ened to swamp her. They surged up in one simultaneous bound; in a moment's space the ripples swelled to ponderous hills of water. Sheets of rain skimmed along the sea, mist and spray wrapped the boat like a curtain. Thought is scarcely quicker than the change. But as that veil closed round, Harris saw, or believed he saw, a craft emerge from that whirling darkness, and shoot across their trail. He crawled hurriedly to the tow-rope - it came loose to his hand. For half an hour they ran before the storm. A soaked mattress held by men prostrate in the bows kept the sampan spinning at an awful rate. The Malays had all stripped to swim; through teeth chattering with cold, they commended their souls to Allah, or shouted unmeaningly as inaudibly. Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the hurly-burly ceased. For some moments more the rain fell, then lightened, then gave over — the mist vanished - and from the top of mountainous rollers they saw land at fifty yards' distance; they saw also the canoe beating upset on the sands, and a large prau just making shore beside it. Harris snatched a paddle and turned his sampan to intercept. Summoned by their master's call, Dyaks and servants seconded him, for the crew sat uncomprehending or unwilling. It was a race not ill-matched. The pursued had more men, but a heavier boat, and both together came as near the sands as it was safe to venture without waiting an opportunity. At that point the other crew suddenly leaped overboard, abandoning their vessel. Harris did not hesitate. Gripping my knife between his teeth, he plunged into the rollers, dived, found footing; blinded, buffeted, he gained the shore. But the pursued were quicker. With a cry of fury and dismay, they watched Harris advancing. He recognized the hadji, and, grasping his knife, rushed at him. But Malays are not easily caught betwixt sea and forest. Some ran to the near jungle, others, with the hadji, dashed again through the surf, gripped their vessel tossing on the rollers, and swung themselves aboard. They caught up the paddles, those still in the water shoved, and before justice could reach them they had recovered control of their prau. Harris ran waist deep into the surf. Swung off his legs, he swam. But it was no use. The hadji leaned over and mocked him as the boat fast drew off. In the last effort of rage, Harris struck with all his might. Perhaps he injured his enemy for certain, he made a great gap in the edge of my knife. "And what became of the fugitive?" asked every one in Sarawak, when this adventure was reported. "I cannot tell," Harris used to answer. "I half think I saw some women lying in the prau, but it may have been fancy." The hadji would care very little whether his slave was recovered living or dead. If it was the former case, I pity her, for Malay laws against torture do not apply to runaways. Hadji Mummin was not heard of so long as I stopped in the country, and his fifteen wives remained, not disconsolate it was given us to understand, in a state of widowhood. FREDERICK BOYLE. From The Victoria Magazine. MISS MULOCH (MRS. CRAIK). THE year 1826 gave us, among other things and persons, the now well-known novelist Miss Muloch. This lady's works are much read, which fact is corroborated by the testimony of certain articles in the shape of well-worn, well-soiled library volumes. Her readers are culled from a wide circle. Young people agree with her because her books tend to strengthen the idea that "there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's young dream;" but this thoughtful writer appeals not to youthful sympathies only; she does not throw all the poetry of life into its spring; she remembers those seven ages of man which drew forth the eloquence of Jacques in the forest of Arden. A paterfamilias, little addicted to novel-reading, has been known to grow earnest in praise of "John Halifax, Gentleman," and eyes dim with age have grown dimmer still behind their spectacles, while listening to passages from the same book. It is evident that Miss Muloch early commenced studying a thing, small enough in its way, but one which has puzzled philosophers and moralists in all ages, viz.: the human heart; it is evident also that she made rapid progress in her acquaintance with this complex piece of machinery that she soon learnt to play upon it, to command it, and to draw from it sweet sounds and solemn symphonies, as does a skilled performer from a musical instrument, otherwise she would not have written "Olive" before she was twentyfour years of age. The publication of "John Halifax, Gen tleman," in 1857, may be regarded as a landmark in the literary life of its author, who, on the occasion of her marriage in 1865, received a pleasant reminder of the popularity of this favorite novel: it took the form of a gold pen-holder, with the words "John Halifax" inscribed thereon, and expressed the appreciation of an anonymous admirer. From a group of books published in 1866" Christian's Mistake" stands rather prominently forward, and, among the still later products of this writer's pen, may be singled out for a few words of special notice, a little story, simple in style and charming in its simplicity, entitled "My Mother and I." It is not always given to us to see in imagination the actual scenes which have inspired our authors and which have seen them write; but just this once, reader, we can indulge in a play of fancy of the kind if you will. but they betoken a well-filled literary life. Individually they differ in merit, as do the works of most authors; but en masse they are knit together by fibres of strength which render them powerful to repel the attacks of critics. In what consists the strength of these books? Not in intellect alone, although intellect is there-nor in a faultless manner of wielding the English language, which manner is not there — nor in any wonderful fertility of imagination, for the literary blossoms we are discussing, may rather be likened to the flowers of the seringa-tree, fair and delicately tinted, than to luscious, rich-hued exotics overweighted with their own luxuriance. Whence then comes their strength? From a moral beauty which underlies and consolidates them from the exemplification of the writer's argument that "the heart is the key to the intellect." Miss Muloch has found the In a western county of England is a key whereof she speaks. A large-hearted certain beautiful village, Freshford by charity and a sublime philosophy are to be name. There the grass seems greener found in her books, and are always guided than elsewhere, the sky bluer, the water by a calm, clear-sighted judgment. The clearer. It is a quiet, quaint little spot, philosophy is not one that stops to discuss, with an old-fashioned beauty quite its but which pierces the often nebulous atown; moreover it produces to perfection mosphere of human reasoning, and sees those specialities for which good villages beyond shafts of light; which seizes are famous, viz.: the best butter and them, as it were, with the needle-point of eggs, always, and the best violets, cow-intellectual acumen, and places them slips, and primroses in the season. Its before the reader's mind-shafts of truth. air must be conducive to literary pursuits, so fine and subtle, that, were they subjectsince local embryo poets are tempted to ed to the breath of disquisition, they put its beauties into print, since Sir Wil- would disappear from sight as do widening liam Napier honored it with his presence circles in the water. while he wrote the principal part of his That our author can create character is "History of the Peninsular War," and evident. Come forward, nurse Elspiesince, under the influence of its freshen-you who are so instinct with individuality ing breezes, Miss Muloch produced the and nationality come forth from your greater portion of "My Mother and I." place among humble heroines of fiction, The scene of this story is laid, partly in and testify to this. To the same effect on the village of Freshford, and partly in this subject speaks Elizabeth Hand, the classic city of Bath, close by, which, another servant; so, from the infant in point of fashion has, like many of its world, does the blind child Muriel; and inhabitants, seen its best days. Those so do Hilary, Olive, and other excellent who have read the book and visited the specimens of young womanhood, scattered places described therein, will be ready to throughout Miss Muloch's books. admit that the delineations it contains are truthful as well as charming, and that the writer has been as observant as "Cap'en Cuttle" would have been under similar circumstances that she has seen beauty and made "notes on't." - The writings of Miss Muloch, from the appearance of her first novel, "The Ogilvies," in 1849, to the publication of her last, about which reviewers have had something to say of late, present a goodly pile. They do not point to a pen, prolific as that of a Miss Braddon, for instance, This writer is most at home when depicting humanity under its favorable aspects. Her heroines are often heroic, selfsacrificing beings, who glide about doing good, and from their virtues seem half angelic; yet we feel that they are human that they have been drawn from life. But not always equally successful are her unamiable personages who appear now and then. One of these is Miss Gascoigne, in "Christian's Mistake." This person performs the part of disagreeable relative. Not, therefore, is she untrue to life; far from it. But she is untrue on this account, that, being represented a lady of birth and breeding, she taunts her sister-in-law after the manner of a housemaid. previous comparison between her writings and the blossoms of the seringa-tree, which blossoms, be it remembered, sometimes burden the breath of June with an odor sweet but faint and rather oppressive withal. It has been hinted above that the author of "John Halifax, Gentleman," is not perfect in her management of our mother tongue. Nor is she. Her style, graceful and charming as it is, too often displays a disregard of the mechanism of language. The words seem to come as they choose, leaving the sentences to take care of and shape themselves as they can thus, the construction of these is frequently faulty and the meaning dubious. But the flaws to which we are drawing attention, dwindle to mere specks when laid to the charge of a writer who has given us so much to be grateful for as the subject of this sketch. The world of fiction could not get on without its men, any more than could the world around us. The machinery of both spheres would be stopped at once if deprived of the masculine element therein. The novels we are commenting on form no exception to the rule of novels in this respect; they amply represent the genus man, and do it very favorably moreover. Miss Muloch's young heroes are much as other young men; but her heroes par excellence are not. In fact, these are not usually young men at all, but middle-aged ones, who seem to have trampled life's faults under their feet, and its follies also, except that of falling in love, which last they are prone to indulge in at a period when the interesting operation is oftener over than otherwise; in a word, they are too good, for they are generally en-readers, and has therefore succeeded in dowed with the combined virtues of men and women, which is hardly fair, considering that we find them not so endowed in reality, or at any rate not often so. These heroes seem to gaze upon us with mild, placid eyes to loom upon us from pedestals, like the demigods of old, and are more suggestive of the golden ages of the world, of a far-off Arcadia, than this very wicked nineteenth century of ours. Miss Muloch conduces to the moral elevation, as well as to the delight of her what should be the highest aim of the novelist; she has done good, and deserves to share the criticism once passed upon the writings of Felicia Hemans, which says that these writings are the reflections of a beautiful mind; also, she might come under the mantle of that eulogy passed by Dean Stanley over the grave of Dickens, to the effect that he, the author of "Pickwick," had never written a line, which might not with impunity be read by a little child. ELLA. From Macmillan's Magazine. THE DOVE OF HOLY SATURDAY. Sentiment plays the most prominent part in the writings of Miss Muloch, who seems to have made the theme her lifelong study. The result is a minute analysis of almost every feeling that is ours from the cradle to the grave. These feelings are spread before us in a kind of network, delicate and dexterous as the web of a spider. Start not, reader; the SATURDAY in Holy Week is a great simile is not ignoble, for a spider's web is holiday for the Florentines, and still a beautiful thing, particularly when seen more for the contadini or peasants, of all with tender prismatic tints playing upon the country round. They come trooping it. And as the sun's rays play upon the into the city, all dressed in their holispider's web, so do the reflections of a very day clothes, from miles and miles away. poetical mind color the web of human The streets are crowded with the easysentiment, which Miss Muloch weaves for going, good-natured, laughter-loving peothe delectation of her readers. It is a trib-ple, who have jokes and proverbs on the ute to this writer's power that she knows how to deal thus minutely with sentiment, to strain certain fibres of feeling until they nearly snap under the analytical tension to which they are subjected, and yet to preserve her muscular energy of style and thought. Only occasionally does she near the boundary line which divides sentiment from sentimentality; seldom does she cross it; but when she does do so, the result is not invigorating, and bears out our tips of their tongues and know full well how to apply them. In old days spring and summer clothes were always bought on this day and the shops were decked out displaying their most tempting wares. This custom is a thing of the past, but the colomba or dove still speeds her fiery course down the centre of the old cathedral, and sets fire to the wonderful erection outside the great front door, of squibs, crackers, and catherine-wheels which are piled up on an old triumphal chariot, with | come up to his podere, or farm, near Setfour clumsy wheels, on the body of which tignano, close to Michael Angelo's house, traces of painting may yet be discerned. where, he said, laughing, the air is so The dove will fly at midday, but by ten sottile, so refined, that all the people are o'clock the environs of the beautiful old geniuses, only the world in general is not marble Duomo are crowded, and from disposed to think so. every quarter a never-ceasing stream of people pours in that direction. Many are the conjectures and the hopes that the dove may fly straight and well, as that indicates a good harvest, an abundant vintage, and a fine crop of olives. There is a tradition though that in the days of Napoleon I. the archbishop of Florence and his clergy were threatened with heavy pains and penalties if the dove did not fly well, and that she sped like lightning down the cord in the church, and yet the crops failed. "Ma chi sa," said my informant, "se e vero? forse no." (But who knows if this be true? perhaps not.) A stir in the crowd now showed that the archbishop was coming out of the Baptis tery of San Giovanni, opposite the cathe dral, and all heads turned towards the main door, where we soon saw the great white flag with the red cross, the flag of the people of Florence, come waving in, followed by a long line of white-robed choristers singing. Other flags followed, then the canons of the cathedral in their picturesque long robes of dark purple, with white fur hoods, and lastly the stately and handsome archbishop, with a jewelled mitre sparkling on his head and a pastoral in his hand, all chiselled and set with precious stones, made by one of the famous old artificers of the fourteenth century. The archbishop Limberti, who died of apoplexy soon after this, at the early age of forty-three, was the son of a peasant near Prato; he was handsome and exceedingly dignified in manner, a good scholar, and spoke elegant Italian; beloved and respected by all parties, he filled a difficult post with great ability. Tall, spare, and erect, he came slowly up the centre of the church, blessing the people to the right and the left as they bowed low before him. When he had passed they talked with pride of our archbishop, and many stories of his charity and kindness were told in the crowd. By dint of patience and good humor we at last got into the Duomo, which bore quite a changed aspect; every corner being crowded with people, save a narrow line down the centre, from the front door to the high altar, up which the archbishop, attended by all his clergy, was to pass, carrying the sacred fire. To get a chair was a labor of extreme difficulty, and involved an amount of diplomacy impossible to any but a Florentine. The possessor of the chairs was captured, promised many things, and disappeared in an unaccountable manner round the huge pillars. He then reappeared, bearing a pile of chairs, but the crowd separated him from us, and his chairs were seized upon by other applicants. After nine or ten Mass was now said at the high altar, frantic efforts we got our chairs, much to but every one's attention seemed to be the amusement of an old contadino and concentrated on an unsightly high white his wife, who, with various small grand-post close to the marble balustrade which children, had come to see the colomba. surrounds the altar. To this post was The old man had a wrinkled, expressive fixed a cord, which, suspended in mid-air face, with very bright, acute eyes and iron- far above the heads of the people, disapgrey hair, much such a face as Massacio peared out of the great front door, and was loved to paint. He looked at us well, and fastened to the chariot outside the Duomo. then said in vernacular Tuscan, " Chi ha A small white speck was seen on the cord pazienza ha i tordi grassi a un quattrin fastened to the pillar, which we were inuno." (He who has patience gets the formed was the famous dove. When the fat thrushes at a farthing apiece.) Gloria had been sung a man went up a ladder with a lighted taper, which he applied to the dove. spitting and hissing, and all at once she shot forward down the cord, a streak of fire and sparks. There was a stir and hum in the crowd, and a few little screams from some of the women; the dove vanished out of the door, and then there was a series of explosions from outside, while the dove returned as fast as she had gone, and went back to the pillar of wood, where We were so amused at his apt quotation of an old proverb that we made great friends, and took up his grandchildren on one of our chairs to see the show. The old woman was full of compliments and fears lest the children should be troublesome, but old Carnesecchi, as he told us his name was, had quite the old republican Florentine manners, respectful and civil, but perfectly self-possessed and valuing his own personality. He invited us to There was a great she remained still fizzing for a few sec- | Church of St. Biagio, whence they were onds. removed to Santi Apostoli. On the morning of Holy Saturday the archbishop, attended by all his clergy, goes to the Church of Santi Apostoli and strikes fire from these stones. He then lights a taper, which is carried in procession to the Baptistery, and then to the Duomo, where the fire is blessed, and the devout light candles at it. Old records contain no mention of a triumphal entry of any Pazzi, or of a mural crown, and R. Malespina and Monsignor Borghini both agree that the Count of Bari gave the above-mentioned armorial bearings to the Pazzi in 1265. Travellers, too, say that the three stones are of quite a different nature from that of the Holy Sepulchre. They were probably collected on the Mount of Olives by some devout pilgrim of the Pazzi family, who brought them home as relics, and in process of time they have gained the reputation of being portions of the Holy Sepulchre. Then all the bells of Florence, which had been silent since twelve o'clock on Thursday, began to ring merry chimes, and the great organ pealed out a triumphal melody. We made our way out of the Duomo as fast as we could, and were in time to see the last of the fireworks on the chariot; they made a tremendous noise, but as the sun shone brightly, there was not much to see. The fireworks were piled up some twenty feet high, and arranged in such a manner that only half of them go off in front of the Duomo, the other half being reserved for the corner of Borgo degli Albizzi, where the house of the Pazzi family is situated, in whose honor this custom was originally instituted. When all the squibs and crackers were finished, four magnificent white oxen, gaily decked with ribbons, were harnessed to the car, which moved off slowly with many creaks and groans round the south side of the cathedral towards the Via del Proconsolo. The crowd was immense, so The triumphal entry of Pazzino de' we took some short cuts down the tortu- Pazzi into Florence, and his supposed ous narrow streets in this old part of Flor-progress from the seacoast to his native ence, each of which has some passionate city were favorite subjects with the old love-story or some dark tale of blood painters, chiefly for cassone or wedding attached to it, and took up a favorable position opposite the entrance to the street of Borgo degli Albizzi, which is too narrow to admit the car. The four white oxen were unharnessed and taken away, and a cord being put from the door of the Pazzi Palace to the car, another dove again flew to the fireworks, and the popping and fizzing was renewed, to the intense delight of the crowd. The dove had flown swiftly and well this year, so the contadini returned home joyfully, spreading the glad tidings as they went "La colomba è anaato bene" (The dove has flown well) This ceremony is connected with the old and noble family of Pazzi, whose ancestor, Pazzino de' Pazzi, so says the tradition, was the first to scale the walls of Jerusalem and plant the Christian flag. Godfrey de Bouillon, to recompense such prowess, crowned him with a mural crown, gave him his own armorial bearings, five Crosses and two dolphins, and bestowed on him three stones, supposed to have come from the Holy Sepulchre. Gamurrini mentions that Pazzo de' Pazzi made a triumphant entry into Florence like a conqueror, in a magnificent chariot, and with a gallant company of youths around to do him honor. The three stones were deposited in the chests. I have seen several, good, bad, and indifferent. One of the finest is by Benozzo Gozzoli; Pazzino de' Pazzi is seated in a magnificent gold chariot, with a golden canopy over his head, drawn by two horses, whose trappings sweep the ground. He is dressed in armor, and a tabard of cloth of gold trimmed with fur; on his head is a kind of turban, surmounted by a crown. Round his chariot are crowds of splendidly-dressed youths on horseback, and behind come a troop of men in armor, and another magnificent car with ladies in it; their dresses are of gold brocade and embroidered stuffs, and long veils hang down from their curious head-dresses. One has a turban made of peacock feathers. In front of the chariot of Pazzino de' Pazzi is another car bearing a gilt globe, and on the globe stands a winged golden figure fiddling; round this chariot are trumpeters, from whose long golden trumpet hangs square dark-blue flags, on which are emblazoned flames. The procession is opened by a square chariot bearing an enormous two-handled jar, with two large wings; out of the mouth of the jar issue flames-the sacred fire which Pazzi brought from Jerusalem. This is surrounded by pages on splendidly capari soned horses, and groups of men in East |