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Due she was, and over-due,
Galleon, merchandise, and crew;
Creeping along through rain and shine,
Through the tropics, under the Line.
The cars were waiting outside the walls,
The wives of sailors thronged the town,
The traders sat by their empty stalls,
And the viceroy himself came down.
The bells in town were all a-trip,
Te Deums were on each father's lip;
The limes were ripening in the sun
For the crew of the coming galleon.

All in vain. Weeks passed away,
And yet no galleon saw the bay.
Indian goods advanced in price,
The governor missed his favourite spice,
The Senoritas mourned for sandal,
And the famous cottons of Coromandel.
And some for an absent lover lost,
And one for a husband--Donna Julia,
Wife of the captain-tempest-tossed,
In circumstances so peculiar,
Even the fathers, unawares,
Grumbled a little at their prayers,
And all along the coast that year,
Votive candles were scarce and dear.

at once four favourites from the lowest ranks. The first explosion over, he dismissed them all except one woman, who has neither the physical or moral charms of the Queen, but who skilfully retains her capricious lover by a number of cares and attentions which the proud Teroneche disdains to exercise. What most shows the abasement of the national character is, that those who surround the King have taken his part in the scandal. The church alone protests, by the voice of some venturesome priests.

“At Easter, Theodore, being obliged by decorum to communicate, obtained absolution only on the condition of promising to change his con. duct. He then goes to see the Queen, who still exercises a certain ascendancy over him, for he is proud, notwithstanding his infidelities, to be the husband of a woman so admired. He passes an hour listening to the most biting and hardest truths; and if he occasionally rages and threatens, the Queen reminds him coldly that no Abyssinian monarch has ever yet killed his wife, and she knows well he will not dare to begin. Theodore then returns, somewhat ashamed, to his little Court, makes a public confession, declares that he is really the most scandalous sinner in Ethiopia, that he is so in spite of himself—that it is a victory of the devil, a victory which should make us feel our weakness and nothingness. Finally he promises to try and do better, and dismisses the favourite; Easter over, he takes her back again, and sometimes adds a second. In these freaks, all with King Theodore is arranged for effect. He is a theatrical fakeerer, as the Abyssinians say. When he gives audience to strangers, or to chiefs who come to make submission, he leans negligently on two magnificent tame lions, while two others gape, stretch, or roll at his feet; and he enjoys, like a child, the emotions which these formidable decorations inspire in the terrified beholders.”

In concluding this extract, the thought will occur, What a lion Theodore himself would make if he were to visit London, like the Sul. tan or the Egyptian Viceroy! Finally, the " Terrible” has left Spithead, and she will proceed to Alexandria, where sbe will be the headquarters of the paval brigade,which, co-operating with the land-forces, will, it is to be hoped, bring the King of Abyssinia somewhat to his senses, or annihilate his pretensions to sovereignty altogether.

Never a tear bedims the eye
That time and patience will not dry;
Never a lip is curved with pain
That can't be kissed into smiles again.
And these same truths, as far as I know,
Obtained on the coast of Mexico.
More than two hundred years ago,
In sixteen hundred and fifty-one-
Ten years after the deed was done,
And folks had forgotten the galleon.
The divers plunged in the Gulf for pearls,
White as the teeth of the Indian girls,
The traders sat by their full bazaars,
The mules with many a weary load,
And oxen dragging their creaking cars,
Came and went on the mountain-road.

Where was the galleon all this while ?
Wrecked on some lonely coral isle ?
Burnt by the roving sea-marauders,
Or sailing north under secret orders ?
Had she found the Aman passage famed,
By lying Moldanado claimed,
And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree,
Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ?
Or had she found the “River of Kings,”
Of which De Fonte told such strange things
In sixteen-forty? Never a sign,
East or West or under the Line,
They saw of the missing galleon.
Never a sail, a plank, or chip,
They found of the long-lost treasure-ship,
Or enough to build a tale upon.
But when she was lost, and where and how,
Is the point we're coming at just now.

THE LOST GALLEON.

BY FRANK BRET HARTE.

In sixteen hundred and forty-one,
The regular yearly galleon,
Laden with odorous gums and spice,
Indian cottons and Indian rice,
And the richest silks of far Cathay,
Was due at Acapulco Bay,

Take, if you please, the chart of that day
Published at Madrid, por el Rey-
Look for a spot in the old South Sea-
The hundred and eightieth degree
Longitude west of Madrid : There,
Under the equatorial glare,

Just where the East and West are one,
You'll find the missing galleon,
You'll find the San Gregorio, yet
Riding the seas, with sails all set,
Fresh as upon the very day
She sailed from Acapulco Bay.
How did she get there? What strange spell
Kept her two hundred years so well,

Free from decay and mortal taint ?
• What--but the prayers of a patron saint !

A hundred leagues from Manila town, The San Gregorio's helm came down. Round she went on her heel, and not A cable's length from a galliot That rocked on the waters, just abreast of the galleon's course, which was west-sou’-west. Then said the galleon's Commandante, General Pedro Sobriente (That was his rank on land and main, A regular custom of old Spain), “My pilot is dead of scurvy. May I ask the longitude, time, and day?” The first two given and compared, The third--the Commandante stared I “The first of June! I make it second." Said the stranger, “Then you've wrongly reckoned. I make it first : as you came this way, You should have lost-d'y'ee see P-a day Lost a day, as you plainly see, On the hundred and eightieth degree." “Lost a day ?” “Yes; if not rude, When did you make East Longitude pas “On the ninth of May-our patron's day." On the ninth |--there was no ninth of May! Eighth and tenth was there but stay'Too late--for the galleon bore away. Lost was the day they should have kept, Lost unheeded and lost unwept; Lost in a way that made search vain Lost in the trackless and boundless main ; Lost like the day of Job's awful curse, In his third chapter, third and fourth verse ; Wrecked was their patron's only dayWhat would the holy fathers say ? Said the Fray Antonio EstavanThe galleon's chaplain--a learned man“Nothing is lost that you can regain : And the way to look for a thing is plainTo go where you lost it back again. Back with your galleon till you see The hundred and eightieth degree. Wait till the rolling year goes round, And there will the missing day be found. For you'll find--if computation's trueNot only one ninth of May, but twoOne for the good saint's present cheer, And one for the day we lost last year.” Back to the spot sailed the galleonWhere, for a twelve-month, off and on The hundred and eightieth degree, She rose and fell on a tropic sea. But lo! when it came the ninth of May, All of a sudden becalmed she lay One degree from that fatal spot, Without the power to move a knot, And of course the moment she lost her way, Gone was her chance to save that day,

To cut a lengthening story short, She never saved it. Made the sport Of evil spirits, and baffling wind, She was always before or just behind. One day too soon or one day too late, And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, Two Tenths—but never a Ninth of May. And there she rides through two hundred years Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; Yet through the grace of the saint she served, Captain and crew are still preserved. By a computation that still holds good, Made by the Holy Brotherhood, The San Gregorio will cross that line, In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine Just three hundred years to a day From the time she lost the ninth of May. And the folks in Acapulco town, Over the waters, looking down, Will see in the glow of the setting sun, The sale of the missing galleon, And the royal standard of Philip Rey; The gleaming mast and glistening spar, As she nears the surf of the outer bar. A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, An odour of spice along the shore, A crash-a cry from a scattered wreckAnd the yearly galleon sails no more In or out of the olden bay, For the blessed patron has found his day. Such is the legend. Hear this truth: Over the trackless past, somewhere, Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, Only regained by faith and prayer, Only recalled by prayer and plaint: Each lost day has its patron saint !

THE POET. BY FREDERICK NAPIER BROOME.

'Tis the voice of one crying

In the wilderness; 'Tis the sound of a sighing,

A note of distress; A protest incessant,

Indignantly cast In the teeth of the present,

On the tomb of the past.

Oh! change it to singing!

Till the channels of night
Overflow with a ringing,

A tide of delight;
For there shines on thy spirit

A ray from afar,
And the morning swims near it,

That large liquid star.

Sing aloud in the dawning!

Break the sleep of the world ! Until the dark awning,

Like a tent, shall be farled,
And the daylight surprising

The armies, they throng
Towards the sun-rising,

And march to thy song!
New Zealand,

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Second Part.

1 Stephen drew back sharply. The innocent

baby! who lived out-of-doors! Ben must A year or two afterwards, (for I am not have forgotten who he was : a thief belonging writing of a fictitious character,) this man's to this cell. They were going to let him out; frauds were discovered. They were larger and but what difference did that make? His thin more uniformly successful than any that had face grew wet with perspiration, as he walked ever been perpetrated in the States, but there away. Why, his very fingers had felt too impure was about them a subtle, dogged daring that to him, as he tied on her shoes. He went away did not belong to Yarrow's character, and an hour after, only nodding good-bye to Ben, shrewd people who had known them began to looking down with an odd grin at the clothes talk of this shadow of a woman who went about he had asked the jailer to buy for him. Ben with him a quadroon, they said-and hinted had chosen a greenish coat and trousers and strongly that it was she who had been the vital yellow waistcoat. He did not shake bands with power of the partnership, and Yarrow but the him. Ben had been mixing hog-food, and the well-chosen tool. There are no means of marks were on his fingers. This was yesterday: knowing the truth of the conjecture, for Yarrow he was going now to meet his brother, as he escaped ; she followed him, but is dead, so their requested. Well, what else was there for him to secret is safe. Fraud, however, was but one do? half of his story. Soulé gave like a prince, He did not look up often, as he plodded over secretly, with a woman-like, anxious helpfulness, the fields: when he did, it hurt him somehow, a passionate eagerness, as if the pain or want of this terrible wastefulness, this boundless unused a human being were insufferable to him. In air, and stretch of room. It even pained his this he was alone : the woman had no share in weakened eyes : so long the oblong slip of clay it. She was as cold, impervious to the suffering running from the cell to the wall had been bis of others as nothing but a snake or a selfish share, and the yellow patch of sky and brick woman can be : whatever muddy human feeling chimney-top beyond. For so many thousands, did ooze from her brain was for this man only. tov, no more. But they were thieves, foul, like And yet, when we think of it, she was, as they him. Pure men this was for. Stephen looked guessed, a quadroon : maybe, under the low, like an old man now, in spite of Ben's party. waxy-skinned forehead that Yarrow's fingers coloured rigging : stooped and lean, bis step were patting that night there might have been slouched : his head almost bald under the old a revengeful consciousness of the wrongs of her fur cap. Something in the sharpened face, too, race that justified to her the harm she did. It looked as if more than eyesight had been palsied is likely : the coarsest negroes argue in that in these years of utter solitude: the brain was way. God help them! At any rate, we shall dulled with sluggishly gnawing over and over come closest to Christ's rule of justice in trying the few animal ideas they leave for prisoners' to find a sore heart behind the vicious fingers souls, or, as probably, thoroughly imbruted by of the woman.

| them. Soulé thought the latter." While the two stood in the pleasant light of When the convict had finished his dull walk, the warm room waiting for him, Stephen Yar- he sat down on the wooden staircase that led to row came towards the house across the fields. his brother's rooms for half an hour, slowly It was his shadow that his wife and Jem saw rubbing bis legs, conscious of nothing but crossing Shag's Hill. He was a free man now, some flesh-pain, apparently, and when he did by virtue of his nickname, “Quiet Stevy,” in enter the chamber, bowed as indifferently to part. It startled him as much as the jailer, Soulé and his wife as though they had parted when his release was sent in a year before the carelessly yesterday. His brother glanced at time, “in consideration of his uniform good the woman: one look vould certainly be enough conduct.” The truth was, that M. Soulé took for her. Poor Stephen's power? If it erer an interest in the poor wretch, and had said a had been, its essence was long since exhaled : few words in his favour to the Governor at a there was nothing in his whole nature now but dinner-party the other evening, so the release the stalest dregs, surely? Perhaps she thougbt was signed the next day. Soulé had called to differently: she looked at the man keenly, and see the man when he came to Pittsburg, and then gave a quick, warning glance to her hus. spent an hour or two in his cell. The next band, as she sat down to her sewing. Soulé morning he was free to go; but he had stayed did not heed it as he usually did he was a week longer, making a pair of red morocco choked and sick to see what a wreck his brother shoes for the jailer's little girl, idling over them: really was. God help us! to think of the time When they were done, tying them on, himself, when Stephen and he were boys together, and with a wonderful bow-knot, and looking anx this was the end of it! iously in her clean Dutch face to see if she were “Come to the fire, old fellow !” he said, pleased.

huskily. “You're blue with cold. We used to “Kiss the gentleman, Meg," growled Ben. have snows like this at home, eh?” Where's yer manners ?”

The man passed the lady with the quaint, sby

.

bow that used to be habitual with him towards Yarrow nodded slowly, looking in the fire. women, (he still used it to the jailer's wife,) and “If I were not strong enough to-morrow, what held his hands over the blaze. His brother fol- | then?” lowed him: his wife had never seen him so “I will be with you-near, I must have the nervous or excited : he stood close to the con- paper. He is an old Shylock, after all,” with vict, smoothing his coat on the shoulder, taking a desperate carelessness. “ His soul would not off bis cap.

weigh heavily against me, if it were let out." “Why, why! this cloth's too thin, even for Yarrow passed his hand over his face; it was summer; I= Oh, Stephen, these are hard colourless. Yet he looked bewildered. The times-hard! But I mean to do something for bare thought of murder was not clear to him you, God knows. Sit down, sit down, you're yet. tired, boy," turning off, going to the window, “Drink some wine, Stephen,” said his his hands behind him, coming back again. / brother, pouring out a goblet for himself. I “ We're going to help you, Judith and I."

carry my own drinking-apparatus. This Soulé did not see the look which the convict | sherry" shot at the woman, when he spoke these words;

Yarrow tasted it, and put down the glass. but she did, and knew, that, however her hus

“I was cheated in it, eh?”. band might contrive to deceive himself, he never - Yes, you were.” would his brother. If Stephen Yarrow's soul

“Your palate was always keener than mine. went down to any deeper depth to-night, it?" would be conscious in its going. What manner! His mouth looked blue and cold under his

man was he? What was his wife, or long | whiskers: then they both stood vacantly silent, ago home, now, to him? It mattered to , while the woman sewed. them: for, if he were not a tool, they

“Tut! we will look at the matter practically, were ruined. She stitched quietly at her soft floss and flannel.

as business-men,” said Soulé at last, affecting Soulé was sincere ; let him explain what his wish was, himself; it would

a gruff, hearty tone, and walking about, but was be wiser for her to be silent; this man, she

silent then. remembered, had eyes that never understood a

The convict did not answer. No sound but lie.

the rough wind without blowing the drifted Yarrow did not sit down; his brother stood

snow and pebbles from the asphalt roof against close, leaning his unsteady hand upon his arm.

the frosted panes, and the angry fire of bitumen “I knew you would not fail me, Stephen.

within breaking into clefts of blue and scarlet To-morrow will be a turning-point in both our

flame, thrusting its jets of fierce light out from lives. Circumstances have conspired to help its cage: impatient, it may be, of this convict, me in my plan.”

this sickly, shrivelled bit of humanity standing He began to stammer. The other looked at there; wondering the nauseated life in his noshim quietly, inquiringly,

trils or soul claimed yet its share of God's “You remember what I told you on Tues. | breath. Society had taken the man like a root day?" more hastily. “I have dealt heavily in torn out of native unctuous soil, kept it in a stocks lately; it needs one blow more, and our

damp cellar, hid out of the air and light. . If future is secure for life. Yours and mine. i after a while it withered away, whose fault was mean-yours and mine, Stephen. This paper

it? If there were no hand now to plant it old Frazier carries, he is going to New York

again, do you look for it to grow rotten, or not? with it. If I can keep it out of the market for

One would have said Soulé was a root that had a week, my speculation is assured, I can realize

been planted in fat, loamy ground, to look at half a million, at least. Frazier is an old man,

him. There was a healthy, liberal, lazy life for weak: he crosses the Narrows to-morrow

you! Yet the winter sky looked gray and morning on horseback.”

dumb when he passed the window, and the fireHe stopped abruptly, playing with a shell on light broke fiercest against his bluff figure going the mantel-shelf,

to and fro. No matter; something there was that “I understand,” in a dry voice; "you want

would have warmed your heart to him: somehim robbed; and my hands came at the right thing genial, careless, big-natured, from the loose nick of time."

red hair to the indolent, portly stride. Who "Pish! you use coarse words. A man's knows? A comfortable, true-hearted, merry brain must be distempered to call that robbery; clergyman, a jolly farmer, with open house and the paper, as I said, is neither money nor its

a bit of good racing-stock in the stable, if equivalent.”

bigotry in his boyhood, and this woman, had not There was a silence of some moments.

crossed him. They had crossed him : there “I must have it,” his eye growing fierce.

was not an atom of unpolluted nature left: you " You could take it and leave the man unhurt;

saw the taint in every syllable he spoke. Fresh I could have done it myself, but he's an old man, and malignant to-night, when this tempted soul I want him left unhurt. If I had done it | hung in the balance. Well," chewing his lips, “it would not have “We're letting the matter slip too long. been convenient for him to have gone on with Something must be decided upon. Stephen !" that story. He knows me, Is the affair quite nervously, “wake up! You have forgotten our plain now?"

| subject, I think.”

cost."

“No," the bald head raised out of the coat- ) the yellow and brown heats grew deeper. One collar in which it had sunk. “Go on."

saw how it was then. No beggar turned from Soulé looked at bim perplexed a moment. God so empty-handed as this man to-day. Was be dulled, or had he learned in those years His place in the world slipped: his cbabce to shut in looks and thoughts closer prisoners gone : sick, sinking: his brain mad for know. than himself?

ledge: his hands stretched out for work : DO “ It is a mere question of time,” he said, a man to give it to him: whatever God he had little composed. “Frazier is an agent : shall lost to him: the thief's smell, he thought, on this money accrue to me or to his employers ? every breath he drew, every rag of clothes be I have risked all on it. I must have it at any wore. Hundreds of convicts leave our prison

doors with souls as hungry and near death as “ At any cost?"

this. “At any," boldly. “Is it any easier for me “I have lost something-since I went in to talk of that chance than you, Stephen ?" there,” he said, jerking his thumb over his

“No John. Your hands are clean," with an shoulder. “I do not think it will ever come exhausted look. “I know that. You had a back." kind Irish heart. What money you made with “No?". one hand you flung away with the other.” | Soulé put his big hand to his face mechaniSoulé blushed likea woman.

cally. “No matter," beating some dust off his boot. “Don't say that, boy! I know The “ But for Frazier, I've talked that over with world has gone on, it has left you behindJudith, and— I don't value human life as you | You”do : it may have been my residence in the South. He choked, could not go on : he would bare It matters little how a man dies, so he lives right. put half the strength and life in himself into This Frazier, if he dies to defend his package, Yarrow's lank little body that moment, if he would do a nobler deed than in any of his dime- could. There was a something else lost, diffescraping days. For me, my part is not robbery. rent from all these, of which they both thought, The paper is neither specie nor a draft.”

but they did not speak of it. The convict looked His tongue swung fluently now, for it had out into the night. Beyond the square patch convinced himself.

of window and that near dark, how fall the “ There is but a night left to decide. What world was of happy homes getting ready for will you do, Stephen ?"

Christmas! children and happy wives ! Soulé He put his hand on the green coat with its undertood. gaudy buttons, and leaned against his brother “I don't say I can bring you back what you as they used to go arms over shoulders to have lost, Stephen. I offer you the best I can. school. Soulé's big throat was full of tears ; | You're not an old man, barely thirty : you must he bad never felt so full of sorrowful pity as in have years to acquire fresh bone and muscle. this the foulest purpose of his life. Unselfish Set your brain to work, meanwhile. Give it a it seemed to him. "O God! what a hard life chance." Stephen's had been! This would cure him : “It never had one,” said the convict, with a two or three sea-voyages, a winter in Florence, queer, faint smile. would freshen him a little, maybe, but not *“ Hillo! that looks like old times !” brightmuch.

ening up. “No, it never had. Do you think “Eh? What will you do, old fellow ?" I forget our alley-house with its three rooms? striking his shoulder. “This is the last night.” | the carpentering by day, and the arithmetic by

“I know that. I have been waiting for it all night ? the sweltering, sultry Sunday mornings my life.”

in church, and the afternoons sniffling over the He put his red handkerchief up to his mouth

catechism among the rain-butts in the backto conceal the face, as if its meaning were grow- yard? Do you remember the preachers, the ing too plain. Soulé looked at him fixedly a travelling agents, that put up with us? how they moment, then, taking him by the button, began snarled at other churches, and helped themselres tapping off his sentences on his breast.

out of the shop, as if to be a man of God in"I'll state the case. I'll be plain. Stephen, plied a mean beggar? I don't say my father you want food; you want clothes; you" was a hypocrite when he made you a colporteur, “Is that all I want?” facing him.

and so one of them; but”The woman started, as she saw his face fully, | He paused. Even in this frothy-brained and his look, for the first time. A quiet blue fellow, his religion or his doubt lay deeper than eye, unutterably kind and sad : a slow, compel- | all. His face grew dark, ling face, that would look on his life barely, day “I tell you, if there is 'one thing I loathe, after day, year after year, never drowsing over it is the religion that was taught to me its bore or pain until he had wrung its full when I was a child : joyless, hard, cruel. Fire meaning out to the last dregs.

-humphl-and brimstone for all but a few All you want? Clothing? food ?" stam- hundred, I remember. Well, I don't know mered Soulé, something in the face having yet if there is any better," with a vague look. 8 Opped his garrulous breath. “I did not say “ A man shifts for himself in the next chance as hat, Stephen.”

well as now, I suppose. Did you believe what The wind struck sharper on the rattling panes ; 'you preached, Stephen d" with an abrupt change,

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