excerpted. It therefore frequently happened that in the midst of Napoleon's battles and Canning's speeches he found a rather provoking gap.

When Captain Shaw was ordered home, he took a run to Cape Town, and, after many days' waiting, signaled the outward-bound Warren. Up to this time, Nolan had regarded his imprisonment as merely a farce, and manifested much satisfacfaction at the sea voyage. He was therefore not a little amazed as he received orders to prepare himself for disembarkation for his second voyage, with Captain Philipps, to the Mediterranean. This officer relates that after Nolan again came out of his cabin he could not believe he saw the same person. The unfortunate man had realized now that he had no longer a home; not even one to suffer imprisonment in.

This was but the beginning of twenty re-embarkations which yet remained for him to have his wish fulfilled; and his lot was far more terrible than that of those rebels who since then resisted their country with arms, who, though excluded from the general amnesty, are nevertheless living in other countries where they can share to some extent in the interests of their home.

His exemplary behavior during his journeys has shown satisfactorily that he repented of his folly, and manfully surrendered himself to his fate. He never intentionally aggravated the hard and painful situation of those whose duty it was to watch him. Opportunities to this were not to be avoided, but they were never provoked by him. Of the multitudinous incidents which occurred to remind him most painfully of his despised home, I shall mention but three, to show how deeply he felt his loss.

During Nolan's confinement on the Brandywine, one of the officers borrowed from a comrade in Alexandria a whole chestful of books, at that time regarded a special providence. Nolan also was invited to join the circle which, on a beautiful August afternoon, had raised a tent upon the rear deck. It was decided that, to make the time pass more profitably, each should read in turns; and in time his turn came. The newlyissued volume of Walter Scott's, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," was chosen, and every one became enthusiastic over it. With a deep pathos Nolan began the sixth canto without any presentiment of the consequences.

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land ?"

During these words, a painful awkwardness crept over the assembled officers. Nolan grew pale, but, with a resolution born of a better hope, he continued:

"Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there be, go; mark him well;"

But now his resolute will was sorely tried; he could not collect himself sufficiently to omit the passage; he blushed, and, in his confusion, stammered on:

"For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite these titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall for—”

He sprang up convulsively, like a shot deer. Tears streamed from his eyes. With a start he flung the book into the sea, and hurried to his cabin. "For two whole months," said one of his old companions, "we did not see Nolan among us again."

Not long thereafter, during the war with Great Britain, Nolan's ship was attacked by a hostile frigate. A ball entered the port-hole of the American vessel, and killed the officer of the deck, besides several others. In the midst of the confusion, as a deus ex machina, appeared Nolan, took the command, ordered the wounded away, loaded the cannon with his own hands, aimed it, and had it fired. And thus he remained in charge of the cannon, calm and courageous, cool, collected, encouraging his sailors, and firing twice as often as the rest, until the proud Englander struck her colors, and surrendered to the American commander. Then rose the cry:

"Nolan! Where is Nolan? The captain calls for him."

Nolan came.

"Sir," said the captain, addressing him, "today you have been one of the bravest on the ship, and I shall name you in my dispatches. With this I show you my gratitude," he added, as he handed him his own sabre; "who owes you more than I, will himself reward you." He could not, dared not, say your country.

This was the brightest day in the exile's life; and on every festive occasion he carried the wellmerited decoration. The commander sought a pardon for Nolan, but he never received a reply. The whole business began to be ignored at Washington, and Nolan's condition remained the same, because no orders were issued thence.

Apart from his books, and the occasional intercourse with the officers, there was nothing to help him pass his time. But he used his books well, as well as he could, and among his papers there were found, after his death, many tokens of his diligence in numerous compilations of merit and value in natural history. He had learned the language of nearly every country he visited, and was of great service as interpreter.

It was a matter of this sort that on one occasion well-nigh broke his heart. His vessel had, on the northwest coast of Africa, fallen in with and captured a slave-trader; and the commander was in great straits how to bring to order the riotous negroes, so that he might return them to their country.

There was no other who could speak a word of Portuguese, which one of the negroes had learned from Fernando Ko. Nolan went into their midst, told them what their fate was to be, thereby hoping to quell the disturbance. The sweat rolled from his forehead, as he stood surrounded by four hundred negroes, one of whom told him of his wife, another of his child, and a third of his parents and home. His own voice was drowned in the uproar, and it was with the utmost difficulty, and only by complying with their demands, that he became master of the situation. But as the enthusiastic multitude pressed upon him, kissed and embraced him, nearly crushing him in their transports of joy, his consciousness forsook him, and he had to be carried in a boat to the ship. Here he soon recovered, and as he sat aside a young lieutenant on the rear deck, his long-suppressed emotion broke forth, and his full heart gushed out in all its accumulated force.

"Young man," he said to his companion, with whom in later years he made other voyages, "from this you may learn what it is to be without family, without home, and without country. Should you ever so far forget yourself as to do or say anything that might raise a barrier between yourself and these treasures, pray God that in his mercy he may take you to himself. Bind yourself

to your family, forget self, and do all for them. Speak of them, write to them, think of them. The farther you journey, the more fondly should you cling to them, as yonder miserable slaves. And your country, your home, the old flag there

young man, think of nothing but to serve them, even though such service should lead to death itself. Allow no evening to pass in which you do not pray God to bless the flag; and whatever betide you, whoever flatters you, think of no other! Behind every man with whom you have to do stands your country; to it you belong as to your own mother. Shame and dishonor to him who forsakes his mother! Would to God!" he sobbed in anguish, "that some one had spoken thus to me in my youth."

After this there were frequent attempts made to procure deliverance for the homeless wanderer, but no one in Washington believed in the existence of such a man. Nor is this the first instance in which a department pretended not to know anything. For the officers of the navy the whole matter was a very delicate one, and we must admit it to be proof of the honorable esprit du corps of the navy that the secret was not allowed to come to light until after Nolan's death, having been sacredly and successfully kept even from the enterprising press of the Union.

In Nolan's fate, as in the case of so many others, where one is thrown upon self-government, was illustrated the principle, Success is everywhere successful; failure is always the signal for abandonment. The order to carry Nolan from one place to another was made; no recall was ever had-the officer must obey the law, and however gladly any one would have connived at the escape of poor Nolan (and was he not a poor, pitiable man indeed?), he could have done it only at the peril of his own position; and dismissal from service is not an honor coveted by any officer.

On his death-bed, having reached his eightieth year, he requested the favor of hearing something of America, and for the first time in the long period of fifty-six years did one of the friendly officers give him a true sketch of his native country, what it had become, how it prospered, what a prominence it had won, what significance it had for the present, and what bright prospects it enjoyed for the future. With a smile of happy contentment he listened, and saw the mighty structure unfold before him. One thing only his friend

could not prevail upon himself to mention-Nolan must not learn of the civil war. As he became weaker, he requested his attendant to take the prayer-book by his side and read the marked pages. It ran: "For our own selves and in the name of our entire country, we thank thee, Lord, that thou, in spite of our many transgressions, hast been gracious unto us. Bless and keep thy faithful servants, the President of the United States, and all to whom is entrusted a public office." Then he fell gently asleep, in peace with himself and the world.

In his Bible was found a book-mark with the request: "Bury me in the ocean; she has become my home, and I have learned to love her. Should the Government, which has punished me so sorely, have sufficient regard for me, let there be erected in Fort Adams a memorial with the inscription:

"In Memoriam

PHILIP NOLAN

LIEUTENANT USA

REQUIESCAT IN PACE'"

'TWAS two-and-seventy years ago, When " Farmer George" was king, And all his land a raree-show,

With blossom of the spring-
The time when lovers courting go,
And little birds do sing.

They say that folks are wiser now,
And life has grown completer;
The old days were as sweet, I trow,
Perchance a little sweeter,
The birds upon the cherry bough
Have never changed their metre.

As eager were the hopes of men,
Their joys, alas! as fleeting,
And lovers' vows as potent then
To set girls' hearts a-beating,
As tender was the spring-time, when
The new-born lambs were bleating.

Some things, thank God, are lingering yet,
And never out of fashion,

The laws of stately etiquette

Have spared the tender passion,
And sometimes human eyes are wet
With tears of soft compassion.

So down Time's vista, faint and far,
Two lovers we descry,

Apart they stand, some sudden jar
Disturbs their harmony;

A cloud hath passed o'er Love's sweet star,

And darkened all the sky.

The youth he watched his true love's face With angry, scornful glance;

"Adieu," he cried, "disdainful Grace,
I sail to-night for France;

Some happier man may have my place,
And please you more perchance."

"Adieu, sir!” said the haughty maid,
'Your fancy chimes with mine;

I pray that when the anchor's weighed
The weather may be fine;
Too long methinks you have delayed,
To taste the claret wine!"

And so they part, these silly souls,
With bitter words and sore,

And Time's vast ocean moaning rolls

Betwixt them evermore,

And they must starve on niggard doles,
Who feasted heretofore.

Awhile she said, "He loves me well,
I'll die, but never doubt him,
To-morrow he will break the spell;

He knows I could not flout him;"
Then blank, eternal silence fell,
She sighed and lived without him.
The days passed slowly into years,

The bloom of youth departed, No eye beheld her secret tears,

Or saw the wound that smarted, Hers was the patient love that cheers The sad and broken-hearted.

When fifty years had slipped away,
Life's pains no more beset her :
This woman, faded, old, and gray,
Waits for the Life that's better,
Her maid trips in with silver tray:
Madam, a foreign letter!"

She took it with a wondering smile
Into her wrinkled hand,

She gazed at it a little while,
She could not understand;
'Twas folded in an ancient style,
The ink was pale and tanned.

What ghost arises from the Past
To scare that faithful breast?

A dead man's message come at last,

By cruel Fate suppressed—

"Dear God!" she cried, while tears fell fast, "I'm ready for my rest."

"Oh, love, forgive!" the letter said,
"I cannot leave you so;
Write but a word, ere fate be sped,
Whether you will or no."

And then the date the woman read,
'Twas fifty years ago!

She threw the casement open wide,
This lady most forlorn,

A robin whistled sweet outside,
Upon a leafless thorn,

And he sang of Love that had never died,
And the Resurrection morn.

C. B.

SHE raised her large, dark eyes wistfully to the brightly illuminated window, and murmured to herself, "He is so good! I've read of his noble charities in the papers, I've looked into his beautiful face again and again as I've passed him on the street, and have seen goodness written there. Yes, I will make one effort to save them! He has not left his office yet; I'll go in, and even beg to save them from death."

She drew her black veil closely over her face, ran up the steps, and knocked lightly at the door. "Come in!" was spoken in such a harsh voice that the girl hesitated for an instant, then slowly turned the knob and entered the luxuriously-furnished office. Mr. Howard raised his handsome face from the papers he was hastily arranging, and looked with surprise and evident displeasure at the shabby dress of the intruder. It was late, and bitter cold; the snow was falling fast, and his carriage was even now waiting to take him to the grand dinner prepared for the newly-elected governor, and he was in no mood to attend to a poor client. Such a poverty-stricken creature had never entered his office before, he thought. The lines around his mouth deepened, and the finely-curved lips were hardly compressed as he asked curtly:

"Please state as briefly as possible what you wish with me. Office hours are over."

He had not even asked her to be seated, yet she could not lose faith at once in the man who for years had been her hero, her ideal of all that was good and noble. She had seen his picture in the illustrated papers as the preserver of a child he had rescued from a burning house. His name headed every list of public charities, and so she only whispered to herself, "Ah, he thinks I've come to worry him about some law-suit, and he is too tired with his day's work to care to attend to business now; his face will grow soft and tender when I tell my story."

And so she told it, simply and trustfully. Her brother and his only child were ill with pneumonia, and the little hovel in which they lived was almost buried in the snow, which drifted in at every crack. The doctor said both might be saved if the room in which they laid were made

tight and warm, and proper food and medicine were provided for them. She had worked hard, but could only manage to keep them from being put out into the street by their hard landlord. Would he help them?

Mr. Howard had gone on arranging his papers while she spoke-private charities were not in his line, and he had not interrupted her merely because her voice was musical and her story brief.

"I never give to street beggars; it's against my principles. I've heard thousands of tales like yours, and know how much to believe of them. I'll give you ten cents to leave the office." And he threw a dime on the floor at her feet, and began putting on his fur overcoat.

He had buttoned his coat and drawn his sealskin cap down on his broad white forehead, around which clustered such beautiful, wavy dark hair, and yet she had not moved nor stooped to pick up the little silver coin at her feet. She could not believe that she had heard aright. She stood like one stunned by a blow.

"Well, aren't you going? I'm tired of waiting for you." And he began turning off the gas.

As the room darkened, the girl seemed to awaken to a sense of what she had asked, and the manner in which she had been refused. Her cheeks crimsoned, and her eyes flashed indignantly as she threw back the shrouding black veil and spoke hurriedly:

"I've done what I never did before. I would die before I would beg for myself! But it was my last hope of saving those dearer to me than myself. I never dreamed you could refuse any one a paltry sum of your boundless wealth. I was mistaken; that is all. Buried beneath this cruel snow, which is killing my brother and his child, you might have found a treasure which would have been yours when all of your earthly riches have perished, as perish they must, sooner or later. You have refused to heal the sick,' to 'feed the hungry.' Alas! I fear the poverty of your last moments will reproach you for your hard heart. You have lost the treasure our Father would have given you as your reward for obedience to his command."