Part 8

In connection with this palace there is a garden, where the mighty men of foreign lands are seated at a banquet. Under the spread of oak, and linden, and acacia, the tables are arranged. The breath of honey-suckle and frankincense fills the air. Fountains leap up into the light, the spray struck through with rainbows falling in crystalline baptism upon flowering shrubs--then rolling down through channels of marble, and widening out here and there into pools swirling with the finny tribes of foreign aquariums, bordered with scarlet anemones, hypericums, and many colored ranunculus; meats of rarest bird and beast smoking up amid wreaths of aromatics; the vases filled with apricots and almonds; the basket piled up with apricots, and dates, and figs, and oranges, and pomegranates; melons tastefully twined with leaves of acacia; the bright waters of Eulæus filling the urns, and sweating outside the rim in flashing beads amid the traceries; wine from the royal vats of Ispahan and Shiraz, in bottles of tinged shell, and lily-shaped cups of silver, and flagons and tankards of solid gold.

The music rises higher, and the revelry breaks out into wilder transport, and the wine has flushed the cheek and touched the brain, and louder than all other voices are the hiccough of the inebriates, the gabble of fools, and the song of the drunkards.

In another part of the palace Queen Vashti is entertaining the princesses of Persia at a banquet. Drunken Ahasuerus says to his servants: "Go out and fetch Vashti from that banquet with the women, and bring her to this banquet with the men, and let me display her beauty." The servants immediately start to obey the king's command, but there was a rule in Oriental society that no woman might appear in public without having her face veiled. Yet here was a mandate that no one dare dispute, demanding that Vashti come in unveiled before the multitude. However, there was in Vashti's soul a principle more regal than Ahasuerus, more brilliant than the gold of Shushan, of more wealth than the revenue of Persia, which commanded her to disobey the order of the King; and so all the righteousness and holiness and modesty of her nature rises up into one sublime refusal. She says: "I will not go into the banquet unveiled." Of course, Ahasuerus was infuriated; and Vashti, robbed of her position and her estate, is driven forth in poverty and ruin to suffer the scorn of a nation, and yet to receive the applause of after generations, who shall rise up to admire this martyr to kingly insolence.

The last vestige of that feast is gone; the last garland has faded; the last arch has fallen; the last tankard has been destroyed, and Shushan is a ruin; but as long as the world stands there will be multitudes of men and women, familiar with the Bible, who will come into this picture-gallery of God and admire the divine portrait of Vashti, the Queen; Vashti, the veiled; Vashti, the sacrifice; Vashti, the silent.

W'EN DE DARKY AM A-WHIS'LIN' IN DE CO'N.

BY S. Q. LAPIUS.

W'en de jewdraps 'gins to glisten, An' de east am growin' red, An' de catbird am a-singin' in de trees; W'en de swallers an' de martins Am a-quar'lin' in de shed, An' de hollyhocks am callin' to de bees; W'en de gray mule 'gins to whinny An' de porker 'gins to squeal, Den it's time to be a-wo'kin' in de mo'n, Kase de sun am climbin' higher An' de han's am in de field-- An' de darky am a whis'lin' in de c'on.

W'en de fog hab lef' de valley, An' de blue am in de sky, An' de bees am wo'kin' in de medder lot; W'en de hollyhocks am drowsin', An' de sun am ridin' high, An' de dusty country road am blazin' hot; Den de darky 'gins to listen--

As de catbird quits his song-- Fo' de soundin' ob de welcome dinner-ho'n, Kase his knees am growin' wabbly, An' de rows am growin' long-- An' he's hoin' an' a-whis'lin' in de co'n!

W'en de fiery sun am smilin' An' a-sinkin' in de wes', An' de shadders creep along de dusty road; W'en de martins am a-chatter'n' An' dey hurry home to res', An' de longes' row ob all am nea'ly hoed; W'en de bullfrog 'gins to holler, An' de cowbell down de lane 'Gins to tinkle in a way dat's mos' fo'lo'n, Den amid de gloomy echoes Comes dat soul-refreshin' strain-- Ob de darky as he whis'les in de co'n!

THE PILOT.

BY JOHN B. GOUGH.

John Maynard was well known in the lake district as a God-fearing, honest, and intelligent man. He was pilot on a steamboat from Detroit to Buffalo. One summer afternoon--at that time those steamers seldom carried boats--smoke was seen ascending from below; and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there."

Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, "Captain, the ship is on fire!"

Then "Fire! fire! fire!" on shipboard.

All hands were called up; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, "How far are we from Buffalo?"

"Seven miles."

"How long before we can reach there?"

"Three-quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam."

"Is there any danger?"

"Danger! Here, see the smoke bursting out!--go forward, if you would save your lives!"

Passengers and crew--men, women and children--crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire; clouds of smoke arose.

The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard!"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"Are you at the helm?"

"Ay, ay, sir!"

"How does she head?"

"Southeast by east, sir."

"Head her southeast and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer she approached the shore. Again the captain cried out, "John Maynard!"

The response came feebly this time, "Ay, ay, sir!"

"Can you hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said.

"By God's help, I will!"

The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp; one hand was disabled; his knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship; every man, woman, and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God.

THE FATAL GLASS.

BY LAURA U. CASE.

He raised the cup to his pure, sweet lips-- Lips fresh from a mother's kisses; Merry the banquet hall that night, For youth and beauty were there, and bright The glittering lamps shone o'er them; And one had sung with a voice divine, A song in praise of the ruby wine, That graced the feast before them. Little he dreamed as he lightly quaffed The sparkling wine, that the first rare draught Was a link in the chain to bind him, And drag his soul, like a servile slave, Down slippery steps to a shameful grave, From a throne where love enshrined him.

She raised the cup to her tainted lips-- Lips foul with the vilest curses-- In a loathsome haunt of sin and shame, Where Christian charity seldom came, With its holy words to teach them Of the pastures green and waters sweet-- Of her who wept at the Master's feet, Whose boundless love could reach them. Is love so dear, and life so cheap, That one poor soul, like a wandering sheep, Alone on the bleak, cold mountain, Should gladly turn from a life accursed, To drown the past and quench the thirst In draughts from a poisonous fountain?

He raised the cup to his trembling lips-- Lips wrinkled by age and hunger; The meagre pittance he'd begged for food, Brightened the palm of the man who stood At his bar with his wines around him. He drank, and turned on tottering feet To the bitter storm and the cold, dark street, Where a corpse in the morn they found him. And oh! could those speechless lips have told Of the want and sorrow, hunger and cold He had known, or the answer given, When his trembling soul for entrance plead At the crystal gates, where One has said, "No drunkard shall enter Heaven!"

KATRINA'S VISIT TO NEW YORK.

Vell, von morning I says to Hans (Hans vos mein husband): "Hans, I tinks I goes down to New York, und see some sights in dot village."

Und Hans he say: "Vell Katrina, you vork hard pooty mooch, I tinks it vould petter be dot you goes und rest yourself some." So I gets meinself ready righd avay quick und in two days I vos de shteam cars on vistling avay for New York. Ve vent so fast I tinks mein head vould shplit sometimes. De poles for dot delegraph vires goes by like dey vos mad und running a races demselves mit to see vich could go de fastest mit de oder. De engine vistled like sometimes it vos hurt bad, und screeched mit de pain, und de horses by dem fields vould run as dey vas scared.

I vas pooty mooch as ten hours ven ve rushed into some houses so big enough as all our village, und de cars begin to shtop vith so many leetle jerks I dinks me I shall lose all de dinner vot I eat vile I vas coming all de vay apoudt.

Vell, ven dem cars got shtopped, de peoples all got oudt und I picked mein traps oup und got oudt too. I had shust shtepped de blatform on, ven so mooch as ein hundert men, mit vips in dere hands, und dere fingers all in de air oup, asked me all at vonce, "Vere I go?" Und every one of dem fellers vanted me to go mit him to his hotel. But I tells em I guess not; I vas going mit my brudder-mit-law, vot keeps ein pakeshop on de Powery, vere it didn't cost me notings. So I got me in dot shtreet cars, und pays de man mit brass buttons on his coat to let me oudt mit de shtreet vere dot Yawcup Schneider leeves. Oh, my! vot lots of houses! De shtreets vos all ofer filled mit dem. Und so many peoples I tinks me dere must be a fire, or a barade, or some oxcitement vot gets de whole city in von blaces. It dakes me so mooch time to look at everytings I forgot me ven to got oudt und rides apast de blaces I vants to shtop to, und has to valk again pack mit dree or four shquares. But I vind me dot brudder-mit-law who vos make me so velcome as nefer vos.

Vell, dot vos Saturday mit de afternoon. I vas tired mit dot day's travel und I goes me pooty quick to bed und ven I vakes in de morning de sun vas high oup in de shky. But I gets me oup und puts on mein new silk vrock und tinks me I shall go to some fine churches und hear ein grosse breacher. Der pells vas ringing so schveet I dinks I nefer pefore hear such music. Ven I got de shtreet on de beoples vos all going quiet und nice to dere blaces mit worship, und I makes oup my mind to go in von of dem churches so soon as von comes along. Pooty soon I comes to de von mit ein shteeples high oup in de shky und I goes in mit de beoples und sits me down on ein seat all covered mit a leetle mattress. De big organ vas blaying so soft it seemed likes as if some angels must be dere to make dot music.

Pooty soon de breacher man shtood in de bulbit oup und read de hymn oudt, und all de beoples sing until de churches vos filled mit de shweetness. Den de breacher man pray, und read de Pible, und den he say dot de bulbit would be occupied by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas.

Den dot man gommence to breach und he read mit his dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." He talks for so mooch as ein half hour already ven de beoples sings again und goes homes. I tells mein brudder-mit-law it vos so nice I tinks me I goes again mit some oder churches. So vot you tinks? I goes mit anoder churches dot afternoon und dot same Villiam R. Shtover vos dere und breach dot same sermon ofer again mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever." I tinks to my ownself--dot vos too bad, und I goes home und dells Yawcup, und he says, "Nefer mind, Katrina, to-night ve goes somevhere else to churches." So ven de night vas come und de lamps vos all lighted mit de shtreets, me und mein brudder-mit-law, ve goes over to dot Brooklyn town to hear dot Heinrich Vard Peecher.

My but dot vos ein grosse church, und so many beobles vas dere, ve vas crowded mit de vall back. Ven de singing vas all done, a man vot vos sitting mit a leetle chair got oup und say dot de Rev. Heinrich Vard Peecher vas to de Vhite Mountains gone mit dot hay fever, but dot de bulbit vould be occupied on this occasion by de Rev. Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas. Und dot Villiam R. Shtover he gots mit dot bulbit oup und breaches dot same sermon mit dot same dext, "Und Simon's vife's mudder lay sick mit a fever."

Dot vos too bad again und I gets mad. I vos so mad I vish dot he got dot fever himself.

Vell, von dot man vas troo Yawcup says to me, "Come, Katrina, ve'll go down to dot ferry und take de boat vot goes to New York!" Ven ve vas on dot boat de fog vas so tick dot you couldn't see your hands pehind your pack. De vistles vas plowing, und dem pells vos ringing, und von man shtepped up mit Yawcup und say "Vot vor dem pells pe ringing so mooch?"

Und ven I looked around dere shtood dot Villiam R. Shtover mit Leavenworth, Kansas--und I said pooty quick: "Vot vor dem pells vas ringing? Vy for Simon's vife's mudder, vot must be died, for I hear dree times to-day already dot she vas sick mit ein fever."

THE RABBI AND THE PRINCE.

BY JAMES CLARENCE HARVEY.

_Versified from the Talmud._

A monarch sat in serious thought, alone, But little reck'd he of his robe and throne; Naught valuing the glory of control, He sought to solve the future of his soul. "Why should I bow the proud, imperious knee, To mighty powers no mortal eye can see?" So mused he long and turned this question o'er, Then, with impatient tread, he paced the floor, Till maddened by conflicting trains of thought And speculation vague, which came to naught, With feverish haste he clutched a tasseled cord As desperate hands, in battle, clutch a sword. "Summon Jehoshua," the monarch cried. The white-haired Rabbi soon was at his side.

*....*....*....*

"I bow no more to powers I cannot see; Thy faith and learning shall be naught to me, Unless, before the setting of the sun, Mine eyes behold the uncreated one."

*....*....*....*

The Rabbi led him to the open air. The oriental sun with furious glare Sent down its rays, like beams of molten gold. The aged teacher, pointing, said: "Behold." "I cannot," said the Prince, "my dazzled eyes Refuse their service, turned upon the skies."

*....*....*....*

"Son of the dust," the Rabbi gently said And bowed, with reverence, his hoary head, "This one creation, thou canst not behold, Though by thy lofty state and pride made bold.

How canst thou then behold the God of Light, Before whose face the sunbeams are as night? Thine eyes before this trifling labor fall, Canst gaze on him who hath created all? Son of the dust, repentance can atone; Return and worship God, who rules alone."

THE MAID OF ORLEANS.

BY J. E. SAGEBEER.

It was just at the dawn of day, when the first rays of morning were breaking over Europe and dispelling the darkness of the Middle Ages. France and England were engaged in a desperate struggle, the one for existence, the other for a throne. All the western part of France had avowed the English cause, and the English king had been proclaimed at Paris, at Rouen and at Bordeaux, while the strongly fortified city of Orleans, the key to the French possessions, was besieged. The thunder and lightning of the battlefield are bad enough, but the starvation and pestilence of a besieged city are infinitely worse. The supplies of Orleans were exhausted; the garrison was reduced to a few desperate men, and the women and children had been abandoned to the English. But far away on the border of Germany, in the little village of Domremy, the Nazareth of France, God was raising up a deliverer for Orleans, a savior for the nation.

The out-door life of a peasant girl had given to Joan of Arc a well-developed form, while the beauties of her soul and the spiritual tendencies of her nature must have given to her face that womanly beauty that never fails to win respect and love. Her standard was a banner of snowy silk; her weapon a sword, that from the day she first drew it from its scabbard until she finally laid it down upon the grave of St. Denis, was never stained with blood; and her inspiration was a self-sacrificing devotion to the will of God, to the rights of France and her king. Without a single opposing shot she passed under the very battlements of the besieging English, and entered Orleans with soldiers for empty forts and food for starving people.

It needed no eloquent speech to incite the men of Orleans to deeds of valor and of vengeance. The ruins of their homes choked the streets; the desolated city was one open sepulchre, while the cries of half-starved children and the wails of heartbroken mothers, stirred them to such a mad frenzy of enthusiasm, that now, since a leader had come, they would have rushed headlong and thoughtlessly against the English forts as into a trap of death.

And now the attack was planned and the lines were formed; and then as the crumbling walls of the city echoed back the wild shouts of the Orleanites, the maid of Domremy, waving her sword aloft and followed by her snowy banner, led her Frenchmen on to slaughter and to victory. Then from the English archers came flight after flight of swift-winged arrows, while the wild catapults threw clouds of death-laden stones crashing among the French. Broadsword and battle-axe clashed on shield and helmet, while the wild horses, mad with rage and pain, rushed with fierce yells upon the foe; but ever above the din and noise of battle, above death shouts and saber strokes, though the dust and smoke obscured her banner, ever could be heard the clear, ringing voice of their leader, shouting for victory and for France. An arrow pierced her bosom, but drawing it out with her own hand and throwing it aside, she showed the French her blood-stained corselet, and once more urged them on. As when the Archangel Michael, leading the heavenly cohorts, forced the rebellious angels to the very brink of hell, then hurled them over and so saved the throne of heaven, so did the maid of Orleans, leading on frenzied Frenchmen, press back the English step by step, and slaughtered rank by rank, till the whole army turned and fled, and Orleans was free and France was safe.

And now her work was done. Would that some kindly voice had bade her now go home to tend the sheep and roll their white wool on her distaff! But she who had raised the siege of Orleans and led the way to Rheims, could not escape a jealous fate. The Duke of Burgundy had laid siege to Compiegne. Joan of Arc went to the rescue and was repulsed, and while bravely fighting in the rear of her retreating troops, fell prisoner to the recreant French and was sold by them to the English. For one long year she languished in her prison tower. Her keepers insulted her and called her a witch; and when in desperation she sprang from the tower and was taken up insensible, they loaded her poor body with chains, and two guards stayed in her cell day and night.

Her trial came, but her doom was already sealed. The Bishop of Beauvais, with a hundred doctors of theology, were her judges. Without a particle of evidence against her, they convicted her of sorcery and sentenced her to be burnt at the stake. A howl of fiendish joy went up from the blood-thirsty court of Paris,--a howl of fiendish joy that made its way to every battlefield where she had fought; it rang against the rescued walls of Orleans and was echoed to the royal court at Rheims; it reached to the bottomless pit and made the imps of Satan dance with glee; it echoed through the halls of heaven and made the angels weep; but there was no rescuer for the helpless girl. Even the gladiator, forced into the fight, against his will, when fallen in the arena, his sword broken and the enemy's knee upon his breast, might yet hope for "thumbs down," and mercy from the hard-hearted Roman spectators. But not a single hand was raised to save the maid of Domremy, the saviour of Orleans.

Had she not faithfully done her work? Had she not bled for them? Had she not saved the kingdom? And in all chivalrous France was there not a champion to take up the gauntlet in defence of a helpless girl? When she led their armies, their spears blazed in heaven's sunlight; now they would quench them in her blood. With scarcely time to think of death, she was hurried away to the public square and chained to the stake, and when the fagots were fired, more painful than the circling flames, she heard the mocking laugh of the angry crowd. Higher and higher rose the flames, until, pressing the cross to her heart, her unconscious head sank upon her bosom, and her pure spirit went up amid the smoke and soared away to heaven.

GENTLE ALICE BROWN.

BY W. S. GILBERT.

[This is one of the Bab-Ballads, on which the very successful comic opera "Pinafore" was founded.]

It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As Alice was a sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon, and he looked so good and true, That she thought: "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not, To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said: "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, And said: "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear; It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father!" little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat acatching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"

"For shame!" said father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!