The Virgin has not, however, limited such miraculous favors to images. The early Christians consecrated an herbarium to the Virgin Mary, white flowers in particular, such as the white rose, the white clematis, the white hyacinth, the stately white lily, the lily of the valley, half covered up by its green hood, and the snowdrop, peeping with cup whiter than shield of crescent moon, and looking fair even on the bosom of the snow. Our Lady's Thistle, with the milky streaks on its leaves, which were believed to be medicinal in dropsy, jaundice and the plague; Our Lady's mantle, with its circular broad leaf, scalloped and plaited in regular folds, a decoction of which was a rural cosmetic, a clearer of the complexion; Our Lady's Smock, the lovely little pale lilac flower that blows at the time of the Annunciation; the Lady's Slipper, with its four parplish petals in the form of a cross, and the yellow nectary in the centre, shaped like a shoe, dedicated by the French, Germans and Italians to the foot of the Virgin-are all embalmed in the hearts and enshrined in the imaginations of the faithful. Therefore it is that we are shocked at Our Lady's Glove being also known as the foxglove, and shudder at the young shoots of the Lady's Seal being boiled as asparagus, a use to which it would be impossible to put the seal of Napoleon. Our Lady's Bed Straws, however, cannot be served up at table, although its thick tufts of tiny yellow flowers smell like honey.

Those who do not care for flowers may prefer to be reminded that Genes contains a relic of the animal on which Christ rode -the tail of the ass. Peter's toenails at one time would have filled a sack. The hinder part of the head of St. John the Baptist is at Constantinople; the forepart to under the chin is in the church of Sylvester at Rome; the jaws are at Genoa; and one of the teeth is at Vienna; the finger with which he pointed to Christ as the Lamb of God is to be seen in no fewer than four places; and the cup out of which John the Evangelist drank poison, in two. There are two bodies of St. Andrew in existence, and of one of these the head is at Rome, a shoulder in St. Grisogone, a side at St. Eustace, au arm at the Holy Ghost's Church, and so on. In the tomb of St. John the Evangelist there is nothing but angels' meat. It only took one man, name

ly, Joseph of Arimathea, to receive the blood of Christ; but the dish in which he did so it takes four places-namely, Genoa, Rome, Genes and Earles-to hold. Το this day it is possible to see the cave near Subiaco where St. Benedict retired at the age of fourteen. The holy young penitent rolled about in thorns. But St. Francis visited the spot in 1223, and all the thorns changed into roses. S. Teresa, the foundress of the barefooted Carmelites, and the commander-in-chief of the Spanish armies in the Peninsular War, started off at seven, in company with her brother, in search of martyrdom among the Moors. The ambitious pair met their uncle, and he brought them back at a pace which surprised the tender-yeared candidates for canonization. S. Teresa was buried at Avila, where she died in 1532. What menials were present in the house of mourning, we are not informed, but it is beautiful to think of "ten thousand martyrs assisting at her bedside, and the Saviour coming down in person to convey his bride to heaven."

The founder of the order of hermits was St. Paul of Thebes. The Emperor Decius persecuted him; hence he retired into a desert. A spring supplied him with drink, a palm-tree furnished him with food; and when the palm-tree died, a raven brought to him each day half a loaf of bread with the regularity of a baker, and yet never left its bill. On one occasion, St. Antony, the founder of Monachism, called on St. Paul of Thebes; then the raven brought a double commons. When St. Paul of Thebes died at the age of a hundred and thirteen, two lions dug his grave, in harmony at once with the dynamical amiability of Bottom, who could roar like any sucking-dove, and with the professional skill of the grave-diggers that conversed with Hamlet.

66

In the light of recent events it is more interesting to chronicle the fact, that at Montmartre," according to Philibert Delamarre, there is an image of our Saviour appearing to Magdalen, beneath it an inscription containing the word "Rabboni." Good wives took the image to represent the saintly reformer of bad husbands. They touched the statue with their husbands' shirts, whereon they would either become good, or burst in the course of the year. Unfortunately, the bad roughs of the Montmartre of 1871 do not appear as a

matter of necessity to have worn shirts, while their spouses in many cases proved as madly warlike as themselves, if not as outrageously profane. Indeed, the antireligious Assi, in his exile, presents the precise antipodes to the saintly St. Simeon Stylites on his pillar. The most remarkable feature in the career of the latter was, after all, not so much that he typified the ascetic, as that he defied the arithmetician. In this combination of characteristics he had few rivals. St. Simeon Stylites for seven-and-thirty years lived on the top of his pillar. During the first four years, it was six cubits high; for the ten years ensuing, it was twenty-two; and for the last twenty, it was forty cubits high. The tomb of Abel, on the way to Baalbec, is, according to Maundrell, thirty yards long. The

tomb of Eve at Jiddah is, according to Burton, two hundred paces long. The tomb of Seth, on the slopes of Antilibanus, is sixty feet in length. Indeed, it would have been twenty feet longer, but the Prophet Seth, who came here preaching to the people, who worshipped cows, was killed by them, and was hastily buried with his knees doubled under his legs. Noah's tomb, on the opposite side of the valley, was one hundred and twenty feet long. The tomb of Joshua was disgracefully short; indeed, it only covered thirty feet. Thus there were giants in those days, just as there are Positivists in ours who consider the seal which Louis Napoleon has left as a talisman to his imperial son about as valuable an heirloom as the throne of Republican France.

The doctor sat in his easy-chair, And I sat by the table;

The day was bright, and clear, and fair, Like halcyon ones in fable.

A book upon my lap was laid,

My eyes were on its pages,

But thought the errant truant played,
Like love in bygone ages.

Just then in through the window came-
On the amber air it floated-
The droning organ's sad refrain;
By a vagabond 'twas toll-ed.

And with the changing notes my mind
In lazy leisure wandered,

As careless as the fickle wind
Of precious moments squandered.
Another summer's day is mine,

'Tis mixed of sun and showers; Sorrow and pleasure both combine, As pass the fleeting hours.

I little thought to be forgot,

Or forget in time then coming; Each organ note its comrade sought,

And "Auld Lang Syne" was humming.
Away sad thoughts! Come happy days
When youth was bright with flowers;
When passion shot bewildering rays,
Like sun in passing showers.
How full of life, of pleasure ripe,

Of youthful tricks and squabbling;
But from the wheezy organ's pipe
"I'm Captain Jinks" was hobbling.
Norwich, Conn., 1873.

And then the form of one whose love
Had flowed on without measure;
Whose eyes were like the sky above
When white clouds flee the azure;
Whose grave is swept by evening winds,
When the western day is dying;
The responsive organ a keynote finds,
"Sweet Nelly Gray" replying.

And now there come again the dreams
That ever would come o'er me,
Of honor, fame and glory's beams,
When youth lay all before me;

Of battle-field and victor's shout,

A brow the laurel wreath displaying; With martial tread the notes marched out, And "Old John Brown' so bravely playing.

Again I saw the humble life

My days must ever measure;

The dear, contented, sweet-voiced wife,
Whose love is more than treasure.
And I thanked God that, in his way,

He chose to make it so;

The organ breathed out far away

"John Anderson my jo!"

The doctor sat in his easy-chair,

And I sat by the table;

The day was bright, and clear, and fair, Like halcyon ones in fable.

The book upon my lap was laid,

A tear dropped on its pages; The organ notes on the air were dead, And I won dreamer's wages.

"Ir's no use to talk, Fred; my mind is fully made up. The business is lucrative enough; I find no fault with that, but the risk is too great. We are simply staking our lives against money, and it is folly to tempt our luck. We have braved dangers innumerable, made a reasonable fortune, and, as I said before, I am going to knock off before I lose the number of my mess. Take my advice, Fred, and let this be your last trip in opium smuggling."

"Ned, you are crazy! What! give up the best trade on the coast? Give up the saucy Scud, the prettiest craft that floats in China waters? Just take a look through the skylight. What a beauty she is aloft! As for the risk you speak of, I don't care a fig for all the Manchoo gunboats combined so long as we stick together. We carry two good swivels and a long thirty-two, pivot, which, with our small arms, is sufficient to keep the Chinamen at bay. The life is exciting, and—”

"The Ladrone Islands are in sight, sir; shall we stand in for the land?" And the Portuguese mate halted for an instant by the aftercompanion hatch to receive the instructions of Fred Baker, who was virtually commander of the opium clipper, while Ned Parker, who had an equal interest, discharged the duties of supercargo. "Is there anything in sight, Mr. Costello ?"

"Nothing suspicions, sir, so far as I can see. There is a good breeze, and I think the chances are that it will hold. But once amongst those islands, you can't place much dependence upon it. It is rather hazy over the land, and it's my opinion, sir, that it will be foggy to-night. Will you come up and take a look for yourself, sir ?"

"All right, Mr. Costello, I'll be there in a minute. Now, Ned, be yourself, look on the bright side, and before twenty-four hours pass by you'll have, at least, four thousand dollars additional added to your bank account. Not a bad slant, eh, for a month's work?"

"It's not the blues, Fred; but I'll say nothing more about it until we are safely on shore at Hong Kong, if ever we live to get there."

The wind was fair, and the Scud, under a cloud of canvas, rapidly neared the land. Over the Ladrone Islands hung a dense cloud of grayish fog that was gradually stretching along the coast, rolling along on the surface of the water, and completely shutting out the land. The Chinese crew clustered around the topgallant-forecastle discussing the chances of running the blockade, and even the grave sedate Lowder betrayed some manifestation of excitement.

As night came on, Fred instructed the mate to load the guns, and pay particular attention to long tom. Small arms were distributed to the crew, light sails taken in, and lookouts doubled.

"There, Ned, I have got everything snug for the night, and if it don't come on too thick, I'll run the Scud up to her anchorage without giving the Mandarin boats any unnecessary trouble on our account. But here comes the steward to announce supper. We'll get a bite, and then no more leaving the deck this good night."

The two young men descended to the cabin, leaving the mate in charge of the deck, an old hand at the business. The fog was growing denser each moment; the land was no longer visible, and the breeze, veering three points or so, became fickle and unsteady, finally dying out altogether. The huge topsails hung idly from the yards, while the reef points kept up an incessant tattoo, as the canvas, with spasmodic jerks, partially filled with the last dying efforts of the breeze.

The little craft was becalmed, and when the two owners returned to the deck, the

Scud was perfectly unmanageable, drifting at the mercy of the current.

"Confound the luck!" muttered Fred, as he bit off the end of his cigar with a vicious snap. "Who would ever have dreamed of the wind serving us such a scurvy trick as this? We are rather too close into the land. I can hear the roar of the surf. But, at all events, the Manchoos can't see through the fog any better than ourselves."

"But they may have sighted us, and taken bearings before the fog shut down. If they did there'll be music, depend upon it."

"All right, Ned, let them come; our guns need scaling, and those lazy rascals forward need some excitement to stir them up."

"Would it not be a good plan to lower our two boats and drop them astern,

Fred ?"

"Certainly, Ned, if you wish it," replied his companion, with a strange glitter in the depths of his dark eyes; "but in case of an attack, I shall remain by the Scud." And turning short on his heel, the halfangry seaman ordered the boats to be cleared away and lowered.

Nine o'clock came with nothing to arouse the suspicions of Fred, who had been left alone by his friend. Ned had retired to his stateroom early in the evening, somewhat nettled by the insinuation of Fred in regard to the boats.

"It's all humbug, my remaining on deck here in this cold fog," muttered Fred. "I would ask Ned to take some brandy straight with me if I thought he would not repel the offer. Confound it, I did not mean to hurt his feelings! I'll turn in, and by morning we shall all feel better. Look out for her, Mr. Costello. Keep a good lookout, and give me a call if there is the slightest change in the weather."

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied the mate, rousing himself with an effort. And, with a last look of disgust at the damp gray fog, Fred descended to his private cabin in no enviable state of mind.

The swell from the eastward caused the Scud to roll gently as she lay in the trough of the sea. The flap of the canvas fell dreamily upon the mate's ears. Occasionally he would start up from the bumpkin bitt, glance about him, then sink down again with his head on the rail. Poor

fellow, little did he dream of the horrible fate that overshadowed him. Overcome by sleep he no longer kept a watch upon the vessel. The crew were scattered about the deck wrapt in their blankets, ready for a call, and the lookouts, following the example of the mate, allowed themselves to forget their duties and slumber at their post. The man at the wheel nodded help. lessly, his head resting on the spokes, and in a few moments the Scud was drifting on with the current, and not a soul to guide her.

The surf boomed hoarsely through the gloom, an occasional discordant cry from some sea bird echoed around, mingled with the drumming of ropes against the rigging, and the chafe of some spar aloft.

Slowly the moon arose, striving to pierce through the thick bank that now had the appearance of silver. An occasional light puff of air caused the entire mass to undulate to and fro, while the gurgle of water along the Scud's counter announced that the fleet craft was forging slightly ahead.

Gradually the mist grew thinner overhead. One by one the stars peeped forth, but still the crew slumbered on. A faint indistinct mass loomed up through the fog, while the muffled clank of oars and the swash of water mingled with the sharp creak of the spanker gaff as it swung to windward. The sails gleamed ghastly white in the struggling rays of the moon, the spars and running rigging standing out in bold relief.

Darting through the water with the speed and silence of sharks, two long narrow boats crowded with men were pulling direct for the Scud. They were a portion of the mosquito fleet under the imperial flag, and their principal duty was to watch for opium smugglers, with orders to show no mercy to the "Fan Keveis" (foreign

devils).

66

The first intimation the Scud's crew had of the danger that threatened them was a fierce yell from the Manchoos, as they dashed alongside. With a simultaneous shock the boats struck the vessel, and Mr. Costello, but half aroused from his slumbers, rushed to the gangway only to meet his death. A brawny imperialist with one blow of his sword stretched the poor fellow lifeless.

In an instant the deck of the Scud was a scene of wild confusion. The armed horde

slaughtered the defenceless crew wherever they met them, and the crack of firearms mingled with half-muttered appeals for mercy.

The lookouts, at the first alarm, glided over the bow, and dropping astern, gained the boats in safety. The man at the wheel and two of the watch had also escaped the fate of their comrades, leaving the bloodthirsty Tartars in undisputed possession of the deck.

In the meanwhile, Fred and Ned had not been idle. Aroused by the exultant yells of the Manchoos, they leaped from their berths, grasped their revolvers and rushed on deck, only to find their vessel in possession of the enemy. One glance at the ruffians, who were crowding and jostling each other in their eagerness to gain the cabin, proved beyond a doubt that the Scud had completely changed hands. Fred saw that it was useless to expend the charges of his revolver amongst the yelling throng, and with a muttered curse hurled at his foes, he glided nimbly into the boat where Ned and the survivors of the crew awaited him. A stroke of a knife severed the painter, and amid the tumult and excitement existing on board, the boat dropped astern unnoticed, until the friendly obscurity of the fog effectually screened it from the sharp gaze of the Manchoos.

"There's eight thousand dollars worth of pure opium gone to the d-1, to say nothing of the Scud!" groaned Fred, as he sank beside his friend in the sternsheets of the light boat.

"1 was under the impression that you expressed a determination to stand by the Scud, in case of an attack," replied Ned, with a dash of sarcasm in his manner.

"Stand by the d-1!" growled his friend. "I have no idea of losing the number of my mess at the hands of a Manchoo brave."

"I thought you rather liked the excitement of the trade, and so long as you had the guns-"

"There, Ned, belay all that, will you? This is no time to indulge in sarcasm. I was wrong, you were right. In lowering the boats you saved our lives, old fellow, and I am sorry for what I said at the time." The hands of the two men were extended and pressed in silence; they were once more united, and Fred felt almost happy, despite the peril that yet menaced them. They were drifting with the tide, which

was gradually setting them in shore, and soon the towering outline of a pagoda or joss-house loomed up through the obscurity. The gleam of a watch-fire streamed brightly up, and the forms of men passing and repassing could be distinctly seen.

"Ship your oars, my lads," whispered Fred; "we must put a long distance between us and this place before daylight, or we'll share the fate of the Scud's crew. There she is, looming up through the haze, and to think we should have lost her without striking a blow! The rascals must have all fallen asleep on deck. But I never imagined Costello would have allowed himself to be caught napping. Well, poor fellow! he has paid the price of his rashness, and I hope he has gone to a snug harbor. Give way, lads!"

"Hold, Fred! let her drift for a moment; I have a word to say. Suppose you were to regain the Scud, would you be willing to give up the business and go home with me to Boston ?"

"Would I? But what's the use of tantalizing a fellow, Ned? The thing is impossible; and what's more, if we don't make a move to get out of this hornet's nest, we will be tortured to death. You know they show no mercy."

66

I am well aware of that, Fred; but I have a plan, and I propose to try it. You see it is breezing up, and with what men we have we can handle the Scud like a top."

"I should think, Ned, you were already in possession, from your talk. But tell me what you propose to do."

"In the first place, I want you to land me on that point of rocks that makes out from the pagoda. The fog is rolling up rapidly, and we must bear a hand."

"Ned, think of what you are about. If captured, your fate is sealed. There is a strong party on shore who-"

"Give way, men! It's no use, Fred; I'm going to recapture the Scud."