CHAPTER VI.

In the shady palm-forest, I walked wildly up and down. What was the use,

to me, of my wondrous gifts, if this doctor, with his witchcraft, always

contrived to humble me, and to obliterate from the minds of the ladies

all that I might effect by my gold and rich presents. I could no longer

spare him. The duke and duchess were worthy, God-fearing people; and

Angelica went every day to mass, and every week to confession. They

should know who they were entertaining as a friend—who was luring their

lovely daughter on to her destruction. But what could I adduce against

him? That he had journeyed to China upon a poodle-dog, and there stolen

money and precious stones from the emperor’s treasury? Good Heavens! If

I had advanced such a statement Angelica would have looked suspiciously

at me, and the duchess would have felt my pulse, and anxiously

asked—“Are your nerves again excited? Is this a fresh attack, my lord?”

No, no; nothing was to be done in this way. Only some mighty blow at his

credit could free me from my rival. How was it, that from the depths of

my soul I seemed to hear a distinct voice, saying—“You know well both

him and his poodle; bethink yourself where you have seen them before; he

is a person of distinction, well known throughout Europe.” But I thought

until my head ached, and could remember nothing. Suddenly, a plan

occurred to me, which would put an end to all my embarrassment. Was not

the doctor occupied at this moment in creating arbors for the

ladies—and was not his poodle sitting upon the coach-box, whistling

Caspar’s song from Der Freischütz? Could I not instantly repair to the

doctor’s studio, and procure proofs of his dealings with the evil one?

No sooner thought than done. I set my cap more firmly upon my head, and

in the next moment I was sitting in the doctor’s studio, surrounded by

the most ordinary articles of furniture and dress. The papers upon the

table were of no consequence, but the handwriting appeared to me

remarkable. The ancient form of the letters, and the various flourishes

with which they were adorned, belonged to the Middle Ages. I stepped up

to another table, upon which lay several books and a map.

“He loves reading,” thought I: “from the reading in which a man

delights, one can easily discover the bent of his mind; and perhaps he

has made marginal notes which will betray him, and afford sure proofs of

his guilt.” The first book that I opened was the earliest edition of

Faust—it was the merest fragment; and nowhere through the book could I

find a scrap of writing except at the end, where, in red ink, in the

doctor’s easily-recognized handwriting, was the single word, “good.” Did

this word refer only to the masterly genius of Goethe, or did it

characterize the escape of Faust from his well-merited punishment; an

escape which probably filled the doctor with hope that he also might

continue unharmed in his league with the Evil One. I opened another

book: it was another edition of the same work, with the same blood-red

“good” at the end. It was the same with every book that I could

find—nothing but Faust, with the same comment at the end. In the latest

edition, however, where Faust and Mephistophiles leave Margaret in

prison, in the last scene, there was a distinctly-written “very good” at

the end.

This “very good” made the strangest impression upon me. At last I

lighted upon a handsomely bound book, which proved to be an edition of

the admirable drawings with which Ramberg has illustrated Goethe’s great

work. As I held this book in my hand I had the distinct impression that

the riddle was about to be solved—and so it proved. Was I

dreaming?—No. In the first picture upon which I cast my eyes, I

recognised in Faust and his Demon Doctor Joannes—my rival, the wooer of

the heavenly Angelica—and his hateful poodle, who was now figuring as

coachman to the Duke of Silvio Cremonio. My glimmering recollection

became a living picture; and I understood well, why the doctor had

defied the demon dog—“because the old fellow in Weimar had not

completed him.” And because he was as yet only a fragment—because M.

von Goethe had delayed his conclusion he was permitted to live in the

world, and make me and my Angelica miserable. I would write to Weimar,

to M. von Goethe, instantly, and represent to him the dreadful

consequences of his delay. No—it were much better, by virtue of my cap,

to present myself before him, and plead my own cause in _proprid

persona_.

But now the most tormenting fears took possession of me. I seemed to

hear in the distance Angelica’s cry for help, and the shrill tones of

her mother entreating my aid. O, Goethe, Faust, and Mephistophiles! I

feared the worst. In a flash I was at San Solario. The coach was no

longer there; and the old gardener informed me that, at the approach of

evening, the ladies had returned to town, accompanied by Doctor Joannes.

I still seemed to hear Angelica’s cry for help, and the entreaties of

her mother. A moment more, and I stood in the door-way of the palace of

Silvio Cremonio; and, looking into the court, saw the direst confusion

reigning everywhere. Footmen were running hither and thither with

burning torches, and I heard Angelica’s name pronounced in tones of

pity, and the doctor’s accompanied with curses. I pressed through the

bewildered crowd, rushed up the marble steps, and into the drawing-room.

There stood the stout old duke, who came toward me with outstretched

arms, but unable to articulate a word. The duchess came also; and with

the rage of a lioness robbed of her young in her face and manner seized

my hand, and said—

“O, welcome, marquis; more welcome now than ever. Angelica has been torn

from us by that demon doctor. You warned us, but I was foolishly deaf to

your warnings! O, help us; for you, too, possess the most wonderful

natural gifts—else, where could you have procured the beautiful jewels

and rich lace!”

“Torn from you by the doctor?” cried I, almost frantic. “Is it possible

that this miserable villain, who only exists in print and copperplates,

has dared to carry off a Brazilian princess?”

“Dared it before my very eyes!” replied the duchess. “He was this

afternoon, as you saw, extremely polite, and more charmingly pale than

ever. He assisted me into the coach; but when Angelica was about to

enter he flung to the door, seized her, and seating himself with her

upon the box, drove through the streets in the wildest manner. Just the

other side of the city gates the horses reared, snorted fire, and

something like a fiery chariot bore away the doctor, Angelica, and the

coachman to the east, where they vanished in that thunder-cloud that you

see there.”

“There I recognize _Faust_!” I cried. “This driving off in flames is an

old trick of his; but he shall not long rejoice over his beautiful prey.

In a few moments, I will restore Angelica to your arms; you will again

be a happy mother, and the princess—”

“Shall be your reward,” said the lady, interrupting me. “I have seen

your passion, and am convinced that your love for her is the cause of

the weakness of your nerves. Bring the dear child back to us, and you

shall receive the blessing of a happy mother.”

“And of a happy father,” added the old duke.

“Away then to the strife with the doctor and his dog!” cried I,

entranced. “What is the laurel of fame, in comparison with the price for

which I strive?”

The duchess commanded the chaplain to attend in the chapel, and I put on

my cap. With a wish only I was hovering in the air in the fiery car, and

lightnings were quivering around, while the thunder rolled beneath me.

Beside me lay fainting and motionless the dear innocent child, the

graceful Angelica. She knew nothing of what was passing around her, and

lay there like a careless, sleeping child.

Faust and Mephistophiles were talking together.

“On the peak of Teneriffe we will rest,” said the former.

“And the marriage shall take place at Gretna Green,” said the latter.

“The bride is mine,” cried I, boldly; and in an instant I laid her at

the feet of her parents, who were expecting us at the chapel door. As if

awakening from a dream, the beautiful being lifted her head, and

stroking back her curls, cast an inquiring glance around. But this was

no time for explanation. The storm had broken fearfully over the palace,

and the duchess foreboded danger.

“You will be happy in marriage, dear children,” said she. “You,

Angelica, because you will want for nothing; and you, my lord, because

you will gratify every wish of hers. How much pin-money shall you allow

her—a hundred thousand pistoles a year?”

“A million!” cried I, “if she is only mine.” My head burned, my heart

beat as though it would leap from my breast. The storm grew more

fearful, the high Gothic window of the chapel was illuminated by the

lightning, and the doctor’s face was plainly seen, grinning frightfully

in, and by his side that accursed poodle.

“Hey, hey, Gabriel Mostert!” the doctor seemed scornfully to say. “You

are a sad rogue, and the devil will have you, too.”

“I’ll have you, too,” howled the dog, in echo.

I could not fling off the horror that seized me. The priest had now

reached the place where my audible assent was necessary; I grew dizzy,

and my hand clutched at the altar—a thunder-clap of indescribable

violence at this moment burst from the sky—the light of the tapers

threatened to be extinguished. All grew dim before my eyes. Then, like

shadows, the forms of Van Delpt and Fleury rose up as marriage-witnesses

near the altar; the priest, the ducal parents, the princely bride, and

the whole retinue dwindled away into infinite littleness, and then into

nothing. The marble pillars of the chapel sunk into the earth—the lofty

dome bowed down, and became a common ceiling, and out of the dimness

gradually appeared, before my uncertain sight, the red interior of

the—opium-booth, in Bujukdìre, and a row of slumbering Turks against

the walls. My two friends, Van Delpt and Fleury, were standing before

me, shaking me roughly by the arms and shoulders, in order to bring me

entirely to myself.

“Every thing has its time,” said the cook, with melancholy phlegm, “and

you must now abdicate. Your sleep was rather restless at the last, and

so we awaked you. I was very happy, I assure you, as William Benkels,

but all earthly happiness is a dream, and the dream vanishes like a

vapor.”

“What do you mean?” cried I, without understanding him. “Where is my

charming Angelica? Where’s my purse? Where’s my wishing-cap? I’m not

here, I’m in Brazil—in Rio Janeiro.”

“Nothing but a dream,” cried M. Fleury. “You swallowed opium as well as

we, _mon cher_, and so you’ve had heavenly dreams. But that is all over;

be quiet now, my good fellow, and we’ll have some strong coffee; that

will prevent disagreeable consequences.”

Pale, and trembling in all my limbs, with the assistance of my friends I

reached Van Delpt’s room, where we spent the night in drinking strong

coffee, and relating the glories of which we had dreamed.

While I pen these lines to while away the time, I am in quarantine at

Trieste—an excellent provision against the plague, but very

disagreeable is it to be detained as a suspicious person. But my time

will soon be over. I shall hasten on the wings of love to little Kate,

the burgomaster’s daughter.

As to my business in Constantinople, it all ended happily. The Mufti,

Reis-Effendi, and all the other dignitaries of the Sublime Porte,

settled their accounts before the Ramazan; and Messrs. Steinlein & Son

were as well satisfied with the balance, as I was with the commission

that fell to my share; by means of which I shall set up a shop, with a

good stock of _Crêpe de Chine_ and other fashionable articles, as well

as veritable _Eau de Cologne_. My arms are stretched out toward my home,

and my heart laughs to greet it; and in the new ledger of my life stand

entered in golden letters—“Little Katy for ever.”

* * * * *

=THE TUTOR’S DAUGHTER.=

=BY MRS. M. A. FORD.=

On a calm, but very clouded summer evening, I entered a beautiful

valley, bordering on the Juniata river, from which I had been absent

nearly three years. Many of my happiest days had been spent amidst its

rural shades and warm-hearted people. One, whom all the neighborhood

held in veneration, had been my tutor during several years of my youth,

and in the family circle under his roof, my heart had found much to

contribute to its enjoyments. His two sons filled the places of brothers

to one who had none, and their young sister, lovely and modest as the

violet of the valley, had won a yet dearer title to my affection. Nearly

three years seemed a long time to pass far from these associations, but

I had spent it in acquiring a profession on which would depend my future

advancement in life, and was now hastening to revisit the valley, and

receive from her venerable father the hand of my gentle Linda.

How often during the bright and beautiful days which had hitherto

favored my journey, the joyful anticipation of the warm welcome which

would greet my return, came with gushing fullness over my heart.

After leaving the stage on the public road, I had hired a horse, and

entered a lane leading, through embowering woods, to that portion of the

valley which contained the endeared home of other days. In the lightness

of my heart I sang catches of songs as my horse gayly bore me along the

well-remembered road. But night came on while I was yet in the thick

forest, with a mantle darker than usual. Heavy clouds veiled the scene

around, and as the gloom increased, my meditations assumed a more

serious nature. I might lose the way, and my horse was a stranger to it.

The few stars visible gave so little light through the foliage of the

woods, that the track soon became undefined. The silence of this

darkness was not broken by the night-wind which seemed to have died on

its winged way. Thus circumstanced, it was more prudent to proceed

slowly.

Was that a footstep? Did not the underwood rustle as if parted by

something passing through it? I looked around, but saw nothing amidst

the deep gloom, when suddenly the reins were snatched from my hand, and

an attempt made by some one to drag me from the horse. I had just time

to draw and fire a pistol, a groan followed the discharge, and the

strong arm that had grasped me loosed its hold, while a person fell

heavily to the ground. Giving my horse the spur, I was soon borne out of

the wood.

On reaching the open country and looking back, I saw no one, but hastily

resumed my journey.

It was the hour of retiring to rest, when the welcome light from the

window of the Grange, the home of my friend, Mr. Milton, met my view.

How eagerly I dismounted and hurried across the lawn in front of the

mansion. My hand was on the latch of the door, the next moment it was

opened, and I felt myself pressed to the heart of my kind old tutor, to

whom a letter had announced my coming. As we entered the parlor another

form approached, a little hand was clasped in mine, and Linda, covered

with blushes and looking more lovely than ever, faltered my welcome.

Late as was the hour, they had yet waited supper for me, and we sat down

with hearts too full of joyful emotions to do justice to the bountiful

supply of the table.

Although my cup of happiness was so full, the strange and unpleasant

adventure in the forest shared my thoughts, and the uncertainty of the

fate of my assailant pressed rather heavily on one whose habits had

always been peaceful. The scene of the encounter was not more than four

miles from the Grange.

And yet I delayed informing those so interested in my welfare of the

occurrence, partly because their earnest inquiries related to the period

of my absence, and I would not interrupt the first gushings of joy and

tenderness by any thing unpleasant.

“And where are my friends James and Ernest?” I asked, for their vacant

chairs were placed at the table.

Some one entering the door behind me, covered my eyes playfully with his

hands; I caught those hands, and turned to embrace my early fellow

student and warm-hearted friend James, who had waited until my meeting

with his sister was over, and now poured out the frank greeting of his

kind and generous nature.

“But where is Ernest to share our happiness?” he inquired. “What can

detain him to this late hour? He rode out this evening to meet you,

Charles, and I expected to see him with you.”

“I regret I did not meet him. There is another road to meet the stage

route, perhaps he took that.”

“Oh no, he went by the same which you traveled. It is strange you did

not see him.”

As James spoke, he directed a look of anxious inquiry toward his father,

who sighed, and turning to me, said “Ernest has caused me much pain

lately. He is sadly altered.”

I looked surprised, but he did not explain, and the silence of the next

few minutes left me to ponder on his words.

Ernest altered!—the studious, mild, spiritual Ernest? How altered?—in

what way? It could not be favorably, for he had already been my standard

of excellence, and in my enthusiastic admiration he could rise no

higher. Was it for the worse? Heaven forbid! Yet some years had passed

since we parted, and, alas! for changeful man, even Ernest might have

fallen into error.

In his continued absence the time seemed slowly and anxiously to pass

away. Linda rose to retire, and as I pressed her hand in saying

“good-night,” I observed a look of sadness, and a starting tear had

changed the expression of her sweet face. As had always been her custom

from childhood, she knelt for her father’s blessing, and when his

venerable hand, pressed on the rich clusters of her dark brown hair, and

“God bless you, my child,” came from his lips, she earnestly added, “And

may he protect my brother from all danger.”

I could not help sharing the general anxiety, and felt more unwilling to

impart to them the late encounter in the wood, lest it should increase

their fears for the safety of Ernest. Yet what enemy had he? and the

road leading to his home would be plain to him on the darkest night. But

I might with the same reason ask, What enemy had I? And who was my

assailant? If a highwayman, he would have demanded my purse.

As I turned on my pillow after retiring to the chamber alloted to me, I

vainly sought repose. The journey of the day had been a long and weary

one, although supported by the joyous anticipations of a buoyant spirit:

tired I felt, but not sleepy, for a strange feeling of uncertainty and

anxiety was now upon me, which was not relieved by the murmur of voices

in the next apartment. My chamber, which was the same I had occupied in

boyhood, was only separated from the next by a wooden partition, so

common in country houses, and what was spoken there, even in a low

voice, could be heard with a little attention by me. Shall I confess

this attention was not wanting on my part? For the first time in my life

I listened willingly to the communications of others not intended for my

ear. My conscientious scruples were quieted by the reflection that

long-existing ties bound me to the interests of the family, and besides,

was I not about to unite myself to its dearest member, and had I not

something like a brother’s right to learn what were the sorrows or

troubles of Ernest, whose name was more than once spoken in the subdued

but agitated voice of my venerated old friend, his father, whose chamber

I knew adjoined mine. My name was also mentioned, and regret expressed

by James that he had not confided in me and entered into an explanation.

This certainly exonerated me from all blame in eaves-dropping, and I

listened without dreading the admonitions of my inward monitor.

“I will share your pillow to-night, my dear father,” said James, “for I

fear you cannot sleep.”

“As you please, my dear son,” he replied, “and surely we have cause for

alarm. Oh! Ernest, Ernest, you whom I thought by intellectual culture

and literary acquirements to place above the trials and troubles of this

world, that after all you should act so rashly.”

“Nay, my dear father, I trust nothing wrong has happened. My brother

received a note just before his departure; but I do not know that it was

from Bertha. It is true his love for her is most fervent, and another

insult from Durell would arouse him almost to frenzy.”

Here they spoke so low I could not connect the words, but

“encounter—revenge—insult—Bertha—attack—ride—chastise”—and others

as strange met my ear.

And who was Bertha? I now recollected a lovely girl of some fourteen

summers, that bore that name, and at the time I left the valley, resided

with her widowed mother in a neat cottage about three miles from the

Grange. The name was an unusual one, unlike the simple appellations of

her neighbors, and it is one of the pleasing effects of the settlement

of our country by colonists from so many different nations, that some of

the wildly beautiful names brought from other lands may still be heard

in the deep shadows of our valleys, on the rugged brow of the mountain,

by the gush of the waterfall, or in the flower-studded prairies of the

West. To this also, may be attributed the varied style of beauty in our

land which travelers have remarked.

There is no true standard of American loveliness; the blonde, the

brunette; the eye soft as the gazelle or bright as the glancing meteor:

features so differently moulded, some full of commanding dignity, others

replete with [missing content]

Forms rounded into the freshness of a Hebe, or delicate and graceful as

the tendrils of the vine. Figures, tall and majestic in their

proportions, or small and fairy-like in their beauty. Each have their

peculiar charm: but I have digressed too far, and must return to the

scenes of that distressing night.

Bertha was now no longer a child, but a beautiful woman, and had taken

possession of the heart of my friend Ernest, in defiance of the nine

Muses, and all the brilliant array of classic dames and ancient heroines

with which study had stored his memory. How relieved I felt to know that

this was the change which had come over him; how unjust it was to his

merits to suspect for a moment that he could act unworthily. But he had

a rival and might be in danger, and again I listened; when what was my

dismay and horror to hear the father and brother express their fears

that he had attacked his insolent rival, and been injured in the

contest. My heart beat as if it would have burst from my breast. What if

my friend had in the darkness mistaken me for this Durell. What if my

unknown assailant was Ernest, and alas? what if—but I could think and

listen no longer, and sank back on my pillow, with an intense feeling of

agony it is impossible to describe.

* * * * *

Recovering myself by a strong effort, I sprang from the bed and hastily

threw on my clothes. I believe my intention was to rush out of the

house, and seek in the forest the relief or confirmation of my fears.

The noise I made drew the attention of James, who soon entered the

chamber. He was not undressed, yet seemed surprised to find me up.

“Why are you rising, Charles? It is yet two hours before day.”

I could not answer for some moments. At last I faltered out,

“I have overheard your conversation with your father, and like

yourselves, must feel unhappy.”

“My dear friend,” he cried, “I wish we had explained all to you before.

My anxiety about Ernest will not allow me to sleep. I will arouse the

gardener to go with me in search of him, and would have done so before,

but knowing my brother’s sensitive and delicate feelings, I feared if he

was safe he might be displeased.”

“I will accompany you,” I replied, “do not awaken Richard.”

“No, no, you are not well, Charles. How you shake. Why, you are as pale

as ashes. Richard can go, for my father will not let me venture alone.”

Still I persisted in following him down stairs, and with cautious

footsteps we passed Linda’s door; but our care was useless, it was ajar,

and a light burning on the table. Her brother looked in, Linda was not

there, but on re-entering the passage we caught a glimpse of her form

leaning from a window at the extreme end, and gazing out on the road.

She started as we approached, and an exclamation rather of distress than

alarm broke from her—“My brother! my Ernest!”

“Be calm, dear sister,” said James; “I am going to seek him. He may have

gone to the next town, and the night being dark, his friends have

detained him until morning.”

“Alas! I cannot hope this,” said Linda; “for Ernest would not willingly

give pain and anxiety to our father. I fear some evil has befallen him.”

And she burst into tears.

I could not approach to soothe her anguish, for her words were torture

to my heart, as I accused myself of being the cause of all this

distress.

“Are you going, too, Charles?” she inquired, raising her tearful eyes to

mine. Before I could answer, the voice of Mr. Milton called me, and I

hastened to his chamber. He was sitting up in bed, and the painful

anxiety of the last few hours had visibly affected his usually healthy

appearance. His had been a green old age, so beautiful in its gradual

decline, but now his features appeared sharp, and his face very pale.

“Charles,” said he, “I can scarcely tell you how wretched I feel. You

cannot comprehend the reality of our alarm, as you know so little of the

circumstances that cause it. In a few words, then, I will inform you.

Ernest loves and is beloved. A stranger, without character, came lately

into the neighborhood, and struck with the beauty of Bertha (whose sweet

childhood you must remember) has rudely pressed his attendance on her

when walking, and intruded frequently into her mother’s dwelling.

Finding his suit rejected, and hearing of Bertha’s engagement to my son,

he has spoken of him in the most insulting manner, and Ernest, learning

his inexcusable conduct, has forbidden him ever to enter the cottage

again. To this he has only returned insolent language, and perseveres in

his annoyance when my son is absent. Ernest, naturally so mild, is now

quite changed, and has threatened him with chastisement. The note

received by my son I fear conveyed the knowledge of some fresh intrusion

on our sweet Bertha, and we dread his meeting this insolent stranger

again. In riding through the forest he may have crossed his path, and

been provoked to chastise him, and in the struggle may have received

some fatal injury from one so devoid of principle and honor. And now, do

you not think we have great cause for alarm, at the continued absence of

Ernest?”

I was too agitated to answer, and he continued:

“My kind Charles, I knew how deeply you would sympathise in our

feelings. Ernest ought to have met you at the stage, and returned with

you. This would have prevented any collision with his foe. Oh! why did

he not do so? My dear, my unhappy son!” and tears coursed his venerable

cheeks.

Linda and James had followed me to the chamber, and now hastened to

soothe and console him with hopes that cheered not their own hearts.

Suddenly he addressed me again with startling energy:

“Why do you not speak, Charles? Can you suggest nothing to comfort me?

Was all silent in the forest as you passed through, or did you hear a

noise? I adjure you by your hopes of heaven to answer me! Do not fear my

weakness. The great Being who sustains my age will not forsake me now.”

I had advanced to the bedside, and sinking down, buried my face in the

covering. The truth was on my lips, struggling for utterance—but could

I thus destroy all their hopes, brand myself as the murderer of Ernest,

and be separated from Linda forever? I sprang, in the energy of despair,

to my feet.

“’Tis madness to remain longer,” I exclaimed, clasping my hands in

agony, “we are losing time; come, come. Oh, wretched me!”

“He is beside himself,” cried Linda, in a voice of terror; “speak to

him, James.”

I was rushing from the room, when he intercepted me.

“Stay one moment, dear Charles, I will go immediately. Linda, support

our father. Alas! I fear my friend has heard or seen something in that

forest that makes his alarm even greater than ours. Heaven grant we may

be in time to save my brother.”

I broke from him and ran along the passage, he followed, and swift as

lightning we descended the staircase. By this time the housemaid and

gardener were aroused, and running from opposite directions, increased

the confusion. James gave the necessary orders, and assisted Richard to

saddle the horses, when we hastily mounted, and attended by him,

galloped toward the woods I had so lately entered with such different

feelings.

As we moved silently and swiftly along, the gray dawn began to appear in

the east, but the increasing light cheered not my oppressed heart, for I

dreaded its revealings.

How often in my happy youth, before I left the valley, had I watched

with delight the gradual unfolding of the landscape, as the magic

glances of the dawn lighted the rock, the hill, the wood, or when it

mounted higher, heralding the glorious sun, and reflecting its rosy hues

on the waters of the Juniata. Young life, with its dewy freshness, joyed

in that which was congenial to its feelings, but how little suited to

the darkness within me now; I almost shrank from the playful breeze that

fanned my cheek.

As we entered the deeply shadowed wood I dreaded to look forward. Would

I see the pale form of Ernest, fallen by my rashness, for worse than

rashness it now appeared to me? Why did I fire so suddenly? If I had

grappled with the person who attempted to drag me from the horse, I

might have overcome without fatally injuring him. Had I spoken one word,

the sound of my voice would have convinced Ernest of his mistake. But to

reason thus was now useless, and only added to my anguish.

“Charles,” said James, in a low agitated voice, “what is that beneath

yonder oak?”

One plunge of my horse brought me to the object; a white handkerchief,

stained with blood, lay on the spot which I thought must be that of last

night’s assault.

I raised it quickly, exclaiming—“Thank God! he is not here!”

James could not understand my feelings, and replied—“True, but whose is

that blood? Oh! if it is my brother’s he may have been dragged away!”

Alas! I knew too well I had left him there, but hope dawned in my

breast. The wound had not been immediately fatal—he might be

alive—might yet live long to bless his family, and to forgive me. Hope

made me strong again. We searched every thicket around, and then

hastened toward the main road. A lane on the right led to the little

village, near which Bertha resided. We turned into it, and in a short

time the cottage was in view; its lowly roof almost hid by overhanging

branches from the trees around it.

The distressed James hurried me on, in the hope of hearing something to

relieve our anxiety. We soon reached the gate, and springing from our

horses, entered the little flower-garden in front. Although the sun had

not yet risen, the sound of footsteps passing rapidly through the house

was distinctly heard. Presently two persons, who appeared to be

neighbors, came hastily out of the door to meet us.

“Is the doctor with you?” inquired one of them.

“What doctor? Who is injured?” exclaimed James, rushing past them into

the house.

I followed him, trembling in every limb. Several persons were in the

room we entered, but I saw but one—and what a sight was that?

Stretched on a bed, lay a tall form motionless. The face was turned

toward the wall, but the pale hands were white as the counterpane. With

a cry of agony and grief, James threw himself on his knees by its side.

I saw no more, for nature gave way, and I sunk on the door in a state of

insensibility.

* * * * *

When restored to perfect consciousness, I found myself lying on a sofa

in a small parlor. The window shutters were half closed to exclude the

light.

“Where am I?” I exclaimed, attempting to rise, but a gentle hand

prevented me, and turning I saw a lady, advanced in life, but with a

most benignant countenance, who had been watching by my couch. It was

the mother of Bertha, the widow of an American officer.

“Be composed, sir,” she said, “we have all suffered much anxiety on your

account, and your friend Ernest would not leave the house until assured

you were in no danger.”

“Ernest!” I exclaimed, “is he alive? Oh, Heaven be praised!”

“He is alive and well,” she replied, with some surprise; “but now I

recollect that you and his brother were both shocked by supposing the

wounded person was Ernest. It was the stranger who has so constantly

annoyed us, and yet we regret he is hurt. He had only fainted from loss

of blood when you entered the room, but has been shot in the leg, and

probably will be lame through life.”

It is impossible to describe the sudden and joyful change in my

feelings. I thought not of the stranger, but of Ernest my friend, the

brother of my Linda, restored to us safe and well. How the happiness of

my overcharged heart struggled for utterance at my lips, but I could not

speak it, and having listened almost breathlessly to the recital of the

lady, now rose once more from the sofa. But again she stayed my steps.

“Listen to me a moment longer,” she said. “Your friend Ernest after

leaving the Grange last evening to meet you stopped here, and this delay

prevented him from arriving at the stage-road until too late to see you,

but he learned that you had proceeded on horseback toward his father’s

residence, more than an hour before. Thick clouds shadowed the sky, and

it was dark and late when he returned through the forest, when his

attention was arrested by the groans of some person. Hastily alighting,

and following the sounds, he discovered this man wounded, and having

raised him with some difficulty, he placed him on the horse, and brought

him here as the nearest house. But Ernest has since been arrested on

suspicion of wounding him, although we all know he is innocent. His

brother has gone with him and the officers of the law to the next town.”

“Do not detain me a moment,” I exclaimed, “Ernest is innocent! It was I

who, in self-defense, shot at Durell, who attacked me in the forest last

night, no doubt mistaking me in the darkness for my friend.”

The party with Ernest had been gone but a short time, and were soon

overtaken by one of the neighbors, when they immediately returned to the

cottage, and I, certainly the happiest of the group, with a face too

full of truth to be doubted, told my story, which entirely exonerated

Ernest, and myself too. The officers then departed, and a surgeon having

examined and bandaged the limb of Durell, who had only received a flesh

wound, he appeared so mortified and chagrined at his mistake and

exposure, and so anxious to leave the cottage, that it was thought best

to remove him on a litter to the village inn. He soon recovered, and one

morning made an early departure, leaving his bill to be paid by me.

Subsequently we learned he was a gambler, and had probably sought the

seclusion of the valley to evade the pursuit of the law. But enough of

him.

What a joyous party returned to the Grange, to which Richard had been

dispatched at an early hour, to relieve the anxiety of Linda and her

father. Bertha, whose beauty had wrought all our past trouble,

accompanied us, but I scarcely looked at her, as she rode by the side of

Ernest, for I could for some time think only of him, and surprised my

friend very often by the tight pressure I gave his hand whenever I could

reach it.

On our arrival at the Grange, I explained the cause of the distress and

anxiety I had shown there on the night before, and oh! how sincerely my

heart joined in the pious and simply beautiful thanks to God, from the

lips of my old tutor, as we surrounded his hospitable board. How truly I

felt that a benign and overruling Providence alone could bring joy out

of sorrow.

Years have passed since then, years of happiness with Linda, but the

memory of that night and morning can never be effaced from my mind. Yet

it has taught me a grateful dependence on the Giver of all good, and one

of the earliest lessons learned by the little happy group who call us

parents, was to look on the bright side of life, and never imagine

sorrows which may have no reality.

* * * * *

=AMBITION.=

=BY RUFUS WAPLES.=

Aurora smiles! the sun is on the sea!

Angels are painting pictures in the sky;

Eolian breezes warble wild and free,

Singing the infant giant’s lullaby.

He comes to bless; he smiles to beautify:

But lately laving in a sea of glory,

New-born, new-crowned, he reigns a prince on high,

With brightness god-like and with mission holy,

The brilliant hero of a day’s brief story.

Sun of the Morn! in gilded car ascend;

Give gold to dew-drops; silver to the spring;

Thy light and heat harmoniously blend,

The earth to gladden in thy journeying.

Eagle of heaven! outspread thy glorious wing—

Onward—and upward! higher yet—and higher!

Ambition’s hero, day’s unrivaled king—

Millions of mortals see thee to admire,

The prince of planets wrapped in robe of fire!

Enthroned, exalted, beautifully grand!

Clothed in a mantle of effulgent light;

Crowned by the eternal King of kings, whose hand

Arrays in majesty such satellite—

Courtiers that dance around thee with delight;

A band of guardians ever watching o’er thee,

Beaming with thy own beauty through the night,

Veiling their faces when they come before thee,

Like Gheber worshipers when they adore thee.

Sun of the Noon! thy highest good is won!

The zenith of the heavens is thy throne!

In all his pride the “Man of Macedon”

Ne’er ruled an empire mighty as thine own,

Stretching from shore to shore, from zone to zone!

Thy frown can wither and thy smile create—

Thou goest forth companionless—alone!

Thou sittest like a god in royal state:—

Was ever seen so great a potentate?

Behold, great monarch, thy declining reign!

Ambition bade thee over all to tower:

Full was thy fame! Alas! ’twas doomed to wane—

To fade like meteor glare or summer flower!

’Twas thus great Cæsar gloried in his power,

Till Rome was startled by his funeral knell:

Thus Cromwell shone, the starlet of an hour:

And thus Napoleon rose—and thus he fell!

List, Phœbus! hearest thou the vesper bell?

Sun of the Eve! thy sceptre is departed!

Clouds come as kinsmen round thy dying bed:

But whilst they gaze as mourners broken-hearted,

They wrap them in thy royal robe of red;

They steal thy golden crown from off thy head—

Ay, pluck thy locks and soil thy silver sheen!

The heavens with bonfires the glad tidings spread,

“Sol is no more, and Cynthia is queen!”

Earth shouts “Glad tidings!” happy at the scene.

Glad tidings? Yes, the sun was merciless—

He withered flowers—he parched the prairie plain!

With Galileo many now confess

His character was not without a stain.

Of spots upon his visage they complain

Who late extolled his brightness to the skies;

And thousands censure his declining reign

Who sang “_Excelsior!_” when they saw him rise.

Thus lives Ambition’s hero—thus he dies!

* * * * *

=SONG.=

Tears for the weary,

Smiles for the gay:

Hearts that are dreary

Dream far away.

Vows have been broken—

Tears have been shed—

Love’s gentle token

Lies withered and dead.

Dead and forsaken!

O leave me alone!

I would not awaken

The memories gone.

Then utter no whisper—

Breathe not a sigh—

Like evening’s last vesper

Affection must die.

O. J. V.

* * * * *

=GANGA.=

=BY D. WILLIAMS.=

Still flows the Ganges the mightiest of Eastern waters! As erst it

flowed when rocking the cradle of our common humanity with its green

waves—laving the shores whence issued all our race—as like the

Heraclean boy it fought and conquered in its tossing cot rolling on the

Ganges’ breakers, all hydras which would smother its birth and growth,

so do its descendants turn with affection to their natal stream, like

the returning Heraclidæ to Greece of old. How rich in scenes of human

joy and wo—how replete with the misty _veddahs_—how full of the

corpses of India’s children, sacrificed to its beatific current, rolls

the ancient river, its banks green with the growth of ages, with tropic

vegetation stretching its umbrageous arms like huge _antennæ_ over the

waters of many colors, as they borrow their dolphin-hues from the

thousand suns dipped in its waves, from the multifold reflections of the

hoary Himmalayeh. And still its fertile flow marks no flight of time or

change in the religion of its children. Still wanders the Brahmin,

continent and secluded, on its banks, and offers his all to the

three-fold Divinity. The air whispering its light _susurrus_ amid the

purple and scarlet flowers that form the home of the humming-birds,

whirring in their sweet-laden journey like the home-coming bees of

Hybla—the ripple of the foaming tide as the lily-tops bow to its

inspired influence—the song of the mourning mother as she strips her

child for the sacrifice, commune with the mighty Bramah, and repeat the

tales of Seeva. And the darkness comprehends it. . . . . .

“O Ganges,” rose the wail of the mother, “ever beneficent as when thou

sprangest gushing in maiden purity from the front of Sivah, as kind as

when thou visitedest this our chosen land, scattering blessings on every

hand, receive now in thy divine bosom—the last, greatest offering of a

mother’s heart, and bear it gently on to happiness.” She ceased; no

sound but the swaying of the forest-boughs met the ear. Hush! there is a

plash, a feeble cry, a dark object floating slowly down the stream! It

is the sacrifice. Will it, must it perish, that fair, fragile image of

its Maker? Is there no hand to save it? Naught human—naught but the

spirit ever-watching. Look! it does not sink, it rests on the

broad-leaved lotus, and passes slowly out of the shade of the banks and

down the whitening current. Fragrant lilies, with sustaining leaves and

petals uphold it from the yawning waters, even as the reedy Nile with

conscious wave upheld the destined prophet. As Moses on the sacred

stream was saved for future good, so was the infant on the rolling

Ganges. Gently floating on its flowery bark, the child went down the

eddying current, its soft Indian features upturned to the silver

moonbeams, and the stars in the shadowy distance, now rocking fearfully

over some little rapid of the stream, now circling round some green-clad

point, where the pendent branches swept its cheek, the unconscious

mariner floated on; and ever the kindly lotus, strengthened by the will

of Bramah, extended its pressed leaves, gemmed with a thousand forms of

insect life, still wider for its protection. The sweet echoes rang

through the lily-cups to the vibrations of its fragrant petals. Soft

melody of innocent life mingled with the voice of the waters. The good

spirits sent by Bramah soothed the child now sleeping, and fanned its

cheek with their breath, like the smoke of the welcome incense to the

divine one. No eye saw the frail burden save Bramah’s, and the holy

Ganges, on whose faithful bosom it reposed. And thus they passed down

the stream, undisturbed, in the gray of the morning.

* * * * *

The old hermit, Nikaiyah, who, in the early twilight, pursued his

devotions on the banks of the river, was making his orisons to the

Ganges when the reddening water and glowing east gave tokens of the

dawn. As he stooped to perform his ablutions, an object, dark upon the

water, caught his eye. It was the lotus-cradle and its burden. The old

man’s heart was moved, and, despite the voice of religion, which forbade

to rob the Ganges, he listened to the voice of nature, and with many

deprecations of the divine wrath, he took up the child and carried it to

his humble dwelling. There was no name for the child, and, partly as a

peace-offering to the wronged divinity, he called it Ganga! He brought

up the infant until its sixteenth year, though troubled by many

misgivings as to the propriety of the responsibility of which he had

relieved the Ganges. Here, then, the child’s youth was passed in the

wilderness. And she grew to be as fair as the hues of her cradle, with

eyes glittering like the lotus-leaves when sparkling with the

foam-fretting waves of the Ganges, as the first sunbeams strike upon the

buds, and the grateful heat unfolds the flowers to the pleasant air of

the morning, and the glory of floral existence. Swift passed the days of

her childhood; and as gayly as the gaudy butterflies that flitted all

day round her dwelling, she passed from day to day, and from object to

object, in the bloom of youthful happiness. Bright as the glow-worm,

when wooing his mate, was the time of her childish experience. To follow

the gayly-painted parrots through the odorous groves of spices, and

watch the busy dragon-flies as they chase each other among the blossoms;

to bathe in the limpid stream which had kindly borne her thither, and

recline on its ever-green banks, watching the flow of the waters; these

were her daily occupations, and these she pursued alone, for the old man

was absorbed in devotion, and always rapt in pious contemplation. But

anxious for her future welfare, he would sometimes, after they had

finished their simple meal of vegetables, take her by the hand and

unfold the ancient _veddahs_, or sacred records, and tell her of the

Metempsychosis; tell her of the holy Trine, that threefold-unity—the

Creator, the Preserver, the Destroyer; the all comprehended in Bramah,

the parts in Seeva and Vishnu. How by inferior eyes it is interpreted,

the earth, the generator; water, the fructifier; fire, the annihilator.

How was born the Ganges, the adored one, by the beneficence of Bramah,

described its primal course, and how at last,

——“To India’s favored land

It rolled o’er fields of nard and spicy meads,

And won its heaven-directed way.”

That the divine, the incomprehensible, heed not the rage of the evil,

undisturbed by foes in sacred peace. That he who would join their

presence must, for his earthly sins, in others’ bodies do expiation; and

after the lapse of purging ages, can alone be admitted to taste the

heavenly fruit and enjoy the society of the godlike. Then, to please her

maiden heart, would he narrate the tales and the sufferings of the

unmarried dying, their miseries here and hereafter. And when the virgin

Ganga, used to the forms of wilder nature, and remembering only her old

protector, would wish to cling to her rude life in the wilderness, then,

with a sigh at his own reverses, the old man would recount the

ceremonies of the nuptial-feast, and gazing fondly on the

Ganges-offering, pray that she might atone for all past offenses by a

holy youth and a happy union. Sweet visions of the future, when he might

behold his adopted at the solemn ceremony, modest, in the home of the

bridegroom, kindly receiving the votive offering—the corn-crowned

feast—the joyous revel, the sacred mysteries. Then recurring to the old

mythology and the sacred rites, he describes the festival of the

_Vasanti_, the genial goddess of the spring; when, like the bursting out

of nature, the people throw away the fetters of caste and custom, and

mingle in indiscriminate revelry; the rites of Sitala, the goddess of

children, which the mothers celebrate on the hill-top, assembling,

crowned with chaplets of roses, jessamine, and oleander, for the

purposes of mirth; and the “nine days festival of flowers,” sacred to

Ganri, the wife of Siva, the goddess of the harvest, whence comes her

golden name. That this takes place at the vernal equinox, when the

matronly Ganri casts her golden mantle over the ripened beauties of the

verdant Vasanti. Then nature is in perfection—the air is impregnated

with _aroma_, and the crimson poppy contrasts with the spikes of golden

grain to form a wreath for the beneficent Ganri. She bears the lotus in

her corn-stained hands, and often the implements of death, denoting that

the goddess, whose gifts sustain life, is sometimes accessory to the

loss of it—thus resembling the Isis and Cybelle of the Egyptians. The

corn is sown, and when it germinates, they invoke the blessing of Ganri,

and bear her image in solemn procession. Then on the glassy lake the

effigy is borne in boats as primitive as those which bore the Argonauts

to Colchis. The rising borders of the lake swarm with devout and joyous

multitudes. The fair Hindostaneé, fragrant with garlands, wave their

scarlet tokens, reflected from the transparent water, and chant their

festal hymns. The procession winds slowly down the steep descent with

the image of the benefactress, the propitious Ganri, in the centre,

blazing with gold and gems, glittering in the tropic sun; the solemn

music reëchoes among the narrow passes, announcing the approach of the

divine one. The hoary sages bear with reverence the sacred burden. All

is joy and innocent happiness. They reach the shore, passing beneath the

long, black tresses of the attendant maidens, and embark with sober

state to voyage around the lake. This rite performed, the sun ever

shines more brightly on the harvest, and the dews descend gently on the

young promise of the meadows. Ganri propitious smiles upon the

undertakings of her favorite race. Ganga, then, would spring up in

delight, and with sparkling eyes wish to remove from their quiet retreat

and visit these brilliant festivals. Gently the old man reproaches her,

and warns her of ambitious wishes. His kindly words fall as quiet and

soothing on the soul of Ganga as the shades of evening on the silent

leaves of the forest. But hark! from the distant jungle resounds the

howl of the panther, and the muttering of the king of the beasts! The

child shrinks fearful and awe-struck into the arms of her protector, as

the timid leaves bow before the blast of the tempest. Faltering rose her

voice as the quivering notes of the songster, when the thunder rolls in

the ether, when fleeing its dread approach, she seeks her sheltered

nest, her callow and expectant young, seizing the opportunity when great

emotions bare the inner soul, and adapt it to softer impressions.

Nikaiyah would speak of the love, the providence always waking; tell her

of her perilous voyage on the Ganges, describe her preservation, and ask

if she feared the wild beasts, who obeyed their master’s orders. Then

the old doctrine of the transmigration would glimmer on her young mind,

when explained with persuasive eloquence, like the faint first

twinklings of Hesperus, and with as mild and benignant an influence. She

would hang upon his words with large, attentive eyes, as he told her

that even the ferial nature of the wildest monster was filled by a

penance-doing spirit that once had felt as she did—alas! the expiation!

Therefore the pious Brahmin forbore to destroy a living thing, fearful

of injuring a brother—for then would the unfortunate begin his weary

pilgrimage anew. Beware, mortal, of defeating the purposes of Bramah!

That to avoid or shorten this term of suffering the good man lived

secluded from the world, devoting himself to the study of his own

breast, and seeking to know his Creator, or subjected himself to

privation, to torture, and to death, to gain the reward of martyrdom

unspotted by earthly taint, unwearied by earthly transmigration. Thus

did the priests for themselves and others atoning, as did of old in

Christian infancy Simon Stylites. For this had Nikaiyah shut himself up

in the forest, in voluntary retirement, for a term of years which was

even now expiring. Then to the mind of Ganga would come the thought of a

previous life, when she might have roamed under some different form

through the forest, returned by an accident to her human probation.

Vague thoughts like these would steal upon her spirit, like the waves of

a distant ocean, an indefinite sea of former existence, surging, rising

on the memory, breaking on the shifting sands of the present; and she

the storm-tost mariner struggling on the crest of the waves, ever

mistaking the foaming phosphorescence of the surf for a light of

friendly assistance; or if she turned to the future, that mist-shadowed

nothing, she would alternately fancy herself floating smoothly on an

unbroken sea, and gazing into its purple depths, sinister yet tempting;

or pushing for some unknown shore, prone for great discovery. Thus is

life to us all; we stand on the golden sand of an ever-changing present,

listening to the echoes of the past receding with the ebbing tide among

the hoarse-mouthed caverns; more often, unheeding, gaze upon the calm,

open sea of the future, and, regardless of the billows that break

tumultuous around us, think only of those serene hopes to come, those

_halcyon_ days of peace shining undimmed in times of deceptive distance.

The old man ceased. Night had fallen, and the unwholesome exhalations

warned to retire from the unwholesome air—Ganga, soon wrapt in the

sweet sleep of youth, lay dreaming over in ever new and magnified forms

those doctrines of the Metempsychosis which Nikaiyah had explained to

her. She was doomed, it seemed to her, to pass through the stages of an

infinite change, and like the banyan tree, as fast as having reached a

certain height she seemed to have attained perfection, and must needs

bend down to take fresh root in earth. Unconscious that all this was but

enlarging her soul and her sphere of good, as the banyan with fresh

trunks enlarges its cool and refreshing circumference, and gives wider

shelter to the weary and the oppressed. First, she was an ant, busy and

careful as the proverb, toiling to increase the glory of the realm and

queen; but a hostile invasion of robber tribes relieved her from that

insignificant though useful existence—instantly she was rolling, a

vast, glittering length, through the crackling under-brush, a gigantic

boa; the angry lion, defiant to the last, retreated from those shining

meshes, which slow curling in golden folds, could have hugged to death a

generation of laocoons. Undisturbed monarch of the wood the monster

coiled his serpentine length, glaring—O, horror! that such expression

should come from Ganga’s eyes—angrily at the retreating beasts. But

with a pang _that_ was finished—she had been struck unawares. Where was

she now—how cold! how bleak!—and the feathers! A vulture on the

Himmalyah peaks, looking over to the southern sea’s blue on the

horizon’s verge—nothing but snow—where were her beautiful valleys—she

could fly down, at any rate. What a sensation—to be floating in mid-air

unconscious of motion, for want of a standard to measure by; passing

through the variously-tinted clouds, seeing naught—the dull flapping of

noiseless wings. But now the primeval forest grows green upon the

vision—now she swoops at a parrot, all green and yellow, chattering on

a dead bough; unconscious she is struck by the arrow of a wandering boy.

Now she is happy—a nightingale, singing melodiously in harmonious

concert with a thousand sisters amid the sacred grove—fair girls, with

jet-black eyes and locks darker than the night, come to hear the song of

the nightingales—how sweetly the evening breeze, cool from the water,

soughs through the whispering branches! There is something in yonder

aisle of trees!—a youth and a maiden walking under the shadows, their

arms encircling each other’s waist—soft hours of confidence, of fond

anticipation never destined to be realized. They are just passing under

the low, vine-covered sandal-tree, when the nightingale sees the leopard

crouching among the branches that variegate with green his spotted

sides—see the lovers, with heads mutually inclined, engaged in sweet

converse—see the fierce beast, bending on the enormous machinery of his

huge muscles, preparing for the spring! She will warn them—she flies

rapidly to attract their attention—they are just exchanging farewells.

O, Heavens! are they not eternal ones! The monster is in the act of

rising on his spring—the lovers embrace—the nightingale flies with

utmost, but as it seems, fruitless speed—when——

Ganga awoke to the sweet reality of a peaceful security and her quiet

home upon the sacred stream. The morning sun was shining brightly. Where

was her old friend? Why had he not called her at dawn to perform her

matin devotions? Alas! he was sitting dejected by the door, thinking of

the trusting charge he was to commit to the tender mercies of the world;

for the term of his vow had expired, and he must rejoin his brethren,

the Brahmins, in the ministerings and services of the temple.

Sadly they collect their little property—weary prepare for their

pilgrimage. Mournfully Ganga bids farewell to her tame favorites, who,

conscious as it were of the sanctity in which they held life, had

congregated fearlessly around their dwelling, fed daily by the hands of

the maiden. Sadly, they turn their backs upon their happy home and

journey on to worldly experience. The sun’s rays have scarce reached

their noontide severity when they pass up the banks of the river,

casting many a glance behind to the forest so long familiar; accompanied

by their feathered favorites, who soon must miss the fostering care of

Ganga. The river, like the course of life, ever rushing on and onward,

awakens new reflections, and they heed not the voice of the birds nor

the waving _arbutus_ beckoning them homeward.

Years after the Ganges rolls by a ruined hut scarcely distinguishable

from the rest of the forest, overgrown with green, and hung like funeral

weeds with the vine and the trailing _arbutus_. Still cluster the lilies

by the nurtured shore which had been trained by the hands of

childhood—no longer do they raise their expectant heads to receive the

caress of the maiden—no longer do their _corymbi_ deck the jetty locks

of Ganga. In the brightness and joy of the morning; she had come thither

directed by the hand of the goddess. From that natal morn of infancy she

had dwelt in innocence by the sacred stream—full of life and the glory

of beauty, she had arrived at full-blown maturity. At the noon, when the

sun, like her life, had reached its culmination, in the ripened noon,

she departed. Anon comes the silence and darkness of evening overtaking

the pair in the forest—the drama of life is advancing, and sorrows must

obscure her path like the shadows from the mountains descending—like

the clouds which hide the evening red and fleck the glorious sunset.

* * * * *

Spirit of innate devotion! alike thou directest the rude and the

cultivated, the peasant and the prince to avert at times their gaze from

lower things and turn them to the Infinite Author—yet oftenest by

adversity thou drawest the spirit heavenward, and by sundering the

golden links of earthly affection preparest the soul with stronger wing

to follow the fleeting yet much loved object—alike in every clime, in

every age thy influence is acknowledged. Whether to the Roman thou

breathest on the trembling leaves of the sybil; to the Greek neechæst in

thunder tones from the Delphic; to the Zenton floatest in the mists that

shroud the northern hills, or the shore-coming waves of the Baltic—to

the Dane resounds in the mighty Valhalla with the ponderous strokes of

Odin; to the Copt glitters in the morning beams that gilds the sands and

deserts, or to the Druid whisperest amid the foliage of the sacred

oak—within the burning tropic thy power is recognised in the bountiful

forms of exuberant Nature, in the wayside shrines that glisten in the

forest and the vast temples that penetrate the bosom of the fruitful

earth our mother.

Thus do the tropic luxuriance and the polar cold alike furnish ever new

symbols for the Infinite, and by change contrast with the Eternal. The

yellow glories of the fertile harvest but bear new witness to thy

bounty, the pale beams of the Boreal light represent alone thy purity.

How many have fallen victims at thy shrine! victims of a mistaken zeal!

Yet in India hast thou been most misrepresented. There have perished the

human hecatomb yearly in thy service—there thou hast assumed those

distorted forms borrowed from the visible effects in tropic

nature—there have thy attributes been measured by the violent passions

of thy dusky worshipers—yet, while thou hast thus sacrificed India’s

race, thou hast left for later eyes those striking monuments of thy

power, thy temples and shrines—those stupendous fanes which though

sometimes grotesque are often sublime. In India’s lotus has arisen the

leafy capitals of Grecian pillars. Thus is thy task not all in vain—thy

bounty not all misplaced—for as the Goths have borrowed their arching

aisles and groined roofs from the similitude of their sombre forests, so

have the more graceful forms of Egyptian simplicity and Corinthian

elegance had their origin among the lilies of the Ganges. The stupendous

subterranean temples at _Elephantum_ are destined to receive the

returning priest Nikaiyah and his gentle charge; and within those awful

precincts many a stout soul would have shrank with as timid horror as

did Ganga.

Many days and nights had they passed in the wilderness, when, wearied

with their long journey, the pious pair at length emerged from the

forest. How pleasant the return of the sweet sunlight, the birds and the

fragrant meadows. By day they had wandered on through the devious maze,

pathless mid the thickset jungle, often forcing their way through the

tangled vines and creepers which had with parasite embrace overcome some

stately trunk which, withered now, lay lifeless in their tortuous folds.

Gayly the old monarch of the forest had stood decked in his gorgeous

livery, adorned with borrowed foliage—soon had they surpassed his

towering height and wound him in as fatal a shroud as to Hercules was

Creusa’s bridal garment. Thus ever shines most beautiful the destined

one at the moment of ruin’s approach. By night they would retire to some

sheltered nook, and there, lighted by the fireflies and lulled by the

monotonous _cicada_, pass the hours of darkness—the tiger prowled round

them and respected their sacred mission—the serpent averted his

basilisk gaze when he met the full eye of the maiden. Now were all these

perils past—they had come to the holy place guarded by the care of the

Brahmins—and now Ganga, curious, surveys the open, fertile

country—sees other maids as fair as she, and other men more manly than

Nikaiyah—but the untaught child of nature was free from the vices of

civilization and clung steadfastly to her old and well-tried protector.

Anon they pass by the groups of penitents, whose distorted limbs and

painful postures denote their self-imposed penance—these linger round

the outer limits of the holy of holies like the thieves round a wonted

prison, or as it seemed to them, like the wicked at the gates of

Paradise. These all are left behind, and now the solemn silence betokens

some revered and oft-honored shrine. They are at the bottom of the

valley in which lies the cave-temple of Elephantum. Hills all

around—receding, impending, bowing their leafy summits clothed in rich

tropic verdure, gorgeous in the season of bloom—silence unbroken, save

the dove as she laments her absent mate with wo as meek and patient as

the injured _Philomela_. Silence, solemn silence—no sound but their

echoing footsteps repeated on the hill sides. The air dull and

motionless, pregnant with the aroma of the thousand-hued flowers which

wind round the murmuring tree tops—no signs of human desecration to mar

the temple of Nature. A heat of noon, like the scorching glow of a

furnace. The hills rise with loftier summits and more precipitous sides

as they advance—nearly excluding the sunlight. Mossy was now the way to

their tread—soft were their silent footsteps—and from the rocky walls

and moist underwood the deepening gorge exuded the silvery dew, which

trickled noiseless and refreshing down. The humid exhalations softened

the fierce heat of noon-day and quieted the burning thirst of the

travelers. A holier influence seemed, soft as zephyrs, to breathe within

these sacred glades and to refresh whomsoever it fell on. Thus with

reverent step they journey noiseless on, when from some great distance

the sweet sound of vocal harmony stole softly on their ears—rising,

quivering, pausing, dying away among the whispering leaves—now rising

loud and triumphant like the joyous clamor of victory; now lingering

sadly sweet, with scarce audible vibration, like the sigh of the parting

spirit. And ever as they advanced, bowing in silence to its solemn

influence, it seemed to grow fainter and louder, but still to be ever

removing, like the verge of the retreating horizon. They pass the bend

of the valley and the whole scene of worship bursts upon their

astonished eyes in all its sombre grandeur. The long troop of priests

are winding in ever changing measure among the pillars of a vast

subterranean hall, under-reaching the opposite hill side. Like pigmies

they march beneath the colossal arches of the temple.

The gigantic shafts—of singular and fantastic shape, adorned with stony

faces, glaring with jeweled eyes in the flickering torch-light—uphold a

lofty roof, which seems yet near the base of the mountain—so towering

rises the impending fortalice of nature over the works of man. Gigantic

figures, in _bas-relief_, shine dimly portentous in the farther gloom.

The solemn chant reverberates among the lofty arches, and the pale light

of the sacrificial fires sickens the wan visage and circling fillets of

the priestess. Four rows of massive columns divide the vast hall into as

many avenues, retreating, narrowing in the distance, penetrating the

heart of the mountain. From the inmost depths of the temple arises,

faintly remote, the wail of the victim, lost in—and yet distinguishable

amid the din of the clamorous musicians, and the clanging echoes of

trumpets. The shuddering resonance of the trembling gong shivers the

rocky arches—yet, wild above all is heard the occasional shriek of the

sacrifice. Typical of the horrid rites, on the walls are carved the

statues of a male leading a female to the glowing pyre, modest, and

timidly reluctant; while in the blue gloom of the interior, from floor

to roof, rises the Cerberus-headed statue of the Trinity, of Brahmah,

Vishnu, and Sheva, with three-fold face—on all sides ever watching.

Reverent the old man bows his head, and passes ’neath the sacred portal.

Once more worthy, since his penance has expired, he mingles with his

brethren. The awe-struck Ganga is delivered into the care of the

attendant maidens.

The Hindoostanee, if unmarried, are obliged to enter into the service of

the priests of the temples, of whom they become the virtual wives,

although polygamy is allowed and practiced. These unfortunate creatures

perform all the menial offices of worship, and have the care of the

sacred things in and about the temple. Among this wretched sisterhood of

infamy was Ganga thrown. Many of them were fair, though lacking the

virgin innocence of the Ganges maid. Her simple story gained

credence—her character won respect, and her beauty inflamed the

susceptible hearts of all the holy brethren—yet more than all

contributed the presence and influence of Nikaiyah to preserve her pure;

for the old hermit had gained great fame for sanctity, well earned in

his long exile. His voice was ever among the first in the holy council.

Will the silent deference which honor the living continue to respect the

dead?

* * * * *

The days passed quiet and undeeded by at Elephantum. Six moons had waxed

and waned their crescents monthly, silvering the pillars of the temple;

Nikaiyah, growing gray and hoary like the fading year, was bending under

the burdens of life. As he neared the boundary of existence, he was ever

more eagerly gazing into the future—more than over wrapt in devotion.

Yet he would often seek to amuse his charge; and, by his authority, she

had free scope to roam about the island. This she constantly did, when

tired of the monotonous life in the temple, the silent reveries of the

priests, the servile obedience of their menials, the never-varying round

of duties, and the din and confusion of some high festival. With nature

for her nurse, she had naturally become an ardent admirer of her

beauties. Why was it she so often met the young Demetros in her rambles?

Why was she constantly detecting him dogging her footsteps? Had he any

commission to her?—if not, why did he follow her?—if so, why avoid her

open presence?

Demetros was formerly one of the most zealous priests in the temple. His

golden locks, however, owned some milder sun than that of Hindoostan.

His clear and handsome brow and classic profile contrasted strongly with

the swarthy and stern expression of the elder, and the lewd leer of the

younger priests. Yet he was treated by all as a brother. All save one

old Brahmin seemed ignorant of his origin, and he was silent.

One bright day, Ganga had wandered far from the precincts of the temple,

and stood on a crag overhanging the sea, which she had once crossed with

Nikaiyah. The waves played up at the very base of the rock; and, as she

stood and gazed at the mimic breakers rippling against the shore, she

almost fancied herself once more in her happy valley, watching the flow

of the Ganges. Absorbed in the glorious prospect, she inadvertently

approaches too near the edge of the rock. Look how the white foam chases

the advancing wave. A crack—the rock crumbles: a plash—and Ganga is

once more at the mercy of the treacherous element. Years have, however,

added strength to her limbs, habit has rendered her fearless. Boldly she

breasts the tide, and seeks for some shelving spot along the banks

whereon to land. A sandy beach glistens in the sun a few rods before

her; she makes for it. A seething, foaming rush in the water causes her

to turn her head, and, oh! Heavens! the blue fins and greedy jaws of a

shark are close behind her! Tearing through the water, which whitens in

the spray of his wake, the monster gains upon her. She grows fainter,

the waves beat in her ears with a dull, hollow sound; her efforts are

feebler. The dazzling light of the glistening water blinds her as to the

proper direction. She hears the shark; almost feels the ripple which

precedes his coming. There is a cry somewhere, a loud rushing of water,

and she knows no more until she opens her eyes upon the shore, to see

Demetros, wet and bloody, bending anxiously over her.

Silence—the silence of a heart too troubled with conflicting emotions

to trust itself to uttered thanks—could alone express the gratitude of

Ganga.

Flushed with his exertions, the Apollo-like youth stood the picture of

manly beauty, save where the trickling blood betrayed his recent battle

with the monster. He kindly offered to escort her to the temple; and as

they proceeded with increasing confidence, and guessing the meaning of

her curious looks, he confessed to her that he was not her countryman:

that years since, when he could scarce lisp his native tongue, he

remembered a vast and glittering city, dedicated to Athena, in a country

far to the North-West, which looked out on the sparkling Ægean. He

then—a Greek—had wandered or been taken captive, he scarce remembered

how, and had come to Elephantum. All these things were as a daydream to

him: a dream of the morning of life, which the rising sun of manhood had

well nigh dispelled like the gray haze of dawn. He had heard them talk

of King Philip, and he thought of the war of the allies. He tells her

how well he remembered his mother, for there was memory, like affection,

strongest, that she must now sit bereaved and weep the absence of her

fair-haired boy. To him, there was no hope of return, indeed he would

not wish to now: and the tender glance awoke a sympathetic flutter in

the heart of Ganga, when they entered the vale of the temple. What was

that sound afar, and the confusion as they draw nearer the temple? They

run to and fro, and chant the dirge for the departed. Why did the echoes

howling through the vault repeat the name of Nikaiyah?

The old man was dead.

Little time was left for reflection. As if to assuage the poignancy of

her grief, the Gods had sent a new and imminent danger to divert her

attention. Scarce is she allowed to take a farewell look at her old

friend, or shed a tear over his corpse, when the increasing clamor in

the court of the temple rouses new fears and most horrible suggestions.

Why were they making this indecent tumult, while their eldest and most

revered fellow had just breathed his last? Alas! the loud tones of the

controversy showed, but too plainly, how little his past influence was

regarded, while it made her painfully aware of the dangers that

surrounded her.

“Ganga to the pyre!”

“Ganga shall be mine!” reiterated alternately the older and the younger

priests. What! then those whose passions were cooled with age would

sacrifice her as a burnt-offering to the manes of the departed; the

others would cast her into that pit of infamy which the priestesses

shared in the temple. Dreadful alternative! Yet could Ganga hesitate?

Ah! but would they leave it to her choice? It was but too evident that

the stronger party would rule, and thus her fate would be decided. In

agony, the young girl invoked the assistance of the Gods—above all, of

the Ganges goddess, Sivah; the Ganges, in whose purifying stream she had

at infancy been cleansed from sin—could she now but seek an innocent

death in its waves!

But hush! there is a sudden silence. They have decided, and the rapid

footsteps come to announce her fate. Shuddering, the poor child is

dragged before the assembled multitude. It needs but one glance to see

that both parties are baffled; and that, after all, the choice will be

left with herself. She looks round on the eager crowd, thirsting for her

life or for her honor, and her heart grows faint within her.

“Ganga,” rose the solemn voice of the oldest priest. “Ganga, choose

between serving the Gods here, and joining them above.”

Proudly the glorious eye of the virgin beat down the lecherous looks of

the priests, as she calmly replied—

“I choose the pyre.”

“To-morrow then prepare the sacrifice.”

“Ay, to-morrow,” thought the victim, “my body will smoulder into ashes.”

She raised her tearful eyes, and met the anguished look of Demetros. She

saw no more, until—she awoke bound and in darkness.

Where she was, in what part of the temple confined, the gloom prevented

her from distinguishing. Her fetters she could _feel_. She had awakened

from a dream of childhood, a dream of innocent happiness, to the bitter

reality of her situation. It was not then the voice of birds hailing the

returning day which had aroused her, but the clanking of chains. How

cold they felt upon her numbed limbs. How their icy pressure gnawed at

her heart, and sapped, by slow degrees, her failing courage—her

resolution of a few hours since. Thus was she bound for fiery atonement

like that Iphigena at Aulis, of whom Demetros had told her. And should

she, the fiery daughter of Hindoostan, give place in courage or in

resignation to the Grecian maid. And yet she was so young to die, so

unprepared to leave those pleasant scenes, in which she had roamed for a

few short years, so unprepared for any purer state. How faint with

hunger! how worn with anxiety, that refuses to dissolve into tears. And

then—but what is that noise like a piling of faggots, the heavy fall of

trees! Oh Gods! they are preparing the funeral pyre, she must be then

near the front of the building. Yes, in that dark cell she never had,

when free, looked at without shuddering. Ay, had not one of the

priestesses pointed to it as the prison of the condemned? Hear the

careless laugh of the laborers, as they mingle with their work

congratulations on the morrow’s festival! The harsh voice of the

presiding priest. And where were now her countrywomen? How were they

passing the last night of her life? She seems to see the lights shining

from their huts, as they arrange their gayest dresses for the

procession, and wait the dawn to pluck fresh flowers to adorn the

victim.

On the morrow, they could see her last sunrise without emotion, save as

it announced a holyday and a joyous relief from labor. Fair girls would

come to see a sister’s agony, and leaning caressingly on the arms of

their betrothed, would exchange love-tokens by her death-bed. She would

be tossing helpless on her fiery rack of torture, with the flames

licking up greedily her dark hair, once bound with roses. Lovers,

sitting under the broad shade, would converse of her happy release, as

they plaited each other’s shining locks with jessamine for the dance.

And then she should see the rigid features of her loved protector

blackening under the flames, as they hissing rose to receive her in

their fiery arms—curling like a serpent to enfold her. Her parching

thirst would be heightened by the volumes of smoke rising from the

burning, smouldering limbs of Nikaiyah. But the mothers would recline

under the boughs of the opposite forest, and feed their children with

soft, cooling fruits of the orange-tree. Why was not Demetros—known but

too late—why was he not there to console her? Alas! were these not the

ravings of madness? Yes, mad—mad! Why is not her lover too a god to

preserve her: and senseless she repeats the old song of the Bayadere.

She was saved, though a mere dancing-girl; why not an innocent virgin?

Thus the poor girl sings the song of the God and the Bayadere, lost in

the wild charm of the harmony and the picture, too flattering, of

preservation.

“So the choir, without compassion,

But increase at heart her grief;

And with eager hands extended,

She leaps into the fiery death.

But the God-youth now arises,

From the circling flames removed,

Clasping in his arms protecting,

Soars upward with his well-beloved.

The Gods are pleased with sinners repenting;

And raise their once-lost children, immortal,

With fiery arms to heaven above.”

* * * * *

“Ganga!” mingles with the dying echoes. What is it? That voice!

“Ganga! Ganga!” repeats a low well-known tone near her, and she is

raised by the hand of Demetros. Noiseless he releases her from her

fetters, and throwing the robe of a Brahmin over her shoulders, bears

her away in the darkness. Swift and silent they pass into the open

air—cool to the hot brow and fevered lips of Ganga. Half-leading and

half-supporting her, her preserver conducts her down the rocky path to

the sea-shore. Hurried was their conversation—it was but a whispered

caution on his side; on hers, a murmur of gratitude. Demetros hastens to

unmoor the boat, which, hid under the banks, awaited the needs of the

priests. They embark on the quiet waters, and Ganga begins to breathe

more freely and to express her thanks to her deliverer. With quick

motion he signs to her to be silent, and bending his powerful frame with

strong but quiet stroke, urges the boat—reeling under the

shock—through the rippling tide. Soon they reach the main shore, and

pass under the leafy protection of the banks, just as the torches and

cries on the island give token of the aroused and baffled Brahmins.

Saved, they pass on like shadows under the arching boughs of the forest.

* * * * *

Verdant in summer are the shores of the foaming Hydaspes. The broad, yet

impetuous stream roars on its rocky, seaward course. Itself in breadth

resembling the vast expanse of ocean: yet not with the slow, mighty

surging of the great deep, does it lave its confining banks; but rolling

with struggling wave it rebounds from the repulsing strand, like a ball

from the head of the buffalo. Yet it is no shallow stream, that, with

puny murmur, frets impatient on its rough bed; but the yawning waters

disclose abysses which could swallow the mighty elephant. On its banks

reposes the lion, when tired with hunting the antelope. On the crags

sits the rapacious eagle, watching his finny victims. One mightier than

the lion, one more cruel than the eagle, now waited for his human prey,

wary and shrewd in watching, on the Indian side of the river.

Why do the youth and the maiden start and pause on the skirt of the

forest? They gaze with impatient, hollow eyes on the long-sought banks

of the Hydaspes. Their emaciated forms and tangled hair, their

sun-scorched features and cautious mien betray their long wandering,

their contest with a thousand perils. Why do they not hasten to pass the

goal of their journey, and escape from the fury of the pursuing priests

into neighboring, friendly Indo-Scythia? Is it not the hope of this

result with which the young fugitive has cheered the heart of his weary

though courageous companion? And will they, who have long months been

traversing the dangerous wilds of the forest, hesitate to plunge into

the fierce stream and swim to the region of safety? Farewell to all fond

hopes, they recognize all around them the swarthy race who bow to the

rule of the Brahmins. If but a scattered few were tilling the soil, they

might still escape their attention. Alas! there is a mighty host

encamped on the stream, with arms and warlike engines, with _holy_

priests, with banners and vigilant sentinels.

The quiet camp was disturbed by the neighing of horses, the shouting of

their drivers, and the shrill blast of the war-elephant. A long row of

these cumbrous but terrible animals was placed in front of the waiting

army, and nearest the bank of the river. The murmur of a vast multitude,

that confused sound of many voices, was mixed with the echoing hoofs of

thousands of horses, while the occasional beat of the drum united with

the swelling chant of the war-song. Glittering with bright armor, the

warriors moved around the camp, eager for the deadly conflict.

The terrified wanderers were seized and conducted into the presence of

the king—Porus, the ruler of the country. Porus, the gigantic in

stature, the Indian Hercules, and in cunning the Indian Nestor, there

awaited the coming of Alexander, the attack of the great Macedonian,

whose fame had preceded his approach. The world’s conqueror had turned

his ambitious arms to the fair land of India. Her “barbaric pearl and

gold” had tempted his soldiery—her vast domain the ambition of the

general. He had even then crossed the Indus, and advancing to the outer

bank of the Hydaspes, was now preparing to pass this bounding stream and

assault the power of Porus.

Here, then, the cunning Indian had placed his army, burning to protect

their native soil, where the steep banks of the river afforded a natural

fortification. Here, most unfortunately, had the fugitives from

Elephantum first emerged from the friendly shade of the forest into the

open, fatal light of day. Thus again captives, they are led before the

monarch. There, fearful of betraying their fatal secret, their confused

answers arouse the suspicions of Porus, and by him they are committed to

the care of the guards, to await through the long and anxious night the

announcement of their fate on the morrow. Conscious that their pursuers

must now overtake them, Ganga, now wholly despairing, refutes the empty

consolation of Demetros. Wearied nature, however, asserts its sway—the

worn-out fugitives pass the night in dull, dreamless sleep, in the camp

of their enemies.

* * * * *

How goes the night? The clouds in the angry south-western sky announce

the approach of the thunder. What picture do the winds behold as they

cross to the farther shore of the Hydaspes? Is it a sleeping camp? It is

the busy note of preparation—the bustle of a moving multitude—the

tramp of soldiers moving toward the stream with steady step, unheeding

the war of the elements and the clashing of steel upon steel, as they

pass. It is the march of the Greeks. The great phalanx, now divided for

secrecy, advances with quiet firmness to cross the stormy Hydaspes.

Their skillful leader, taught by many campaigns, has chosen this

tempestuous night, when the tumult of nature may drown the noise of the

army. Perceiving the advantages of his adversary, he has thus determined

to outwit him, and by crossing the dangerous river in secrecy and

silence, to meet the enemy upon the level plains on the farther side of

the stream. Occasional flashes of lightning are the only guides to their

path. The rain patters upon the metal helmets of the infantry, and the

war-mail of the horses. Snorting with terror, the animals are forced

along by the governing will of their masters. The heavy peals of thunder

roll through the sky like the rumbling of a thousand chariot-wheels, as

they fly over the field of battle. The great host reaches the banks of

the stream, which, roused by the storm, rages doubly threatening,

chafing with white foam like the steed impatient of his rider. The

affrighted horses start back from the leap into the boiling current,

seething and hissing like the swift-winged flight of the loosened arrow.

With hardly less of terror the soldiers recoil from the roaring waters,

rolling sullen now in silence with vast depth, now rushing swiftly over

some protruding rock vainly opposing their progress. Shame on the

warriors who heedless of death when animated by the despair of defeat,

or roused by the clamor of victory, now yield to the power of water! And

will the great Polemarch, for whom Macedonia was too small, who sighed

for other worlds to subdue, be tamed by the rage of a brooklet when he

has crossed the mighty Indus? On! on, good horse! Hasten foot-soldiers,

and overcome the pride of the Indian! Will you rather cross this stream

in light of day, when every wave will be tinged with your arrow-spent

blood? Will you rather climb yon craggy banks, when crowned by the

glittering columns of the enemy, and overhung with the trunks of the

destroying elephant? On! and trust to your well-tried strength, the

kindness of the gods, and the response of the auspicious omen! There is

for a moment a gleaming in the air—the flashing steel of the youthful

hero—then a loud plunge in the water, and all save one shining crest

has vanished. It passes on and on, away from the gaze of the hesitating

army; then instantly a mighty rush, and the river is alive with horses,

curling under the strokes of the swimmers. The resounding plates of the

armor sound faint and hollow beneath the water. The howling blast sweeps

ever new waves over the heads of the struggling soldiers. The flashing

in the heavens illumes for a moment the stormy scene—shows men and

horses mingling in wild confusion, tossing, rising above the black

waves—shows some far down the stream, mounted on panting steeds,

struggling to regain their foothold, plunging in the yielding

water—shows the brief expression of dying agony ere it sinks down in

the darkness—the glad look of triumph, as some one more fortunate gains

the opposite strand and climbs the beetling precipice—shows all silent

and unmoving the shore where Porus is waiting—shows the great war-horse

and his rider clear against the dull sky, as they watch the progress of

the swimming army—and then the black pall shuts down over all, and

envelops in one common gloom; and naught more is seen until sunrise,

naught more heard but the surging of the angry Hydaspes.

* * * * *

This, then, is the eve of battle. Porus, wrapped in a false security,

puffed up with the sight of the host of dependents around him, awaits,

unconscious of danger, expecting the enemy will cross the river on the

morrow. The vigilant and active Greeks once more on the level plain,

await the day to point the way to greater achievements.

As the warm sunbeams awaken the expanding flowers, and arouse the

harmony of the birds in the morning, so with the first light the noise

of the waking camp, and the matin worship of the Brahmins who accompany

the armies, dispel the happy oblivion which had lulled in brief repose

the anxious minds of the fugitives. Confined within the narrow circle of

a tent, and closely guarded, they can only judge by the ear of the

events which are passing around them. They hear, early as the dawn, the

muster of soldiers, the marshaling of squadrons, and the united step of

the moving ranks. Then there is silence for a moment. Then the sharp,

echoing gallop of two thousand horses, and jarring sound of an hundred

and twenty chariot-wheels revolving on their creaking axles, approach

rapidly, sweep by the tent, and die away in the distance. Then a long

pause, broken only by the low, confused murmur of the remaining and

expectant multitude, the adjusting of arms, and the repairing of

tinkling armor. Presently a solitary horseman is heard approaching at a

wild gallop, then another, and another, apparently fleeing from some

danger behind—they can almost hear the palpitating hearts of the horses

as they panting approach, seeking the safety of the main army. But why

no sound of chariots?

Ganga knows not that her lover’s countrymen have already crossed the

Hydaspes, and that the noise of horses and chariots was the departure

from the camp of a detachment sent out to sustain the first brunt of the

engagement under the command of the son of Porus. Neither learns she of

their defeat, and the loss of their chariots, except as she may argue

some great calamity from the confusion and noise without among the

Indian warriors. And now they hear the departure of the noisy host, and

then must await the announcement of their fate on their return, or on

the approach of the Macedonian. The camp seems deserted, except by a few

guards, and a small number of elephants, left for its defense. We must

follow the fortunes of the departing army.

* * * * *

Glorious and worthy of their king appeared the camp and the army of

Porus. The sun scarcely risen, looked down upon the thousand banners of

rich and varied colors that fluttered above the tents, hanging loose and

flapping gently in the morning breeze. The scene resembled the splendor

and the pomp of some great festival, rather than the stern realities of

war. To this appearance added greatly the numerous throng of merchants,

sutlers, and attendants, that wait upon an Indian army. The

camp-followers, who in number far exceeded the soldiers, consisted of

magicians, soothsayers, rope-dancers, sharpers, thieves, fakirs,

blind-beggars, jewelers, carpenters, tailors, tent-makers,

corn-grinders, and farriers. Attached also to each division of the army

were a number of clerical Brahmins, who regularly officiated, offering

up prayer and sacrifice to the deities, as in the temples. On this gay

scene of Asiatic splendor the sun gazed no longer than while reaching

half the way to the zenith—for then had returned the defeated

detachment, warning them to be on the alert for the enemy. Porus, well

knowing that his present situation was ill-adapted to receive and

repulse an attack, hastily collected his army and removed to a level,

sandy plain, where his cavalry and chariots might wheel about with ease

on the firm soil. The four great elements of an Indian army are the

elephants, chariots, cavalry, and infantry. On the cavalry little

dependence is placed, the infantry being regarded as the strength of the

army, and the elephants, but more particularly the chariots, being used

as powerful auxiliaries. The immense height of the elephants was

supposed to fill the enemy with fear; the chariots were used to carry

the principal officers, the cavalry being principally employed in

pursuing the defeated. The main body of Porus’ army was composed of

thirty thousand foot, flanked by four thousand horse, three thousand

chariots, and two hundred elephants. These last bore towers upon their

huge backs, filled with soldiers armed with arrows, darts, and other

missile weapons. The animal himself was often more terrible and

destructive than his riders. The chariots were of vast dimensions, and

drawn oftentimes by five horses. The horses of the cavalry were covered

with a fine netted-armor, and their bridles, cruppers, and saddles,

adorned with gold and gems, with dyed hair and silver roses. The

infantry, armed with every species of weapon—some rough and indented,

for hacking, others long and barbed, and others still heavy and obtuse,

resembling the ponderous mace wielded by the knights in the middle ages.

With all, the sword was indispensable. These vast columns, then, moved

on in glittering ranks to meet the enemy, led by the royal elephant on

which sat Porus, shining with gems, and conspicuous for his great size.

Calmly, and conscious of his power, the crafty Indian drew up his line

of battle. In the front line were placed the elephants as a bulwark for

the infantry, who were immediately behind them. The cavalry were

extended as wings on either flank, and in front skirmished the chariots.

Such the array of Porus, as he awaited the attack of Alexander.

The major part of the Grecian army had crossed the river in safety, and

meeting with the detachment sent out by Porus, had attacked and defeated

it with great slaughter, and captured all the chariots. Among the slain

was their leader, the son of Porus; and this bereavement had filled the

breast of the king with double indignation. Inflamed with various

passions, the Indian might well have felt confident of the result of the

battle, as he turned from surveying his own mighty force to contemplate

the numbers of his enemy, who were but 11,000 strong—being made up of

6000 foot, and 5000 horse. But in the front rank rode the great

Alexander, mounted on the now aged Bucephalus. The steed had borne his

master safely through many a field since his fiery, generous ardor had

first yielded to the stern will of the young hero before the court of

Philip. And behind the great conqueror was the far-famed _phalanx_,

whose solid columns, like the Imperial Guard of Napoleon in modern

times, whenever they were ordered to advance, decided the fate of the

day. The bristling pikes, dense and threatening, gleamed before the

advancing ranks like the foam as it sparkles on the crest of the

breakers, and, like the destroying wave, they fell with overwhelming

force upon the enemy, sweeping all before them. There, too, were the

_hippotoxotai_, the mounted bowmen, equally expert to lead the attack

with death-dealing shafts, or cover the retreating army. The hardy

veterans were not allowed defensive armor for the back, as they were

never to turn to flight. Instead of the cumbrous though secure _thorax_,

which protected alike the shoulders and the breast, they wore the

lighter _hemi-thorax_, defending the chest alone. In addition they bore

the shield, (_aspis_,) made either of light wood or hide, and covered

with metal. The _pozoi_, or foot-soldiers, bore ashen spears, and swords

suspended from the shoulders. The archers’-bow was strung with

horse-hair, or hide, and the arrows were pointed with iron, and winged

with feathers. The phalanx was sometimes rectangular, sometimes

crescent-shaped, and again often in the form of a Roman wedge,

(_cuneus_;) this latter form was especially used in the attack, in

forcing or cleaving a path among the columns of the enemy—the first

being employed in resisting a great shock, like the charge of cavalry.

In this respect it somewhat resembled the hollow-square of the present

day. The Hipparchs lead the cavalry to the charge—the Strategi have the

general control of the infantry.

These varied elements of the hostile armies being arrived in sight of

each other, prepare for the contest whose result is to decide the fate

of Ganga.

Alexander, being in advance with his cavalry, found himself suddenly

face to face with the whole army of the enemy and unsupported, for his

infantry had not yet arrived. They however soon came up, and as they

were much fatigued, he caused his horse to make many evolutions, and by

feigned attacks thus gained time to rest the foot soldiers. The same

reason which led Porus to draw up his infantry and elephants in the

centre, induced Alexander to avoid that part of the army in the attack.

Accordingly with his cavalry he charged the left wing, while Coenus

attacked them in the rear. A thousand bowmen are at the same time

detached for the same service; sweeping round in ever diminishing

circles, like the swift flight of swallows, the archers overwhelm the

enemy with a cloud of arrows. Confused by this sudden attack they face

about to defend themselves, and are instantly charged by Alexander in

person. They now retreat, as behind an impregnable fortification, to the

rear of the line of elephants. But look! by a rapid and simple

counter-march the elephants are in the centre of the phalanx, surrounded

by the pikes of the infantry. Their huge sides are thrust full of

spears, with little apparent effect, and the wounded and now furious

beasts rush impetuous through the ranks of the thickest battalions, and

while the Macedonians are collecting again, down come the rallying

Indian horse. Beware, Alexander, or your seaward progress is stayed, and

your new empires as yet unwon, will remain so forever. See! the great

hero is equal to the emergency—the charge of the heavier Macedonians

breaks a second time the Indian ranks. All is now confusion—the enraged

elephants trample down friend and foe in indiscriminate death. Most

opportunely the phalanx now advances—surrounded, the Indians are cut

down by the heavy swords of the infantry. Then Catoras, who had remained

with the rest of the Greeks on the outer banks of the Hydaspes, crosses,

and his fresh troops finish the defeat of Porus. That valiant prince,

the last to fly, and conspicuous from his great height on the back of

his elephant, brought up the rear in the defeat, as he had led the van

at the commencement of the battle. At length he, too, surrenders under

promise of regal treatment. The victorious Greeks now fly to despoil the

camp of the enemy—for this was ever a prominent characteristic in the

ancient soldier, that as he was brave during the battle so he was mean

and cruel at its close—often stopping in the most critical moment of an

engagement to plunder the dead. Here rich spoils await them, and the

gorgeous luxury of the east finds but little mercy at the hands of the

rude Macedonians.

Demetros, as he listens to the cries of the victors, detects the accents

of his native Greek. Joyous he reassures the maiden, trembling before at

the power of the Brahmins, and now equally shrinking from the shouts of

friends—for how knows she that she shall not be torn from her lover and

delivered up to the lusts of a brutal soldiery? And even if she gains

unharmed the presence of the king, may he not refuse to release or

preserve her? The tumult approaches nearer—the curtains are torn rudely

open by bloody hands, and the trembling pair are saved from the hands of

the spoilers by a taxiarch who chances to be passing, and by him they

are conducted into the presence of Alexander. The hero stood refreshing

himself with wine, from the hands of the attendants, after the fatigues

of the battle. Still young and small in stature, the conqueror did not

evince by his general mien the genius that burned within him; his face,

however, showed the marks of a sprightly disposition and of great

determination, although marred by the traces of excessive drinking.

Alexander was not at this period so wholly sunk in sensuality as to be

incapable of an occasional act of justice, even where the supplicant was

a beautiful woman. Convinced of the truth of their statements by the

answers of Demetros and by his Grecian look, he promises them a return

to Athens in the fleet.

All their trials, as they fondly believe, now over, they prepare for the

voyage and journey to Greece. Why was it that Ganga could not share

entirely in the joy of Demetros? He was but returning to his native

soil, revisiting the scenes of his childhood—for him his country’s gods

prepared the welcome home—he had been absent on a weary pilgrimage and

now brought back one jewel, one precious treasure, for so he thought as

he gazed on the lovey maiden, to the paternal hearth. What though the

vestal flame of affection had been extinguished in the death of his

relatives, and the hearth-stone of his race had become cold from

neglect—he now brought a fresh, warm heat to re-enkindle the sacred

fire which he fondly hoped would burn with ever increasing brilliancy,

and unite their hearts with ever increasing warmth of affection. But

she, born under the burning sun of India, ever associated the name of

fire with the glowing pyre of sacrifice—she must leave her native land

in which, alas! she has no bonds of affection, no ties of sympathy, save

the pleasing remembrance of her innocent childhood in the wilderness,

and the kind old man, her real parent, who was now no more. She could

not avoid the comparison between the natural beauties of her tropic

forests and the artificial embellishments of more northern Greece. Were

the flowers as fragrant, the moonbeams as soft? Did the birds sing as

sweetly, the streams flow as pure there as in her father-land? In vain,

Demetros, you talk to the untutored child of Nature, whose poetry, whose

life and happiness consist in Nature’s beauties, of the splendors of the

great Attic city, the magnificence of its edifices, or the wisdom and

the eloquence of its children. Will those ravishing strains of music

with which the Greeks are amused at their luxurious banquets, sound as

sweet to the ear of the exile as the murmuring breeze of the morning and

the droning wings of the humming-bird? Can the waters of the scented

bath be as pure, as limpid and refreshing as the stream of the matronly

Ganges? Can the ornate roofs of the _Coutron_ be as pleasing to the eye

of the bather as the vault of a tropic sky when half-seen and

half-concealed by the branches thickly interwoven of the luxuriant

tropic forest? And if you mourn the loss of a friend, you may at least

visit and strew flowers upon his tomb, and thus derive a sadly sweet

consolation. But the Indian girl must yearn in vain for the graves of

her fathers—and standing on the Grecian strand, she gazes with wistful

eyes over the blue sea’s _margent_ where repose the remains of Nikaiyah,

the waves will bring to her sighs only hoarse tones roaring back.

And yet, what had she to wait for or to love in India? Were there not

cruel priests thirsting for her blood, urged on by what they believed

the voice of the gods? Besides, as her ripened intellect began to unfold

in maturity, she feels those affections and aspirations peculiar to

every female heart, more and more enlarged and developed, she conceives

a passion, softened by the most maidenly modesty, for the noble youth

who has twice rescued her from death; once from the monster while she

was bathing on the coast of the Elephantine isle, and once from the

glowing funereal pyre where smouldered the limbs of Nikaiyah, and who

now affording her every proof of affection, offers her an asylum in his

native land. These conflicting emotions disturb the heart of Ganga. But

the stern voice of fate gave her but one choice—death in India or life

in Greece. Nature, the love of life, prevails, and they depart for their

northerly journey.

It was nearly sunset when, after following for nine months the course of

the conquering Alexander down the mighty Indus, they reached the

sea-shore, where eight hundred galleys and boats were, under the command

of Nearchus, about to coast the southern borders on their homeward

voyage, and enter the mouth of the Euphrates to join the conqueror at

Babylon, where his career was to be disgracefully closed.

The rocking tide, strong at this point from the influx of the Indus,

bore upon its broad bosom the fleet of the Greeks, reflecting from its

glowing surface the numerous ensigns of the various chiefs. Here were

the lofty _triremes_, the men-of-war, whose progress through the water

was effected by oars alone—while from their bows projected the _émbola_

or hostile beaks, the iron-sheathed prows which often transfixed the

vessels of the enemy—corresponding to the Roman _rostra_, which, when

captured, adorned the stand of the orator as well-earned trophies. Here,

too, were the lower, flat-bottomed transports, or merchant-men, who,

lacking the numerous oars of the many-banked war ships, accelerated

their sluggish course by sails. Here the _cheniskos_, the carved goose

upon the bows, floated in its native element, seemingly in advance and

the guide of the following vessel. At the bows and stern were sheltering

decks; in the open centre, tier above tier, rose the seats of the

laborious rowers, increasing in number as the greater height and longer

sweep of the oars required more hands to control them. Here were

distinct, the laboring oars-men, the officers, the sailors proper, and

the marines, who were cased in heavier armor than the infantry. Demetros

and Ganga, embarked in a transport, stood upon the prow watching the

quiet progress of the fleet. Immediately in front of them was a vessel,

whose loftiness and numerous banks of oars would have sufficiently

indicated its warlike character without the distinguishing mark of the

brazen helmet which gleamed at the mast-head. The sides were protected

by walls of hide, designed to shelter the combatants in battle from the

missiles of the enemy—the sharp beak of metal cut with scarce visible

ripple through the water—the sides were painted with gay colors—the

_parasemon_, the figure-head, carved upon the bow representing the

threatening fangs of a serpent—behind, rose the lofty stern, and on it

was sculptured the guardian image, the tutelar deity of the ship. Here

the carved _Poseidon_ the Grecian Neptune, god of the whole expanse of

ocean, rose as it were from his watery abode, which sparkled in the wake

of the vessel beneath him. The shaggy monarch, with beard as coarse as

the _algae_ of his native waters, drawn, with upright trident, in his

sea-shell car, coursed over the foaming breakers, his stern visage

softened by the presence of the lovely Aphrodite (Venus,) her name

representing her birth (_Aphros_—from the foam of the sea.) Attendant

_Eros_, with fatal quiver, nestles beside her, and with loosened cestus

she guides by her charms the will of the aquatic king. Tritons and

nymphs sport gayly in their train. To him the mariner sacrifices, for

“——Where’er he guides

His finny coursers, and in triumph rides,

The waves unruffle and the sea subsides.”

The fugitives as they stand gazing upon the fair scene converse of these

old Hellenic _myths_, and talk of the power of Zeno, who is the Grecian

Brahma. No sound is now heard but the soft breeze upon the water and the

measured sweep of the oars, keeping time with monotonous beat to the

song of the _trieraules_, the ship’s musician, as he encourages the

rowers with the old legends of the Trojan war, as narrated by the prince

of bards, the blind Chian, Homer, ever the favorite of Alexander. The

plashing oars respond and chime with

“Achilles’ wrath to Greece the direful spring

Of woes unnumbered.”

Chime with the Ilian chant of the “crest-waving Hector,” and “Ares the

sacker of cities.”

Absorbed in the charm of the harmony and the soft Grecian rhythm, they

stand intent and heed not the passage of time until a silvery light

recalls their attention to the rear, and there, beyond the bright track

of the moonbeams, appear the low shores and forests of India, dim in the

distance, fast sinking beneath the horizon.

* * * * *

“——————————Behold

Where on the Ægean shore a city stands,

Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil;

Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts

And eloquence————

See there the olive grove of Academe,

Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird

Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;

There flowery hill Hymethus with the sound

Of bees’ industrious murmur, oft invites

To studious musing;——————

——————Within the walls then view

The schools of ancient sages; his who bred

Great Alexander to subdue the world.

Thence what the lofty, grave tragedians taught,

High actions and high passions best describing.

Thence to the famous orators repair,

Those ancient, whose resistless eloquence

Wielded at will that fierce democracy,

Shook the arsenal, and fulmined over Greece.

To sage philosophy next lend thine ear,

From heaven descended to the low-roofed house

Of Socrates; see there his tenement,

Whom well-inspired the oracle pronounced

Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth

Mellifluous streams that watered all the schools

Of Academics old and new——————.”

* * * * *

It is the 15th of the month Bœdromion, when commence the Eleusinian

Mysteries—the greater mysteries celebrated alone in the city of

Cecrops—those sacred rites founded by Demeter herself (the Grecian

Ceres) when wandering in long search for her daughter Persephone, she

was kindly received and entertained in Attica, when she rewarded their

hospitality by giving them the fruits of the earth, and these holiest

and noblest institutions of the Hellenic religion. What parent bends to

take a farewell of his wife and child ere he departs to perform his

duties of _dadouchos_, or torch-bearer, to whom alone it was permitted

to marry? The golden-hair of the Grecian father mingles with the dark

locks of the woman and her son as they unite in the parting embrace. She

is not of the _Autocthones_, no child of the soil, or she would join her

husband in the initiation. Far other rites has she early bowed to in the

flowering forests of India—these she has changed for Grecian faith, but

yet yearns for something purer—may she not hope for it? Faith ever

rules all hearts more or less, and often most the weakest—thus to the

most erring child of earth is given return and repentance—thus to the

feeblest soul the sublimest trust is granted. Will not Demetros “point

to other worlds and show the way” for Ganga?

Curious the mother and the delighted child have watched day by day the

progress of the Eleusinian, observed during the nine days festival,

Demetros leading the procession. That first night he had entered the

holy of holies—that mystic temple he had entered crowned with

myrtle—there, pure and cleansed from sin, washed with holy water, he

had listened to the reading, the exposition of the holy mysteries, from

the rigid leaves of the stone volume which contained the divine

inspiration—then followed the long processions in which the child might

one day join, but never the foreign mother—the pilgrimage to the

sea-shore for purification—the fasting and sacrifice—the sacred

procession with baskets of pomegranates and poppy-seeds, borne on a

wagon drawn by oxen—the torch procession to the temple at Eleusis—the

bearing of the image of Jachus, the son of Demeter, and on the night of

the sixth day the final initiation, the entrance into the lighted

sanctuary, where they beheld what was permitted to no other eyes. But

why cannot the mother share in the Dionysiac festival, the nocturnal

orgies of Bacchus? Educated under the stern rule of temperate Brahmins,

this principle of continence would be alone sufficient to restrain her,

where she not also withheld by that innate modesty which belongs to

every child of nature.

It is evening, and two persons recline in the cool shade on the summit

of Mount Anchesmus, near the temple of Jupiter. A child sports round

them occasionally, withdrawing their attention from the contemplation of

the red-tinged top of the _Acropolis_, the silver stream of the Ilissus,

the murmuring Cephissus and the maritime port of Piræus, where the waves

of the Ægean mingle their solemn roar with the hymns of the sailors, the

buzz of the populous city, and the strains of the tortoise-formed lyre.

The sun is slowly sinking in the west, with the clear radiance peculiar

to happy Greece, but, as it seems to the mother, with less majesty than

when it dipped its burning orb, as into Lethe’s wave, in the

lotus-filled waters of the Ganges. Solemnly they converse of their happy

youth when all things to come wore ever brightening hues, when future

deeds surrounded them like the stars now emerging countless from the

night. And now the _aulic_ tones whisper softly in the ether around

them, filling all things with sweet melody, and catching the ear of the

listening child; recalling to Demetros the period of infancy, when in

like manner at eventide he had raised his head from the lap of his

mother; to Ganga the time when, in the protecting arms of Nikaiyah, she

had hearkened to the notes of the Indian nightingales.

Sadly Ganga speaks of them as those she shall never behold. Hopefully

the Eleusinian priest unfolds his faith in immortality—pure and sweet

fell his words on her mind, when divested of Brahmin superstition, as

the placid moonbeams now silvering his golden locks and kissing the brow

of the sleeping infant. Here was no hideous transmigration to pass

through atoning, but all was clear and blessed as the innocent period of

childhood—there, where the starry points showed glimpses of the radiant

heaven, they would rejoin, in the happy company of the gods, their

friends now made immortal. There, as true Olympians, enjoy the happiness

of the blessed.

Their prophetic eyes seem to behold in the misty future the deified

reclining, on the golden-clouds which cap the hill of Musaeus. Silently

descend the shades of evening on the city of Athens, and on the pair as

they muse on the mount by the temple of Jupiter.

* * * * *

Centuries have passed since the times of Elephantum and Eleusis. The

“eye of Greece” now desolate, still courts the shade of Hymethus—the

suns rise and set no more on the home of the Arts and the Muses—no

longer gild the morning rays a glittering _Acropolis_—no longer chime

the _aulic_ notes with the song of the Chian-Homer. Still wanders the

Brahmin, no longer at Elephantum, in India’s groves alone, unchanged

amid the changing scenes around him. Still flows the Ganges, the

mightiest of eastern waters.

* * * * *

=MEMORY’S CONSOLATION.=

=BY W. W. HARNEY.=

When the beauteous rose of morning

Wears her diadem of dew,

And the foot-print of the zephyr

Rests upon the waters blue;

When the moon is softly waning

’Neath the morrow’s ruddy light,

And the cool breath of the morning

Fans the jeweled brow of night;

When the maiden morning blushes,

As it wakens from repose,

And the jealous zephyr brushes

Off the dew kiss from the rose,

Then I watch the starbeams fading,

As the light comes up the sky,

Until with the morn they whisper

That the loved one still is nigh.

When the god of day is shining

As it rides a car of light,

When the glory of the mid-day

Wears a crown of purest white—

When a train of breathing flowers

With their incense load the air,

And the breath from southern valleys

Tell of all things bright and fair;

When the snowy clouds are floating

In the summer’s sunny sheen,

And the splendor of the mid-day

Adds a glory to the scene—

Then I wander sad and lonely

’Mid the beautiful and fair,

For my soul is still with Mary,

And I feel her spirit there.

When the gentle hour of evening

Wears her robe of blue and gold,

And the castles, plains and valleys

Are in airy clouds unrolled;

When the night-birds trim their plumage,

And the flowers meet the dew—

When the moonbeam greets the sunset

In her home of crimson hue—

When the sunset and the moonlight

Are commingled into one,

Like to molten gold and crimson,

When the gorgeous day is done—

Then I think ’t is heaven’s portals

Brightly glowing in the west,

And my lost one seems to beckon

To the regions of the blest.

When the cold and fearful midnight

Wears her coronet of jet,

And a jeweled veil of darkness

Round the form of earth has met—

Or the frowning clouds are tossing

The disheveled hair of night,

And the angry lightning flashes

With a fitful, fearful light—

When the night is dark and stormy

As the passions of the soul,

And the knell of fleeted glories

Echoes in the thunder’s roll;

When the lurid lightning flashes

With its angry light above,

It is naught I see beyond it

To my lost, my early love.

* * * * *

=WE LAID HER DOWN TO REST.=

=BY C. C. BUTLER.=

The summer winds were lightly strung,

The golden eve drew near,

The gentle zephyrs sweetly sung,

To call from us a tear;

Oh! sadly sweet that mournful strain

That called her to the blest,

As ’neath the green and fertile plain

We laid her down to rest.

The smile of love that rested there

Upon her blooming cheek,

Doth shine in that bright world of prayer,

Where angels only speak.

We look to see that face in vain—

That gentle heaving breast—

But ’neath the green and fertile plain

We laid her down to rest.

That gentle voice is hushed in death—

She closed her weary eyes—

While angels watched the parting breath,

And took her to the skies.

Yes! Death, to break the golden chain,

Appeared a welcome guest—

And ’neath the green and fertile plain

We laid her down to rest.

* * * * *

=THE PEDANT:=

=OR CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE SPENT PARTLY IN CAROLINA.=

=BY HENRY HOLM, ESQ.=

(_Concluded from page 167._)