patch in it, working up into the har