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10 THE SOUTHERN WORLD, SEPTEMBER 1, 1882. Jjomq (H'iticlq. BLOODIiEM VICTORIES. Let other* write of battles fought On bloody, ghastly fields, Where honor greets the man who wins, And death the man who yields; But I will write of him who HghU And vanquishes his sins, Who struggles on through weary years, Against himself and wins. Here Is a hero staunch and brave Who fights an unseen foe, And puts at last beneath his feet His passions bsse and low. And stands erect In manhood's might Undaunted, undismayed— The bravest man that drew a sword In foray or in raid. Itcalls for something more than brawn Or muscle to overcome An enemy who marchetb not With banner, plume and drum— A foe forever lurking nigh With silent, steal thy tread, Forever near your board by day, At nlgbtbeslde your bed. All honor, then, to that brave heart, Though poor or neb he be, Who struggl *s with bis baser part— Who conquers and Is free. He may not wear a hero's crown. Or fill a hero's grave; Bnt truth will place bis name among The bravest of the brave. JfARVKMT II I'M.V. For Thanksgiving; Day, August 31, im Charles w. Hcnxrn. O Lord of love and light! Creator Infinite! Benignant Ood! We come before thy throne Tby sovereign might to own, Thy love to laud. Without thy help In vain The tiller sows the grain, And giildgp the plow; Through thee his work was done, Through thee the wreath was won That decks his brow! No end thy mercies know. Thy blessings overflow The smiling land; The harvest's rlph Increase, Wealth, honor, power, and peace, Come from tby hand. All-wise, almighty Friend! Whatman can comprehend Thy wisdom's ways f Incline to us thine enr, And condescend to hear Our feeble praise; Our humble tbanks receive, We've nothing else to give, Spirit divine! We are thy pensioners— The boundless universe, Father I Is thine. Lord! Savior! Holy Ghost! God triune! thee we trust, And have no fears; Tby mercy we Implore, As now so evermore, Bless tbou the years! * PAMELA’* ESCAPADE. BY MARY KYI.lt PALLAS. The Crumpi were, or considered them selves, the very first people in Pottsville, and Josiah Crump, the present bead of the family, were very proud of his ancestors. He was about the meanest man in money matters ever known. He has driven his boys from home by his niggardliness; and now that his wife was dead his daughter Pamela was all that he had left. She was a handsome, strong, well-made girl, with a good mind, although he had given her the very poorest education and no accomplish ments whatever. She worked in his house without help, or tbanks, or reward of any kind; her only consolation being that she was Miss Crump. “Much good that does me,” she used to say, as she toiled away to save her rich father a few dollars more. Girls who had no grandfather to boast about had accomplishments and good clothes, and comforts and pleasures of all sorts which she never knew, and which her father could well afford. At last, on her nineteenth birthday, after she had longed in silence for many days, Pamela grew bold. Long, fur-lined cloaks were just coming into fashion, and how she wanted one, only a girl can know. ^ It was while her father sat counting a great roll of bills, which he had just received as the rent for certain property that she went up softly behind him and said meekly; "Pa, can I have one of those large black silk cloaks, such as Betsy Burroughs wears —one with fur-lining ? Oh, pa, I do so want itl ” and she paused, with hands uncon sciously clasped together. Mr. Crump looked at her horror-stricken. “A silk cloak, with a fur-lining I" he re peated, slowly. “Ho you can’t, Pamela; its too expensive. Get your poor ma'i gray blanket-shawl and wear that out. I’m sure she’d be willing." “Poor ma’s shawl .had moths in it two years before she died,” sighed Pamela. “She couldn’t wear it, and you never knew, pa, you don’t know how badly off I am. I've outgrown my sacque, and look like a fool in it. X have boys’ shoes and a bat—oh dear, such a hat I I cannot really go out any where.” “Women should be keepers at home,” said Mr. Crump. "Certainly I ought to go to church,” said Pamela. “Hot to show fine clothes,” said. Mr. Crump. "But I ought to dress like a lady,” sighed the poor girl. "I should think you'd admit that, pa?” “Ladies are not always most dressed," said Mr. Crump. “Par from it. You are Miss Crump. Remember the Crumps are the oldest family in Pottsville.” “Oil, I know all that, pa,” interrupted Pamela; but it does no good if I must go about looking like a beggar." Me. Crump brought his cane down on the floor, thundered out, "Hold your tongue, Pamela," buttoned his pocket-book into his bosom, and trotted away to deposit the money, while Pamela, scarlet from brow to chin, remained where he had left her. "Oh, what shall Ido?” she exclaimed at last. " Is this a woman’s fate, to beg all the days of her life? I have no edneation. I cannot teach. lean do nothing but house work. I am the best washer in the village, but— There!” cried Pamela, bringing her foot down on the floor suddenly. “There! I’ve got it. A girl who can wash and iron as I cun, doesn’t need to beg for her clothes.” . Brushing her tears away, she ran into the entry, took from a peg her shabby sacque and hut, put them on, locked up the house, and hurried down the village streets as fast as her young strong limbs could carry her, until she stopped at a little white house at the low window of which she tapped. A little girl opened the door, and Pamela fol lowed her into a sitting-room where a thin woman sat, amidst cushions, in a big Boston rocking-chair, with a brand new baby across her knee, two elder ones on the floor near her, and two little boys building a block house on the table, white the little girl that had opened the door made the sixth of the youthful group. “Why, Miss Pamela,” said the mother, "how pleased I am to see you! Excuse my not getting up. I ain’t strong yet. I was thinking when you came in whether or no I should be able to darn that place in the carpet, but I don't feel I shall. Hurse has gone away, and sister can’t come, because her husband is down with malaria, and I’m awfully unsettled.” “You must be,” said Pamela, dandling the baby. "Why, what a little beauty it is, Mrs. Pease. I suppose you’ve got a washer woman this week?” “Ho, I haven’t. It's my worst trouble,’> said Mrs. Pease. “I had Kitty bring the things, and they are all mended and sorted out; but black Barbara is engaged up on the hill, and 1 don't know what I’ll do.” "Hire roc," said Pamela. "My! ” laughed Mrs. Pease. “Why, Miss Crump! ’’ "I mean it," said Pamela. “I wash better than black Barbara, and I want to earn some money. You can pay me what you pay her, Mrs. Pease.” “A dollar a day,” said Mrs. Pease; “but gracious Pamela you can’t mean it” "I mean it from my heart," said Pamela. “Pa thinks more of his money than he does of me. I’m going to earn my clothes for myself. I need them, I’m sure.” “Men are so peculiar sometimes,” sighed Mrs. Pease. “If you really mean it, it will be a great comfort to me.” Pamela Instantly took off her bonnet and sacque, tucked up her skirt, and took Kitty out into the kitchen with her. Before night “the washing” white as snow, was piled in a great clothes-basket. Mrs. Pease had had a great bowl of soup, and all was tidy in the little sitting room, where Pamela sat mending the bit of carpet. “I knew it would bother you until it was done,” she said, "and now I’ll go home and get pa’s tea." “Oh, Miss Pamela, I am so much oblig ed,” said Mrs. Pease. “And I believe you’ve only done it to oblige me.” “Ho,” said Pamela. “I did it to earn the money. May I come next Monday ?” “Why, gracious me! If you will,” said Mrs. Pease. “B$en to see Mrs. Pease?” asked curious Mrs. Chalker, peeping out of her kitchen door as Pamela passed. “I’ve been washing for her," said Pamela. “Why, how Christian kind of you, to be sure,” said Mrs. Chalker. “Hothing of the sort,” said Pamela. “I took my dollar for It. Have you your wash erwoman, Mrs. Chalker?" “Ho, I haven’t and I ain't able to wash,” said Mrs. Chalker. Pamela instantly offered her services. “I am going to do washing,” she said. “ I’m going to do it just as other washerwo- mem do, for money. I shan't explain why. But here I am a splendid laundress, ready to be hired six days in the week, from seven to six if any one wants me.” So it began. Before long Pamela had many emplbyers, and the village was rife with suspicion as to the why and wherefore; but never was a girl prouder of herself than was Pamela when she laid down upon the count er of a dry goods store the money for the silk and fur of her coveted cloak; hard- earned money, but all her very own, not a cent of it coaxed out of any unwilling man alive. She wore the cloak and a pretty plush bon net and new kid gloves to church on Christ mas day. She looked well. The squire stared at her solemnly, but he knew she had no money. “I reckon,” he thought, “she’s cutup her poor ma’s old black silk. I won’t ask any questions,” and be held his peace. Pamela, as she looked at him, wondered what he would say if be knew all. That week she had had some cards printed—pro fessional cards. The printer brought them home the next morning. They read thus: “MissPamelaCrump—Laundress. House cleaning done in the best manner. Crump House, .” Tlie cards were circulated through the village by a boy hired for the purpose, and on her return at night from her days’s work, Pamela found a postal card awaiting her: “ Miss Crump, Laundress—Please call at Mr. Both well’s early to-morrow. ■ G. Botiiwell.” How Mr. Bothwell was the new minister, a widower with two children. He knew nothing of the Crumps or of the village as yet. He had preached there once and been “called” inconsequence, on the demise of the excellent Mr. Dolorous, who had depart ed this life at a ripe old age. Pamela laugh ed a little as she determined to call and see what was desired. At seven o’clock she rang the bell of the pastor's very small house and was answered by the gentleman himself. He was evidently in distress of mind and his dressing-gown needed mending sadly. He looked at Miss Crump for a moment and then requested her to walk into his study. It was a dusty place with a good deal of manuscript lying about; and the shrieks of weeping children were heard in the dis tance. “May I ask what I can do for you, ma dam?” inquired the gentleman motioning to a seat. “ You wrote to me,” said Pamela. " Miss Crump, laundress.” “ Oh, dear, me, yes,” replied Mr. Bothwell, with wide open eyes—“I wrote to you. Thanks for your promptness. The fact of the matter is, my housekeeper—an aged colored person—I thought her most estima ble—is lying terribly intoxicated on the kitchen floor, and has been for two days, and things are—are—’’ And Mr. Bothwell, running short of words, spread his hands abroad in a panto mime descriptive of chaos. “I understand,” said Pamela, calmly. “ Where Is your kitchen ? ” Two hours afterwards the master was calmly writing in his study, and the chil dren, washed and dressed, were listening to the stories Pamela told them as she rubbed away at the wash-board. The housekeeper had been dumped upon a bed in a small bed-room on the lower floor to sleep off her intoxication, and potatoes were boiling and a couple of chickens roast ing for the family dinner. Meanwhile, Mr. Crump, having some im portant documents to inspect, had come home unexpectedly, and, entering the house, had found it empty, afld in the sitting-room came upon a sight which petrified him with horror. A little portable desk, which his daughter had appropriated for her own, lying open on the table and in it the cards we have de scribed, and her account book. He read the card first; Miss Pamela Crump—Laundress. House cleaning done in the beat manner. Then he ran his eyes over the account book. . Washed—Monday, for Mrs. Pease; Tues day, for Mrs. Chalker; Wednesday, for Mrs. Mott; iron, Thursday afternoon; house cleaning for Mrs. Downs on Saturday. All this in a furious rage, and almost foaming at the mouth, until he came to the following items: Dec. 6th.—Bought the silk and fur for cloak. Dec. 10th.—Made cloak. It fits well. Dec. 25th.—Wore cloak to church, and thanked heaven I hadn’t had to beg it from father. Then Mr. Cramp closed the book, and with a queer disposition to cry, sat down beside his solitary hearth and looked at the fire for several hours, without stirring. When Pamela opened the door and came in, she saw her father and knew that he knew all. “Pamela, come here,” he said. “How long has this been going on?” “ Since October, pa,” the girl answered. “Then you’ve been disgracing me and yourself for three months," said the old man. “You, a Crump! and all to spite your poor old father for being careful of his money." Pamela was not afraid of her father now. She came over and sat beside him. “ Pa,” she said, “ it was not for spite; it was for need; I suffered so much mortifica tion, not only from being shabby, but hav ing to beg. If there is anything in good blood, as you think there is, perhaps that made it hard for me to beg from even you. I was happier earning what I needed. Would you like to be a,beggar, pa?” "You’ve done very wrong, Pamela,” said her father. Then he paused, and added: “You shall tell me what allowance you need for your clothes, and I will let you have it monthly. How give me those cards.” He burnt them in the fire when she had handed them to him, and hurried away to get his tea, and no more was said. The Crumps were not great talkers. But Pamela is not sorry for what she did to this day. As for Mr. Botiiwell, he re joices; for otherwise, perhaps, he might, being a shy man, never have met Pamela Crump, who is to marry him before long. Other people may blame her for her “es capade,” or call her “odd,” or spiteful; he understands her, and admires her all the more for her independence. “Though, Pamela,” he often says, “ I should have offered myself all the saifte had you actually been a laundress.” The fairy fictions of Arabia were un doubtedly, known in Europe from a very early period. The romance of Cleomades and Claremonde, which was written in the thirteenth century, is really but another version of the "Enchanted Horse” in the “Arabian Rights,” and in the famous col lection of stories known as the “ Pentamer- one.” Many of the tales are unmistakably of an Eastern origin. The manner in which they traveled is evident. The necessities of commerce, and their pilgrimage to Mecca occasioned a constant intercourse between the Moors of Spain and the fellow sectaries of the East, and the Venetians, who were the owners of Candia, carried on an exten sive trade with Syria and Egypt. It is, there fore, evident that Europe derived her ro mance from the East, just as she has derived the rest of her civilisation. The Romances of Chivalry may be divided into three classes—those of Amadis de Gaul, Artur and his Round Table, and of Charle magne and his Paladins. Among the inci dents of that fine old romance of Lancelot du Lac, is the death of King Ban, caused by the grief at seeing his castle taken and in flames through the treachery of his seneschal. His afflicted queen had left her new-born infant on the margin of a lake, while she went to soothe the last moments of the dy ing king. On her return, she finds her babe in the arms of a beautiful lady. She en treats her pathetically to restore the orphan babe ; but, without taking any notice of the unhappy mother, she plunges into the lake with the child, and disappears. The lady was the celebrated Dame du Lac, and the child was the celebrated Lancelot du Lac. Merlin, the demon-born, the renowned en chanter; became enamored of her, and taught her a portion of his art, and the ill return she made is well known in the annals of female treachery. As for the stolen child, Lancelot, son of King Ban, the Lady of the Lake brought him up with great care, and when his knightly education was completed, she pre sented him at the court of King Arthur, where he became one of its most distin guished ornaments.