my absent mistress; but he warns me that there are many difficulties in the way of doing so. The allusion to conjuring reminds me of my scheme. son. with tropical plants and kitchen stuff, a thickly veiled nun approaches us. The lady seems to be on familiar terms with "The nuns," he says, "who accompany the dentist, whom she addresses in a my patient, stand like a couple of sentinels mild, soothing tone, as if she were admion each side of her, and no word or ges-nistering words of comfort to a sick perture escapes their attentive ears and We follow her through a narrow watchful gaze. He must have more than corridor, where I observe numerous doors, a conjurer's hand who can perform any which I am told give access to the apartepistolary feat and escape their keen ob- ments or cells occupied by the convent servation." inmates. We pass a chamber where children's voices are heard. There is a school attached to the convent for the benefit of those who desire their offspring to receive religious instruction from the nuns. Music and fancy needlework are also taught, and some of the distressed damsels, who, like Cachita, are undergoing a term of conventual imprisonment for similar offences, impose upon themselves a mild form of hard labour by assisting to improve the infant mind. Cachita, who is a good musician, takes an active part in this branch of education. Will the friendly dentist recommend to his patient a box of his registered toothpowder? He will be delighted to have that opportunity. "One of my assistants who accompanies me in my convent rounds shall include such a box in my dentist's bag." Don Ignacio sees through my "little powder plot," as he calls it, and hands me a box of his patented tooth-powder, beneath which I afterwards carefully deposit a billet-doux. But Don Ignacio can improve upon my scheme, and staggers me with his new idea. "You shall deliver the box yourself!" says he. The convent rules, he explains, allow him to introduce an assistant, or "practicante," as he is called. The same practicante does not always accompany him in his semi-weekly visits to the convent. "On this occasion only," says the considerate dentist, "you shall be my practicante." Early next morning we are on the threshold of the sacred ground. Don Ignacio boldly enters the stone antechamber, which I have so often timidly approached, and taps with a firm knuckle on the torno. "Ave Maria Purisima!" murmurs the door-keeper from behind. "Pecador de mi!" replies the practised don. "Que se ofrece usted ?" (what is your pleasure?) inquires the voice. And when the dentist has satisfied the door-keeper's numerous demands, a spring door flies open and we step into a narrow passage. Here we remain for some moments, while our persons are carefully identified through a perforated disc. Then another door opens, the mysterious door-keeper appears and conducts us into the very core of the convent. As we look over the convent garden, which is tastefully laid out At last we are ushered into a gloomy, whitewashed apartment (everything in the convent appears to be of wood and whitewash), where our guide takes leave of us. While the dentist, assisted by his practicante, is arranging his implements for tooth-stopping on a deal table, which, together with a couple of wooden chairs, constitute the furniture of this cheerless chamber, an inner door is thrown open, and, a couple of nuns, attired in sombre black, enter with Don Ignacio's fair patient. Cachita is dressed in spotless white, a knotted rope suspended from her girdle, and a yellowish veil affixed in such a manner to her brow as completely conceals her hair, which, simple practicante though I be, I know is dark, soft, and frizzled at the top. Her pretty face is pale, and already wears (or seems to wear) the approved expression of monastic resignation. Following Don Ignacio's suggestion, I carefully conceal my face while Cachita seats herself between the sentinel nuns. The dentist, with a presence of mind in which I participate but little, commences his business of tooth-stopping, pausing in his work to exchange a few friendly words with his patient and the amicable nuns. Hitherto my services have not been in requisition; but anon the subject of the tooth-powder is introduced. Will La Cachita allow the dentist to recommend her a tooth-powder of his own preparation? Cachita is in no immediate need of such an article, but the dentist is persuasive, and the young lady is prevailed upon to give the powder a trial. "You will derive much benefit from its use," observes Don Ignacio. "My assistant" (and here the cunning tooth-stopper, being close to his patient's ear, whispers my name)" will bring it you presently." "What ails La Niña ?" inquires one of the nuns, bending forward; for Cachita has uttered a cry, and swooned away. "Nothing, señora," says Don Ignacio, with the same sang froid already noted. "Only a nerve which I have accidentally excited in my operation. She will be better presently." The dentist desires me to bring him a certain bottle, and with the contents of this his patient is soon restored to consciousness. "Keep her head firm," says my artful friend, addressing me with a faint smile. on his countenance, "while I put the finishing touches to my work." I obey; and though my hands are far from being as steady as an assistant's should be, I acquit myself creditably. Cachita's mouth is again open to facilitate the dentist's operations, but also, as it seems to me, in token of surprise at the apparition now bending over her. "You will find much relief in the use of this tooth-powder," continues my friend, in a careless tone, as though nothing had happened. "Very strengthening to the gums. When you have got to the bottom of the box-just open your mouth a little wider when you have got to the bottom of the box, where" (he whispers) "you will find a note, I will send you another." Cachita, by this time accustomed to my presence, can now look me fearlessly in the face with those expressive eyes of hers, which I can read so well, and before the dentist's operations are over, we have contrived, unobserved, to squeeze hands on three distinct occasions. Assured by this means of my lover's constancy, I now take my leave of her, and patiently await the term of her convent captivity, which expires in three weeks' time. THE RETURN. JULIETTA! Julietta! All around is still as sleep, 'Neath the stars the town lies silent, And thy mother slumbers deep. Sad and weary, worn and yearning, Back from battle come I now, All the dreadful war is over, And the laurel decks my brow. Julietta! Julietta! 'Tis Alphonso speaks, my dear! Canst thou slumber on so soundly While thy lover stands so near? "Who is that whose hollow accents Break my first sleep sweet and bright ? Who is he beneath my window Standing ghostlike in the night ?" Julietta! Julietta! 'Tis Alphonso who doth wait; Come again and speak unto him Here beside thy garden gate. ""Tis some thief and not Alphonso, 'Tis some robber in disguise. Even if thou wert Alphonso, It is far too cold to rise." By our parting, by our pain, If indeed it must be so, Reach me out thy hand, my dearest, "Hush, I hear some one approaching, I am very sick and sleepy, Come to-morrow-if you will." Thou hast given away thy heart. OLD STORIES RE-TOLD. SIX DAYS IN A CANVAS BOAT. IN the month of June, 1639, a worthy young Puritan trader, named William Okeley, set sail from Gravesend for the Island of Providence, in the West Indies, on board the sloop Mary of London, which was laden with linen and cloth, and carried six guns and about sixty seamen and passengers. The stars from the first looked malignly on the Mary. After waiting for five weeks in the Downs for a wind, Mr. Boarder, themaster, set sail, but let go the anchor off the Isle of Wight. "The next Lord's Day," setting sail again, they ran on the sands, but the tide coming in, they luckily hove off. The land after all would have been a better friend to them, even though a sand shoal, than the open sea. There were two other sloops in the good company of the Mary, and one of them carried nine guns. The sixth day, after the chalk cliffs had gone down below the horizon, the crew of the Mary were startled at dawn (for at that time the sea swarmed with robbers) by seeing three ships about three or four leagues to leeward. After some consultation the master of the Mary decided not to run, but to stay and speak to them. The three ships soon looming larger, proved to be Moorish men-of-war, who quickly bore down on them. The master of the Mary resolved at first to fight, then too late weakly tried to run, which vacillating councils were ended at daybreak by the Moors, after a short skirmish, boarding and taking the three sloops. In the Mary six men were slain, and many wounded. There were many English prisoners in the Moorish ship, and with these lamenting wretches the new comers to purgatory condoled, and, during the five weeks afloat, learnt from them scraps of lingua-franca likely to be useful in the days to come of slavery in Algiers. Arrived in Algiers, they were locked for the first night in a filthy cellar, and the next day were driven to the viceroy's palace, that potentate having, by right of office, a claim to every tenth slave captured by the Moorish galleys. The next market-day they were dragged to the market-place. The slaves were led up and down the market, and when any one made a bid the owner shouted, "Arache! arache! there is so much bid, who'll bid more ?" Then the cautious purchaser looked at their teeth, felt their limbs, and by their beard and hair tried to guess their age, giving more if the slave had white and tender hands, since from gentlemen and merchants they expected large sums for ransom. All this time the man who bid decried the slave, the dealer, on the other hand, praised him; his chest, his shoulders, his strength, his growth, his intelligence, his skill, or his temper. The sale effected, the slave was driven back to the viceroy to first see if he cared to take him at the price offered. The first market-day Okeley was sold to a Tangerine merchant of Moro-Spanish descent, and for half a year was employed in trudging on errands and carrying burdens. At the end of this time his patron's man-of-war, weeping the Mediterranean, captured an English merchant vessel laden with plate from Spain, and he resolved to fit her with more guns, and start her as a corsair. Okeley was employed to help the carpenters and shipwrights engaged on this But now came the sharpest trial. One day the stern patron told Okeley he work. must go in the new ship. In vain he pleaded he was no mariner; in vain he argued with his own sensitive conscience whether he could without sin fight against Christians. His court of conscience was abruptly broken up by his patron's command to put to sea at once; but the Moor gave Okeley money, clothes, and provisions, and he was, by his orders, treated with some mercy. In nine weeks up and down the Straits, the corsair only picking up one prize, an Hungarian - French man-of-war, the Moor called Okeley back to land, and ordered him to earn him two dollars every month. It seemed impossiblebricks without straw, interest without principle-there was but one conclusion, says Okeley, "to commit myself to God, who had brought me into this strait, beseeching Him to bring me out of it." Okeley first applied to an English slave, who kept a tailor's shop, feeling, as he wisely said, "that nothing that was honest could be base, and that necessity would ennoble a far meaner employment." The man readily closed with him, and Okeley's heart grew larger, for he felt that he could now escape the lash; "but God had not tried him enough," he adds, for the next day the tailor meanly backed out of his promise. Wandering about forlorn,. he scarcely knew or cared whither, Providence directed him to another English slave sitting in a cheery way in a perfectly bare shop. Okeley disconsolately told him his story, and the good-natured fellow at once invited him to become a partner. It appeared that the man was driving a good but secret trade with unorthodox Moors in strong waters and wine, selling, besides, tobacco, lead, iron, and shot. His new friend lent Okeley some money to trade with, and to this the latter added a small sum he had concealed. The world smiled on the two slaves; they bought a butt of wine, and divided the profits of this business every week; but prosperity soon turned the head of Okeley's partner, and he grew drunken and idle. At this juncture it fell out that there one day came straggling to the shop John Randall, a brother sailor of Okeley's. He and his wife and child were slaves, and had to beg to earn the dollars remorselessly exacted from them by their patron. Okeley's good heart warmed to his old comrade: "I could not," he says, "but consider the goodness of God to me that I should now be in a condition to advise and help another which so lately wanted both myself, and it had this operation on me that So passed four irksome years of slavery, till Okeley grew almost inured to misery, yet still, like a good Calvinist, lamenting that there was no one to "preach the Word." At last an English ship was taken by the corsairs, and among the slaves was a Mr. Devereux Sprat, a sober, grave, religious "minister of the gospel," whose monthly toll to his patron, Okeley and some other zealous slaves agreed to provide. Three times a week this "godly faithful servant of Christ" prayed to three or four score Christian slaves in a cellar which Okeley had hired as a store-room. This, he says, strengthened his faith and comforted his drooping spirit. 66 I would not suffer a poor distressed Having drawn out mentally a rough countryman- -a fellow-captive, a fellow-sketch of it, the brave and resolute man Christian-to stand begging at that door confided it to Mr. Sprat, the minister, who where I had so lately stood myself. Shall gravely pronounced it possible, that was I shut the door of my heart upon him, I all he could say. Then Okeley broke it to thought, when God has opened a door of another fellow-slave, Robert Lake, a wise hope to me in the day of my trouble? and religious person," an old man, who Shall I so requite the Lord's kindness to pronounced his blessing on it, and wished me ?" Okeley, therefore, kindly bade the it "godspeed." Next he told his firm friend, man in, and set him to make canvas clothes John Randall, still sore from the batoon, for slaves, letting him remain in the shop who approved of it, yet would not run the rent free. fearful risk of its miscarriage, he having a wife and child. As for Robert Lake, he was too old to be useful, or to bear the fatigue, and as for Mr. Sprat, Captain Pack, of London, was already on his way with ransom to release him without danger. Okeley had still, therefore, to choose his companions. It was indispensable that they should be trusty, brave, religious, and strong men. The comrades he chose were, John Anthony, a carpenter, who had been a slave fifteen years; William Adams, a bricklayer, who had been a captive eleven years; John Jephs, a seaman, who had been five years among the Moors; John—, a carpenter, who had served the same term, and two others. These, with Okeley himself, made a band of seven, and all eager for liberty, though not all equally resolute, before being told the scheme, took a solemn oath never to disclose it, directly or indirectly, for fear or flattery, whether they did or did not finally approve it. Then in the morbidly conscientious breast of this Puritan captain arose a thousand casuistic scruples as to whether it was justifiable to God and man to attempt an escape from a master who so dearly loved him, so courteously treated him, and had so fairly bought him. First he thought, should he better himself in England, where the civil war had now broken out; but then he thought of " England, liberty, and the gospel." Next, as to the theft of himself; but he soon, like a man of sense, shook off this sickly scruple, deciding that a man is too noble a creature to be made the subject of a deed of sale, moreover, his consent had not been asked, nor had he forfeited the rights of man. would escape or die; the sweet word liberty already made music in his ears, and his longing heart danced to the tune of it, as he eloquently tells us in his narrative of the wonderful escape. But now all sorts of gloomy difficulties crowded in to discourage the honest conspirators. They must build a boat, but how or where could it be launched? how could they escape the cruel Argus eyes watching them by day? how escape by night from a high-walled One day Randall, not feeling well, he and Okeley took a walk along the sea-shore, beyond the mile-tether allowed to slaves. Seized by a spy, and accused of attempting to escape, Okeley was liberated, but poor Randall was condemned by his more relentless master to three hundred blows with the batoon (a tough short truncheon) on the soles of the feet. Soon after this, Okeley's padrone, disabled by losses in privateering, was compelled to sell his slaves, whom he had long before mortgaged, to a cap-maker and an old farmer. The two men cast lots for Okeley; he trembled lest he should fall to the "brutish ill-humoured cap-maker;" but Heaven was merciful to the poor Puritan, and he became the property of the farmer, a good compassionate man, who regarded him with confidence, and treated him like his own son. But his new patron's farm was twelve miles from Algiers, and Okeley felt sure that the Moor intended to make him his bailiff and vicegerent there. Once there all hope of escape was gone, and he would be a slave for life. Fetters of gold are fetters still, so he resolved, with hope kindling in his heart, once for all to have a wrestle for freedom. With aching head he turned over every means of escape; at last, like a beam of sunshine, a plan, desperate but not impossible, suggested itself. He city, so strongly barred, so closely guarded? But Okeley's heart never faltered; he would allow of no fears; he laughed and trod under foot all cowardly suggestions of danger. "Let us be up and doing," he cried, with a hearty voice, and in his cheery homely way, "and God will be with us. Well begun is half done." In his own cellar the boat should be built piecemeal, so as to be easier of removal. Majorca was the place he thought fittest to land at. In his bright hope he already stood on that free rocky island shore, and the weakest nature drew strength and courage from him as from a deep clear fountain. We will use his own simple words to describe the building of the boat. And "In the cellar," he says, with his usual fervid piety, "where we had worshipped God, we began our work, and it was not the holiness, but the privacy of the place that invited us, and advised us to it. first, we provided a piece of timber about twelve feet long to make the keel; but because it was impossible to convey a piece of timber of that length out of the city but it must be seen, and that suspicion would bring us into examination, and the rack or batoon might extort a confession out of the most resolved and obstinate breast, we therefore cut it in two pieces, and fitted it for jointing just in the middle. Our next care was the timbers or ribs of the boat, which we contrived thus; every one of the timbers was made of three pieces, and jointed in two places, because a whole rib, at its full length, would be liable to the same inconveniences with the keel. Now understand that the joints of the ribs were not made with mortise and tenon, but the flat side of one of the three pieces was laid over the other, and two holes were bored at every joint. All this while there is no visible provision made for boards to clothe the naked ribs of our boat, without which the keel and timbers looked but like an useless anatomy; but neither had we, nor was it possible we should have, any boards in our vessel. For the jointing of these boards, and the nailing of them, to make the boat water-tight, would require hammering, and therefore from the first conception of the design I always resolved upon a canvas. In pursuance of which thought, being all satisfied that it was practicable, we bought as much strong canvas as would cover our boat twice over, upon the convex of the carine; we provided also as much pitch, tar, and tallow as would serve to make it a kind of tarpaulin cerecloth, to swaddle the naked body of our infant boat, with earthen pots to melt down our materials in, and prefixed a night wherein we might execute that part of our labour. The two carpenters and myself were appointed to this service, and the cellar was the place where we met. Matters had hitherto run on very evenly and smoothly, but here we met with some discouraging rubs. For when we had stopped all the chinks and crannies of the cellar, that the steam of the melted materials might not creep out and betray us (there being no chimney), we had not been long at our work before I felt exceedingly sick." Overcome with the pungent steam of the pitch, and forced to go into the streets for air, Okeley swooned, fell, and cutting his face, there lay till his alarmed companions found him, and carried him in weak and unserviceable. Presently another man fell ill, and the work stood still. Okeley saw the imminence of the danger, for none of the men had such faith and hope as himself. Did their spirits once get cool they would soon freeze, so again he roused himself and urged them to the work. He therefore boldly threw open the cellar door, and as soon as the steam was gone and the men recovered their courage, pushed on the work at the canvas till nearly daybreak. The next night they met again, and throwing open the door, happily finished the work. Okeley stood sentinel at the entrance the whole time, to signal any approaching danger, and while it was still dark helped to carry the prepared canvas to his shop a furlong off. In the cellar they next adapted the framework to the keel, and the canvas to the framework, then fitted in the seat, and took the whole apart ready for removal to some safe place on the seashore. William Adams, the bricklayer, who had often worked outside the walls, was chosen to carry the keel. Trowel in hand, and girded with dusty apron, Adams carried the keel in two pieces, and hid it in a hedge. One of the washermen carried the ribtimbers doubled together in a bag, among some dirty clothes, and stowed them away in another seaside field not far from the keel. The bulky tarpaulin was the most dangerous of all to carry; but at last it was put in a large sack, with a pillow over it, and taken by the washermen safely through the gates by day, openly, and under the very eyes of the soldiers and spies. Oars are the fins of a boat, and these Okeley and his fellows made of the slit staves of a barrel. They then laid in but a small supply of bread, know |