CHAPTER I.

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXIV. April, 1849. No. 4.

Table of Contents

The Poet Lí

The Naval Officer

Victory and Defeat

To Mother

On a Diamond Ring

The Recluse. No. I.

Rome

The Missionary, Sunlight

Thermopylæ

Lost Treasures

The Brother’s Temptation

The Unsepulchred Relics

Reminiscences of a Reader

The Gipsy Queen

The Brother’s Lament

Sonnet to Machiavelli

The Darsies

The Unmasked

Mormon Temple, Nauvoo

Rose Winters

The Zopilotes

History of the Costume of Men

The Beautiful of Earth

Wild-Birds of America

Jenny Lind

Storm-Lines

Review of New Books

Editor’s Table

Adieu, My Native Land

Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze LE FOLLET _Robes de M^{me.}_ Bara Bréjard,

_r. Laffitte, 5—Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass du Saumon, 21_. _Fleurs

de_ Chagon ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81—Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul

2^{bis}_ 8, Argyll Place, Londres. Graham’s Magazine ]

[Illustration: D. Bydgoszcz, pinx. A.L. Dick

THE BRIDGE & CHURCH OF S^{T}. ISAAC.]

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

* * * * *

VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1849. NO. 4.

* * * * *

THE POET LI.

A FRAGMENT FROM THE CHINESE.

BY MRS. CAROLINE. H. BUTLER, AUTHOR OF “RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA,” “MAID OF

CHE-KI-ANG,” ETC.

PART I.

Do not draw upon you a person’s enmity, for enmity is never

appeased—injury returns upon him who injures—and sharp words

recoil against him who says them.

_Chinese Proverb._

On the green and flowery banks of the beautiful Lake Tai-hoo, whose

surface bears a thousand isles, resting like emeralds amid translucent

pearl, dwelt Whanki the mother of Lí. _The mother of Lí!_ Ah happy

distinction—ah envied title! For where, far or near, was the name could

rank with Lí on the scroll of learning—receiving even in childhood the

title of the “Exiled Immortal,” from his skill in classic and historical

lore!

Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, while the antelope

that fed among the hills was not more swift of foot. Who like Lí could

draw such music from the seven silken strings of the Kin! or when with

graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto the

well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens opened their ears

to listen, for wonderful was the ravishing harmony.

Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this youthful disciple of

Confucius, poverty came also with her iron hand, and although she could

not crush the active mind of Lí, with a strong grip, she held him back

from testing his skill with the ambitious _literati_, both old and

young, who annually flocked to the capital to present their themes

before the examiners. For even in those days as the present, money was

required to purchase the smiles of these severe judges. They must read

with _golden_ spectacles—or wo to the unhappy youth who, buoyant with

hope and—_empty pockets_, comes before them! With what contempt is his

essay cast aside, not worth the reading!

Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Lí—and what wonder—to know that he

might safely cope with any candidate in the “Scientific Halls,” yet dare

not for the lack of _sycee_ (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace

might fall upon him.

Yet Lí was of a merry heart—and, as all the world knows, there is no

better panacea for the ills of fortune than the spirit of cheerfulness.

Thus, although poverty barred the way to promotion, it could not

materially affect his happiness—no more than the passing wind which for

a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no power to move its

depths.

Now it happened that one day taking his nets Lí went down to the lake,

and as he cast them within the waters, not knowing any one was near, he

broke forth into a merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to

the lips of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to “ride on the curled

clouds.” Now it also chanced, that within a grove of the graceful

bamboo, which skirted the path down which Lí had passed on his way,

walked the great Mandarin Hok-wan.

“_Hi!_ by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well!” he exclaimed, as

the song met his ear, (for, as we have said, Lí had a voice of rare

melody,) and forthwith issuing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated

himself upon the bank and entered into conversation with the young

fisherman.

If the mere melody of the voice had so charmed the mandarin, how much

more was he captivated by the wit and learning of the youth, who, thus

poorly appareled, and humbly employed, seemed to share wisdom with the

gods! Hok-wan stroked his eye-brows in astonishment, and then bidding Lí

leave his nets, he bore him off as a rare prize to his own house, where

he that day feasted a numerous company.

First conducting Lí to an inner apartment, he presented him with a

magnificent robe richly embroidered, together with every article

necessary to complete the toilet of a person of distinction, and when

thus appareled, introduced him into the presence of his guests. And

truly Lí walked in among them with all the stateliness and hauteur of a

man who feels that he is conferring an honor, instead of being honored,

as no doubt Lí should have considered himself, in such an august

assemblage of grave mandarins. With what an air he seated himself at the

sumptuously loaded table! where, according to Chinese custom of the

higher classes, the various dishes of meats, soups, fish, preserves,

etc., were all nearly hidden by large bouquets of beautiful flowers, and

pyramids of green leaves.

And now no sooner had Hok-wan delivered with all customary formality the

speech of welcome, and drained to the health of his guests the tiny

goblet of crystal, embossed with gold, than rising to his feet, and

joining his hands before his breast, in token of respect to his host, Lí

called a servant, and bidding him take a part from all the good things

spread before him, said:

“Carry these to the dwelling of Whanki, the mother of Lí. Say to her

that as the sands on the lake shore, countless are the blessings of the

gods, who have this day smiled upon her son. Bid her eat—for although

from hunger he should gnaw his flesh, and from thirst drink his blood,

yet not one morsel of this banquet shall pass the lips of Lí unless his

aged mother be also sustained by the same delicacies.”

At hearing which, all the mandarins, and Hok-wan himself, loudly

expressed their admiration. Such is the esteem which the Chinese

entertain for filial piety.

This duty discharged, Lí attacked the dainties before him like a hungry

soldier, yet seasoning all he said and did with so much wit and humor,

that the guests laid down their chop-sticks and listened with wonder.

With the wine, Li grew still more merry—his wit cut like hail-stones

wheresoe’er it lighted, and at his jovial songs the grave dignitaries

forgetting their rank, (somewhat washed away by copious draughts of

_sam-shu_,[1]) snapped their fingers, wagged their shorn heads, and even

rising from the table embraced him familiarly. At length, when after an

interval of a few hours their hilarity was somewhat abated, during which

the guests walked in the beautiful gardens, or reclining upon luxuriant

cushions, regaled themselves with their pipes, or in masticating their

favorite betel-nut, Lí made bare his bosom before them, and to their

astonishment they found it was only a needy scholar whose praises they

had been shouting.

_A needy scholar!_

How firmly they clutched their fobs, lest a _candareen_[2] might jump

into the pocket of the needy scholar. But of advice they were as profuse

as grass-hoppers in August.

“Go to the capital—go to Kiang-fu,” (Nankin the ancient capital of the

empire,) “thou wilt perplex the learned—thou wilt bewilder the

ignorant!” said one.

“_Hi!_ this fellow Lí will yet stand with honor before the emperor,”

cried another.

“Appear boldly in the ‘Scientific Halls’ before the Examiners,” said a

third, “and never fear but thy name shall be cried at midnight from the

highest tower in the city,[3] as the successful Lí, with whom no other

candidate can compete!”

“When the wind blows over the fields does not the grass bend before it!”

said Hok-wan. “When the great Ho speaks will not inferiors obey! the

learned academician Ho is my brother—to him then you shall go—one word

from him, and even the judges themselves shall cry your name.”

“Ivory does not come from a rat’s mouth, or gold from brass clippings,”

thought Lí, as he listened to these remarks—“a few candareens now would

be better for me than all this fine talk—truly I must be a fool not to

know all this stuff before. Yet by the sacred manes of my ancestors, I

_will_ go to the capital, and that, too, ere another sun ripens the

rice-fields—furnished with a letter to the illustrious Ho, I may dare

admittance.”

Giddy with wine, and with the excitement of high hopes for the future,

at a late hour Lí was borne in a sumptuous palankeen to the humble

dwelling of Whanki.

The poor old soul at first knew not the gay gallant who stood before

her, so much had the gift-robes of the mandarin changed his appearance.

“_Heigh-yah!_ but, Lí, thou art as fine as a magpie,” quoth she, raising

her head from the pan of charcoal, over which she seemed to be simmering

something in a small dish—“_Heigh_—and now I look at you again, I see

you have drank of that cursed _sam-shu_—forever abhorred be the name of

I-tih![4] with all thy wit dost thou not know the wise saying of

Mencius—‘_Like a crane among hens is a man of parts among fools_.’ (It

may be inferred, I think, that the good old Whanki was something of a

scold.) And while thou hast been guzzling, see what I have prepared for

thee—what had _I_ to do with birds-nest soup, and with shark’s fins,

and with pigeon’s eggs from the table of Hok-wan! My poor Lí will be too

modest to eat with the great company, I said to myself, and I will not

eat them, but warm them up to comfort him when he comes back—look, here

they are,” (lifting the dish from the fire) “and yet thou comest home

like a well-fed, stupid swine!”

“Now tu-h, mother,” answered Lí, “if thy son has been drinking with

fools, they wore fine feathers—and now embrace me, for I am going to

the capital.”

“Lí, thou art drunk—go to bed—the capital indeed! Ah cursed, cursed

I-tih!” exclaimed the old woman.

But when at length Lí convinced her that he was neither drunk nor crazy,

but in reality about to start for Nankin, as a candidate for honors in

the Scientific Halls, and with a letter to the great Ho in his pouch,

Whanki knocked her head reverently before the shrine of the household

gods in token of gratitude.

The remainder of the night was passed in preparations for the journey,

and just as the golden ripples of the lake danced in the rays of the

rising sun, Lí tenderly embraced his aged parent, and set forth on foot

for Nankin, more than a hundred miles distant.

“Ah, the blessed bug,” quoth the old woman, gazing after him so long as

she could catch a glimpse of his large bamboo hat, “he will not want for

rice any day—no _sycee_ has he in his pockets, but such a tongue in his

head, as will bring him food and honors.”

Whanki was right. In every hamlet he passed through—in every cottage by

the wayside, Lí found a shelter and a welcome—the good people

considering themselves amply repaid for their hospitality if the young

stranger would but touch the strings of the _pipa_, or recite to them

odes from the Shoo-king.

In this manner he reached the capital, and crossing the marble bridge

over the great canal, upon the eastern side, entered the city at the

Gate of Extensive Peace. Going into the first barber’s shop which

offered, Lí carefully plucked _out_ his beard, (hear this, ye exquisites

of modern days!) shaved his head anew to the crown, and plaited his long

black hair with red ribbons. Then entering an adjoining tavern, he

exchanged his dusty, travel-worn garments for the rich dress presented

him by Hok-wan, which he had preserved with great care for the occasion,

and holding up his fan, to shield his eyes from the sun, stepped forth

into the busy streets, to look for the dwelling of the illustrious Ho.

And next, within the Hall of Ceremony, in the elegant mansion of Ho,

behold Lí in the presence of the great man himself—for with the same

audacity which marked his behavior at the dinner of Hok-wan, had Lí

given the door-keeper a vermilion card, leading Ho to expect a visiter

of rank. Advancing three steps to meet him, Ho bows low to his stranger

guest—then with graceful ease Lí also advances three step, and bows

still lower—Ho again gravely steps forward and makes another

salutation—upon which Lí again does the same—with a still lower

bending of the body, Ho once more advances—whereupon Lí, nearly

touching the marble pavements with his forehead, steps forward yet

another three steps! By this time their united and solemn paces had

brought them near the couch upon which visiters are expected to repose

themselves. And here again the same formalities were gone through with,

as to who should first be seated thereon. But _being_ seated, Lí at once

burst forth with such a flow of wit and fancy, that Ho was completely

captivated ere he knew the name or business of the daring youth!

Now this was a capital stroke of Lí. For the academician cared not so

much for any dignitary under the Emperor Supreme, as he did for a man of

learning, or even for one who could tickle the moments as they flew with

witty jests, provoking laughter. Ho saw at once that Lí not only

possessed this recommendation, but that his knowledge could also ring on

as many topics as there were bells to the Porcelain Tower. When,

therefore, he had perused the letter of Hok-wan, which, after securing

his ground, Lí put into his hand, and after having listened to the

history which the youth gave of his hard struggles, of his poverty, and

earnest desire to come before the judges on the day of examination, than

Ho, embracing him, bade him be of good cheer.

“Now, by the sacred Budha!” he exclaimed, “learning like thine shall win

its crown without the aid of propitiatory gifts, save to the gods

themselves. Know, O Lí, that Yang and Kau, who enjoy the smiles of the

great emperor, are this year the examiners. To them shalt thou go, with

no favor but my name—humble as it is, it shall cause thine to be

enrolled among the _literati_ of the Imperial Academy!”

No doubt Ho manifested great vanity in this, in so much as hinting that

his “_humble_” name could balance with gold in the scales of avarice!

Nevertheless Lí was delighted, and immediately set about piling up such

a cloud castle as spread over his whole heaven of glory.

And now the day of examination approached, and confident of success, Lí

boldly presented himself for admission.

Offering the memorial of Ho, which was to insure him, as he supposed,

the favor of the judges, he was much surprised to see those great men,

Yang and Kau, after turning over the missive with elevated noses,

expressive of their contempt, cast it from them with scorn.

“_Heigh!_ the academician Ho thinks to cheat us with bubbles! He sends

us a scrawl devoid of meaning, to bespeak our favor for an upstart

without degree or title! Yes—_we will remember the name of Lí!_” Saying

which, they cast looks of bitter disdain upon the needy scholar.

Then commenced the tedious formula of the examination. The candidates,

hundreds in number, were all obliged to undergo the strict search of the

officers in attendance. Their robes, pockets, shoes, and even their

nicely plaited queues were examined, to see they had not secreted some

essay or composition of some kind, which they might substitute for one

written on the spot without preparation, when the examiners should

command them. This done, they were all seated on long benches with their

paper and pencils ready for the trial—the doors and windows in the

meanwhile being closely barred and guarded, that no one from without

should have the power of smuggling any written paper into the hands of

the students.

At a signal-gun the theme for composition was given out, and, like the

velvet feet of butterflies, the pencils of the rival candidates glided

smoothly and fleetly over the tinted paper. With perfect composure and

ease, Lí wrote off his essay in the most beautiful characters, without a

single erasure or omission—handling the subject with great skill and

judgment, and gave it into the hands of Yang.

“_Heigh!_” said Yang, without giving himself even the trouble to glance

over it, but drawing his pencil derisively over the fair and beautiful

characters, “I remember the name of Lí! What stuff is here—why the

fellow is only fit to grind my ink!”

“To grind your ink!” quoth Kau, “say rather he is only fit to lace my

buskins!”

And laughing loudly at their own wit, the great judges Yang and Kau

turned their backs upon the unfortunate Lí.

Overwhelmed with mortification and rage, he rushed to the lower end of

the hall, and there was obliged to remain until evening, as not until

then could the doors be thrown open to give egress to any one. Here he

had the vexation of listening to the jibes and sneers of those around

him, and of seeing others promoted to honors, who were as far inferior

to him as owls to eagles! What a bitter day for poor Lí! and when at

length dismissed with renewed contumely from the Scientific Halls, he

rushed into the presence of Ho, swearing loudly that he would one day

ride over the necks of the proud Yang and Kau, “and by the head of

Confucius when I do—_Yang shall grind my ink, and Kau lace up my

buskins!_” he cried with bitterness.

Ho was terribly indignant at the treatment of his _protégé_, as well as

incensed for the insult he imagined his own dignity had received. But,

although he was himself high in favor with the emperor, Yang and Kau

stood still higher, therefore he dissembled his anger, lest his head

might pay the forfeit, should those two powerful courtiers incense the

emperor against him.

When he found Lí preparing to return home, he embraced him kindly, and

bade him tarry yet another year in the capital.

“In the end thou wilt surely succeed, O Lí. The next year the examiners

will not be the same, and thou may’st then be certain of success,” said

Ho. “Remain with me until the time comes round—thy days and nights

shall roll off bright and rosy as morning clouds—wine, wit, and music,

yes, and the smiles of women, shall make thee forget the insults thou

hast received.”

But Lí remembered his aged mother, sitting solitary in her humble home

by the side of the lake, and his resolution strengthened.

“Know, O Ho, that an old mother waits for Lí afar off. Summer and

harvest will come, but Whanki has no one to sow her rice, and desolation

will sit in her dwelling. The fish sport and gambol amid the waters of

the lake—Whanki has no strength to draw them forth, therefore hunger

and death will await her! What profit, O wise Ho, should I gain if my

aged parent suffered! Would not the gods curse the race of Lí!”

“Noble youth, take this purse—it is heavy,” exclaimed Ho—“hasten to

relieve the necessities of thy mother—a happy mother in so dutiful a

son—then return without delay and await the examination. I promise

thee, thou shalt not this time lack a present for the greedy

judges—though, by Budha, I would like to give it them at the dagger’s

point!”

Accordingly Lí bade farewell to his generous friend, promising to return

as speedily as possible.

-----

[1] A deleterious liquor distilled from rice.

[2] A Chinese coin.

[3] The custom of announcing the names of the successful candidates at

the examination.

[4] The god of intoxicating liquors.

PART II.

A man who has a tongue may go to Rome.

_Chin. Prov’b._

Within the “Tranquil Palace of Heaven,” Hwant-sung sat upon the Dragon’s

Throne, with all his court prostrate before him.

There was evidently “something rotten in the state of Denmark,” for the

clouds which veiled the august features of the Celestial Monarch were

black as night—thunder might soon be expected, and low in the dust his

humble courtiers awaited the outpouring of his terrible wrath.

Before his footstool knelt the Premier Yang, bearing in his hand an

official document inscribed with curious hieroglyphics.

“By my ancestors,” exclaimed the emperor, with a wrathful look from one

to the other of his trembling courtiers, “a wise court is sustained by

the bounty of Hwant-sung! say rather a pack of idiots, asses, dolts,

fatted dogs! What! shall we become a jibe in the mouths of foreign

nations! Shall barbarian kings mock the court of Nankin! _Hi!_ Is there

not one then of my learned counsellors—not one of my renowned warriors

can decipher me this scroll! Tremble, then, ye hounds! Yang, I command

thee to make known to us the purport of the missive which the foreign

ambassadors have brought to our court.”

At this order well might Yang turn pale—for there was no more meaning

to him in the characters on which his eyes were fixed, than in the slimy

trail which the green lizard draws upon the sand. Over and over he

turned it—now on this side, now on that—watched narrowly and jealously

meanwhile by all around—for when was one high in favor with princes

also the favorite with the mass! At length, nine times reverently

knocking his head before Hwant-sung, Yang said:

“Let not the displeasure of Earth’s Glory, before whose frown the whole

world stands affrighted, annihilate his slave that the gods have not

granted him power to do the will of his majesty in this thing. He cannot

read.”

Then did Hwant-sung call up one after another of those whose scholastic

lore was famed throughout the empire. In vain. Not one could understand

the mysterious scroll. At which, becoming exceeding wroth, Hwant-sung

swore that unless within three days his ministers could make known to

him the signification of the embassy, their _offices_ and _salaries_

should all be taken from them—and if in six days they were still in

ignorance, their _death_ should release the empire from so many stupid

owls!

Then did the academician Ho humbly present himself at the foot of the

throne.

“Will the emperor deign to open the ears of graciousness while the

humblest of his slaves speaks? Know then, O mighty sovereign, there

arrived last night at my house a man in whom all knowledge seems to

centre. His mind, keen as the lightning, penetrates the most hidden

mysteries—there is no science, no art, which he hath not already

mastered. Command then that he appear before thee to make plain that

which doth perplex thy majesty’s servants.”

Hwant-sung rejoiced greatly at this information, and bade Ho bring the

learned scholar at once into his presence.

But when Ho, eager with joy, related to Lí the good fortune he had

secured him, that audacious youth positively refused compliance with the

commands of the emperor! offering as an excuse, that as he was but a

poor scholar, without title or degree, he dared not presume to appear

before so much majesty.

With this answer then the unhappy Ho returned to the palace, not

doubting but the rage of Hwant-sung would vent itself not only upon Lí,

but also upon himself.

Kneeling before the monarch, Ho exclaimed reverently—

“Will your majesty once more graciously listen. At the last examination,

this man of whom I have spoken was turned from the Scientific Halls in

disgrace—his essay rejected by the Premier Yang and the General Kau.

Will it then please thee to bestow some favor upon Lí, that he may with

more propriety come into this august presence?”

“It shall be done,” exclaimed the emperor. “We confer upon Lí the title

of Doctor of the first degree, together with the purple robe and yellow

girdle. Go bring him before us.”

With this mark of royal patronage, Ho retraced his steps with all the

alacrity of a lover, and made known to Lí the gracious favors of the

emperor, supposing, doubtless, that the student would rejoice as one

long blind now suddenly restored to light, or as a famished man at a

feast. But lo! coolly putting on the robes of office, as if he had but

just cast them aside, with the air of a prince, Lí signified to the

great academician Ho his readiness now to obey the mandate of the

emperor.

Entering the hall of audience with all the grace and ease of a man bred

in courts, Lí advanced to the throne, and after paying the customary

homage, rose to his feet and looked proudly around upon the assembly of

grave men and gallant courtiers.

The knees of the Premier Yang smote each other, as he recognized the

youth he had treated with so much contumely now suddenly brought into

notice—and well did Kau now _remember the name of Lí_—and it seemed as

if hot pins tore his flesh, into such agitation did that name now throw

him.

Hwant-sung received the new doctor with condescension, and placed in his

hand the document which he was required to make plain.

But Lí, casting a meaning glance upon Yang and Kau, said:

“Can an indifferent scholar like myself presume to know more than these

learned men! Know, O mighty emperor, thy servant was deemed unworthy of

favor by thy commissioners Yang and Kau—surely, then, they must be more

wise than Lí.”

Charmed with the boldness of the youth, the emperor graciously smiled

upon him, and motioned the two mortified examiners to withdraw.

Then standing erect, his head thrown back, yet in an attitude of

careless ease, Lí opened the important missive, and without even

glancing his eye over it to understand more fully its nature, read it

aloud from beginning to end, in a clear, melodious voice.

It proved to be a demand from the king of Po-Hai, couched in the most

insulting language, requiring the emperor to restore a part of Corea,

consisting of no less than a hundred and eighty towns, and also

demanding tribute from the time of its “_usurpation_” (as the memorial

expressed it) by the Emperor of the Tang Dynasty. Thus, but for the

skill of Lí, the empire would have been plunged in irretrievable

disgrace through the ignorance of its ministers.

The countenance of Hwant-sung grew black as midnight as he listened to

this insulting claim, and but for the bold remonstrance of Lí, he would

have ordered the bearers of the embassy to instant death.

“May it please your majesty to summon the boorish ambassadors before

us,” cried Lí boldly, “I will myself confer with them, and teach them

how to respect the mighty Emperor Hwant-sung.”

Immediately, therefore, the ambassadors were brought before Lí, who

conversed with them in their own language with the same haughty bearing

as if he himself were emperor, interpreting as he did so to the

indignant Hwant-sung. At length Lí dismissed them, saying:

“To-morrow his sovereign majesty, to whom your prince is but an

earth-worm, will indite an answer to your insulting embassy. Retire—and

tremble as ye walk! Thank the gods that the gracious emperor deigns ye

to live.”

The audience chamber rang with acclamation, as the ambassadors

obsequiously withdrew in compliance to the orders of Lí, and all the

courtiers pressed forward to compliment the young doctor—while the

emperor, embracing him, conferred upon him at once the rank of

academician, and ordered apartments to be prepared for him in the palace

of the Golden Bell.

With continued graciousness, he also directed a sumptuous banquet to be

got in readiness, and at which all the learned men and wits of the court

were expected to appear. Wine was poured for the guests by beautiful

young girls of the “_golden lilies_”[5]—ravishing music swept around

them, while at intervals of the feast, the emperor sent from his own

apartments a choice theatrical corps for their entertainment.

Now did it seem that all the trials of Lí were over, his poverty but a

dream long past, and that now upon the pinnacle to which his ambition

had pointed from early youth, he stood ready to hurl back in the teeth

of his enemies the disgrace which, only a few months before, they had

heaped upon the name of Lí.

The feast wore on even into the night—the wine circulated freely, and

in the same breath the courtiers exalted the name of the emperor and of

the young academician. What wonder that under the attendance of such

charming cup-bearers Lí should have drank more freely than was

consistent with his new dignity! How from such hands could he resist the

tempting goblet!

The result was, that when the next morning the emperor repaired to the

Hall of Audience to treat with the embassy from Po-Hai, the academician

Lí was not in attendance—nay, did not make his appearance until after

being twice summoned by royal mandate!

The courtiers with whom Lí had feasted the night previous, shook their

heads and looked significant. The Premier Yang and the General Kau

resumed their usual boldness of demeanor, for no doubt this upstart,

this vagabond Lí, would find the anger of their Celestial Monarch more

than his head was worth—decapitation would certainly follow such

contempt of royalty!

To be _twice_ summoned—what audacity!

At length Li walked carelessly into the hall—his dress somewhat

disordered, and his feet thrust negligently into slippers. But for those

who were hoping his ruin, what rage to see the emperor not only extend

his own royal hand in signification that he would raise him from the

ground, but also condescend to inquire after his health!

“I think, learned doctor, the wine was to thy fancy, yet methinks the

fumes are still troubling thee! Ere we proceed to our public duties I

would have thy wits clearer.”

Saying which, Hwant-sung ordered a plate of hot-spiced fish-broth to be

brought from the royal kitchens, that its effects might dissipate the

evils of last night’s debauch.

And when with unprecedented condescension their sovereign even took the

chop-sticks, and himself cooled it for the palate of Lí, amazement

almost turned them to marble.

When his majesty deemed the senses of his new favorite sufficiently

restored, the ambassadors were summoned into the hall.

Upon the top of the platform, near the foot of the “Dragon’s Throne,”

was placed, by the order of Hwant-sung, a cushion or divan of the

Imperial Yellow, embroidered with gold and silver, and upon a tablet

formed of mother-of-pearl, and richly set in a band of emeralds, was a

cake of perfumed ink—a sheet of flowery paper—a hair-pencil set in a

gold tube, together with a small _jade_ stone, with which to rub the

ink.

Waving his hand condescendingly to Lí, the emperor spoke: “Ascend the

platform, learned doctor, and repose thyself upon the cushions at my

feet, while I indite to thee our answer to these slaves.”

“May it please your majesty,” replied Lí, “my feet are not in proper

dress to approach so near the ‘Glory of the Earth.’ Will it please thee

to command new buskins to be brought thy servant, that he may with

decency ascend the platform.”

This bold request was no sooner proffered than it was granted. And then,

with a significant glance to the spot where stood Yang and Kau, pale

with rage and envy, the audacious Lí again addressed the emperor:

“The humblest of thy slaves would not be officious—but he has one more

request to lay at the feet of his gracious sovereign. At the examination

this year, thy servant was repulsed by Yang, and turned from the

Scientific Halls in disgrace by Kau! Will it therefore please thee to

command the Premier Yang to _grind my ink_, and the General Kau to _lace

my buskins_!”

Never, perhaps, was an audience-chamber so insulted! Even the awe which,

in the presence of the Celestial Monarch, rendered the courtiers less

men than jackals, failed in this case to suppress a murmur of

indignation which passed from one end of the hall to the other.

But Hwant-sung, well pleased to punish the injustice of his

commissioners, immediately ordered them both to approach and do the

bidding of Lí!

To disobey was death. They wanted courage to die, therefore preferring

disgrace, they obsequiously advanced. Kneeling, _Kau laced the buskins

of Lí_, who then ascended the platform, and while reclining at his ease

upon the soft cushion at the feet of the emperor, Yang stood at his side

assiduously _rubbing his ink_!

Thus did Lí accomplish his revenge, and triumph over his enemies!

Taking the pencil, he now, with rapid and easy strokes, proceeded to

indite the answer, which the emperor vouchsafed to the Po-Hai embassy,

and while he did so, Hwant-sung bent over him in astonishment, beholding

the characters which he traced with so much rapidity to be identical

with those which had so perplexed his court.

Then standing erect upon the right hand of the “Dragon’s Throne,” in

clear distinct tones, Lí read aloud the imperial answer—the ambassadors

trembling with fear as they listened.

“And now return,” exclaimed Lí, “and teach your king that foxes may not

war with lions, nor the cuckoo steal into the eagle’s nest! He is like a

vexed grasshopper striving to combat the mighty chariot about to crush

him, or like a fly in the jaws of the dragon! When the mighty

Hwant-sung, at whose name fear sits in the hearts of all nations, shall

send a handful of men to seize upon the petty territory of Po-Hai, blood

shall flow a thousand _li_!”[6]

Kneeling reverently before the throne, and knocking their heads in token

of submission, the ambassadors then withdrew to relate to their king

that the “Celestial Empire was upheld by an Immortal from the skies!”

who stood ever by the throne of the Dragon, and to whom all men did

reverence.

From that day the star of Lí was in the ascendent, and for many years he

enjoyed the undivided confidence of the emperor, and attained a rank in

the scale of letters, which renders the name of Lí celebrated in Chinese

literature. Many volumes of his beautiful poems and other works are

still preserved in the Imperial Libraries.

-----

[5] Small feet.

[6] Leagues.

* * * * *

THE NAVAL OFFICER.

BY WM. F. LYNCH.

(_Continued from page 164._)

Mr. Gillespie and his daughter had retired below when the sweeps were

gotten out, and had now returned to the deck. Unconscious of danger,

they looked admiringly upon the shining and beautiful scene. Nearly

abreast the island of Porto Rico, in full view, lay basking in the beams

of the setting sun, the dark, rich green of its luxuriant growth of

cane, here and there varied by groves of the cotton-tree, amid which

were seen clustering the settlements of the planters. Astern, but

farther distant, Cape Engano stretched far to seaward, while inland,

ridge over ridge, wooded to their summits, rose the picturesque

mountains of St. Domingo. The numerous vessels in sight, mostly running

before the wind, varying in size, in rig, and in the color of their

canvas, enlivened the view, while nearer, the frigate in her towering

proportions was borne majestically toward them.

“Oh, Edward! what a glorious sight!” said the maiden to her lover, who

had stepped to her side, as she gained the deck. “Look, father! look at

that splendid ship, doesn’t she cleave the waters ‘like a thing of

life?’ But what is the matter, Edward? You are silent, and seem

dejected, do tell me?”

“In a moment, dearest,” he whispered, as he left her to approach the

captain, who had beckoned to him.

“Mr. Talbot,” said the last, “my little craft is in great peril, and

less than an hour must decide her fate. The Spaniard will not be silent

much longer, and I advise you to get the passengers below.”

“I was about to propose it,” replied Talbot, and returning to Miss

Gillespie’s side, said, “summon your fortitude, Mary, the ship which you

admire so much, is a Spanish frigate, and is endeavoring to capture the

vessel we are in.”

“Oh, how unfortunate! and will they harm us? Can they hurt you and

father and Frank? Good God! what is that?” and she shrieked as the ship

luffed to the wind, and fired a shot, which went plunging across the

bows of the schooner.

“Come below, dearest! come quickly! Help me, Mr. Gillespie, for she has

nearly fainted.”

The maiden and her father were conducted to the most secure place below,

when, resisting the entreaties of his mistress, Talbot returned to the

deck, which Frank had refused to leave.

At the first report of the frigate’s gun, the captain had called out,

“Edge her away, quarter-master, keep her off a point; let the guns

alone,” he added, addressing some of the crew, “let them be, it would be

worse than useless to fire them—the ‘Bird’ must now trust to her wings

alone.”

The little vessel was in fact at the very crisis of her fate. The last

shot had told that they were within reach of the guns of the enemy; they

felt that their only avenue of escape was through a gauntlet of fire,

and that the loss of a single spar would certainly insure their capture.

It seemed perfect madness for such a wee thing to abide the wrath of the

huge leviathan, panoplied in thunder, and possessing almost the power of

annihilation. But, in the forlorn and desperate hope of sustaining the

enemy’s fire for a few moments, without material injury her captain

steadily pursued his way, but cut his anchors from the bow, and threw

four of his guns overboard. If the wind had been light, the schooner’s

chance would have been a fair one; but the breeze instead of lulling,

seemed to freshen as the sun went down. As it was, however, there was a

bare possibility of escape, for already the little vessel, lightened of

so much weight, began to increase her velocity—still there was an

abiding, a stunning fear of being sunk or disabled by the broadside of

the frigate. The latter had already opened her fire, and near the chase,

the fierce, iron hail had fairly lashed the water into foam, but the

schooner was yet materially unharmed, when a voice more potent than that

of gunpowder, hushed the loud artillery.

Unobserved by either, a light and fleecy speck, more like a wift of

smoke than a fragment of a cloud, had risen over the land, and swift as

a meteor shot across the sky. It was what sailors term a “white squall,”

and it had caught the chaser and the chased wholly unprepared. Almost

simultaneously it struck them both. The frigate's fore-mast and

main-topmast went by the board, and every sail that was set, was blown

into perfect shreds. The “Humming Bird,” light and resistless, felt the

blast but to succumb before it—she was whirled over and capsized in an

instant. A number of the crew, entangled in the sails and rigging were

immediately drowned. The remainder clambered to the upper-rail, to which

they clung with the tenacity that endangered life. In a paroxysm of

anguish, Talbot had thrown himself down the cabin-hatchway as he felt

the vessel going over, and at imminent hazard had rescued Miss

Gillespie, but her father and the servant-maid perished. Frank had been

saved by one of the seamen, who held him firmly with one hand, while

with the other he clung to the shrouds.

As soon as the survivors were assured of their immediate safety, they

looked around to see if there were any hopes of being rescued from their

position before the night set in. The frigate had driven past them, and

under a single after-sail was hove-to, clearing her hull of the wreck.

To the westward, distinct in the reflected light of the sun, which had

descended, were several vessels again unfolding to the breeze the canvas

which they had wisely furled to the passing gust. Some of the larger

ones were again standing boldly out to seaward, while the others like

affrighted wild-fowl, were hovering toward the shore. They were all too

distant, and the air was fast becoming too obscure for them to see the

wreck, or the unfortunate beings who were perched upon it.

On the first recovery from her swoon, the grief of Miss Gillespie for

the loss of her father was almost inconsolable. It required all the

endearment and entreaties of her lover and her brother to prevail on her

to struggle against the spasms which threatened her very existence.

The survivors strove to cheer each other, but the indiscreet cry of one

that he saw the fin of a shark cleaving the surface of the water, led

them to fear that they were environed by yet greater peril. In about two

hours the moon arose, and her clear, chaste light silvered the crests of

the waves, as they curled to the now gentle breeze. She had risen scarce

more than her diameter, when the watchers on the wreck discovered two or

three dark objects which seemed to creep upon the water. Their hopes and

their fears were equally excited, but presently they heard the splash of

oars, and they knew them to be boats from the frigate. As eager now to

be taken as before to escape from capture, by shouts and cries they

attracted the notice of those who sought them. They were soon removed to

the frigate; the lady and her brother being led to the cabin, and the

remainder, including Talbot, promiscuously confined on the lower deck.

Under jury-foremast and new main-topmast, the frigate was the next

morning standing under easy sail, along the southern side of St.

Domingo.

Repeatedly but ineffectually Talbot had endeavored to convey a message

to Miss Gillespie, and spent the night in sleepless anxiety on her

account. He knew not into whose hands she had fallen, and whether her

youth and beauty might not, in the hands of unprincipled men, tempt to

ruffianly treatment. Her brother was with her, it was true, but although

spirited, he was young and feeble compared to the strong men around him.

Early in the morning, Talbot had asked to see the officer of the watch.

He was told that he could not communicate with any one but through the

officer of the marine guard, who would not make the rounds for three or

four hours. Talbot impatiently waited for him, and it seemed an age

before he made his appearance. When he did so, and was told that Talbot

wished to speak to him, he superciliously asked, “Well, sir, what do you

want?”

“I wish,” replied Talbot, “to communicate through you to the commander

of this ship, that I hold a commission as lieutenant in the navy of the

United States, and that with the family of Mr. Gillespie, I was a

passenger on board of the privateer.”

“This is a singular tale,” remarked the other, incredulously; “have you

any proofs of your identity—where is your commission?”

“I haven’t it; with all my baggage, it was, unhappily, lost in the

schooner.”

“This seems incredible,” said the officer, “your dress, too, does not

indicate the position you claim.”

“I am aware of it,” replied Talbot, “for I scrupulously avoided wearing

any part of my uniform, that in appearance even, I might not be classed

among the complement of that unfortunate vessel. But here is her

commander, who, as well as his crew, will bear testimony to what I say.”

“Let them answer for themselves,” was the abrupt reply. “If they escape

being hung as pirates, they will fare well.” After a moment’s

hesitation, he added, “I will state what you say to Count Ureña, our

commander, although I do not myself believe it; but let me advise you

not to rely upon the evidence of these wretches,” pointing to the

prisoners, “if you have no other proof you will fare badly.” As he said

this, he turned upon his heel and walked away, Talbot with difficulty

restraining himself from throttling him for his coarse, unfeeling

rudeness.

Again, hour after hour passed away in fruitless anxiety. Every step upon

the ladder which led from above, exciting a thrill of hope, only the

instant after to be crushed in bitter disappointment. At length, about 2

P.M., an orderly, with a file of marines came to conduct him to the

commander. With alacrity he obeyed the summons, and when he reached the

gun-deck, from habits of association, he felt cheered at the sight of

the long lines of massive artillery, the stacks of muskets here and

there, surmounted with their bristling bayonets, and the bright sheen of

the sharpened cutlases. As the cabin-door was thrown open by the sentry

stationed there, he cast a quick and searching glance around the

apartment, in the hope of seeing his betrothed. She was not there, and

but for the guns projecting from either side, he could not have realized

that he stood in the cabin of a man-of-war, so rich was its furniture

and so gorgeous its decorations. Gracefully festooned across its entire

width, and partially concealing the white and highly polished

lattice-work of the after-cabin, was a deep curtain of crimson

embroidered and fringed with gold. On either side, in the recesses

between the guns, were magnificent couches canopied and covered with the

same material, intertwined with white. Between the forward and the after

gun, on each side, were collections of flowers and fragrant plants. A

large mirror in an arabesque frame, was inclined over a rose-wood

sideboard, laden with massive plate and a profusion of crystal. A richly

chased silver lamp was suspended over a table, the cover of which was of

white cloth, like the curtain, fringed with gold. Around were a few

rose-wood chairs, and from several cages were heard the cheerful and

melodious notes of canary-birds. The deck was covered with the finest

matting. On the couch, in the recess to the left, was seated a man of

middle age and rather delicate features, except the chin and under lip,

which were massive and sensual, and a peculiar glance of the eye, which

gave a sinister aspect to an otherwise singularly handsome countenance.

He was spare in figure, and to a casual observer, even as he sat, it was

perceptible that he stooped, and his whole appearance indicated a

frequent participant in the orgies of dissipation. Before him stood the

officer of marines, who had just made his official report. At a signal

from the latter, Talbot advanced toward the count, who said, “I

understand, sir, from the officer of the guard, that you declare

yourself to be a lieutenant in the navy of the United States, but that

you have no evidence to sustain you. How can you expect me to credit the

assertion of a stranger under such suspicious circumstances as you must

admit your present position to be?”

“You have a lady on board, sir, my affianced bride, who, with her

brother, is here under the same circumstances with myself, they will

tell you that I am not an impostor.”

“Your affianced bride,” said the count, not heeding what he had last

said, “you are then the friend for whom she has been so restless and

uneasy?”

“I knew that she would be so,” replied Talbot; “may I ask now to see

her, that she may corroborate what I have said?”

“Not so fast,” exclaimed the count, “that you have gained the affections

of the young lady is no proof of your being what you profess, indeed,

you may have won them under an assumed name and character.”

“It ill becomes you, sir,” cried Talbot, highly incensed, “it ill

becomes you to insult a man who for the time being is in your power; but

I warn you that if I, or those with me, are unnecessarily detained or

harshly treated, you will be held to a severe accountability.”

“And by whom, sir,” exclaimed the count, turning pale with rage, “by a

man who has no other vouchers to a most improbable tale, than a horde of

pirates, a mere boy, and a love-sick maiden?”

“The proofs are sufficient, sir, for any impartial mind, but I see

plainly that you have some purpose in seeming to disbelieve them—what

that purpose is your conscience best can tell.”

“What mean you, sir, by this insolence; but I know how to curb and to

punish it!”

“Insolence! and punish!” contemptuously answered Talbot, “those are

words used by cowards when addressing slaves. I defy alike your malice

and your power. You may maltreat me, but a day of reckoning will surely

come. I demand to see Miss Gillespie and her brother,” he added, as his

ear caught the sound of stifled sobs in the after cabin.

The count pulled a bell-rope by his hand, and at the summons, the sentry

who had admitted him, opened the door and looked in, while from another

door, the steward entered and stood obsequiously by his master. The

latter, pointing to the door, said,

“Mr. Manuel, take out your prisoner and confine him apart from the rest;

sentry, let them pass.”

Talbot hesitated a moment, and then said, “I am unarmed and helpless,

and it would therefore be madness to resist you—but, in the name of

humanity, I ask you, can you listen unmoved to the distress of the

unhappy lady within there; as a man, an officer, and a nobleman, I

appeal to you in her behalf. She has recently lost her father, as you

know, and, save myself, her young brother is now her only protector.”

“She will be sufficiently protected, sir, without your

interference—take out the prisoner, Mr. Manuel.”

The above conversation had taken place in Spanish, which Talbot spoke

fluently, but when he found that for some sinister purpose, he was not

to be permitted to see Miss Gillespie, he advanced toward the

lattice-work and called out in English, “Mary, dear Mary, be upon your

guard! Frank, do not leave your sister for a moment; I fear that she is

in the hands of a villain.”

“That I will not,” cried the boy, who vainly tried to force the door,

while his sister sobbed convulsively.

The count, who, although not understanding the language, comprehended

the import of the words, with a gesture of frantic impatience, motioned

the officer to lead his prisoner away.

Talbot, satisfied that the danger was lessened by the timely warning he

had given, without resistance, submitted to be led from the apartment.

When left alone, the count remained for some time in a thoughtful

attitude. “If I could but speak their horrid language,” he said,

soliloquizing with himself, “or if she understood mine, I should

certainly succeed, for as to this would-be bridegroom, I can easily get

rid of him, and of the brother also, if he prove intractable. Let me

see! can I trust Gonzalez? From the expression of his eye sometimes, as

well as from his never speaking of her, I fear that he knows all about

his unhappy sister; and yet I must trust him, or abandon all, for he is

the only interpreter we have. There is no help for it; I cannot give up

the game so freshly started—but I will be wary and watch him closely.”

He slightly touched the bell, “Send Gonzalez to me,” he said to the

attendant, who obeyed the summons. A few moments after, a young man of

23 or 24 years of age entered the apartment, and bowing to the count,

awaited his commands in silence. From his spare figure, he looked taller

than he really was. His hair and moustaches were glossy black, curling

in their rich luxuriance. His eye-brows, thick and bushy, formed one

continuous arch, and the eye beneath, black and lustrous, was soft and

subdued in its ordinary expression, but at times, in a single glance,

would convey a startling idea of latent but indomitable energy. His

features were almost femininely regular, and his voice musically clear

and sweet. The count’s fears were not without foundation; his secretary,

for such was the position of Gonzalez, knew his sister’s wrongs, and

like a true Spaniard, thirsted for an opportunity to revenge them. His

commander scanned him closely where he stood for some minutes, the young

man at first returning his gaze with a look neither too humble, nor yet

audacious, and then deferentially turned his eyes in another direction.

“What is the matter, Gonzalez? You seem of late unusually taciturn and

moody.”

“I think, señor, that my health is suffering from long confinement to

the ship. I need recreation on shore.”

“What mean you by long confinement—were you not on shore repeatedly

last month in Havana?”

“No, señor! If you will recollect, I applied several times to go, but on

each occasion you had important letters or despatches to write.”

“Did you hear from home before we sailed?” and the count’s look became

intensely riveted upon him.

The young man slightly colored, “I heard indirectly, señor, that all

were well.”

“From whom?”

“From a muleteer who resides in the adjoining village.”

“Did he give you any particulars?”

“None, señor, worth relating.”

The count paused. He was dissatisfied, yet feared that by further

questioning he might excite the very suspicions he wished to repress.

Assuming a bland and conciliatory tone, he said, “I have been to blame,

Gonzalez, and will make amends. When we reach port, you shall have ample

opportunities to recruit on shore. Should you need funds, consider my

purse at your service.”

“Thanks, señor! my salary is more than sufficient for all my wants.”

“Well, should you be in need, remember my offer; but come nearer, I have

now something confidential to impart. You are aware that the lady

brought on board last night is now in the after-cabin.”

“I am, señor.”

“One of the prisoners, doubtless an impostor, assumes that she is his

betrothed. I wish you to see her and ascertain how she is affected

toward him.”

“It is needless, señor. At the invitation of Lieutenant Flores, I

accompanied him in his boat last night, and in rescuing the prisoners

from the wreck, witnessed how tenderly that lady clung to the man you

speak of.”

“It may have been the convulsiveness of fear!”

“If so, señor, it would have subsided with the occasion that gave it

birth; but it continued to the last, and while she evinced for the lad

the solicitude of an elder sister, she seemed to regard the American as

her chosen and sole protector.”

“How were they separated?”

“I understood, señor, by your orders,” replied the youth with an air of

surprise.

“I mean,” said the count, somewhat confused, “how did they bear it?”

“He was at first disposed to resist, but a moment after submitted with

an air of stern resignation.”

“And she?”

“She at first seemed bewildered, and could not comprehend the purport of

the order; when she did so, she implored her lover, for such he must be,

not to desert her, but after he had whispered a few words to her, she

too submitted, and with such meek gentleness as moved the hardest hearts

to sympathy.”

“Sympathy,” exclaimed the count, reddening; “where there is no real

distress, there can be no occasion for its exercise. In common humanity,

I am bound to protect her from the acts of an impostor.” There was a

slight twitch of the secretary’s upper lip, but he said nothing.

“At all events, I wish you to converse with her, Gonzalez. Try if you

cannot reconcile her to a short separation from her lover, and assure

her that as soon as I am satisfied that he is what he represents

himself, he shall be free.”

The secretary bowed in acquiescence, and the count rising, led the way

into the after-cabin. It was fit for the boudoir of a queen. A carpet of

the richest Persian dyes and softest texture was under foot. Except in

front, the whole apartment was lined with fawn-colored tapestries; the

windows framed into the after ports had party-colored curtains of fawn

and cherry colors. An ottoman and several chairs were covered with

embroidered damask corresponding to the tapestry; a small, richly-carved

book-case was filled with handsomely bound books. There was a pair of

globes upon stands, and a harp, a guitar, mirrors and candelabra, with a

few small but exquisite paintings completed the equipment of this cell

of a Sybarite.

With disheveled hair, and eyes inflamed with weeping, in all the

abandonment of grief, Miss Gillespie lay with her head upon her

brother’s breast, who, as the door was opened, threw his arms around, as

if more perfectly to protect her. With a courteous air, and all the

finished breeding of an artificial gentleman, the count advanced and

paid his respects through the medium of the interpreter. “Had she

sustained no injury from the accident of the night before? Had she

recovered from her alarm? Had she slept well? Could he do any thing for

her?”

The three first questions she answered in monosyllables. At the fourth,

she made an effort to speak, but maiden bashfulness overcame her, and

she looked imploringly to her brother. The youth construed her feelings

rightly, and said,

“We wish, sir, to see our friend, Mr. Talbot, who was, with us, a

passenger in the schooner.”

“At present it cannot be,” answered the count, “but when we reach

Havana, he will doubtless prove his character, and then you can be again

united, but,” addressing her, “so much beauty should not be marred by

untimely grief. A few days more and your friend will be restored to

liberty. Here I cannot make any distinction between him and the other

prisoners. Let me therefore entreat you, Miss, to dry up your tears, and

let a smile once more wreath itself upon your lovely cheek.”

“Say to him,” asked Miss G., of the interpreter, “that I am in deep

affliction. Yesterday I lost my father, and now, when I am most

helpless, I am by his act,” (she looked toward the count) “separated

from the friend whom that father had chosen as my protector through

life. I am therefore in no mood to listen to compliments, which would be

ill-timed from any one, most of all from him.”

The count stifled his vexation and said, “I beg pardon for this

intrusion. I will await a more seasonable time to express my sympathy

and make a proffer of my services;” so saying, he withdrew, desiring

Gonzalez to remain and gather the particulars of their history.

An unprincipled man, in his sphere possessing almost unlimited power, he

felt himself baffled by an unarmed prisoner and a helpless maid. “Till

now,” he said to himself, “I thought Dolores beautiful, but her features

want the intellectual grace and harmony of this northern houri. At all

hazards, she must be mine. If all else fails, the drug must be resorted

to. It is certainly the speediest and I know not but that it is the

best; but I am neglecting my first precaution.” He rung the bell for the

steward, a dark, swarthy Italian, with the body of a man surmounted on

the legs of a dwarf.

“Domingo,” said his master, “go into the secret passage and watch

Gonzalez, who is now with the lady. Note every thing that he does, and

try to gather the meaning of what he says.”

The steward obeying, disappeared through a panel that opened with a

spring.

In about half an hour, Gonzalez came forth from the inner cabin, and

stated what he had learned of the prisoners, which, as there was no

concealment, is precisely what is known to the reader. When he had

retired, at a peculiar signal from the count, the panel noiselessly flew

open, and the steward reappeared before his master. His account was any

thing but satisfactory, and the count’s brow was darkened with deep

mistrust, as he listened to the recital.

About sunset, Miss Gillespie, aroused by some incentive, sent to ask if

her brother and herself might be permitted to walk on the upper deck.

Assent was most graciously given, and the count himself escorted her.

Finding that she would not converse, and that his presence was evidently

irksome to her, he smothered his chagrin, and after a few turns, left

the orphans to themselves.

It was an hour and a scene fitted to captivate the eye and refresh the

soul; and such was its soothing influences, that Miss G. frequently

found her mind wandering from the contemplation of the perils which

environed her. The night previous, the ship, driven before the blast,

was whirled with resistless velocity along a bed of seething foam. Now,

the gentle wind borne from the land, wafted fragrance on its wing, and

the sea, slightly ruffled, seemed to enjoy the refreshing embrace of its

sister element; the ship, too, under a cloud of canvas, snow-white and

full distended, pressed majestically on, the spray, like fairy fret-work

curling and combing beneath the bow and the rippling wake sparkled in

the rays of the setting-sun. The gorgeous western sky was tinged with

the hues of crimson and gold; the south was a boundless expanse of blue,

the island of St. Domingo, lofty, picturesque and beautiful, bounded the

northern and eastern horizon. The land, but little cultivated, seemed

fertile in the extreme, and was covered with lofty and umbrageous trees,

the tangled and luxuriant undergrowth seeming so interlaced as even at

high noon to intercept the light of the sun. The near mountains were

covered to their very summits with verdure, not the tawny verdure of a

northern clime, but the brilliant green of the tropics, while the

loftier mountains wreathed their bald and craggy tops with the clouds

that floated in the distance.

The sun had gone down and the moon was up: still Miss Gillespie paced

the deck with her brother. It was evident that she had some purpose in

view, and by those who watched her, she was observed to cast frequent

and furtive glances around. At length a figure that had been stealthily

gliding along under the shadow of the bulwarks to leeward, suddenly

stepped beside her, and whispered, “Lady, I have endeavored to see him,

but failed. Some time tonight I will surely succeed. In the meantime

there is but one resource. Take this powder, and when you go below,

dissolve it, and take a part yourself, giving the remainder to your

brother. If you would be safe, neither of you should sleep a wink

to-night. Be careful of what you eat or drink. But, hush! there is a

man’s head raised above the rail—he has been observing us. I must

away—but do not forget this.” He handed a small folded paper as he

spoke, and immediately disappeared.

Miss Gillespie had brought a book on deck with her, and by occasionally

seeming to read it, had at first given a pretext for remaining. Into

this book she inserted the paper, and soon after turned to leave the

deck, when some one brushed rudely against her, and the book fell. The

person, who, in her confusion she did not recognize, instantly picked it

up, and in seeming eagerness to return it, let it fall a second time.

Frightened almost beside herself, Miss G. now snatched it up and hurried

below. Unfortunately, the paper was not to be found. So dreadful seemed

the fate before her, that with difficulty she restrained herself from

shrieking aloud. Frank cheered her all he could, although he had but a

faint conception of the danger. They determined to deny themselves food

and liquids of every description, hoping thereby to avoid the

administration of an opiate. Alas! they knew not the infernal arts of

the demon in human shape, who had them in his power.

That evening, as was his wont once a week, the count supped with his

officers in the ward-room, and he remained until near midnight; but in

the meantime his diabolical agent had not been idle.

About 11 o’clock Frank and his sister were sensible that they were

inhaling an aromatic and fragrant vapor. At first they enjoyed it; but

it soon occurred to them that they were fast becoming drowsy. With

desperate exertions they endeavored to force the doors, or to obtain

assistance by their loud and vociferous outcries. The breeze had

unfortunately freshened on deck, and there was much tramping and running

overhead, so that they were unheard, or if heard, unheeded. One would

suppose that this agitation and fear would have proved an antidote to

the insidious effects of the drug; but no! gently, imperceptibly, they

felt their systems relax; they soon began to wonder at their alarm; a

delicious langour enthralled them, and as volume after volume of the

scented vapor rolled into the apartment, they surrendered themselves to

its influence, and pressed in each other’s arms, were soon wrapped in a

profound and insensible sleep.

About an hour before, Talbot, to whom the night previous had been a

sleepless one, although racked with anxiety, had fallen into a light and

fitful slumber, when he was instantly aroused by a hand being laid upon

his chest, and a voice whispering in his ear, “Do not speak, but follow;

imitate my motions as exactly as you can. For God’s sake be cautious,

you know not how much is at stake.”

The speaker, who was lying beside him on the deck, then rolled over

toward the hatchway; but when the sentry turned in his round, he

remained perfectly still. This he repeated, slowly and cautiously;

Talbot followed his example, until they reached what sailor’s term the

combings of the main-hatch, i.e. the elevated pieces around it, to

prevent the water from running into the hold. He there waited for some

time until he saw the sentry loiter at the furthest end of his round,

when he quickly threw himself down the hatch, and crept on one side out

of sight. As soon as Talbot had done the same, he led the way among the

casks and barrels. When they had proceeded a little distance, he

whispered, “The master’s-mate of the hold, who is a fellow-townsman of

mine, had this passage opened for me to-day. Had he refused, and he

hesitated for a long time, that villain in the cabin would inevitably

succeed in his plans.”

“What plans?” eagerly asked Talbot. “I know not who you are, or whither

you are leading me—explain.”

“You will soon know me; but let it content you now that I lead you to

save your mistress. But that I feared the interference of that ruffian,

the steward, I would have gone alone.”

“Lead on, then! lead quickly!” said Talbot, his fears strongly excited.

They resumed their way, groping along in the dark, and taking every step

with the greatest caution. In a short while they distinguished the faint

light admitted from the deck above through the fore-hatch. As soon as

they had gained this opening, Gonzalez, for it was he, taking the

opportunity when the sentry was furthest off, and had his back toward

him, sprung quickly up, and blowing out the light in a lantern which

hung to an upright timber, immediately returned to Talbot’s side. As was

anticipated, the sentry, supposing the light to have been extinguished

by a flurry of wind, took the lantern down, and proceeded to the

main-hatch, to relight the lamp. As he did so, they both, unperceived,

succeeded in gaining first the gun and then the upper-deck. Then

separating, each one quietly and undetected reached the quarter-deck,

and again rejoining each other, they slipped through a port-hole to a

narrow platform outside, called the main-chains, and there, in intense

anxiety, concerted their future movements, for the most perilous part of

their enterprise was yet before them.

CHAPTER III.

The convivial party in the ward-room had been broken up by a squall, and

with the other sea-officers, the count had repaired to the quarter-deck.

For a short time the wind blew with violence, and was succeeded by a

heavy fall of rain. In less than an hour there was a perfect calm, and

the sails flapped sluggishly against the masts as the ship moved with

the undulations of a light ground-swell.

In the cabin, the solitary lamp, suspended from a beam, through the

gauze-like vapor shed its soft light upon the rich and costly furniture,

and revealed the forms of the sleepers, whose deep breathing alone

proclaimed their existence, so immovable was their position—so much

deprived did their bodies seem of the watchful guardianship of the

spirits within them. The faint and silvery light, the attenuated vapor,

the fragrant odors wafted from the flowers in front, the boy, with his

noble brow undimmed by sin or sorrow, the lovely maiden, one arm upon

her breast, and one clasped around her brother, formed an atmosphere and

a group in and around which angels might love to linger. But a serpent

had stealthily glided in, and the count, with maddening pulse and

gloating eye, looked upon his unconscious victim. Incapable of any

feeling but that of a hardened libertine, no thought of the dire ruin he

was about to inflict for one instant stayed his purpose. As the spider,

after weaving its web, contemplates the struggles of the entangled fly,

before clutching to devour it, so he stood, reveling in anticipation on

the sensual feast before him. At length he approached, he gently

touched, then breathed upon, and called them by their names, and then

more rudely shook them. As he anticipated, they neither heard nor heeded

him. The stillness was death-like and profound. He removed the boy from

the girl's embrace, and she lay resistless at his mercy. For an instant

longer he paused; he fondled her hand, he played with her tresses; he

stooped to kiss her moist and parted lip.

The fiend-like purpose was frustrated: a crashing blow descended upon

his head, and he rolled over and fell senseless on the deck. With one

foot upon the prostrate form, and the massive bar again uplifted, Talbot

stood over him, while from the doorway Gonzales looked on.

“Hold!” said the last, as Talbot was about to repeat the blow, “Hold!

another stroke may finish him, and that is a task reserved for me

alone.” He advanced as he spoke, and proceeded to examine the wound. “It

is a very severe contusion,” he added a moment after, “and if it had

fallen a little more direct, the blow would have been a fatal one. He is

now wholly insensible, and unless my skill in surgery fails me, he will

remain, for some days at least, in a perfect stupor. It is most

fortunate. We need not now attempt an escape, for no one can suspect us,

and before he recovers, we shall probably be in Havana. Let us place him

in his room and retire; the vile, pandering steward will not dare to

enter during the night, and in the morning, I will be hovering near. It

is useless, no human efforts can awake them now,” he added, as he saw

Talbot endeavoring to arouse the maiden: “but they are safe, and that

they may continue so, we must not lose a moment.”

With a sigh, Talbot relinquished the hand of his mistress, which he had

clasped within his own, and, pressing his lips to her fair forehead,

turned to assist Gonzalez in removing the wounded man. They then effaced

all traces of their presence, and retired as they had come, through the

window of the quarter-gallery.

The next morning the table in the forward cabin was spread for

breakfast; the steward, in passing to and fro, grinned leeringly as from

time to time he looked toward the after cabin. One of the midshipmen of

the watch came to report 8 o’clock. The steward tapped lightly at the

state-room door, but receiving no reply, and not presuming to disturb

his master, took it upon himself to report to the officers that the

count said “Very well”—the usual reply. By 9 o’clock, he began to be

uneasy, not that he apprehended any thing to have happened to his

master, but that the lady might awake before the count had left her

apartment. At the lattice-work, and to the key-hole of his master’s

door, he alternately placed his ear. At the last he thought that he

distinguished a deep and smothered breathing; at the first he could hear

no sound whatever. Satisfied that his master was in his state-room, he

felt more easy.

At 10 o’clock, the wonted hour, the drum beat to quarters for

inspection. When the first lieutenant came to make his report, the

steward intimated that the count was indisposed.

“Has he directed that he should not be disturbed?” asked the officer.

The steward admitted that he had not.

“Have you been summoned to him in the night?”

“No, sir!”

“Then I must make my report.” He advanced to the door and knocked, at

first gently, and then louder and more loudly still. There was no reply;

and the officer, turning the bolt, to the surprise of the steward, the

door yielded to his push, and flew open. (That their mode of entrance

might not be suspected, Gonzalez had unlocked it before retiring.) The

count was found with his wrapper on, lying in a profound stupor, the

blood clotted thickly over the wound he had received. The orphans were

buried in a sleep which the surgeon pronounced unnatural; and the

steward was suspected of having drugged them, and afterward attempted

the life of his master. This miserable wretch was thrown in irons as the

supposed murderer of the man in whose contemplated villainy he had been

a willing and a free participant.

Light and baffling winds detained the frigate, and on the evening of the

fourth day after the incident above related, she had just cleared the

windward passage, and with Cape la Mole astern, was standing along the

northern shore of Cuba, for the port of Havana. The count had laid in a

comatose state since his accident, and his constant heavy breathing and

frequent moans, showed how much pressure there was upon the brain, and

how much he suffered. In the course of this day his respiration had

become more regular and less oppressive, and about 3 o’clock in the

afternoon, he awoke to consciousness and a sense of pain. By degrees his

recollection returned, and after making a few inquiries, to the surprise

of every one, he ordered the steward to be released, and again summoned

in attendance upon him. These two, the master, just rescued from the

grave, and the servant who would have found an ignominious one had his

master died, conferred for a long time together. After questioning his

steward closely, the count said, “I am satisfied, Domingo, that it was

not from your hand that I received the blow. I left you in the forward

cabin, you could only have entered on the starboard side, and in that

direction my head was turned, and I must have seen you. The blow was on

the other side—probably from some one secreted there. Were you at any

time absent from the cabin, after I went to the ward-room?”

“Not an instant, señor!”

“It is strange! Could he have entered by the quarter-gallery?”

“It must have been so, señor, although I can discover no marks.”

“I suspect Gonzalez,” said the count; “indeed, I am sure that he has

been concerned, but then he had not the vigor to deal such a blow. That

hateful American must have been the man. I will be deeply revenged!”

Late that afternoon, as Talbot, sitting aloof from the other prisoners,

was grieving that Mary’s persecutor had recovered his faculties before

the arrival of the ship in port, and from which he feared the most

serious consequences, he was accosted by the master’s-mate, who said, in

passing, “Courage, my friend, you will soon be at liberty—take a cigar

to cheer you.”

Talbot thanked him, and was about to decline, when he caught the eye of

the officer, and noticed that he pushed a particular one out from the

small bundle he held in his hand; Talbot took it, and watching his

opportunity, opened his cigar unobserved. It contained a small slip of

paper within its folds with these words. “We are strongly suspected, if

not discovered; I know it from the searching examination I have

undergone. We must fly and reach Havana before the ship if possible. Be

on the alert for any opportunity that may present to slip up the

main-hatch ladder, near which I will be hovering. Do not hesitate! Here

you are absolutely within the power of the tyrant. He will throw you

into the Moro Castle as soon as we arrive, and before your case can be

investigated, months must elapse, and in the meantime, the lady will be

lost to you forever.”

This note agitated Talbot exceedingly. It was agonizing to think of

leaving Mary and her brother in the hands of their unprincipled captor;

and yet, from his own experience thus far, he felt sure, that if he

remained, he would be kept separated from her, and most probably

confined in a dungeon until her ruin was completed. His only consolation

was, that the count could not recover sufficiently to renew his

nefarious designs before the ship had reached her port of destination.

This consideration determined him to make his escape if possible.

There had been some water heated in the coppers, (anglice—boiler,) for

the purpose of giving the count a prescribed bath. It so happened that

while the cook’s attention was drawn another way, a piece of meat was

thrown in, which rendered the water greasy and unfit for its destined

use. The master’s-mate was therefore directed to have more drawn from

the hold. Accordingly he came upon the lower or birth-deck, and as he

stepped from the ladder, said, sufficiently loud for Talbot to hear, who

was reclined beside it, “Look out!” and passed immediately on. The

latter, taking the hint, but uncertain how to apply it, remained for a

few moments in great suspense, when the master’s-mate called the sentry

forward to hold the light for him. As the latter moved forward, Talbot

availed himself of the opportunity, and instantly hurried up the ladder,

although yet uncertain if such were the plan concerted by his friends.

He was very soon assured, however, for nearly abreast of him, from the

shadow between two of the guns, a figure advanced a few steps and

immediately retired again. It proved to be Gonzalez, and together they

clambered out over one of the guns, and found themselves by the small

skiff of the privateer, which had been saved and hoisted up immediately

under the anchor in the waist. Fortunately, the wind had hauled nearly

ahead, and with the yards sharp-braced up, the ship was sailing

sluggishly along, with her head rather diagonally inclined toward the

shore.

“We must remain quiet here,” whispered Gonzalez, “until some movement be

made on deck, in the noise of which we can lower the skiff undetected.”

The wind was gradually freshening, and the ship began to plunge with the

increasing swell. After a while the topgallant-sails were taken in, but

it was an operation so quickly performed, that before the boat was

lowered half the distance it was suspended from the water, the noise

ceased, and they were obliged to hold on. In about half an hour after,

which seemed to them an almost interminable space of time, they were

cheered with the welcome order,

“Man the main clew-garnets and buntlines,” preparatory to hauling up the

mainsail. As the men ran away with the ropes, and clued and gathered the

large and loudly flapping sail to the yard, Talbot and Gonzalez lowered

the boat, and casting her loose, the ship passed by without any one

observing them and was soon lost to view in the obscurity of the night.

They had exchanged apprehended evils from human malignity for instant

and appalling danger. The moon, struggling through a bank of clouds and

shorn of her brilliancy by the opposing mist, cast her furtive beams

upon the fretted sea. Instead of the prolonged and easy swell of the

mid-ocean, the gulf, as if moved by adverse tides, whirled its waves

about like some huge Briareus, tossing his hundred arms in the wildest

and most furious contortions. The skiff was so light, so frail, and so

difficult of trim, that they were every moment in danger of upsetting.

The swell rapidly increased, and as they sunk into the trough of the

sea, and shut out the faint horizon, the succeeding wave overshadowed,

and its crest seemed to curl in anger above them. Sometimes a wave, like

some monster rising from the deep, looked down black and threatening

upon the tiny boat, and then rolling its seething foam along the sides,

it rushed ahead, and gathering into a mass, seemed to await her coming.

Thinly clad, and soon wet to the skin, as they rode upon the tops of the

waves, they suffered bitterly from the coldness of the wind. In the

hollow of the sea, they were sheltered one moment only to be more

exposed the next. Sometimes riding upon the broken crest of a wave, they

felt upon their bed of foam, as insignificant and far more helpless than

the gulls which, disturbed in their slumber, screamed around them. The

oars were of little service, save to steady the boat in the dreadful

pitchings and careerings to which it was every instant subjected. One

managed the oars, or sculls rather, while the other steered and

occasionally bailed. There could be no transfer of labor, for it was

certain death to attempt a change of position. Although the current set

along the land, the wind and the heave of the sea, drove them indirectly

toward it. After five hours incessant fatigue, cold, cramped and wearied

to exhaustion, they reached the near vicinity of the shore, and running

along it for about a mile, in increased danger, for the boat was now

nearly broadside to the sea, they made the mouth of a small harbor, into

which, as their frames thrilled with gratitude, they pulled with all

their might. As the peace and the joys of heaven are to the wrangling

and contumelies of this world, so was the placid stillness of that

sheltered nook to the fierce wind and troubled sea without. The

transition was as sudden as it was delightful, and with uncovered heads

and upturned gaze, each paid his heartfelt tribute of thankfulness.

On one side of the sequestered little bay, through the dim and uncertain

light, they discovered two or three huts, embowered and almost concealed

by groves of the umbrageous and productive banana, whose large

pendent-leaves waving in the wind, seemed at one time to beckon them on,

and at another to warn them from approaching. It was evidently a fishing

settlement, for there were some boats hauled up on the shore, and a long

seine was hung upon a number of upright poles. Pulling toward what

seemed the usual landing, their light skiff grated upon the pebbly

beach, and they leaped, overjoyed, upon the silent shore—silent and

mute in all that pertains to human action or the human voice, but

eloquent, most eloquent, in the outpourings of a rich and teeming earth,

and the gushing emotions of thankfulness it awakened in the bosoms of

those two weary and persecuted men.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

VICTORY AND DEFEAT.

To-day, with loud acclaim the welkin rings

In praise of deeds the shout of VICTORY brings:

To-morrow, not e’en Echo will repeat

The praise of deeds then canceled by DEFEAT.

* * * * *

TO MOTHER.

BY ANNIE GREY.

Oh! wake, my mother! wake! and hail

With me this dawning day;

Oh wake, my mother! wake and list

Thy daughter’s fervent lay.

She comes to seek thy blessing,

And to whisper in thine ear—

That warmer glows her love for thee

With every added year.

Wake, mother! wake! while faintly steal

The sunbeams pure and bright,

And playful throw around thy couch

Their most bewitching light.

For this is a hallowed day, mother!

A hallowed day to me;

’Twas at its dawn, four years ago,

That first I greeted thee.

We love the sunbeams, mother,

And wheresoe’er they rest,

We feel their sacred influence,

As though some angel guest

Concealed itself ’mid golden rays,

That from God’s holy shrine

Fall as night-dews or summer-showers,

Refreshing and divine.

We love the sunbeams, mother!

What beauties they awake,

When first from the clear eastern sky

All gloriously they break.

Oh! how the flowers delight to feel

Their warm kiss from above,

And brighten ’neath it as the heart

Beneath a kiss of love;

And merrier dance the waters,

When every ripple shows

A sparkling crown like diamond gems,

As carelessly it flows.

But wake, my mother! wake and list

The strain I have to sing;

’Tis not of these glad sunbeams,

Though joy around they fling,

But of a sunbeam brighter,

That cheers me all the while,

And never knoweth change, mother!

The sunbeam of thy smile.

How often, oh! how often,

When my heart feels lone and drear,

Its thrilling presence banishes

All thoughts of grief or fear.

How often, often, mother!

When I’ve mourned, but scarce knew why,

I’ve hailed its light, and soon forgot

The tear-drop and the sigh.

For thoughts of sadness will intrude

Upon my soul oft times;

They come and bid me ne’er forget

That there are purer climes.

And still I trust its radiance

May fall upon my soul

Through all my future hours and days,

As onward still they roll.

And, mother! oh, my mother!

When this dream of life is o’er,

When God calls back his wandering child

To Heaven’s unclouded shore,

Amid the pure and golden beams

That fall around me there,

The gentle stir of angel wings

And harp-strings softly fair,

I’ll not forget thee, mother!

Though fleeting years have flown,

But come sometimes and watch o’er thee

When thou art all alone.

Thou wilt not see me, but I’ll come

Upon the summer breeze,

Or hidden lay amid the shade

Of young, green summer leaves,

And whisper in thine ear, mother,

Of what I feel too well,

But words of mortal dialect

Can never, never tell.

I’ll whisper of my fervent love,

And breathe low thanks to thee

For all the tenderness and care

Thou hast bestowed on me.

And I shall hope to meet thee

In the sinless land on high,

Where we can lisp in tones of love

The language of the sky.

Oh! I shall be waiting, mother dear!

And watching all the while,

To greet again, with happy heart,

The sunbeam of thy smile.

* * * * *

ON A DIAMOND RING.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

Rare is the diamond’s lustre, and the mine

No richer treasure hath than yellow gold;

Yet were its jewels of a price untold,

Still dearer charms this little ring doth shrine.

Circling thy taper finger, how divine

Its lot; oft to thy fair cheek prest,

And by such contact past expression blest,

Or sparkling ’mid those sunny locks of thine!

Oh! these are uses which might consecrate

The basest metal, or the dull, vile earth;

Enhance the diamond’s price, or elevate

The clod to an inestimable worth.

Would that so dear a gem, which thus hath shone

Upon thy snowy hand, might ever bless my own!

* * * * *

THE RECLUSE. NO. I.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

In the series of papers (and they will have the rare merit of being

short) which I am about to offer to the reader, I shall not so far

follow the ill fashion of the day as to strive to be “original.” I do

not mean by this remark to signify that I shall not give my own thoughts

in my own way. But I shall not twist the English language out of all

shape and comeliness; I shall not Germanize and Frenchize and

Italianize; I shall express my ideas in the simplest possible words; I

shall always choose the Saxon rather than the Norman; I shall endeavor

to write so that “he who runs may read.” Were I a teacher of youth, I

should recommend as the best models of style Swift and Southey, Addison,

Steele, Channing, Sir James Macintosh, Irving, not Carlyle, Gibbon,

Johnson, Emerson. I set plain Nature above gorgeous Art. The epithet

“natural” conveys to my mind the highest praise of verse or prose. A

style may indeed be eminently artistic, but still appear to be natural.

I have said enough to show the manner in which I shall try to convey my

ideas. Fewer words will set forth the character of my matter.

I have no subject. I think, in my solitude, of many things. As thoughts

occur to me I put them down. Though a Recluse, and having but little

society except that of woods and fields, rocks and waters, I am fond of

contemplating the events of the hour. Many of my topics will therefore

be of immediate interest. They will at least have the charm of variety,

and my “mode of treatment,” to use an expression of physicians, the

merit of brevity.

This is sufficient introduction. Courteous reader, I salute you.

I.—THE CROTON CELEBRATION.

Of all public displays, that which affected me most deeply was the

celebration of the opening of the Croton river into the great city of

New York. A day had been appointed by the powers in being. Arrangements

were made for a mighty civic procession. It was a jubilee of Cold Water.

The Temperance Societies figured chiefly on the occasion. Those trades

which best flourish by the practice of temperance were numerously

represented, bearing before them their symbols and instruments. I

remember a printing-press on a platform, borne triumphantly along,

working as it went, throwing off handbills, on which odes were printed,

to the eager and amused crowd on both sides of the way. By the side of

that printing-press sat, in smiling dignity, Colonel Stone, as everybody

called him, then editor of the Commercial Advertiser. Kind-hearted,

conscientious, hospitable, credulous, verbose gentleman! thou art

sleeping as silently as those aboriginal lords of the soil whose lives

thou commemoratedst!

I have seen a great many multitudes, but never so quiet, so orderly, so

well-dressed, so happy a concourse as that which filled the windows and

balconies and doorsteps, and absolutely covered the sidewalks, on the

morning of the Croton celebration. Throngs of gayly clad women and

children moved merrily about; for there was not a solitary drunkard that

day in all the streets of the city to molest or make them afraid. An

individual under the influence of any liquor more potent than that which

was gushing from a thousand fountains, would have been an anomaly too

hideous to be borne. Braver than Julius Cæsar or Zachary Taylor must he

have been who dared to took upon wine red in the cup on such a day as

that.

I well remember the reflections which passed through my mind as I stood

gazing on that happy and soul-comforting scene. The treaty of peace, as

it might well have been called, establishing the North-Eastern boundary

of the United States, settling a _questio vexata_ of long continuance,

which had again and again threatened war, had just been concluded

between this country and Great Britain—thanks to the pacific

dispositions and noble talents of the negotiators. Thinking of this, as

I looked at the mighty civic array, at the procession, which was like an

endless chain of human beings, the head of it, after having traveled

through six miles of streets, meeting the tail of it, which had not yet

drawn an inch of its slow length along, below the Park—as I looked at

the smiling faces and the sporting fountains—I exclaimed to myself, How

glorious a scene is this! How much worthier of a free people than the

martial triumphs of old! A great good has been done. Energy and Skill

have effected a stupendous work. Thousands and thousands are met

together on an appointed day, to commemorate an achievement which shall

prove a blessing to many generations yet unborn. Indeed, indeed this is

more to be desired than the most complete of victories.

I went on thus with my cogitations. Let me suppose that these

negotiations between two nations, strong in men and the resources of

warfare, negotiations skillfully conducted to a most fortunate issue,

and the establishment of a peace in which all the world is interested,

had proved to be unsuccessful. Suppose that war had been declared, that

we had no longer ago than yesterday received intelligence of a conquest

on the sea, that a fierce battle had been fought, and that our ships had

come into port laden with spoils and crowded with prisoners. How

different to-day would have been our rejoicings! The outward

demonstrations might, in some respects, have been the same. The streets

would have been filled with multitudes of men; the bells of the churches

(oh sacrilege!) would have pealed long and loudly; the flag of our

country would have waved from many a house-top and “liberty-pole”—yet,

in the midst of all this, there would have been distinguished the

trophies of wo and of disaster. The cannon, which had dealed death to

the brave, would have been borne through the streets, and the banners of

the conquered trailed in the dust. Execrations would have mingled with

shouts, and frowns of hatred with smiles of joy. Sorrow and anguish

would have been comates with exultation and delight, and the hilarity of

all hearts deeply subdued by the sad faces of many mourners.

And how different would have been our inward emotions! Instead of “calm

thoughts regular as infant’s breath,” we should have experienced a

tumultuous rapture, a demoniac triumph, an uneasy and restless joy, a

trembling pride, a satisfaction with the present embittered by fears for

the future. Now we rejoice with cheerful consciences. No “coming events

cast their shadows before” to cloud the horizon of hope. We look upon a

cloudless firmament above us and around us. We are indeed proud of the

task which has been accomplished; but ours is a pride unmixed with any

baser emotion—a pride honorable to humanity. Ah, how much more glorious

is this than a victory! It is a sight to make the old young—a sight

worthy of perpetual commemoration. It will be always recollected. We

shall tell it to our children’s children. From time to time our authors

shall write of it—so that it may always live in the memory of the age.

II.—ON A BIBLE.

Could this outside beholden be

To cost and cunning equally,

Or were it such as might suffice

The luxury of curious eyes—

Yet would I have my dearest look

Not on the cover, but the Book.

If thou art merry, here are airs;

If melancholy, here are prayers;

If studious, here are those things writ

Which may deserve thy ablest wit;

If hungry, here is food divine;

If thirsty, Nectar, Heavenly wine.

Read then, but first thyself prepare

To read with zeal and mark with care;

And when thou read’st what here is writ,

Let thy best practice second it;

So twice each precept read shall be,

First in the Book, and next in thee.

Much reading may thy spirits wrong,

Refresh them therefore with a song;

And, that thy music praise may merit,

Sing David’s Psalms with David’s spirit,

That, as thy voice doth pierce men’s ears,

So shall thy prayers and vows the spheres.

Thus read, thus sing, and then to thee

The very earth a Heaven shall be;

If thus thou readest, thou shalt find

A private Heaven within thy mind,

And, singing thus, before thou die

Thou sing’st thy part to those on high.

I have modernized the orthography of the foregoing quaint and beautiful

stanzas, from the dress in which they are clothed in the second part of

the Diary of Lady Willoughby, just published by John Wiley, bookseller,

in New York. They are happily imitative of the style of the poets of

olden time. They remind one of George Herbert—that “sweet singer in the

Israel” of the English church, of Donne, of Wotton, and of other

lyrists, who chanted the praises of our God. To my ear, much dearer are

such simple, tuneful verses than the grandiloquent outpourings of the

more modern muse. They come home, as it were, to one’s child-like

sympathies. They awaken the thoughts of “youthly years;” they freshen

the withered feelings of the heart, as heaven’s dew freshens the dried

leaves in summer.

Let me recommend this most tender, most soul-touching of “late

works”—these passages from the Diary of Lady Willoughby. It is not a

_real_ “aunciente booke,” but an imitation; yet, like certain copies of

a picture by an old master, it may boast some touches better than the

original. Chatterton’s forgeries were not more perfect in their way,

though this be no forgery, but what it pretends to be—namely, an

invention. I feared, when I took up the second part of this remarkable

production, that it would deteriorate in interest, that the hand of the

_artist_ would become manifest. But it is not so. Here, throughout, is

the _ars celare artem_ in perfection.

How touching a lesson do the feigned sorrows the Lady Willoughby present

to her sex. What absence of repining! What reliance on the justice and

mercy of God! What trust in the merits of her Redeemer! Her faith is

never shaken. Her soul is never dismayed. With an expression holier than

Raphael has imparted to his pictures of the Madonna, she looks upward

and is comforted. Ever into the troubled waters of her soul descends the

angel of peace. Perfect pattern is she for wives and mothers. Excellent

example of a Christian woman.

III.

Are not some of the prophecies being fulfilled in these latter days?

Trace we not in the decay of old empires the tempest of God’s wrath? Is

not the arm of the Lord stretched out over the people and over the

nations of the earth? Breaks he not thrones to pieces as if they were

potter’s vessels? Where are the kings and princes who were born and

chosen to rule over men? “How are the mighty fallen!” Even now, as by

the mouth of his holy prophet, Isaiah, may the Lord say, “Is not _this_

the fast that I have chosen. To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo

the heavy burdened, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break

every yoke?”

Truly has my mind, shut out as I am from commune with the busy

world—truly has my mind been deeply, solemnly affected by the wondrous

events which are passing in those realms, the pages of whose history are

printed in blood. I see the hand of God in all. I trace the fulfillment

of prophecies contained in the Book of books. I am oppressed by a

sensation of awe as I read the words of inspiration and discern their

truth in these latter days.

Was not the heart of Louis Philippe before his sudden and terrible

overthrow as stout as the heart of the King of Assyria? Did not he, too,

say of his monarchy, his rule and his riches—not only to himself, but

even to the stranger in his land—

“By the strength of my hand I have done it and by my wisdom; for I am

prudent; and I have removed the bounds of the people, and have robbed

their treasures, and I have put down the inhabitants like a valiant man;

and my hand hath found as a nest the riches of the people.”

And was he not likewise cast down? Was not a burning kindled under his

glory like the burning of a fire? “And behold at evening-tide, trouble,

and before the morning he _was_ not.”

“This is the portion of them that spoil us,” shouted the people of

France at the overthrow of the family of Orleans. “This is the portion

of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob us.”

* * * * *

ROME.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

In the heart of Rome eternal, the Coliseum stands sublime,

Lofty in the midst of ruins, like a temple built to Time.

Vast, colossal, ’tis with piles of broken arches reared on high,

But the dome is gone, and nothing roofs it but the summer sky.

And the walls are rent, and gaping wide, and crumbling fast away,

And the columns waste, but moss and grasses cover their decay.

When the sky of June was bluest, melting as the eye of love,

And the breezes from Campagnia bore the city’s hum above;

Poring o’er the rich and classic authors of the Age of Gold,

Virgil, Horace, Terence, Plautus, Livy and historians old,

I imagined Rome restored as in the glorious days of yore,

Peopled by the great and mighty, as it shall be nevermore.

I beheld the Past before me, and the fallen circus rose,

And the leaning columns righted, and the ruins seemed to close;

Flags were streaming on the lofty walls, and standards of renown,

Plucked from out some hostile army, or some sacked and burning town;

Proud patricians filled the boxes, judges, senators, in white,

Consuls from remotest provinces, and hosts of ladies bright;

And the emperor sat among them, in his regal purple proud,

And below a countless sea of heads, the common plebeian crowd;

Wrestlers struggled in the ring, and athlete and equestrians bold,

And the steeds and dashing chariots raised a cloud of dusty gold;

Troops of sworded gladiators, Dacian captives, fought and bled,

And the lists were strewn with wretches lying on their bucklers dead;

And in the arena Christian saints and martyrs, old and gray,

Were trampled in the dust, and torn by savage beasts of prey.

Sick of this, I turned and looking out the arches in the street,

I beheld a mighty multitude, a crowd with hurrying feet;

Nobles with their flowing togas, simple artisans bedight

In their holyday attire and badges, maids with eyes of light,

Waving hands to lovers distant, and the little children clung

To their mother’s gowns, and nurses held aloft their infants young,

And afar and pouring through the city gates a long array,

And in front, in his triumphal car, the hero of the day;

And his coursers champed their frosted bits and pranced, but all in vain,

Braced he stood, with streaming robe, and checked them with a tightened

rein;

And a mournful group of kingly captives, dusty, drooping low,

Followed, fettered to his chariot, gracing his triumphal show;

Augurs and soothsayers, flamen, tribunes, lictors bearing rods,

And gray-bearded priests, with olive boughs and statues of the gods,

Shaking from their brazen censers clouds of incense to the skies,

Leading lowing steers, in wreaths and garlands decked, to sacrifice.

Sacred nymphs from temples near, in spotless white, and vestal throngs

Followed solemn, dancing mystic dances, singing choral songs.

Cohorts of the Roman soldiers conquering legions marched behind,

With their burnished armor shining and their banners on the wind;

And, with distance faint, the brattling drums, the trumpet’s mighty blast,

And the clarion rung and sounded like an echo from the Past.

All at once the glorious vision melted, faded in the air,

Like a desert exhalation, leaving all its ruin bare.

And, in place of glory and the beauty of the olden day,

I beheld the Queen of Cities wasted, fallen in decay.

* * * * *

THE MISSIONARY, SUNLIGHT.

BY CAROLINE C——.

“Her presence makes thick darkness light—

Hope’s rainbow spreadeth o’er her path;

Through her, weak souls are filled with might,

And Mercy triumphs over Wrath.”

A sweet Sister of Charity, a faithful, never-wearying missionary, is the

beautiful Sunlight, daughter of the proud monarch who reigns supremely

over the broad dominions of the “upper blue!”

Six long, tedious months in her father’s gorgeous palace, had the lovely

maiden been constrained to mingle in the festal scenes which enlivened

the monarch’s dwelling during that dreary time when the poor earth lay

helplessly beneath the iron hand of winter. How often from the

palace-windows had she looked with eyes dimmed with tears, and most

melancholy glances on the world that was subject during all those months

to a _natural_ kind of heathenish slavery! Despoiled of their rich

garments the old princes of the forests stretched forth their naked arms

toward her in supplication of her presence and charitable aid. A voice,

to no ear audible save her own, crept up from beneath the winding-sheets

which envelopes streamlet and river; and a wail that broke forth from

the poor in their agony and want, reached her gentle heart, and her

tears fell afresh. And even the children of gayety and fashion felt an

irresistable yearning in their hearts to listen once more to her soft

and gentle teachings!

But “’tis always the darkest the hour before day;” and while Sunlight

was half-despairingly revolving in her mind all possible means by which

she might again, without the utmost danger of sudden death, be enabled

freely to wander over earth to beautify and bless it, the discerning old

king, her father, saw how pale her cheek was growing, and how dimness

was creeping over her bright eyes. He knew she wearied of, and longed

heartily to escape from the heartless pomp and magnificence which

surrounded her; so he resolved to carry into immediate execution a plan

he had long been contemplating. He would make a sudden and strong attack

on his old foe who was lording it so magnificently over earth! He would

teach the rough, boorish chieftain, in a way he could not mistake, that

there were other and mightier powers in existence than his own.

So he fought long and valiantly, and won the victory—a glorious one it

was, too. In a few days many sharp, fierce conflicts had taken place,

the glittering crown of winter was broken, his staff of office taken

from him, and the disagreeable old gray-beard was forced to skulk away

in silence and shame and confusion of face, to his bleak and fitting

home at the North Pole.

(Would he were wise enough not to attempt again another short-lived

triumph! But he is so Napoleon-ish in his nature, we may well have our

fears on this point.)

When the king had returned to his palace the night of the last decisive

victory—after he had thrown aside his golden armor, though weary from

the conflict, he paused not a moment to rest till he had summoned his

young daughter to his presence, and thus made known to her his will.

“To-morrow, my child, put on thy most beautiful and radiant garments,

and let the bright smile come back once more to thy face, for I have

work for thee to do. I have subdued the army of King Winter, and now it

shall be thine to make joy in the place where he has sown desolation. It

is thine, to restore order and comfort and happiness and beauty in the

dwelling place where he reigned in such a rude, uncivilized, mobocrastic

manner. Ah! that light in thine eye tells me it is no ungrateful task I

set for thee! it is very plain now, the cause of all thy sighing and

tears for so long back; the old bloom will revisit thy cheek again I

see. But remember, thy mission is one all-important. Do all things well,

and nothing hastily—and now to rest! This shall be no gala-night, thou

needest all thy strength for thy work; so haste to thy couch, and be

stirring early in the morn.”

When the maiden was thus assured of the fulfillment of her greatest

hope, she bended down at the king’s feet and said, joyfully, “Oh, my

father, I bless thee for thy goodness. The dear earth, she shall swiftly

know thy mercy, and array herself in glorious garments in which to honor

her deliverer! To-morrow, to-morrow shall see that if thou, my father,

art strong to make free, thy daughter is loving, and patient, and full

of good-will to help and adorn the miserable captives thou hast

delivered from bondage.”

And early the next morning the lovely princess went forth alone,

rejecting all offers of a body-guard, a most devout and devoted

missionary, whose end and aim was to make glad the waste-places, and to

cause the wilderness to blossom.

There were as yet, here and there, stubborn patches of snow on the

ground, and a vindictive, sharp-voiced wind, a wounded straggler

belonging to the white king’s retreating army, and his chief object

seemed to be to exhaust the patience of all who were within hearing

wherever he moved, by his rude insulting speeches. But totally unmindful

of him, and maintaining a most dignified silence, Sunlight passed by

him, well knowing that he too would speedily be compelled to follow

whither his master had gone.

Sometimes dark, threatening clouds would flit before her eyes, for a

moment totally obstructing her vision, but a brave heart was that

maiden’s, and when these petty annoyances were passed, she continued on

her way patiently and hopefully as before. An apparently hopeless and

endless task was that Sunlight had undertaken. She must, as it were,

perform the part of resurrectionist. She must breathe life into a

breathless body, and call the seemingly dead forth from their graves.

The labor seemed too vast for her gentle hand, it appeared almost

impossible that she should accomplish it. She was alone, too, in a

strange, unpleasant kind of silence. There was not the voice of even a

bird to cheer her on, and stiff and mute the brooklets lay in their

coffins of ice.

But she is very far from despairing. And her strength is, indeed,

perfectly wonderful. Stealing with quiet steps along the banks of the

little streams, she speaks to them some words apparently powerful as the

“open sesame,” for the waters begin to open their eyes, faintly the

pulse begins to throb, and the heart to beat, and ere long they have

wholly thrown off that cold shroud which enveloped them, while it in

turn becomes part and parcel of their own rejoicing life. Then they set

forth rejoicing in their strength, and glorying in their newly-gained

liberty, careering through the just awakening fields, and astonishing

them by the beautiful soft songs of thanksgiving they unremittingly

sing. The princess is not alone then—one class of prisoners she has

released, and their glad voices cheer and encourage her in her work of

love.

Day after day she returns unweariedly to the great field of her pleasant

labor, and day by day perfects the evidence of her progress. A most

efficient co-worker whom she arouses and entices to join her in her

work, is the gentle spirit of the summer wind. Encouraged and excited by

her smile, he takes the oath of fealty, and heartily strives to aid his

mistress. From the brow of earth he wipes away the tears the stars have

wept, and multitudinous are his kind unceasing offices, for she has

promised him a dominion which shall spread over many rejuvenated

forests, and freshly garmented fields!

In the old woods she lays her hand upon the myriad branches, and on the

softening ground beneath which lie the buried roots. From every bough

she calleth forth the tender buds, and ere long she spreads with kindly

hands a rich, green mantle over all the forests. And in those

“leafy-pavilions,” the returning birds she has summoned from the south,

build their nests, and sing merrily through the long, happy days.

Quickened into life by her presence and word, over all the barren fields

the soft and tender grass springs up; the moss becomes aspiring, too,

even the humble moss, and disowning its gray garments, it dons the more

beautiful and universal green livery. A thousand thousand insects spring

into sudden existence—the voice of the croaking frog is once more found

in tune. Violets bud and blossom, the air grows increasingly more mild;

even the wind learns a sweeter song; the heavens finding it impossible

to resist the general rejoicing which follows the most successful labor

of the missionary, put on a brighter and a more resplendant garment, and

the dear Sunlight is filled with unfeigned rejoicing when she sees how

speedily the regenerating influences of her glance are recognized.

It is spring-time then!

Weeks pass on, but Sunlight does not tarry in her work; the grand

commencement she has made, but the work of perfecting is yet to be done.

Gradually she spreads a richer green over all the meadows; all along the

banks of streams and lakes the grass grows long and soft—the leaves

hang heavier and fuller on the forest boughs—a softer voice whispers

through the day-time and the night—flowers blossom more richly and

abundantly, and the air is filled with their fragrance. Sunlight has

spread the perfection of beauty over earth, and filled with unutterable

affection for the world she has beautified, more warm and tender grow

her embracings—and in return the voices of all the earth go up in a

fervent declaration of love and gratitude to the fair missionary who has

so generously, so gloriously labored for them. The good, beautiful

Sunlight! no wonder all creation loves her, and blesses her; no wonder

that innumerable objects, on all other subjects dull and voiceless,

discover a way in which to sing her praises!

It were idle to attempt a detail of all the _homes and hearts_ that even

in one day she blesses and enlivens by her presence; but let us for a

few moments follow her in her wanderings, perhaps thereby we may gain a

proper appreciation of the labors of this good angel.

It is morning, and she has just alighted on the earth; and see now where

her light feet are first directed. On yonder hill there stands a lofty

building—secure as a fortress, made of stone, and brick, and iron. It

is a gloomy, comfortless looking place; the windows, though it is a warm

summer morning, are fast closed, and bars of iron stretch over them! It

is a prison-house; but, though its inmates are guilty criminals, the

pure and high-born Sunlight does not disdain to visit them. She is

looking through all those grated windows fronting us—will you also look

in?

There is a criminal condemned to death—a hardened villain, whose

unbridled passions have worked his ruin. He is yet far from old, not a

gray hair is there in all that thick black mass which crowns his head!

From his youth up his life has been a life of sin, and little remorse.

Heaven has at last overtaken him, and he will soon fearfully expiate, in

part, his guilt.

Yesterday, justice delivered to him the sentence; he listened to it as

though he heard it in a trance, and ever since they brought him from the

presence of the excited court, he has sat on that hard pallet,

immoveable as now. His food is untouched—he has no time to feel the

wants of nature; his arms are closely, convulsively folded upon his

breast; the black, large eyes, have a fixed and stony glare, in which it

would seem few tears had ever gathered; firmly compressed are the pale

lips; no prayer or sigh, or moan shall issue from them! He knows there

is no way of escape for him—that on such a day, at such an hour, he

will perish by the executioner’s hand; and that dreadful fact it is

which is constantly staring in his face, and writing such a record of

shame and terror in his heart.

He feels no penitence—nothing but anger, that he has stupidly suffered

himself to be overtaken by the hand of the law—that his crimes have

been detected. It is not the fear of God that is before his eyes; it is

not dread of the hereafter which so overpowers him, but hatred of his

fellow men, and a desire to wreak his vengeance on them who have brought

to light his guilt!

Through all the long, dark hours he has rested on his hard bed,

listening to the “voices of the night,” and not one softening thought

has entered his heart, not one repentant sigh has he breathed. It seemed

then as though nothing could arouse him as he so coldly beheld the

reality, death staring him in the face. But now see, there is a faint

glow on the narrow window-pane, and it grows brighter and brighter.

Creeping slowly along the wall it reaches him at last—it falls upon his

breast—it glances over his hard face, where sin has written her

signature with a pen, as of iron—it looks into his stern eyes—that

light arouses him, and while he returns the piercing gaze of the

sunbeam, human feelings are aroused in his breast once more. He rises

from the place where in his rage he had flung himself—he gazes round

the contracted, miserable cell in which he is secured! Alas! and he has

fallen so far that humanity acknowledges the justice of immuring him in

a prison! and as he gazes on the gentle spirit whose presence fills his

cell with light, the recollections of his far-off, innocent

childhood—of his early home, from whence not a great many years ago he

went with the blessing of his old mother sounding in his ears, steals

over him—his heart is softening—his lips tremble—the stolid, hardened

look has passed from his countenance—he is human again—he weeps!

Blessed Sunlight! Fairest and holiest of the missionaries, who come from

the halls of heaven to purify the earth, she has subdued him! Oh, we

will hope that now, since the heart of stone has been changed to one of

flesh, the good, redeeming work may not stop there; we will hope that

when he is standing in his last hour upon the scaffold, when she comes

to him again, it may be with a faith-supported heart that he will behold

in her brightness a token of the blissful rest which awaits his

repentant, pardoned spirit!

Close adjoining this cell there is another which likewise has its guilty

inmate—a miserable, abandoned woman. She is sleeping. For her violation

of the laws both of God and man she is now imprisoned.

She is sleeping, but hers is a troubled slumber, for conscience is at

work night and day in the mind of that woman, accusing and

condemning—yet she sleeps. She is dreaming of the husband of her early

years—of the child in whom, when she was young and innocent, and of

contented mind, her hope and joy centered; she is dreaming of her maiden

home—of her bridal morning. The voices of her former, youthful friends

are ringing in her ears; the innocent thoughts and hopes of girlhood

fill her heart again. She wakens weeping—for in imagination she is

standing once more beside the death-bed of her mother, listening to the

words of warning and counsel that mother forces herself to speak when

she beholds with all a parent’s agony that the girl of her hopes is

treading in the wild paths of shame and sin.

She wakens in tears, with a strange feeling of contrition that she has

seldom or never felt before agitating her bosom, to see the Sunlight

looking down with pitying glance upon her—to see the good spirit whose

mission it is to make glad and bright the earth, deigning to creep

through those prison-bars to speak a word of counsel and hope to her.

Thoughts of her husband, on whose honest name she has cast such

dishonor, and of her deserted, innocent child, come to her full of most

sorrowful reproach. A longing for the restoration of her lost virtue—a

conviction of the peacefulness and happiness and exceeding reward

attending goodness, ever make her unsealed tears flow more freely.

Beside that narrow bed, on the stone floor of her cell, she kneels down

in her sorrow and contrition, and on her knees she breathes forth such a

prayer as never before went from her heart. And the dear Sunlight is

witness of that prayer! She looks upon the kneeling penitent with

joy—and from that now hallowed place she does not steal forth hastily,

leaving the cell dreary and comfortless as before; she is there when the

woman rises from her supplication, as though to assure of the smile of

Heavenly forgiveness, which may yet await her. She remains to give

encouragement to the hope that the corroding stains now resting on her

soul may be ere long effectually wiped away—that reconcilement and love

and peace, are yet for her on earth.

Near this woman’s cell there is another where a youth, unjustly accused,

singularly blameless and innocent in his life, is singing a morning hymn

of praise and adoration. Hemmed in as he is by the prison-wall, deprived

of that freedom which is the good man’s _best_ possession, confined with

guilty men, and bearing himself the heavy imputation of crime, yet is he

supported by the comforting knowledge of his innocence, and by the

assurance that the eye which is strong to pierce the secrets of the

heart, knows his innocence. The dreariness of his confinement does not

fill his soul with terror; his faith is strong in the power and goodness

of his Maker, and so it is with patience he performs the labor

apportioned him, looking confidently for the hour of his release, and

the honorable conviction of his uprightness in the minds of all honest

men.

And when the kindly Sunlight appears before _him_, her presence but

serves to foster these hopes. It is a sweet message of patience and

faith she whispers to him, and after she has departed, through all the

long day its remembrance strengthens and cheers him. Blessed be the good

spirit who remembers to visit these sad, afflicted, guilty ones in the

hour when they are well-nigh forgotten of all the world, and by their

own kin!

Beyond the prison, on the same range of elevated grounds, just without

the city, there is a cemetery—a quiet place where the dead sleep in

peace. And thither Sunlight bends her golden, sandaled feet. How

brightly her shadow lies on the white monuments, and on the grass and

flowers. How quiet and holy is this place, there is no sound of the

tread of living feet to disturb the rest of the slumberers; no human

form at this early hour is treading in this solitary place to muse on

the “vanity of all earthly things,” or to weep over the departed! Oh,

yes! there, by that newly-made grave, where the sod has been placed so

recently, there, where the print of the feet of the funeral-train is yet

fresh on the loosened ground, there stands a child with flowers in her

hand; she has come to lay them on the grave of her mother! The Sunlight

knew that she would meet her there, for every morning since the day the

funeral-train paused there, and laid the loving mother in the dark,

cold, “narrow house,” the little girl has visited that grave, bringing

with her to beautify it, and make it seem a rest more sweet and

cheerful, the flowers from her little garden, which early in the spring

her mother planted there. When the child goes back to the city, the vast

crowds of life will have awakened, and the rush, and jar, and strife,

will have begun; happy were it for all those multitudes, if a voice,

gentle and holy in its teaching as has spoken to that young girl,

whispered also to them, ere they mingled in the whirlpools of business

and pleasure!

Then amid the dwellings of the city Sunlight wanders next. And by no

means is she sure to honor first with her presence the mansions of the

rich; for at such an early hour she would hardly receive a welcome

there; perhaps, however, this is not the sole reason why the very first

place which she chooses to enter is the cot of the humble laborer.

Gently does she lay her fair hand on his rude, weather-worn frame, and

tenderly she kisses his hard-browned face, as a loving mother embraces

her infant. And if the man does not at once awaken at the call of her

royal highness, she does not go away and leave him in _humanly_ anger,

but yet more lovingly does she caress him, thinking meanwhile to

herself, “poor man, he was worn out by his hard work yesterday.” And so

at last by her patient gentleness she succeeds in awakening him—and

when he rubs his eyes, and sees her waiting for him there, with her soft

hand, on which the regal ring is glistening, resting so lovingly upon

him, how he reproaches himself that he has dared to sleep while she was

honoring his poor roof by her presence! and how fervent is the blessing

with which his heart blesses her, as he hastens away to his labor with a

light heart and renewed courage.

Later in the day, peeping into the small windows of the unpretending

school-room, she beckons to the little children to come out and ramble

with her among the fields, to hunt for the ripe strawberries in the

grass, and to gather the violets, and lilies, and wild-geranium flowers

which grow in the shady woods. A beautiful song she sings to the merry

youngsters—a song whose burden has more of wisdom in it than many

gather from their books in the coarse of years—a lesson of reverence of

freedom, and of innocent love for nature.

Sunlight is not content with merely resting like a _visible blessing_ on

the head of the gentle girl whose breast is throbbing with a “love for

all things pure and holy,” she steals into her guileless heart, and

makes _that_ glorious by her smiling there; and the little one laughs

while she lingers, because she fancies that all the future to which she

looks forward, will prove as bright and joyous as the unclouded present.

And as for the king’s daughter, she knows when she hears that joyous

ringing laugh which always welcomes her presence, that it is indeed more

blessed to give than to receive!

The bright-eyed maiden _loves_ children, with all the earnestness of her

soft, true heart, and how earnestly they return her love, let every man

and woman and child answer! She is, indeed, like a kind and gentle elder

friend to them—like a friend whose heart has not grown cold or hard

from much mingling with the world, who knows how to sympathize with them

in their simple joys, who listens to their merry voices with a tender

interest, which time has not been enabled to make cold or false.

Well may the children love her, whose smile is the grand main-spring of

their joy—the constant inspirer of their never-ceasing hope!

Look for a moment into this alms-house. Poor people, the wretchedly

poor, who were rendered at last, by long destitution utterly unable to

work with the rude elements of life, which lay like broken useless tools

around them, are gathered here for rest, that they may gain strength for

a renewal of their conflict! For a few weeks, and perhaps a longer time,

they may dwell in this comfortable shelter, and partake of food, _not_

gathered from the refuse of rich men’s tables—they may partially rest

from their hard, unsatisfactory, unproductive labor. Let us hope that

Sunlight may not speak vainly to them now, as every day she livens up

their new home, let us hope they may understand the cheering messages

she brings to them, and as they learn more of the goodness and justice

of their Creator _than they have ever yet had time_ to learn, perhaps

with more of hope and resignation they will endure their burden. It were

well to go through necessity to a poor-house, even if we can find no

other school in which to learn the grand lesson of endurance and

continuance in well-doing; there, perhaps, it would not be impossible to

understand the messages dear Sunlight delivers every day to our

unappreciating, slow-hearing minds.

Notwithstanding all our boasted democracy, there is scarcely a being on

the face of the earth who embraces with quite such heartiness its

principles, and so understands its precepts as—Sunlight. How graciously

her hand is laid on the matted locks of those children of want; how

lovingly and earnestly is her kiss imprinted on their toil-grimmed

faces—how radiantly her smile envelops them. Ah! well-a-day! would

there were in human hearts as much of genuine love! No sham-tenderness,

nor aristocratic, cold-blooded, _repelling_ fondness, is there in her

embracing, stronger than a _human_ heart’s beating is that which

proclaims the life that is in _her_!

See now in this other place, where helpless orphans are collected and

cared for, children whose parents have died and left them helpless and

dependent on the bounty of the world; Sunlight has not forgotten them

either. Kindly hands and charitable hearts have gathered these little

ones from hovels of sin, and sorrow, and shame, and nurtured by the good

and the wise, in early manhood and womanhood they will be prepared to

struggle for themselves, and to bear their own life-burden.

Day after day the affectionate Sunlight visits these assembled little

ones, and adds her cheerful blessing to that which God has already

pronounced on them, whose love has prompted them out of their abundance

to support and comfort the destitute and friendless.

And there is another place teeming with human life, where this good

friend of earth and her children comes daily, but where there are very

few who may welcome her smiling approach, but few to know certainly of

her departure when she is gone. This is the home for the blind.

How many are the fair young faces and graceful, gentle forms and

innocent hearts, how frequent are the kindly words in that place; and

yet, alas! how small the power to see and know the beauty of the world;

how few the eyes to behold the approaching of the fair daughter of the

sun! The blind live there, but Sunlight does not shun them! When she

enters their dwelling-place unsummoned, and only attended by that glory

with which God has adorned her, they may, it is a fact they often do,

know that something blessed and heavenly is nigh, because they feel it

in their enlivening senses, in the warmth of her caressing. But they may

not touch her hand; and when they speak to her she does not answer them;

and so they know she is not a mortal, but a spirit who may not speak

with an audible voice to them—a spirit though which loves and blesses

them!

Let us follow on further in her path, where polished doors are fastened

against the intruding world. It is a home of fashion, but from the

parlor windows no token of life are seen. The blinds are closed—the

dwelling looks uninhabited. But there _is_ life within, ay, and death,

too! Around the silver door-knob, and circling the door-bell handle,

where the hands of the wealthy and gay have so often rested, (but very

rarely those of the poor and needy,) there is wound a scarf of crape,

and mournfully the death-token flutters in the morning air. For two days

scarcely a form has entered those doors; the sufferers within, however

much they may have rejoiced in display in former days, have no wish that

there may be spectators to their sorrow.

Yet there is one—a not often heeded guest, though a seldom failing

one—who comes to them now they cannot shut her out; she longs to utter

some soothing and consoling word. She penetrates to the very scene of

their grief. She looks into the silent chamber where the father and

mother are weeping over their only child—the child of whom they had

made an idol, whom God, who hath said “thou shalt have _no_ gods but

me,” hath taken away from them. They have with their own hands laid

their child in her coffin, ere long they will see her borne away from

them forever; so it is with unutterable sorrow they stand beside that

little one and gaze on her pale face. The blinds are closed, and the

curtains partly drawn, but through an open shutter the Sunlight enters

the darkened room, and drawing near to the bereaved parents, she lays

her hand, oh, so gently on the forehead of the child!

The clustering curls which fall upon that brow seem almost illuminate

beneath the pressure of that hand—and the mother’s tears fall faster as

she looks on the beautiful little one that will be so soon hidden away

from the pleasant day-light and the hopes of life. But as the father

looks, his sorrow is abated, his voice is lifted up, there is hope in

its tone, he says, “Mary, let us weep no longer over our child, her

spirit has already won a brighter crown than that the sunlight lays upon

her head.”

And the mother’s grief becomes less wild, and humble is the voice with

which she makes answer,

“God help us, it was his to take away who gave.”

And now with more of submission under their affliction, with much of

hope that cheered even in the midst of their bereavement, they will see

their child laid in the funeral-vault to meet their eyes no more until

the resurrection morning—and with chastened hearts, and more

thoughtfully they will tread the path set before them, feeling convinced

and thankful that sorrow has taught them a lesson of wisdom they never

could have learned in a life like that they had lived.

Through the opened Gothic windows of the old church she is speeding, for

what? To make beautiful by her presence the temple of the Lord. See!

before the altar there is gathered a little group, and a maiden and a

youth are answering the binding, “I will,” to a question than which none

more fraught with deep and solemn meaning was ever propounded to mortal

man and woman.

The bridegroom has placed upon his companion’s finger the uniting

ring—she is his wife. You see she has arrayed herself gayly; it is the

great festival of her life—may it not prove the adornment has been for

the ceremony of the sacrifice of all the dearest and best hopes of her

trusting young heart! Around these happy ones are gathered their most

familiar, dearest friends; before them the “solemn priest,” and, hark!

with mingled words of warning, and of counsel, and of blessing, he

pronounces them now man and wife. And upon the newly-wedded ones is

resting the congratulatory smile of Sunlight! She bids them joy in their

love, and gives the bridegroom the comforting assurance that his will

not prove a cross and turbulent bride, for his wedding-day is calm and

bright, and over all the sky there is not one speck of cloud!

But why does the Sunlight linger when the bridal party has gone forth?

She is about the altar and chancel, as though there were others yet who

would need her presence and her blessing there.

Ah! there are steps—another group is approaching the awaiting “holy man

of God.” A woman comes, bearing in her arms a child for baptism. The

font containing the regenerating waters is there in readiness. Troops of

invisible angels are nigh to listen to and make record of the solemn

vows now to be made, and the spirit of the living God is there also, a

witness, merciful in his omnipotence.

There are but few who accompany the woman—she comes in no pomp and

state to dedicate her child to God in baptism; neither is the offering

she brings adorned with the pride of wealth. The mother is poor—the

child an heir of poverty. But will He therefore spurn the gift? “He that

cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.”

The father of the child, the husband of the mother is dead—and her

widow’s weeds but “faintly tell the sorrow of her heart.” Therefore it

is with so much the more trustful confidence she has come with her child

to the altar, she will give him into the watchful care of the Almighty

Father of the fatherless! With what a solemn earnest voice she takes

upon herself, for the child, the vow of renouncement of the world and

its sinful desires; and when the sign of the cross is laid upon the brow

of her infant, and the holy waters which typify its regeneration are

poured upon his head, it is with heartfelt gratitude she lifts her heart

to heaven, with heartfelt confidence she implores his watchful love and

care. And all the while on the uncovered head of the child the glance of

the sunlight has rested, as if in token of the acceptance of the

offering the mother has made, in token that the blessing and mercy of

God would be upon that child for whom a holy vow was registered in

heaven, which he must one day redeem, or else pay the fearful penalty.

And now the mother with her child and friends have left the church, and

a sacred quiet reigns there once more; yet the priest lingers by the

altar, still arrayed in his robes of office, and Sunlight also remains.

And, hark! once more the “deep-toned bell” is ringing now—tolling

mournfully—no wedding-peal of joy is that, from out the heart of the

strong iron is rung the stern tale that another mortal hath put on

immortality! Now they come, a long and silent train, and foremost move

the bearers treading heavily; “it is a man they bear”—an aged man, the

measure of whose cup of life was well filled, reaching even the brim;

and following after them are the children, and grandchildren, and

great-grandchildren of the deceased, and the procession is closed by his

many friends and neighbors. Of all that lengthened train there is not

one who set out on the path of life with the dead man. One by one his

early companions passed away, there are none who retain a recollection

of that aged face when it was smooth, and of those locks now so very

white and thin, as they were in earlier years; not one who shared the

hopes of his childhood with him—few who mingled with him in the scenes

remembered now as of the old, old time. Yet the mourners weep, and the

bells toll mournfully.

The old man has finished his course with honor and with joy. Reverenced

and loved, he has gone down to the grave—no, I must not say that, he

has gone upward _to rest on the bosom of his Father_! In boyhood he was

wild, and fearless, and reckless—his manhood, generous and upright,

nobly redeemed his early days—and happy, and peaceful, and honorable,

was his “green old age.” And now he has “gone to his reward”—his race

well run, his labor all fulfilled, it seems strange that any should

weep. They have laid back the coffin-lid that the assembled people may

once more look on their venerated friend. Oh, how peacefully he sleeps,

and lovingly, as on the unconscious infant, the Sunlight, that messenger

of consolation, looks upon the calm, cold face, and the mourner’s grief

is stayed as they behold the brightness which once more illuminates

those lifeless features.

Upon the infant, dedicated to God in the days when he lies helplessly at

the portal of life, on the maiden and the youth, entering on a state of

existence, either supremely blessed or supremely cursed in its

_eventuation_, and on the dead old man, whose race so long, and of

mingled pleasure and hardship, is over at last; on these the faithful

Sunlight has pronounced her blessing within the walls of the old church.

But now all the human beings have gone away, the minister with the

funeral train to the burial, and the sexton has fastened the

church-doors and gone too; but still the Sunlight remains, and it seems

as though she were kneeling before the altar now, craving God’s blessing

on all those who have this day stood within His courts, and before His

altar, brought there by joy or sorrow to rejoice or to weep.

Not, however, within the sanctity of walls alone does the Sunlight make

herself visible. Through byways, and in the open street, where the

stream of life goes rushing on violently, does she tread, brightening up

by her presence dark and dismal corners, and enlivening the gloomiest

and dreariest places.

In the intervening places between the high brick dwellings and stores

she stations herself; there, like a priestess, she stands to pronounce a

benediction on all who pass by her. On the blind old beggar, led by a

little child, who pause a moment to rest in the sunshiny place, for they

have walked on wearily amid a heartless crowd, that had but little

feeling for the poverty-stricken old man, whom Heaven deprived of sight;

and on the gaudily decked form of the shameless woman, as a reproach and

condemnation; on the proud, hard man, whose haughty head and iron heart

care little for the Sunlight or for Sorrow, whose honorable name has

safely borne him through the committal of sins and crimes, which, had he

been poor and friendless, would have long ago secured for him a safe

place among convicts and outlaws! Little recks _he_ of Sunlight. A

blessing so freely bestowed on all, as is her smile, is not what he

covets; so through shade and light he hastens, and soon enough he will

arrive at the bourne. What bourne?

There go by the wandering minstrels, men from Scotland with their

bagpipes—Italians with hurdy-gurdy—girls with tamborines, and boys

with violins and banjoes—there are professors of almost all kinds of

instrumental music, and vocal too, a great many of them there are, but

sure, almost all of them, of winning coppers from some who would bribe

them into a state of quietude, and from other some, harmony-loving

souls, who delight in the dulcet sounds such minstrels ever awaken and

give utterance to! And Sunlight blesses _them_!

And here comes an humble, tired-looking woman—a school teacher she is,

whose days are one continued round of wearying, and most monotonous

action. You would scarcely err in your first guess as to her

vocation—it speaks forth in her “dress a little faded,” but so very

neat, but more loudly still in that penetrating glance of her eye, and

in the patient expression of her features. Though she is evidently

hurried, for she has been proceeding at a most rapid pace along the

streets, you could tell she has some appreciation of the glory of

Sunlight, for how she lingers whenever she comes near the places

enlivened by her presence! Her feet, too, press less heavily the

pavement, perhaps she feels as though she were treading on sacred

ground!

Then, there comes another, a little, frail, youthful creature, with

bright, black eyes, (which have obviously a quick recognization power

for “every thing pretty,”) a person of quick and nervous movement, a

seamstress. She has not time often to pause and take note of the

beautiful. Her weeks have in their long train of hours only twelve of

daylight she may call her own! She, too, steps slowly, almost

reverently, over the flags where the princess is stationed, and with an

irresistible sigh thinks of earlier and happier days, when a merry

country child she rejoiced in her delightful freedom, though clad she

was then in most unfashionable garments, and almost she regretted the

day that sent her into the great, selfish city to fashion dresses for

the rich and gay. Poor girl! before she has half passed over the shady

place which succeeds the glimpse of Sunlight, she has forgotten the hope

which for a moment found refuge in her breast, wild as it was, that one

day she might indeed go into the country again, and find there a welcome

and a home; for must not Miss Seraphina’s and Miss Victoria’s dresses be

finished that very night in time for the grand party; and the flounces

are not nearly trimmed, and numberless are the “finishing touches” yet

to be executed.

Alas! before night comes again, when she will go alone, and in the

darkness, through the noisy street, in her weariness and stupidity, (for

continued labor, you know very well, reader, will make the brightest

mind stupid and weak,) she will hurry to her bed, forgetful of her

bright dream of the morning, unmindful of her prayers, in the haste to

close her weak and tired eyes. But in the morning, perhaps, the Sunlight

will give to the overworked girl another gleam of hope, another

blessing.

And now goes by an interesting, white-gloved youth, fresh from “the

bandbox,” as you perceive. Let him pass on; for there is but little

chance that Sunlight will be recognized by _him_, and so _we_ will not

waste our comments, for could he even see where lies the brightness, I

cannot say but the inevitable eye-glass might be raised, and such a

glance of idiocy and impudence be directed toward the gentle daughter of

the mighty king, as would warrant her in annihilating him at once with a

powerful _sunstroke_!

Here comes another, a benevolent, but solemn-featured, portly gentleman,

who seems in musing mood, for he goes slowly along with head bent down.

He is a judge, proceeding toward the scene of his trying duties, feeling

the responsibility which rests upon him, and nerving himself to meet the

solemn and affecting scenes and circumstances which may await him. Oh

may it be that as he passes by those small illuminated places, that a

stronger voice than he has ever heard before may find utterance in his

heart, charging him to remember that the highest attributes of the

Heavenly Judge are mercy and love, and that only as he employs them in

his decisions, can he justly imitate his Divine prototype!

And now there is another going by, whose disappointment is legibly

written on his face. Either of two doleful things has happened to him.

His prayers have been unheard by his “lady-love,” and she looks coldly

upon him, or—scarcely less to be dreaded climax—his first attempt at

literature has met with unqualified failure. Let him but bear in mind

that “faint heart never won fair lady,” or honor in the “literary

world;” let him take one intelligent look at the sweet Sunlight, as so

patiently she stands there before him, and small will be the danger of

his ultimate defeat.

But—but how fast the crowd increases—it is growing late, and between

the increasing crowd of fashionables, and of people of all sorts and

conditions, we are really in danger of being soon unable to distinguish

who of all the host stop for the blessing of Sunlight, and who unmindful

pass by her. And indeed it were an endless task to impose on one’s self

the attempt to speak, or even to think, of the myriads who in their

hours of sorrow, despondency, tribulation or joy, have had occasion to

be thankful for the cheerful smile of glorious Sunlight!

Her mission—ay, never was there one so blest—and never was there so

faithful a missionary! She comes with a message of love for the whole

world! How perfectly she has learned that lesson taught her by our own,

as well as her Almighty Father! How nobly has she obeyed his sublime

precepts, how truly is she the joy-diffuser of the human race!

And now what remaineth to be said? But one thing only.

In a necessarily more contracted sphere of action may there not from

_our_ faces, and _our_ hearts, go forth a beam of light that shall be

powerful to cheer up a desponding spirit, or to encourage a drooping

heart, or to give comfort to a sorrowing soul, or to increase the faith

and courage of a lonely life?

Cannot the sunshine of a human face, in the dark forest of a sad heart,

have power to make the old trees bud, and the birds to sing, and the

violets to spring up and bloom, and the ice-bound streamlets to go free?

From many a love-lit eye, from many a brow from which tender hands have

erased the record of care, from many a rejoicing heart lightened of its

dread burden, there comes to me an answer, “Yes—oh yes!”

Blessed forever be the sweet Sister of Charity, the angelic, untiring

Missionary, the lovely princess—daughter of the Sun!—and, also,

blessed forever be that human heart which doth not disdain to learn the

heavenly lesson Sunlight teaches, ay, twice blessed of God, and of man!

* * * * *

THERMOPYLÆ.

BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

’Twas night; the gleaming starlight fell

On helmets flashing high;

The glancing spears and torrent swell

Of armed men sweeping by.

No clarion’s voice was on the breeze,

No trumpet’s stormy blast;

The hollow moan of distant seas

Was echoed as they past.

With measured step and stealthy tread,

In stern and proud array,

They sought the camp in silence dread

Where the slumb’ring Persian lay.

Then long and loud the battle-shout

Rung on the startled air,

There was fitful torch-light flashing out

And sudden arming there.

The shriek of death and wild despair,

And hasting to and fro,

When like the lion from his lair

The Spartan charged the foe.

Then hand to hand and spear to spear

The hostile armies stood;

The tempest’s note rung loud and clear

And shook the solitude.

And ’mid the fearful tide of fight,

Where thousands met to die,

The lances gleamed athwart the night

Like lightning in the sky.

On! on they swept their land to bless,

And fast around their way

The Persians gathered numberless

As leaves in summer’s day.

Morn dawned upon that battle-field,

And shivered spear and lance,

And banner torn and broken shield

Reflected every glance.

But where were they—those patriots bold,

Of bright and fearless eye?

Each noble heart in death was cold,

Each spirit in the sky.

Fair Greece! of glorious deeds the clime

By dauntless valor wrought;

Of daring minds, and souls sublime,

The pioneers of thought!

No marvel that thy skies should boast

A fairer, sunnier blue—

Departed day illumes the west

With many a radiant hue.

* * * * *

LOST TREASURES.

BY P. D. T.

I am coming, I am coming, when this fitful dream is o’er,

To meet you, my beloved ones, on that immortal shore,

Where pain and parting are unknown, and where the ransomed blest

Shall welcome treasures left on earth, to Heaven’s eternal rest.

I am with you, I am with you, in the visions of the night,

I feel each warm hand pressing mine, I meet each eye of light.

Oh these are precious seasons! they bring you back to me,

But morning dawns, and with it comes the sad reality.

I dare not trust my thoughts to dwell on blessings that were mine,

Or, “hoping against hope,” believe one ray of joy can shine

Across my path, so dreary now, that late was bright and gay,

But, meteor-like, hath left more dark the track which marked its way.

Yet I feel that thou art near me! my guardian angels thou,

Who fain would chase all sorrow and sadness from my brow.

For thou hadst strewn my pathway so thick with thornless flowers,

I quite forgot that _Death_ could come to revel in our bowers.

But now, I’m oh so lonely! my “household gods” are gone,

And though my path’s a dreary one, I still must journey on.

Yet Faith steps forth and whispers—Time flies, look up and see,

For in his wake swift follows on a blessed eternity.

* * * * *

THE BROTHER’S TEMPTATION.

BY SYBIL SUTHERLAND.

CHAPTER I.

“You look sad to-night, Alice,” was the remark of Mr. Colman as his

young wife entered the sitting-room, and took a seat beside him with a

countenance expressive of unusual dejection; “and where is Maggie this

evening that you have been obliged to take upon yourself the duty of

nursery-maid to our little ones?”

“Maggie has gone upon an errand of mercy—to watch over a sick and

suffering fellow creature,” replied Mrs. Colman. “It is a long story,”

she added, in answer to the look of inquiry which her husband cast upon

her, “but I will endeavor to relate it if you will listen to it

patiently. This morning, Harry, after you had left home, I resolved to

set forth in search of a seamstress who was making some dresses for our

little girl. She had failed to bring them home at the time appointed,

and as I had never employed her before, and knew nothing of her

character, I felt rather anxious concerning the safety of the materials

I had given her to work upon, and determined to go to the dwelling which

she had described as her residence and learn the cause of her

disappointing me. The house was in a miserable street some distance from

here, and I hurried along till I came to it. It was a wretched-looking

dwelling, such as none but the very poorest class would have chosen. The

door stood open, and several ragged little Irish children were playing

upon the steps. I inquired of them if Mrs. Benson, the seamstress lived

there? They did not seem to recognize the name—but they told me that a

young woman who took in sewing hired the back rooms of the third-story.

Following their direction, I ascended three flights of stairs and found

myself at the door of the apartment, where I knocked, and a faint voice

bidding me enter, I unclosed the door and stood upon the threshold. What

a strange and unexpected sight now met my gaze! Upon the floor, almost

at my feet as I entered, lay a young and very beautiful girl apparently

bereft of all consciousness. She looked so thin and pale that at first I

thought her dead, and starting back in horror I was about to leave the

place, when a feeble voice, the same which told me to come in, besought

me to stay. Looking round to discover whence it proceeded, I saw the

emaciated form of a man reclining upon a couch in a distant part of the

room. Hastily I approached him, for I felt it to be my duty to render

what aid I could. As I drew nearer to his bedside, I read the tale of

confirmed disease in that pallid face and in the wild sunken eyes whose

gaze met my own. In a few words he informed me that the maiden who lay

there senseless was his daughter. While busily engaged at her work about

an hour previously, she had fallen from her seat and remained thus in a

state of unconsciousness. He said that his limbs being palsied he was

unable to help her, and so he had lain upon his couch agonized by the

thought that his child was dead, or that she might die for want of

proper assistance. And he now besought me to endeavor to discover if

there were any signs of life, and if possible to restore her to her

senses. The appeal was not in vain. I turned from him to his inanimate

daughter, and raising that light and fragile form in my arms, placed her

upon a couch in a small closet-like apartment adjoining the one I had

first entered. For a long time every means of restoration were vainly

tried—but at length my strenuous efforts were rewarded, and the young

girl once more unclosed her eyes. But she evidently recognized nothing

about her—those dark and strangely beautiful orbs glared wildly around,

while a few broken, incoherent sentences burst from her lips, and as she

sunk again upon the pillow the bright fever flushes rushed to her cheek,

and I knew that her brain was suffering. Great was her parent’s joy that

she once more breathed—but my heart was full of sadness, for I could

not help feeling that her life was in jeopardy. It was my wish to have a

physician summoned, but I knew not how this was to be done, for I dared

not leave my charge, and there was no one near to help me. At this

moment I heard footsteps in the hall, and quickly opening the door,

beheld a boy ascending the stairs. The promise of a piece of silver

easily procured his assent to go for the nearest doctor, and accordingly

he set off, while re-entering the room I resumed my station by the sick

girl’s bedside. In a few minutes the physician arrived and my suspicions

of the nature of the young girl’s disorder were confirmed, for he

pronounced it to be a fever of the brain, and said that his patient

would require constant watching and careful nursing. The father listened

anxiously and attentively to the doctor’s words. His countenance fell as

he caught the last sentences, though he said not a word. It was not till

after giving his prescription, the physician left, promising to call

early on the morrow, that he spoke what was passing in his mind.

“‘Julie must die!’ he said, bowing his head upon his hands, while

bitter, hopeless anguish was depicted upon his face, ‘for I have no

means of obtaining for her the care she needs.’ It was all that passed

his lips, but it spoke volumes to my heart, and my resolution was

instantly taken. I told him that I would not desert his child, that I

would continue with her part of the day, and when I was obliged to leave

that I would send some one to take my place. Oh, Harry! if you could

only have seen how grateful that poor invalid looked! Most amply repaid

was I by that glance for whatever I had undertaken. I remained with the

sick girl several hours longer, and in the intervals when she slumbered,

I had time to observe the appearance of things around me. The furniture

was mean and scanty. There were but two chairs in the room, and the

carpet was worn almost threadbare. Every thing betokened extreme

poverty—but neatness was plainly perceptible in the arrangements of the

apartment, and I felt from the appearance of its occupants that they had

seen more prosperous days. A book lay upon a table close at hand, I took

it up, and discovered it to be a volume of Bryant’s poems. On looking

over the pages, I found several of the most beautiful passages marked.

Upon one of the fly-leaves was written, ‘To Julie—from her father.’ The

book was evidently the young girl’s property. There was also a small

portfolio of drawings upon the table, which evinced signs of both talent

and cultivation. For an hour after the physician’s departure the parent

of Julie—for by her name I may as well call her—showed little

disposition to converse. He seemed exhausted by the emotions of the

day—but I knew that though he said nothing, his gaze was often upon me

when he imagined that I did not observe him. At last he roused himself

to answer some inquiries which I thought it necessary to make. He told

me that he was very poor, and that for more than a year, during which

his infirmity had appeared and increased, his daughter had maintained

him by the proceeds of her needle. He said also that two years

previously he had resided at Baltimore as one of its wealthiest

merchants—but having failed under circumstances that cast a cloud upon

his character, though he was in reality innocent of intentional wrong,

he had left the city of his birth and hastened with Julie, his only

child, to New York, where he would be sure of never more meeting the

scornful gaze of those who had been his friends ere misfortune overlook

him. Here he hoped to procure employment—but fate seemed against him.

Shortly after his arrival in this city, he was seized with a dangerous

illness which left him in his present helpless condition, and his lovely

and accomplished child found herself very unexpectedly thrown upon her

own resources for her support and that of her invalid parent. Bravely

for many months had she borne the burden, but continued anxiety

concerning the means of obtaining life’s necessaries had at last done

its work—and in the delirium of fever, the fair and noble girl now

tossed restlessly upon her bed, a mere wreck of what she had once been.

“This brief sketch of their history, as you may imagine, dear Harry,

interested me greatly. And when, at its conclusion, the speaker again

expressed his fears for the future and his doubts as to the recovery of

his child, for whom he had no power to provide necessary attendance, I

again assured him that I would watch over her until she became quite

well, and that after this I would endeavor to find some more healthy and

suitable employment for her than that in which she had latterly been

engaged.

“Toward the close of the afternoon, being desirous of going home for

awhile, I dispatched the boy whom I have once before mentioned, for

Maggie, that she might supply my place as attendant upon the sick Julie,

until evening, when I proposed to bear her company and resume my post at

the bedside. She came, and her sympathies were soon all enlisted by the

tale which I hurriedly repeated to her. But she decidedly opposed my

wish to return—reminded me of my late indisposition, and declaring that

I was not strong enough to bear the fatigue of sitting up all night,

insisted upon being allowed to exercise her skill as nurse without any

other assistance. I thanked her for her consideration, while I felt that

she was right. So I left her and proceeded home, where, as you may

suppose, I was welcomed most joyfully by little Willie and his sister,

who had mourned incessantly over mamma’s protracted absence.

“And now, Harry, that I have finished my somewhat lengthy narrative,

tell me whether you approve of what I have done and promised to do?”

“Certainly, dearest Alice,” replied Mr. Colman, affectionately pressing

the little hand that rested within his own, “while you continue to

follow, as you have hitherto done, the dictates of your own pure, loving

heart, I can never do aught but applaud you. The present objects of your

benevolence, are I am sure from the account, well worthy of whatever you

may do for them, and I would advise you to persevere in your efforts for

their welfare. But you quite forgot to tell me, my dear, if you

discovered in your _protégé_ the seamstress for whom you were

searching.”

“No, indeed,” she replied, while her countenance wore a look of

vexation, “_my_ seamstress was a very different sort of a being from

this beautiful Julie. Nor do I think that I shall ever discover her, for

just before I returned home I made inquiries as to whether a person

answering her description lived in that house, and was assured that no

one of that name had ever dwelt there. How foolish I was to trust those

dresses to an entire stranger.”

“And pray what may be the name of the family whose history has

interested you so deeply?” asked Mr. Colman.

“The father’s name is Malcolm—Walter Malcolm, as he informed me. With

the daughter’s I believe that I have already acquainted you.”

“Walter Malcolm! Julie Malcolm! And you say they are from Baltimore?” As

he spoke Mr. Colman’s cheek grew suddenly pale, and rising from his seat

he paced the apartment with a hasty and agitated step.

“Why, what is the matter, Harry?” exclaimed his wife in a tone of the

deepest solicitude, as she sprung to his side, “pray tell me what has

moved you thus?” But it was some moments ere he seemed able to reply. At

length with emotion he said—

“Alice, what if I were to tell you that this man—this Walter Malcolm is

my brother—the brother who in my early youth drove me away from his

luxurious home, an orphan and unprotected, to seek my fortune in the

wide, wide world?” Alice Colman started and raised her eyes wonderingly

to her husband’s face, and after a brief silence he resumed with a

sternness unusual to him—

“In that hour, Alice—in that hour of utter desolation, when lonely and

uncared for I left my brother’s roof forever, a fierce, burning desire

for revenge took possession of my soul. In the first bitterness of

despair I called upon Heaven to avenge my wrongs. I wished that Walter’s

wealth might take to itself wings—that one day he might come to me for

bread; and I resolved were this ever the case, to give him—a stone! My

desire has been fulfilled, and my proud and unfeeling brother is now a

beggar at my door!”

He paused—while his wife shuddered and looked appealingly up into his

face.

“Harry!” she exclaimed in a low, earnest tone, “you surely do not mean

that you will not forgive the sorrow your brother’s conduct once caused

you—that you will now look exultingly upon his woes, and turn a deaf

ear to the wants of his sweet and suffering child?”

The reproving expression of the dear face now anxiously upturned to his,

at once recalled the husband to a sense of error, and drawing the form

of the beloved one closer to his side, he said—

“Oh! how fervently should I thank Heaven who has given to me such a

monitor in the hour of temptation! Pardon me, my Alice, if by giving way

to impulse I have wounded your sensitive spirit, and that in the moment

when passion held its sway, I slighted the divine lesson of forgiveness,

through your influence first impressed upon my soul. Nay, dearest, look

not thus surprised, for it was really by your means that the wish to

quell the thirst for revenge upon my brother, entered my heart; and if

you will listen a few seconds I can explain to you the words that at

present may well seem mysterious. You will doubtless remember, Alice,

that some months before our marriage, I experienced a severe fit of

illness. One pleasant Sabbath evening shortly after I was declared

convalescent, I was reclining upon a sofa in the sitting-room at your

uncle’s residence. My spirits were just then very much depressed—I felt

inwardly fretful and uneasy—and as is not uncommon at such a time, many

little circumstances which before had been almost forgotten, rose up in

my mind, and woke anew in my bosom sensations according to their nature,

of pain, anxiety, or indignation. Among other things came forcibly to

view the memory of the grievous wrong I had received at the hands of him

who should have been a parent to me; and a feeling of the deepest hatred

toward my brother stole to my heart, together with a hope that at some

future time a chance might be mine of returning him measure for measure

of the unkindness which he had so unsparingly dealt out to me.

“At that instant, Alice, you re-entered the room from which you had been

a few minutes absent, and at the request of your uncle, opened the

family Bible and began your usual Sabbath-evening duty of reading a

series of chapters from the holy book. There was a passage in the first

which you read that affected me strangely—for it came as a reproof from

Heaven delivered to me through the medium of one of earth’s angels. It

was the following—‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto

wrath, for it is written, vengeance is mine; I will repay saith the

Lord. Therefore, if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him

drink; for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.’ The

sentences awed me, coming upon my ear as they did at a period when my

spirit needed the precious warning and rebuke contained in them, and I

breathed a silent prayer to Heaven for strength to enable me to heed it.

The hour of my trial has arrived, and to-day have I again felt the

promptings of the tempter. You cannot imagine with what force these old

feelings have been driven back upon my soul, but, Alice, your voice has

once more stilled the tempest, and I know that I have passed the ordeal

in safety.”

Harry Colman ceased, and this time as his gaze met that of his companion

he saw that her eyes were full of tears—but they were tears of grateful

joy. For a little while there was silence between them, but at length

Mr. Colman continued:

“Let me recount to you, Alice, as briefly as possible, a few

circumstances connected with my early history. I have never done so

before, because the effort was a painful one, and there was no exact

necessity for the repetition. As you are aware, I was so unfortunate as

to lose my father when I was a mere infant, and my mother lived only

till I had attained my twelfth year. I was the child of her second

marriage, and she had one son by a previous union who was many years my

senior. At the period of my mother’s death, my brother, Walter Malcolm,

had been married nearly five years, and was now a widower and the father

of one little girl, who had just reached her third summer. Upon her

death-bed my parent left me beneath his care, desiring Walter to attend

to my wants and to be kind and gentle to me when she was no more. As

soon as the funeral was over, my brother took me with him to his own

dwelling. I was now entirely dependent upon him for maintenance. Walter

Malcolm was wealthy, for a large estate had descended to him from his

father, who had also left my mother a life-annuity, which while she

lived had supported us. At her death I was of course unprovided for, for

my own father had possessed no worldly goods to bequeath me. My new home

seemed very different to me from the hearth of my early, sunny

childhood. I was lonely and desolate—for between Walter and myself

brotherly love had never existed. Not that _I_ would have denied him his

meed—but I was too proud to award the gift that I was confident would

never be valued, for my memory could not boast a single instance wherein

he had evinced for me the slightest regard. Nay, I even felt that I was

an object of dislike to him, though I knew not the cause. During my

mother’s life I had been greatly indulged, and it was scarcely to be

wondered at that I was frequently very wayward. Upon such occasions, a

word of love had always been sufficient to control my passionate nature;

but when the sweet affectionate tones that ever had power to calm me,

were hushed in the tomb, my faults were met by my new guardian with

harshness and contempt, and this never failed to rouse a spirit of

continued opposition. There was but one voice in my brother’s household

that ever spoke lovingly to me. It was that of his child—the little

Julie. From the first hour of my residence beneath Walter’s roof, the

little creature had conceived a passionate attachment to me, preferring

my presence to that of her nurse or even her father. And, as you may

imagine, Alice, I did not slight her proffered affection, and during the

three years that we dwelt together the little one was the sole sunbeam

upon my shadowed life-path. How gladly did I greet her graceful bounding

step! How dear was the sound of her clear ringing laughter as I joined

in her sports!—and more precious still were the moments when weary of

play, she would steal to my side, and twining her tiny arms about my

neck, murmur forth, in lisping accents, her sweet child-like terms of

endearment.

“I had reached my fifteenth year when the incident occurred that

separated me from my brother. An error was laid to my charge of which I

was really guiltless—and as I proudly refused to acknowledge and repair

the fault—Walter Malcolm turned me from his dwelling, declaring that

thenceforth and forever he disowned me! Time was merely given me to

collect a few little articles that I could really call my own—I was not

allowed to bid farewell to the child whom I yearned to look upon once

more before I went—and so, an outcast, I passed from that stately

mansion. Alice, I dare not linger over a description of my sensations in

that hour of anguish—for it might perhaps arouse them again within my

soul. You know the rest of my history—the circumstance of my adoption

by your uncle who was then visiting Baltimore, and first beheld me in a

store where I had entered in quest of employment. To him I confided the

facts relating to my former life; he pitied and sympathized with me, and

bore me with him to his own home in this city, and from that day was in

every respect to the lonely orphan all that a kind and generous parent

could be to his only son.”